We're mired in the worst economic crisis of our lifetimes. Businesses are failing at record pace. People are hurting. Economic indicators continue to trend in such a way as to indicate that things will continue to get worse.
So what is the US Congress spending their time developing? An apology for slavery.
And despite making the apology in the heart of our financial crisis, there are those that are unhappy because the apology doesn't go far enough to ensuring reparations so that those impacted by slavery (it will be an great time figuring that one out) can be paid for the atrocities their great, great, great, great grandparents suffered.
This is your Congress in action. This is what they consider a priority.
Note to Congress: Those that are suffering in the here are now are the ones going to the polls in 2010. There will be massive ramifications for how you've set your priorities and your abdication to focus on what is currently wrong in our economy and society.
So, perhaps instead of worrying about such things as apologizing for slavery and about how you're addressed, you may want to focus on the task at hand.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Sunday, June 14, 2009
The Flag Day Without a Flag
Today marks Flag Day, but in my travel to town for mass and back, I found scant observance. I checked the StarTribune, and despite their usual content that continues to throw their circulation numbers into freefall, there is no mention. Google often decorates their logo on their home page to match significant days - their most recent celebration was for the 25th anniversary of Tetris. Think they could do something for Flag Day? Nope.
On TV there was not much difference. I watched a live interview with our Senator Klobuchar, and despite the day and her live broadcast, a lapel pin was too much to ask. I observed numerous local and national shows, and saw nothing. In fact, the only mention of Flag Day was on Fox News. Go figure.
I felt that with Obama's election, it would finally be OK for "all of us" to get back to being patriotic. Remember that for some of us, now is the first time in our lives in which we've been proud of our country.
So why not fly the flag? Obama said it was OK. Don't own one? They have one on sale at your local hardware store, and it will take you about 5 minutes to set up and display properly. Still not feeling comfortable with it? Even after the world apology tour? Then, my friend, it is YOU that is the embarrassment, and not your country.
Happy Flag Day. May it proudly wave forever.
On TV there was not much difference. I watched a live interview with our Senator Klobuchar, and despite the day and her live broadcast, a lapel pin was too much to ask. I observed numerous local and national shows, and saw nothing. In fact, the only mention of Flag Day was on Fox News. Go figure.
I felt that with Obama's election, it would finally be OK for "all of us" to get back to being patriotic. Remember that for some of us, now is the first time in our lives in which we've been proud of our country.
So why not fly the flag? Obama said it was OK. Don't own one? They have one on sale at your local hardware store, and it will take you about 5 minutes to set up and display properly. Still not feeling comfortable with it? Even after the world apology tour? Then, my friend, it is YOU that is the embarrassment, and not your country.
Happy Flag Day. May it proudly wave forever.
Hat Tip to Blogoscoped.com
I'd like to close on an upper. Check this out:
Friday, June 12, 2009
A Dog Named Blitz - Chapter Two: "Pre-Dog," Part 1
For background on this serial, please click here
You can aslo start at Part One or Part Two of the previous chapter
I had never owned a dog before. I had grown up with one; a fabulous Golden Retriever named Brandy. We had acquired her when I was in seventh grade, and she was a more traditional outdoor dog – kennel outside, never in the house, no really strong connection with the family, etc. That all changed when I went to college. I distinctly remember coming back on the first break that school offered to find Brandy roaming the house. “Oh yeah,” my sister replied to my inquisitive look, “she’s been living in here ever since you left.” Traded for a dog. How’s that?
Brandy and I were able to share the space, both in my parent’s home and in the duck blind as well. She was a serviceable hunter, and she clearly had won the heart of my dad. He thought she was some kind of hunting machine, and the conversations he had about her belied his opinion. She was a faithful hunting partner for dad for many years before finally being put down at a ripe old age. I don't think dad ever got over not having Brandy around.
While I enjoyed her company, Brandy was never my dog. I knew ultimately that I wanted a dog – I had done enough hunting with buddies that did have dogs to see the joy they brought to a day afield. Somehow, when a dog is present, the hunt is just better. Beyond their obvious contributions in the field, they impart some not as obvious ones as well: when birds are ample, watching a good dog go about its work is like watching a fine athletic event. When birds aren’t ample, dogs offer the ultimate distractions via the things they do, or don’t do, as the case may be. The conversation is always a little bit better, the mood always a little bit lighter, and the stories a little bit more entertaining with the presence of a dog.
In 1998, my dad was diagnosed with Pick's Disease, which is basically a rapid degeneration of the frontal and temporal lobes of the brain. It manifests itself akin to Alzheimer's Disease, but impacts different parts of the brain, and at least in my dad's case, moved incredibly more rapidly. I had always been close to my dad, and the one thing in which we pretty much always found common ground was on hunting. Dad loved duck hunting, and I caught the same passion from him, and caught it in spades.
When dad's diagnosis finally came in, the shockwave that hit our family was massive. While we were all relieved to finally have something to explain dad's condition and behavior, the ramifications of the finding were dire. There was no cure. There was no treatment. His disease would quickly take his memories and his mind, and, ultimately, his life.
To this day, I still can't fully comprehend what this sentence has meant to my family and me. I saw my mom staring at her retirement years, the thing that my dad worked his entire life to enjoy, as ones that she would face without her spouse at her side. I saw my sister bring two beautiful children into the world, only to have her father know nothing of them. I saw my brother get married and, while dad attended the event, his presence was only made possible through the patience of mom and by the hand of God. My brother's children were also never known by their grandfather.
Illness and death are part of every family, and ours was impacted substantially. For my mom, siblings, and I, dad was no longer with us. His body and physical manifestation remained, as did infrequent glimpses of personality through the deep fog of the disease, but for the most part the patriarch of our family was gone.
In the wake of the disease, not only had I lost my dad, but I also lost my hunting partner. We had hunted together since I was 8 or so. Not every hunt, clearly, as we both had other folks with which we enjoyed hunting, but certainly every opener, and most of our time in the slough.
I lost my best hunting partner, and in that light it seemed only appropriate to add a new partner to the equation. That partner was going to come in the form of a yellow dog.
Part Two
You can aslo start at Part One or Part Two of the previous chapter
I had never owned a dog before. I had grown up with one; a fabulous Golden Retriever named Brandy. We had acquired her when I was in seventh grade, and she was a more traditional outdoor dog – kennel outside, never in the house, no really strong connection with the family, etc. That all changed when I went to college. I distinctly remember coming back on the first break that school offered to find Brandy roaming the house. “Oh yeah,” my sister replied to my inquisitive look, “she’s been living in here ever since you left.” Traded for a dog. How’s that?
Brandy and I were able to share the space, both in my parent’s home and in the duck blind as well. She was a serviceable hunter, and she clearly had won the heart of my dad. He thought she was some kind of hunting machine, and the conversations he had about her belied his opinion. She was a faithful hunting partner for dad for many years before finally being put down at a ripe old age. I don't think dad ever got over not having Brandy around.
While I enjoyed her company, Brandy was never my dog. I knew ultimately that I wanted a dog – I had done enough hunting with buddies that did have dogs to see the joy they brought to a day afield. Somehow, when a dog is present, the hunt is just better. Beyond their obvious contributions in the field, they impart some not as obvious ones as well: when birds are ample, watching a good dog go about its work is like watching a fine athletic event. When birds aren’t ample, dogs offer the ultimate distractions via the things they do, or don’t do, as the case may be. The conversation is always a little bit better, the mood always a little bit lighter, and the stories a little bit more entertaining with the presence of a dog.
In 1998, my dad was diagnosed with Pick's Disease, which is basically a rapid degeneration of the frontal and temporal lobes of the brain. It manifests itself akin to Alzheimer's Disease, but impacts different parts of the brain, and at least in my dad's case, moved incredibly more rapidly. I had always been close to my dad, and the one thing in which we pretty much always found common ground was on hunting. Dad loved duck hunting, and I caught the same passion from him, and caught it in spades.
When dad's diagnosis finally came in, the shockwave that hit our family was massive. While we were all relieved to finally have something to explain dad's condition and behavior, the ramifications of the finding were dire. There was no cure. There was no treatment. His disease would quickly take his memories and his mind, and, ultimately, his life.
To this day, I still can't fully comprehend what this sentence has meant to my family and me. I saw my mom staring at her retirement years, the thing that my dad worked his entire life to enjoy, as ones that she would face without her spouse at her side. I saw my sister bring two beautiful children into the world, only to have her father know nothing of them. I saw my brother get married and, while dad attended the event, his presence was only made possible through the patience of mom and by the hand of God. My brother's children were also never known by their grandfather.
Illness and death are part of every family, and ours was impacted substantially. For my mom, siblings, and I, dad was no longer with us. His body and physical manifestation remained, as did infrequent glimpses of personality through the deep fog of the disease, but for the most part the patriarch of our family was gone.
In the wake of the disease, not only had I lost my dad, but I also lost my hunting partner. We had hunted together since I was 8 or so. Not every hunt, clearly, as we both had other folks with which we enjoyed hunting, but certainly every opener, and most of our time in the slough.
I lost my best hunting partner, and in that light it seemed only appropriate to add a new partner to the equation. That partner was going to come in the form of a yellow dog.
Part Two
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Jobs "Created or Saved?"
Check out this chart.
While I'm not a math genius, I can connect dots. The trajectory of our unemployment is beyond scary, and is bordering on catastrophic. It is only a matter of time before we're firmly into the double digit arena, and by that time, the traditional media can no longer ignore it.
I went through my LinkedIn connections yesterday. I'm connected to 203 people - peers that I've met throughout my work life. People that achieved middle to upper management. People that earned advanced degrees. People that do really good work (believe me, if they did bad work, I'd not be connected to them). They are people who are just like me.
17 are currently unemployed.
I'll do the math for you. That's 8.3% of an incredibly talented, motivated, and effective population.
Our economic Rome continues to burn, and we get more stories about flying to New York for "date night," Michelle's arms, and Obama as God. Meanwhile, in the real world, I wonder who is going to be number 18, and I pray it is neither me nor my wife.
While I'm not a math genius, I can connect dots. The trajectory of our unemployment is beyond scary, and is bordering on catastrophic. It is only a matter of time before we're firmly into the double digit arena, and by that time, the traditional media can no longer ignore it.
I went through my LinkedIn connections yesterday. I'm connected to 203 people - peers that I've met throughout my work life. People that achieved middle to upper management. People that earned advanced degrees. People that do really good work (believe me, if they did bad work, I'd not be connected to them). They are people who are just like me.
17 are currently unemployed.
I'll do the math for you. That's 8.3% of an incredibly talented, motivated, and effective population.
Our economic Rome continues to burn, and we get more stories about flying to New York for "date night," Michelle's arms, and Obama as God. Meanwhile, in the real world, I wonder who is going to be number 18, and I pray it is neither me nor my wife.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Obama Does Dresden
On his latest stop on the "America is Sorry" tour, Obama is spending the night in Dresden, Germany. While not an "official stop," the message is quite clear. Much of his time in office has been an apology to the world for how America has behaved, and of all the magnificent cities in Germany in which he could stay, he chose this one for a reason.
Dresden is a favorite topic of left-leaning historians, especially non-US historians. For background on its bombing, click here
Per communication from the administration, the official talking point was that Obama would be staying in Dresden due to its proximity to the Buchenwald concentration camp, which would also be visited. Here are my issues:
- Dresden is nowhere near Buchenwald. If proximity was the objective, there are a dozen towns bigger and closer. Ah, the benefits of governing a populace that is incredibly ignorant of geography - especially foreign geography.
- Visits of the two places is an obvious statement about their parallels, and while not "official," is a pure play to satisfy those that consider American airmen to be war criminals.
And now, later today, Obama will stand on the shores of Normandy; site of the greatest battle ever waged in the history of man. He'll stand shoulder to shoulder with hero airmen that readied the beaches by dropping their bombs on Hitler's Atlantic Wall; all done at low altitude, and facing horrific fire. And some of those same men he will meet are considered baby killers by the people Obama wanted to placate in his Dresden stay.
Dresden was not a good situation, I will grant you that. But consider:
- It was WAR, and one we did not start, and reluctantly joined. In war, sometimes bad stuff can happen, and for that, we can indeed be sorry.
- In light of the atrocities of the murders of MILLIONS of civilians by the Germans, Japanese, and the Soviets, Dresden is a rounding error.
- Unlike every other country that was victorious after war throughout the history of man, we gave the German people something they never had - freedom.
- Dresden, since it fell into the area that was "liberated" by the Red Army, lived under the boot of Soviet Russia for an additional 40 years. If not for our fighting and subsequently winning the Cold War, they'd still be living under Soviet occupation.
I am tired of history being re-written where the United States is the bad guy. I'm tired that we know so little of our history that this rewriting can occur under our noses with nary a peep. I'm tired when our heroes are called baby killers. I'm tired of our sycophantic press that gleefully swallows what they're fed by this administration. And, most of all, I'm tired of a President whose perspective of American history is one that focuses on embarrassment and shame.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Dog Named Blitz, Chapter 1, Part 2
For background on this serial, please click here.
"I miss you so much!" I sobbed out loud, alone, in the frigid morning air.
Go to the next chapter
For those that missed it, you can start at Chapter 1, Part 1
The memory was clear as it if it had happened yesterday. We stood there in the cold wind, taking it all in.
Next stop was to an old, reliable spot for holding birds. "Wood Island" is a small patch of trees and cover just off the driveway to the property. Measuring about 30 yards by 40 years, it is the one place where there always seems to be a bird lurking. It had paid off consistently for Blitz and me, and I wanted to see if it would again for old time's sake.
We were experiencing a big south wind, so our approach would be from the north. I pulled the truck into position, and wondered if we would be so lucky as to flush a bird from this honey-hole one last time.
I stepped as quietly as I possibly could, but the snow was firmly crusted, and crunched under my feet. My pace was slow but deliberate, with my goal being to drive through the middle and hopefully flush a bird from the south end. As I approached the cover I noticed a wealth of pheasant tracks, and I smiled broadly. It was good to see such great sign here in the dead of winter, as it meant the birds were surviving well.
I wasn't but two steps into the cover when the big rooster exploded about 10 yards ahead of me. "Thanks buddy!" I said aloud, half sarcastic for being scared to death by the sudden activity, but completely appreciative for one last flush for Blitz.
We turned and departed for the last stop. We were headed to "Gucci Point," a dry land point that nearly bisects the lake on which we hunt, and a favored hunting spot for all of us. It was named by one of the partners because, as it was configured. you could walk out to it and hunt in your finest footwear and not have to worry about them getting muddy or wet. For a duck hunter, while we'd likely never hunt in our Cole Hahn's, it was nice knowing we could if we ever needed to do so.
The point stretches for nearly 200 yards, and the snow drifts caused by the cattails made our going slow. The exposure to the south wind stung my face, and I tried to shield it from the direct blow. As I marched slowly toward the end of the point, I was comforted my the weight that nestled in the small of my back in the game pouch of my hunting vest.
We finally arrived at the end of the point, and I turned my back on the cold wind. I reached into my game vest, and pulled out a velvet bag with the words "We'll Meet at the Rainbow Bridge" written on it. I could no longer hold it, and like so many times in the months prior, I stood there and allowed the lump in my throat to develop into a full blown cry.
For the first time I opened the velvet bag to glimpse Blitz's ashes. They were packaged in a clear plastic bag material. While I was taken aback by the lack of dignity with the configuration, there was utility, and that made sense to me. I slowly tore at the plastic, exposing the last earthy remains of the dog I loved do much to the elements.
I thought of all of the time her and I shared on this ground. I thought about our last hunt together here on my 40th birthday, and how that day went from one of sorrow to unmitigated joy. I also thought about hunts to come. "Blitz," I said aloud, "I'll be down here a lot with you. Keep watch for me, girl." And with that I flung her ashes high into the winter air.
The strong south wind caught the ashes and deposited them onto the snow in the north, which created a beautiful grey design on top of the snow. I stood there and thought about Blitz, my dad, and why I got a dog in the first place.
"I miss you so much!" I sobbed out loud, alone, in the frigid morning air.
Go to the next chapter
Sunday, May 31, 2009
A Dog Named Blitz - Chapter One: "The Beginning, the End" Part One
The following is part of the blog serial "It's, It's a Dog Named Blitz." For background on this story, please click here.
The wind whipping outside rattled the old house. The clock read 4:05, too early for anybody normal, but a special time to those devoted to the hunting and fishing lifestyle. An alarm wasn’t necessary; I was up this early on my own and it was time to get going.
My bare feet hit the cold floor and helped get things pumping better than a jolt of coffee. I dressed as quietly as possible, trying to keep the silent house still. The creaky floor and staircase reiterated my need to shed some pounds, but despite the noise I was successful in creeping downstairs while the rest house remained still.
I ran out to the truck to get it started and warmed up, and came back in to scribble a note for my wife.
Honey,
Couldn’t sleep, so Blitz and I are going to the Duck Camp. I’ll be home later.
XO,
Mikey
I ran back outside and climbed into the cold rig. “You ready to go, girl?” I asked to the dog in the back seat. And with that start we departed for my farm.
The drive took a couple of hours due to a stop at my favorite coffee shop in Sauk Centre. As we finally approached the land which had brought us both so much joy, I couldn’t help but be flooded by memories of hunts that Blitz and I had enjoyed among the parcel.
I pulled off to the side of the dirt road and pulled the truck up to the site of Blitz’s first flush on the property. I left the truck running, but exited the vehicle, and donned my hunting vest. As I walked into the thicket of trees, my memory of Blitz's flush filled my eyes. She was an exuberant seven month old at the time – a darting yellow streak dashing to and fro with unabashed joy. Half hunting, and half just running her tail off for the simple pleasure of it. While not the best technique for hunting, it clearly was entertaining to watch.
Blitz had just completed a quartering move to my left and was coming around when her nose went to the ground hard. I had seen such behavior before, and usually found it reserved for bunnies and chipmunks, so needless to say my expectations were not high. But despite my doubts Blitz made a nose-down beeline for the thick cover to my right, and I haphazardly swung in behind her in case she actually was on a bird.
Through the thick cover I could see that she had moved in tight to a small clump of cover, and as she was closing in, she froze solid. Due to my nonchalance, I was completely out of position, but even with her locked up on point, I could not believe that she could be holding a bird in such poor cover. As I lollygagged to getting into a better area, a giant rooster pheasant suddenly burst from the cover that Blitz was pointing and quickly headed down the only window out of the cover available. Unfortunately that window was completely blocked buy a huge tree given my current position. Dog 1. Rooster 1. Hunter 0.
Blitz immediately emerged from the thick cover with looked up at me with an unmistakable look of incredulity on her face. One glance said all there was to say, “You have GOT to be kidding me!” We stood looking at each other for a couple of seconds, with me offering apologies and her giving me “the look” when, just like that, she headed off like a shot, looking for the next bird. That is one of the true beauties of dogs – short attention spans, and the complete inability to hold a grudge.
On to the next chapter
The wind whipping outside rattled the old house. The clock read 4:05, too early for anybody normal, but a special time to those devoted to the hunting and fishing lifestyle. An alarm wasn’t necessary; I was up this early on my own and it was time to get going.
My bare feet hit the cold floor and helped get things pumping better than a jolt of coffee. I dressed as quietly as possible, trying to keep the silent house still. The creaky floor and staircase reiterated my need to shed some pounds, but despite the noise I was successful in creeping downstairs while the rest house remained still.
I ran out to the truck to get it started and warmed up, and came back in to scribble a note for my wife.
Honey,
Couldn’t sleep, so Blitz and I are going to the Duck Camp. I’ll be home later.
XO,
Mikey
I ran back outside and climbed into the cold rig. “You ready to go, girl?” I asked to the dog in the back seat. And with that start we departed for my farm.
The drive took a couple of hours due to a stop at my favorite coffee shop in Sauk Centre. As we finally approached the land which had brought us both so much joy, I couldn’t help but be flooded by memories of hunts that Blitz and I had enjoyed among the parcel.
I pulled off to the side of the dirt road and pulled the truck up to the site of Blitz’s first flush on the property. I left the truck running, but exited the vehicle, and donned my hunting vest. As I walked into the thicket of trees, my memory of Blitz's flush filled my eyes. She was an exuberant seven month old at the time – a darting yellow streak dashing to and fro with unabashed joy. Half hunting, and half just running her tail off for the simple pleasure of it. While not the best technique for hunting, it clearly was entertaining to watch.
Blitz had just completed a quartering move to my left and was coming around when her nose went to the ground hard. I had seen such behavior before, and usually found it reserved for bunnies and chipmunks, so needless to say my expectations were not high. But despite my doubts Blitz made a nose-down beeline for the thick cover to my right, and I haphazardly swung in behind her in case she actually was on a bird.
Through the thick cover I could see that she had moved in tight to a small clump of cover, and as she was closing in, she froze solid. Due to my nonchalance, I was completely out of position, but even with her locked up on point, I could not believe that she could be holding a bird in such poor cover. As I lollygagged to getting into a better area, a giant rooster pheasant suddenly burst from the cover that Blitz was pointing and quickly headed down the only window out of the cover available. Unfortunately that window was completely blocked buy a huge tree given my current position. Dog 1. Rooster 1. Hunter 0.
Blitz immediately emerged from the thick cover with looked up at me with an unmistakable look of incredulity on her face. One glance said all there was to say, “You have GOT to be kidding me!” We stood looking at each other for a couple of seconds, with me offering apologies and her giving me “the look” when, just like that, she headed off like a shot, looking for the next bird. That is one of the true beauties of dogs – short attention spans, and the complete inability to hold a grudge.
On to the next chapter
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