I’m headed over to a meet and greet with Lori Piestewa’s mother, Jessica Lynch and her little ones, and others from the group that survived that day of ambush in the desert seven years ago. (update: didn’t happen. my contact wasn’t able to make it due to a family matter, so i just made the trip there and back without meeting any of them. bummer.)

Last week was the week of car horns. I was at Costco filling up TMBWitW’s car before our road trip to Kingman, and I was trying to get a movie started for MEG in the back seat. I had the back door open, and was leaned in past her to reach the portable DVD player. An older gentleman laid on his horn, hard, as opposed to a quick tap to let me know he was there, and it about caused a heart attack. I came out of the car, looked at him, and he inched by with his window down, so I could hear his sarcastic remark: “Thank you for being so kind and helpful and letting me by!” The car ahead of me had left, and he was in SUCH a hurry to get going that he had to squeeze by me to get started on pumping his gas. Words failed me.

Thursday and Friday I was in a cab, and both days it seemed like the entire area would have been paralyzed without car horns. Normally, people are in a rush, but just swerve around issues and idiots; if someone doesn’t move as soon as the light turns green someone in the line behind is usually in enough of a hurry that a quick tap on the horn is enough to catch the attention of someone daydreaming. I was in a left turn lane, and heard a siren coming from my left. The turn arrow came on, and the guy right behind me laid on the horn, hard, and I lost it. I slammed the cab into park, jumped out, and went back to discuss the proper use of the horn in traffic. Most of my remarks were drowned out by the emergency vehicles going by at the moment, and when I finished yelling the guy looked at me and said, “Sorry, didn’t know there were sirens coming.” I reminded him that if he was in that much of a hurry, his two choices were going around or leaving his house earlier. He didn’t like either one. Later on, I was flagged down by a lady at a bus stop. I was way ahead of the crowd headed down the street, so I pulled to the curb, expecting her to jump in. Instead, she wanted to discuss how much it would cost to get her somewhere. I was just about to tell her to get in when a lady in a minivan behind me laid on her horn. I’d had enough of horns by then. I jumped out, walked back to her and asked her if her horn needed to be fixed? She looked at me like I wasn’t speaking her native language (I wasn’t, but that’s beside the point) and started cussing me out. I asked her what she would have done if it had been a bus, instead of a cab? She looked confused for a moment and then said “well, I guess I would have gone around.” “Bingo, lady. Go around. Quit blowing your horn unless you want to wear it in an uncomfortable position.” I got back in and took my passenger to her destination. On the way, we passed the bus, and the lady in the minivan ended up stuck behind it while the traffic around her zipped by…

One of my last rides on Friday was a non-emergency medical run (also known as vouchers) for an older lady and her mother. WHen they got in the cab, they had a rather distinct odor about them – if you have ever smelled what cat urine on clothes smells like, then you know what I’m talking about. It didn’t seem to affect them. Every time the breeze shifted, it sure affected me. The odor was treatable – that’s why I carry a can of Febreeze in my briefcase. However, when I got to the car wash to clean up before I turned in, I noticed that the back seat floor mats were covered in cat litter. Used cat litter. My guess is they walked through the cat box on their way out the door and didn’t notice.

Chat ya later…

Thank you for stopping by, In GOD We Trust, God bless you all, don’t buy or breed cats or dogs while homeless pets die (spay, neuter & adopt a pet, one by one, until there are none), Wear Red on Fridays, and support Warriors for Innocence!

On my Friday night show, The “O” Word, the topic of discussion was a poseur, who went by the handle of “Tigerbo” and claimed to be a 30-year combat veteran and a retired Marine Corps Lieutenant Colonel who was suffering from PTSD and successfully fighting off a harrowing case of bone marrow cancer and had suffered through the death of his wife “in his arms.” Turns out that John Dawson was none of those things – and, in fact, his (now ex-)wife had not died in his arms, but in her owns words had nearly “died at his hands.” He washed out of Marine Corps boot camp and never served a day in the military.

During the show, a listener (Patriotgreg, a fine man, naturalized American Citizen, Christian, and all-around good guy) got pretty heated in the chat room and kept trying to bring “Christian Compassion” into the discussion of whether or not what John had done was deserving of our pity, or what path we should take when dealing with him. It was Patriotgreg’s position that until we heard from John directly, we should not judge him. Another guest, Pastor Ed, had in fact talked to John about the whole thing and John had denied any wrong doing.

I want to focus on the “Christian Compassion” part of Patriotgreg’s statement. He is sure that we need to have more compassion, and give John the benefit of the doubt. I and several of my listeners disagreed, and unfortunately Greg left the show in a huff.

I believe that “Christian Compassion” is not, as Greg asserted, giving someone a free pass when that person has transgressed. I believe that “Christian Compassion” is, instead, holding that person to the standards that are found throughout the Bible. That is, it is more compassionate to hold each other to Christ’s standards than to let a fellow Christian slide away from Him. By allowing a brother or sister to slide away, you would be helping to condemn him or her (and yourself!) to eternal life apart from Christ. By holding your brothers and sisters to the high standards of Christ-like living, and expecting them to hold you to the same standards, you are confirming your faith in Christ and (helping to) ensuring their eternal life WITH Christ.

For more on the story, please listen to the podcast (ignore the first several minutes where I once again couldn’t get audio to work) and chime in in the comments below.

Chat ya later…

Thank you for stopping by, In GOD We Trust, God bless you all, don’t buy or breed cats or dogs while homeless pets die (spay, neuter & adopt a pet, one by one, until there are none), Wear Red on Fridays, and support Warriors for Innocence!

Everyone else in the house is asleep – TMBWitW, MEG, and the dogs (who apparently assumed that since I was out here, emptying and filling the dishwasher with a background of NASCAR on the TV that I wasn’t going to nap out) are all sprawled and oblivious. MEG was really testy all morning, and she finally exhausted herself and fell asleep on the sofa – my sofa – while the dogs are spread all over the big bed wherever there is room. That is, room for them – there is no room for me now.

So, I figured I would clean up my mailbox a little bit, and came across this little tidbit that I had marked as possible fodder for a post. It’s dated September 23, 2009, but even a month later it will answer so many questions you may have about a certain leader of the free world.

I received the piece from a TEA Party member here in Arizona, and she pointed me to the article, which was written by Victor Davis Hanson for the National Review Online.

Barack Obama, College Administrator
Our commander-in-chief seems to think he’s president of the University of America.

By Victor Davis Hanson

If you are confused by the first nine months of the Obama administration, take solace that there is at least a pattern. The president, you see, thinks America is a university and that he is our campus president. Keep that in mind, and almost everything else makes sense.

Obama went to Occidental, Columbia, and Harvard without much of a break, taught at the University of Chicago, and then surrounded himself with academics, first in his stint at community organizing and then when he went into politics. It shows. In his limited experience, those who went to Yale or Harvard are special people, and the Ivy League environment has been replicated in the culture of the White House.

Note how baffled the administration is by sinking polls, tea parties, town halls, and, in general, “them” — the vast middle class, which, as we learned during the campaign, clings to guns and Bibles, and which has now been written off as blinkered, racist, and xenophobic. The earlier characterization of rural Pennsylvania has been expanded to include all of Middle America.

For many in the academic community who have not worked with their hands, run businesses, or ventured far off campus, Middle America is an exotic place inhabited by aborigines who bowl, don’t eat arugula, and need to be reminded to inflate their tires. They are an emotional lot, of some value on campus for their ability to “fix” broken things like pipes and windows, but otherwise wisely ignored. Professor Chu, Obama’s energy secretary, summed up the sense of academic disdain that permeates this administration with his recent sniffing about the childish polloi: “The American people . . . just like your teenage kids, aren’t acting in a way that they should act.” Earlier, remember, Dr. Chu had scoffed from his perch that California farms were environmentally unsound and would soon disappear altogether, “We’re looking at a scenario where there’s no more agriculture in California.”

Read the rest: Barack Obama, College Administrator

Now, that certainly explains a lot. Like why he is so clueless about what we, the people who actually have to live and earn a living in the United States, think about what he is doing as the leader of the US. Let me know what you think in the comments.

Chat ya later…

Thank you for stopping by, In GOD We Trust, God bless you all, don’t buy or breed cats or dogs while homeless pets die (spay, neuter & adopt a pet, one by one, until there are none), Wear Red on Fridays, and support Warriors for Innocence!

I’m getting too old for this kind of excitement on the job.

So – those of you who have been … concerned … about my temporary career choice (cab driver) can relax, and take a deep breath.

Before I tell you, know that I am physically fine, mentally so over it, and pretty much almost complete with the “Learning From Your Past” phase. I am referring to the fact that I drove my final shift Saturday night, a twelve-hour event that culminated with bloodshed – not, however, my own.

I was having what I thought was a pretty good shift – I had scored a six-passenger Windstar van, and was catching the normal dispatches, the five passenger requests, and the van requests. Pretty sweet setup, if you can get a van, and I even convinced another driver, who had not driven a van before, to get one if he could. I don’t know how his night ended up; I didn’t see him before I went home to compare notes.

At any rate – I had been running with passengers most of the night. My longest dead-head was about six miles; other than that I had a paying customer in the back almost constantly and I was never more than five minutes without a dispatch. The farthest I had to reach to snag a ride was two “zones” away. The FBR was at TPC Scottsdale, and even though Yellow/AAA had scored an exclusive cab stand for the tournament, they couldn’t keep up and were begging for help – after insisting on police enforcement of the exclusive agreement up to Saturday afternoon. Of course, being the nice people that two competing companies are, Discount didn’t rub it in their noses…much. Personally, I never got to the FBR site – I was in the area, but with that many taxis covering the high demand at one site, the rest of the Valley was looking for rides too – after all, it was the Saturday Night Before The Super Bowl. The dispatch board was only empty for a few seconds around 1900, but filled up after that and stayed full until well after 0400. A good night to be driving.

I was in the West Valley and got called to a bar for a run. Seems a Steelers fan had run afoul of the locals at a country bar, and the management though it would be best if he were taken home quickly. Since he was in no shape to drive himself, I gladly picked him up. As we were getting ready to pull away, the manager handed me the passenger’s keys, and mentioned that if I came right back, he had two other guys to get home also. I told him I would do what I could, and took the hapless Steelers fan to his place.

When I got back to the bar, there were two guys, Mexican by their appearances, who were helping each other stand up. One had a Blue shirt on (i will call him “blue”) and one had a white Cardinals sweatshirt on (i will call him “red”). Just as I pulled up, Red could no longer maintain his side of the agreement, and went down in a heap with crossed legs. Blue tried valiantly, but could not support Red’s weight by himself. I got out and, in violation of company policy, helped Blue get Red back on his feet. We got Red into the middle seat of the van and closed the sliding door. Blue turned to me, held out his hand, and thanked me for my assistance with his brother in law. I shook his hand, and he got in the front passenger seat. I got back in, and we took off.

(normally, i enjoy driving around a couple of drunks who aren’t quite sure where they want to go. i’ll have to tell you about those encounters sometime. Mr. Back-Of-The-Skull-Hair-Controller was working overtime, and i was ignoring him this time.)

Blue said to head for 43rd and Camelback, so off we went. When we were about halfway there, they decided that they needed to go home instead, so we turned around and headed for Dysart and Camelback. We were on Indian School Road, and they were chatting back and forth, slipping from English to Spanish and back again. I was half-way listening to their conversation (it was a little after the state’s 0200 closing time – about 0220 – and i was concentrating on the infrequent after-hours traffic) when I caught the words from Red’s mouth – “tu Madre” – but nothing before. There was nothing after, as Blue dove between the front seats and commenced to beat on Red. By “beat on” I mean that Blue was taking full overhand swings and connecting repeatedly, while yelling loudly in Spanish. I hit the “record” button on the dashcam. It didn’t record. I hit it again. Still nothing. Blue’s feet and legs were kicking wildly, and I had to squeeze against the driver’s side door to avoid being hit. I was looking for a place to pull over so I could either bail or try to get them out of the cab. I reached up and hit the record button a few more times, but it still didn’t work. I held the emergency button (located where only the driver can reach it) and then went back to avoiding the legs (which had kicked the receipt printer to plastic components by now) and looking for a place to pull over. I’m not sure, but I stopped counting when I saw forty swings, and I think I missed a few in between those. It’s amazing what the mind can do in overdrive.

Suddenly, it was over. Blue got back into the front seat, turned to me, said “I apologize for disrespecting you and your vehicle. He insulted my mother.” Then he passed out.

I looked in the passenger mirror (if you have a Windstar, you know what i mean – it’s a convex mirror on the liner, between the visors, that flips down. i keep it flipped down when i get a van.) and saw that Red was also passed out. I kept heading for Dysart and Camelback – I figured if they were passed out when I got there, I would just unload them and leave.

Suddenly, Red sat up, and mumbled. I checked over my shoulder, and he was holding his shirt to his mouth. His eyes were swollen shut, and blood was dribbling out of one ear. He mumbled again, this time a little clearer, and I made out “Dysart and Canelback.” I assured him I was headed that way. When I reached that intersection, he said “North” and a little while later “Right” and then in short order “right,” “left” and “turn in here.”

Red paid the meter (huh- no tip?!?) and stumbled out the side door and to the gate in the side yard. I looked over at Blue and said “Sir? Where do you need to go?”

He looked a little disoriented when he opened his eyes after I said that, and he looked at me and said, “I live here, too. Thank you for the ride. Have you been paid?” I assured him that yes, the meter had been paid (deciding that I really didn’t want to ask for a tip) and he got out and also stumbled through the gate. I pulled out, and remembered the silver nail-on numbers on the mailbox post as my headlights swept over them.

I got back to Camelback and hammered it eastbound for the yard. It was about 0245, but I figured I had a couple of calls to make, at least. I called dispatch first, and they told me to find a lighted spot to safely pull into; they would have the police meet me. They were also contacting the Road Supervisor. I stayed on the phone with dispatch until I got to the QT at 99th and Camelback, told them where I was, then parked. I didn’t really want to check the cab, but I had to. When I opened the driver’s side slider, the first thing that caught my eye was the amount of blood on the seat and floor, mostly pooled on the threshold, and the bills that were bled upon. It looked like Red was holding the remainder of their drinking fund, and had left it in the van when he got out. Now, I wasn’t worried so much about not getting tipped. On the seat was a watch with a broken band and what appeared to be either a tooth or part of a tongue in between more blood pools and drops. I didn’t check it any closer to ascertain the origin – I’ve seen enough episodes of CSI that I didn’t move or touch anything. I only looked with my eyes and my mini-mag flashlight. There was blood on the back of the driver’s seat, on the slider’s panel, and in the flip-down cupholder.

My first thought was that the van would probably be late on the turn-in.

My phone rang, and it was the Road Supervisor. He was in Mesa, and would be heading my way. He would stop at the Glendale yard first, and if I hadn’t gotten there yet he would head on over to where I was. Right after he hung up, a cruiser pulled up. The officers introduced themselves, and looked in the van. The senior officer asked me where I had dumped the body. I said he had walked into his place under his own power. He just shook his head.

The upshot of the police inspection? I got an incident report number, and that was it. Since I was not harmed, and there was only property damage, no charges could be filed. They would check out where I dropped them off, but if no one pressed any charges there, there would be no action there either. I asked about the bills in the blood, and they said they were mine, since they didn’t have any account attached to them and no way to tell how long they had been in the cab before the blood got on them. I thanked them for their help, and then asked if I could borrow a pair of evidence gloves, so as to avoid touching the blood directly. The junior officer chuckled as he handed me a pair, and said that he hoped there was enough in there to pay for cleaning. I told him I hoped so too.

I got a plastic bag from the counter guy inside, and placed the bills in the bag. Then I compressed the bag in my hands, peeled the gloves off over the bag to kind of seal it all together, and headed for the yard. I was there for about five minutes before the RS showed up, and the yard guys were marveling that I didn’t get touched during the melee. The RS took pictures, and I asked him (discreetly) about the bills – he said the same thing as the police, that since they were in my cab, and there was no way to trace them, that they were mine. Then he took the van and parked it in the accident lot, with instructions not to touch it, since it had to have a HazMat clean up done to it. The van would be out for at least a week.

I got the inspection sheet from the yard man, and checked out with dispatch. I turned in the watch, and asked about the bills – they said the same thing, that any cash in the cab, whether it was a penny or a Benjamin, belonged to the person that found it. That was good enough for me. I headed home. I was suddenly very, very tired.

When I got home, more CSI lessons came into play. I got a stainless steel mixing bowl, filled it halfway with water, and put about a cup of bleach into the water. Using a pair of exam gloves (not as weird as you might think – remember, we have five four dogs and five cats and i also use them for messy work – painting, staining, plastering…) I peeled open the package and dropped it into the bowl. I worked the bills apart, and scrubbed them, letting them soak after I scrubbed, then scrubbed them again and rinsed them under running water. I made sure to leave the blood in the bowl as much as possible. All the bills came out pretty good, and I laid them out to dry on a kitchen towel. I counted them, and there was enough to pay for the cleaning, but I didn’t have to pay for the cleaning, so it made a nice tip instead.

I laid down, since I had to get to church soon, but TMBWitW woke up and asked how my night went. I told her, and we both said it was my final shift.

I am going to miss driving the cab, but I am just getting too old for this much excitement on the job.

Chat ya later…

Thank you for stopping by, In GOD We Trust, God bless you all, listen to The O Word on BlogTalkRadio, Wear Red on Fridays, and support Warriors for Innocence!

(disclaimer – i started this on sunday evening, after waking up from my post-church “nap” and had to take an overnight break for more sleep before finishing it monday morning)

TMBWitW and I had to make a very hard decision this last week. Actually, it wasn’t a hard decision, so much as it was hard to make the decision. The decision was made when we decided to keep Logan as our youngest dog, that when the time came we would not be selfish by wanting to keep him around. It was hard to admit to ourselves and each other that the time had come.

For those who have been following the story of Logan: he is in pain most of the time now, and nothing can be done. In order to provide him with the best quality of life, and not prolong any kind of suffering, we will be sending him Home this Saturday morning (unless he gets much worse sooner). You can bet your bottom dollar we are going to be spoiling him as much as we can this week.

If I don’t publish a lot this week, please understand.

Thank you for stopping by, In GOD We Trust, God bless you all, listen to The O Word on BlogTalkRadio, Wear Red on Fridays, and support Warriors for Innocence!