Here is a little pil-pul for the talmudic minds among us...

A debate arises here lately about whether the First Amendment guarantees six or five freedoms. There are worthy arguments, and there is the conventional wisdom. But first, discuss amongst yourselves:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

Pil-pul, by the way, is the talmudic hair-splitting over the words and wording of The Law and the teachings of the prophets. It's a good little word, not exactly onomotopaeia, but kinda sorta.

Dean, without Jerry

I always thought Dean Martin was funnier than Jerry Lewis, but I'm not a fan of sloppy slapstick, so Dean Martin's wry, straight-man humor was more to my liking.

Tropical storm Dean won't be worth talking about until Friday, but perhaps by then, he'll have something funny or interesting to offer. These are grim times in Collier County. Political ugliness abounds. It is like theater or the keystone cops or something.

The problem with white collar, non-violent crime of all kinds, political, economic, various torts, etc., is that there is no enforcement. These are all basically crimes that victims have to prosecute themselves...

Eventually, I'm going to have something worth saying again, but it's going to take some warm-up. I haven't written anything of substance in a while. It's all just hurried little responses to the latest volley of political bullshit.

I'm not nervous. I hate these little tricks they do to make you look anxious. The card is bent, and I was unbending it, that's all. Bastages...

http://www.winknews.com/news/local/8795622.html?video=YHI&t=a

How much corruption is enough?

Just wondering how long I'm supposed to be quiet about the malfeasance and corrupt behavior I have to witness day after day. Since the press doesn't give a shit, I'm wondering if there is anyone else who is willing to call a spade a spade and say that a certain former presidential candidate living in Naples is completely crooked.

Brackets, revisited, or Where's the Beef?

I sniveled about this once before, but as it is tax day, or the traditional version thereof, it's on my mind again. I have not yet done my taxes, as I am missing a couple documents needed to complete them. So I went to file the requisite extension form today and of course, if you're going to file for the extension, you have to pay the taxes at the same time, or some reasonable approximation thereof. I have no idea what I might owe in taxes. I have never had to PAY at the end of a tax year, you see. I have always been one of those who let Uncle Sam sit on enough of my money that I would be without sin come tax day. But two things happened last year... one) I cut the withholding back; and two) I started making about twice as much money. Even if you were making dirt, so all you have after doubling is double dirt, that is enough more to change a person's whole orientation to well, everything.

For instance, my daughters' 13th birthday happened to coincide with the opening of the new Ruth's Chris Steakhouse here in Naples, so I took them to Ruth's for their birthday. If you are not familiar with Ruth's, it is the sort of place where you can go and have nothing but a massive slab of dead animal. If you are of the carnivorous bent, you needn't complicate your mission with a lot of rabbit food, fancy accompaniments, flourishes, finishes or even a smear of sauce. That is because everything at Ruth's is "all a la carte," an arrogance in fine dining that I personally find rude, actually a culinary offense, but what do I know? Maybe some people are offended by the presumption that they might WANT a salad or some roasted asparagus with their dead cow. Indeed, if you are a carnivorous purist, you can just go right on over to Ruthie's and have yourself a $48 t-bone steak, and they won't even trouble you with a sprig of friggin parsley.

So this is where I took my nit-picking particular little princesses for their very first birthday as legitimate TEEN-agers. They were the very first diners at the new Ruth's, in fact, and since I wanted them to enjoy their birthday, I said I would not be a heinous tightwad for once, and told them they could have whatever they wanted. Including sauces and beverages, (dessert was on the house on account of it was their birthday, though I know for a fact they do not always do that). HA! Yeah, so dinner for four, $245, plus tip at 20 percent, you do the math. I can't think about it. It's not like I don't have debt for chrissakes. To my MOTHER, for chrissakes. I am having serious shame about that meal, even now, three weeks later. At the time, I just swallowed hard. Smile, nod, keep walking.

But the point is, this is not something that would have even been a possibility six months ago. I admit that I took utter leave of my senses, but this was an indulgence for my girlies that, while it will not happen again, seemed somehow worth committing at the time. That is all. I have a spartan lifestyle still, but I make enough money that I can occasionally commit indulgence. It is also enough that I have to turn over about one-third of it to the government in taxes, and I may have insufficiently prepared for that bite, so I will be writing a check tonight. To Uncle Sam. For the first time ever. And I am not bitter. No sir, not at all.

Matzah hostages

Mother is taking hostages again, pulling at the grandchildren to get them to come to Bubbe's for Passover, come to Bubbe's, come to Bubbe's. They want to go to Auntie Nomie's, where you have to keep strictly kosher and not touch the light switches on Shabbes and boys don't touch the girls and women don't shake hands with the men, and all sorts of other restrictions on modern living that they would normally not put up with. But at Auntie Nomie's, they seem quaint and charming. Especially when the alternative is Passover with the lunatic drug addict who barks out "Woof" in peculiar, spontaneous verbalizations.

Yes, it's come to this. My mother barks like a dog, and my children do not want to be with her for the holiday. They didn't say they WON'T, so they haven't given up their compassion entirely,
but they are really gritting their teeth...

Learn something

I'm about to learn something. There's going to be an a-HA! moment pretty soon here... I can feel it building, picking up speed...

I was going to write out the different people, places, things that have been part of this gathering crescendo, but it's too late (early), and I'm not supposed to be doing this anyway. But I wonder if God is in a hurry for me to get it this time, whatever it is, because the usual slow build of signs and wonders can be a slow process with a blockhead like me. But I DID somehow get led to THIS site today: http://www.realarmorofgod.com/gird-your-loins.html

That is all I'm gonna say about it for the nonce. I know better than to be up at this hour on a workday, specially without having gotten ready for work already... it's the defiance, I know... I'm working on it.

Ribs woven into the steering wheel

Here's the other thing that happened. Last month, a guy died on the job here at the airport. It was truly a freak accident. There was only his own good-natured, enthusiastic, can-do spirit to blame. That, and the heedlessness an enthusiastic, can-do spirit sometimes generates.

The guy--- I'll call him Dave, because that was his name ---was just jumping in to help out and do a crummy job on a really busy day. He was driving what we call a tug, these low, beefy little vehicles used to tow airplanes around. At the moment, however, he was towing what we call a lav cart, which is a portable unit used for servicing the potties on the aircraft, and he backed himself under a wing of a Falcon-900, a powerful private jet with low-slung wings. Dave was not going particularly fast, but fast isn't really necessary under those circumstances; it's a tight space and it was sudden enough, regardless of his speed. He basically wedged himself back under the wing, slamming his trunk forward, down onto the steering wheel of the tug.

The force was enough that it broke the steering wheel, and he cut his arm badly. That appeared to be the main injury, and since we have first-responders right on the airfield always, he was attended to within moments of the incident. There was a lot of blood from the cut, but he was conscious, talking and worrying about whether he would lose his job. The paramedics quickly realized there was more going on than the cut, likely chest trauma. Dave was promptly life-flighted out, but he apparently suffered cardiac arrest on the way to the trauma center and died within hours.

And that was the end of it. Just a good guy, showing up to do his best and be a part of the team, and one careless minute and he's a footnote. No wife, no kids, two very, very nice sisters, and supposedly, not a lot of friends. One sister said he'd been a bit of a loner, maybe a little bit of an oddball most of his life. But all these people came out of the woodwork to mourn his passing. I'm talking about a standing-room-only funeral. Almost no one claimed to know him very well. He was just a friendly, positive, upbeat guy who was always willing to help out, and that's what everyone remembered him for, appreciated him for. That was some comfort to the family. And to those of us who worked with him.

But it was also a stick in the spokes of the workaholic frenzy we marinate in around here. We liked Dave because he worked hard, and he was willing to work. But Dave is dead. Dead, dead, dead. He left virtually nothing behind but this legacy of his willing work ethic. He had few personal effects, because he was not motivated by "stuff," or driven to acquire. His family gave his car to his girlfriend.

I've got little more than that. My kids could fight over my car, which is currently in the shop, and my shitty shack of a house with the plumbing problems. But after those, what's the difference between me and Dave?

I'd leave kids who wanted more, a husband who hoped for better, friends who would have loved to have a minute of my time... really, I would HAVE friends if I'd give any of them a friggin' minute.

WHY DO I WORK LIKE THIS??? Why does anyone? This is a form of violence, I tell you. It is wrong. It is bankrupt. Nobody appreciates it, or even respects it. And I guarantee you, if I suddenly end up with my ribs woven into some steering wheel, my last goddamn thought is not going to be about how the incident is going to affect my job performance ...

One of the other directors went to the hangar where we stored the plane involved in the incident, and Dave's bloody hand prints were still on the front wing edge, where he'd lifted up his hands while wedged under there, groping for a way to free himself.

I didn't actually see that myself, but I have repeatedly imagined it, imagined those handprints as if they were mine, bloody and desperate and grasping for some meaning...

...and not finding it. Not there.