Our watch has ended. We stand relieved.

By Joseph Walther

Memorial Day weekend has arrived right on time. Most of us will be witness to myriad celebrations throughout the land, from the largest city to the smallest township. If we choose to tune in, we’ll see the mother lode of all celebrations, which takes place in our nation’s capital each year. It will honor all of our military branches and pay special tribute to those who have sacrificed their lives in service to our country. Included, as has come to be tradition, will be those few poignant letters from fathers to sons and daughters serving on the front lines.

All of these celebrations are sincere. With the exception of an infinitesimally small percentage of jerks, we sincerely care about and remember our fallen war dead. For most, who have no direct connection to those who have died, the concern is mercifully clinical. But, if you’re the parents, spouse, child, brother, sister, aunt, uncle, or friend of a fallen combatant, the loss is gut-wrenchingly personal.

People who have served in combat roles enjoy a special bond. They don’t use words like “brave” and “courage.” During my two combat tours in Viet Nam, I never heard a single combatant use either of them in relation to battlefield conduct. This is because, in the throes of combat, it’s not about bravery or courage. It’s about staying alive and doing the job.

There is no dishonor in wanting to stay alive, but for combat forces, successful completion of the mission and the protection of fellow combatants ARE primary motivators. If death overtakes us in our attempts to accomplish these, so be it. Combatants call it dying with honor and it’s always been a much stronger motivator than staying alive at all costs.

Aside from the short statement that follows, I’m not going to belabor or politicize this week’s topic. But, I have had it up to my eyeballs with Congress and the White House bickering over what their respective sides are doing in the best interests of the “troops.” Wars have never been about the troops. Dave Ross, a CBS commentator, said it best. Click here to listen. [NOTE:] This link worked when I tested it, but if it fails for you, go to http://daveross.com/index.html and click on Dave Ross on CBS. Scroll down to Doing it for the troops? Prove it!

On this Memorial Day, remember our military forces. While you’re doing this, remember that 1,000 more of them have died since last Memorial Day. Relative to Iraq, since the famous “Mission Accomplished” banner, over 3,000 troops have died. The latest numbers for U. S. combat deaths that I’ve been able to find are (as of May 26, 2007) 3,439 confirmed dead and 15 deaths pending confirmation, bringing the total to 3,454.

Let’s stuff the partisan bickering about the decision to wage this war in the first place. It doesn’t matter now, nor has it mattered since the day we invaded. The fact is that we DID. What matters is that we currently have a list of 3,454 dead military personnel. Their watches have ended and they stand relieved. This number will continue to increase each day unless we begin providing our remaining forces with what they need to complete their mission successfully. Then we need to get them safely home as quickly as possible. At the very least, this will be infinitely more effective than talking about it—the part that we’ve become so adept at mastering. Again, I refer you to Dave Ross of CBS.

Tomorrow, I will be visiting a friend of mine from our days as combatants in Viet Nam. He lives his life within the confines of a mental hospital because he sometimes still thinks that he’s in the jungles of Viet Nam. He’s a frail, shell of the man he was so long ago. He cringes and climbs into a fetal position at the sound of loud noises, especially thunder.

Back then, at 6-feet, 3-inches tall and 238 pounds, he was a member of an elite special operations force called the Rangers. He was proud, dedicated, and reliable: what officers called a good soldier. In fact, he was the kind of soldier who, if he had your flank and the enemy still got though, you knew, instinctively, that he was dead.

Rest easy, Mark, I’ve got your flank. As for the rest of you, I’ll be back next week doing my level best to… oh, I don’t know. I’ll think of something.

Joseph Walther is a freelance writer and publisher of The True Facts. Copyright laws apply to all material on this site. Send your comments. Just click here.

Whoa, dude! That's profound. Stupid, but in a profound way.

By Joseph Walther

He’s back! Yes, Earl is back at Mamma Gina’s Pizza Shop in the New Castle Farmer’s Market in Wilmington, Delaware. Those words, “Ya unnerstan what I’m sayin?” reverberated from the pizza stand seating section like someone yelling FIRE in a crowed movie theatre. Almost zombie-like, I moved in the direction of that voice. I couldn’t help myself.

I had not been to the “Market” since the fire a few months ago. It’s been even longer since I last talked to Earl. He was in jail for almost 8-months. Apparently, he lost his fifth debate in a row with the Delaware State Police over his alcohol-induced inability to drive. He claimed, as always, that he was fine to go; they, in their usual snotty manner, disagreed. Fortunately, for the rest of us who must drive, those “dirty coppers” had an accumulation of evidence to back their claims. In fact, their evidence was so strong, this time around, that Earl no longer has a driver’s license.

I pick on Earl, sometimes unmercifully. Regardless, it’s important for you to know that I admire him. He’s quite likeable in a Forrest Gump sort of way. Forrest Gump was a fictional character in a Tom Hanks’s movie. He was lovable, honest, sober, but intellectually unremarkable. His low IQ was apparent, making his life a constant, uphill struggle against those who self-appointed themselves as his intellectual superiors. It was a moving story. But, in the end, Forrest was a fictional character, an idiot from birth.

Earl, conversely, is real. He was not born an idiot, nor is he one now. He’s sick. Unlike Mr. Gump, he’s an alcoholic. He knows that he’s an alcoholic and he knows that it is going to kill him, perhaps sooner than later. He knows that his mind is circling the drain of mental decay through years of alcohol abuse, but he’s utterly incapable of stopping.

I can’t speak for all of you, but, unlike me, Earl faces demons that I’ve only read about and, at best, have experienced second and third-hand. I’ve known only two other people who suffered from an alcohol addiction this severe. They both died during alcohol-induced comas. Neither had reached the age of fifty. Earl is only 44-years-old, although I thought him closer to 60-years.

Earl has said some downright stupid things. I’ve written about many of them over the past three years. He’s said things that neither I nor anyone else could possibly make up. He’s also said some profound things that I’ve not mentioned. Here are some of those things. I’m going to call them “Earlisms.” They’re like “Gumpisms,” only they’ve come from a real person.

Earl claims to hate cats. However, his new girl friend, Bonnie, with whom he now lives, has four of them. She told me that Earl describes her cats as “loving animals who consider humans as warm-blooded furniture, trained to open the food cans, fill the water dish, and clean the litter box.” She further gushed, “They just adore him!” You have to have spent time around cats to describe them to a tee the way Earl has. It’s also a fact that cats do not “adore” people in whom they sense danger.

So, does this mean that Earl has lied about his hatred of cats? Maybe. On the other hand, being a born skeptic, I cannot discount the possibility that Bonnie—even with a nun-like sense of purpose—may have other “skills” that more than compensate for the fact that she has four cats. Also, we must not discount her valid driver’s license and a loan-free car, either.

In my humble opinion, Earl may have hated ALL cats BEFORE he met Bonnie. But, he loves HER cats, especially in light of her other “skills.” It’s sort of his way of looking up and saying, “Thank ya, Jesus!” As I said, Earl was not born an idiot, even though he sometimes sounds like one now.

Earl once called another customer at Mamma Gina’s an idiot for buying a Powerball ticket. I was there. I thought there was going to be fistfight over it. That customer quoted a “Gumpism” as justification for buying the ticket. Quoting Forrest Gump, the customer said, “Your chances of winning the lottery go up significantly when you buy a ticket.” Earl proceeded to explain, accurately, but in his uniquely offensive way, the difference between the “chances” of something happening and the “probability” of something happening.

All mathematicians know that when the likelihood of something happening goes from impossible to possible, as is the case when you acquire a lottery ticket, it’s significant. However, they are also quick to point out that, in the case of a Powerball lottery, the probability of winning is still 146,107,962 to 1. Hardly worth the effort, don’t you think?

As sincere as he tried to be, Earl’s explanation, an accurate mathematical dissertation, was rather long-winded and completely over the recipient’s head. It was a masterpiece and only its last sentence turned it offensive. His exact words, as I recall them, were, “Only dickwads, brain-damaged by a feet first trip through their momma’s joy canal, buy lottery tickets.”

The man he said this to replied with—I’m paraphrasing here—“Be fruitful and multiply, buddy!” OK, he didn’t use these exact words. Just the same, at this point, both men, madder than all hell, jumped up, and cocked their fists back, ready to strike. Momma Gina had to intervene… personally.

By the way, this is when I found out that Mamma Gina is NOT a petite, kindly, older grandmotherly, hard working Italian lady. “She” is 6-feet, 5-inches tall, weighs 255-pounds, and shaves. She speaks Italian in a deep, masculine voice and doesn’t look like a woman at all. I was shocked!

Let me put it another way. If I found myself in Earl’s predicament and I hated cats the way he claimed to have hated them, and it was Mamma Gina instead of Bonnie, her four cats would be history, no matter what other mitigating “skills” she had. The fact that she possessed a valid driver’s license and owned a car wouldn’t help, either. And, I’d certainly consider giving up alcohol. I mean, Mamma Gina looks just like some hairy-assed man. I’ll bet her real name isn’t Gina, either. God, talk about your shattered images!

Many years ago, a newspaper columnist, Mike Royko (click his last name for more information), introduced readers to an imaginary boyhood friend, Slats Grobnik. Slats provided Mike with a sounding board and a way to write, with humor, about political and social issues of his day. To this day, I have yet to find another columnist who does it as well as Mike Royko did it.

I know some things about Earl that I didn’t know the last time I wrote about him. And, I promised that I’d continue writing about him from time-to-time. However, I intend to give equal time to some of his “Earlisms.” Understand that I do not consider myself anywhere near the same league as the late Mike Royko nor are Earl and I boyhood friends. Just the same, though, I thank Earl for being my “Slats Grobnik.

All of this notwithstanding, Earl, there are some people in your life who worry about you and care about you. I know you think that you’ve quit drinking, but consuming beer is STILL drinking. Stay in touch. Bonnie, good luck to you. Never forget, though, that only the alcoholic can stop himself from drinking.

Joseph Walther is a freelance writer and publisher of The True Facts. Copyright laws apply to all material on this site. Send your comments. Just click here.

ABSOLUTELY...Well maybe, I think

By Joseph Walther

Her parents beamed from ear to ear as others complemented them on their new daughter, Heather. At the ripe old age of 2-months, she lay sleeping in her stroller, oblivious to the bustling world around her. Adorable, precious, cute, sweet, and beautiful were just a few of the adjectives admirers used. Then, from out of nowhere, came, “It’s going to take about 25-years for life to get back to normal, you know!”

I didn’t see the person who said this, but I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and assume he was just trying to be witty. If he wasn’t, then he has to be an idiot, one of those “black” versus “white” absolutists who think that life’s problems are easily solved by adhering to the good book of absolutes.

Telling her parents that it’s going to take 25-years or so to get back to normal is a bold-faced lie. Those of us who have ever welcomed a new born into our lives—and Heather’s parents obviously planned her arrival—know that normal is relative. It’s situationally specific. A new baby in the family ushers in entirely new standards of “normal” for parents who want children. We completely forget the old “normal” because we’re so enthralled with the new “normal.” It doesn’t take 25-years, either. I’d set the adjustment time to about 15-seconds after you hold the child in your arms for the first time.

Normal is a word, a dial setting on washing machines. Even at this, I have no idea what it means. We have become so desperate for answers that we make them up. We humans have an amazing propensity for reducing legitimate explanations to simplistic excuses for every quirk we encounter.

When I was a kid, people had not yet heard of attention deficit disorder. We just thought that kids who fell behind in class work were “slow.” I, for one, noticed that they got to clap the chalk dust out of the erasers at the end of the school day. They seemed to enjoy it, too. It looked like fun, not to mention a chance to break up the boredom. Oh yeah, public school kids didn’t get to clap erasers. The taxpayers paid for “specialists” to do this.

I’m not saying that attention deficit disorder is not a legitimate condition. I’m simply saying that we need to make sure we’re not using it as a convenient excuse. Just because people don’t listen to us does not mean THEY have attention deficit disorder. Maybe we’re colossal bores who repeatedly say stupid stuff. If so, Ritalin^®_, on their part, will do no good.

Life does not come with any guarantees. During my high school days, three classmates were killed in an automobile accident. One of them was sixteen years-old. The other two were seventeen years-old. The sixteen-year-old was driving. He was waiting to make a left-hand turn and tried jump a traffic light. Their vehicle overturned and an oncoming truck hit it square in its roof, crushing the skulls of all three of my classmates.

I was supposed to have been with them. However, my mother had grounded me at the last minute. Earlier in the day, I had flipped the bird at Father Gambit, the Prefect of Discipline, over a disagreement. Instead of killing me outright, he suspended me pending my bringing my mother—my father was dead—to discuss the situation.

I lost count of the number of people who told me that “God” must have had special plans for me or that He never sends us a cross that He knows we can’t bear. I thought that was total bull. I still do.

The fact that I was completely traumatized over my friends’ deaths didn’t seem to matter to any of them. Thankfully, about 6-weeks after the accident, one of the priests at school took me aside and talked to me. Among other things, he told me, “Son, you are alive today because you were lucky not to be in that car. They were not. God had nothing to do with it. Fate had nothing to do with it. It’s just the way life is. Be glad. Go and enjoy the rest of yours.”

I criticize the use of the term, “absolutes,” a lot. I don’t believe in them, especially as the term applies to natural law. In matters of religion, it boils down to faith. But, either way, loyalty to too many absolutes can be a problem in the long run.

We all live on the same rock traveling through space. It spins on its axis at about 1,000-miles per hour as gravitational forces whip it around the Sun at some 70,000 miles per hour. Those of us in the midst of this window of consciousness called life need to realize that we’re lucky to be along for the ride. We should make it as joyous as we can for others and ourselves, never forgetting that the very universe in which it all takes place is replete with uncertainty. The only rules that apply are those of possibilities and probabilities. We just have to keep doing the best that we can.

For the record, my mother did take me back to school and discuss my bird flipping action with Father Gambit. The two of them agreed that I already had one foot on hell’s precipice. I promised never to flip him the finger again. In return, he permitted me to come back to classes, although, once he explained to her the meaning behind “flipping the bird,” she insisted he give me some time to regain consciousness after she finished with me.

My mother is dead, now. If your mother is alive, don’t forget her. If your relationship with her is strained, unstrain it. You won’t regret it. She’ll soon be gone and the only thing that will matter is that you told her you love her. Until next week, stay safe and try to remain “normal,” if you know what I mean.

Joseph Walther is a freelance writer and publisher of The True Facts. Copyright laws apply to all material on this site. Send your comments. Just click here.

Wow! Talk about a mess.

By Joseph Walther

Here are some odds and ends that you may find interesting. They’re interesting in so far as they provide a great opportunity to pose a different perspective. The first deals with the outcome of a court trial and the way some people criticized the “system.” The second deals with the devastating news that a nasty-assed prick of a judge sentenced Paris Hilton to 45-days in the slammer. The third deals with little 8-year old Ashley who complained, insistently, that her “mom-mom” makes her wear a sweater, even when it’s hot outside.

It seems, more often than not, that our judicial system receives substandard reviews. It does not matter, really, whether it’s the criminal side of the system or the civil side. The losers always condemn the system, declare the opposing attorneys as bottom-feeding slime balls, and label the judges as judicial activists using their power to legislate from the bench. The winners, conversely, always proclaim the outcome as proof positive that the “system” works. For them, their attorneys are hard working, in relentless pursuit of justice. Simultaneously, the same people passionately advocate their trial judges for judicial sainthood. Strangely, though, they rarely mention the opposing attorneys.

Make no mistake about it. The United States Judicial System is light-years from great and is not even in the same solar system as perfect. But, it isn’t nearly as bad as we permit ourselves to believe. Here are a few reasons why.

Matters judicial receive a great deal of negative coverage on nationally televised evening news, cable station talking head TV shows (FOX, CNN, MSNBC, etc.), and in our national newspapers and magazines. Then, lucky us, we hear about it all over again on our local TV news stations, local talk radio programs, and in local newspapers.

I like to call it the “sir echo” syndrome. In other words, the locals repeat the same stuff because they think it will get us to tune in or read about it. Unfortunately, though, the locals report it with far less broadcast talent. But, it’s not about talent, national or local. It’s about what they report to us and why they report it the way that they do.

In a word, unsubstantiated crap sells. It sells big time when it involves sensationalism—factual or fictional. Outlandish judicial outcomes are especially valuable in retaining TV viewers, radio station listeners, and newspaper readership. We, the people, seem to relish hearing about how sleaze bag lawyers and “liberal” judges are destroying our legal system.

There is no more effective way to convey this message than by reporting a few cases of obvious judicial stupidity. It’s especially efficient with the effective use of innuendo and “accidental” omissions. The fact that the system handles over 95% of its cases quietly, in a judiciously effective manner and with relative fairness to all parties, does not seem to matter.

We never hear the news outlets proclaiming, “The system works,” in those tens of thousands of convictions for everything from DUIs to petty theft to embezzlements to prostitution to armed robbery to murders to… ad infinitum. But let a few dunce-headed judges render a few stupid sentences and we’ll be fed an ad nauseam diet of how screwed up the system is and how we need to reform it.

Switching to Paris Hilton, can you believe the audacity of that judge? Her mommy, Kathy, was livid about it, too. I’m paraphrasing here, but she called the judge something like a moron. It’s hard to believe, huh; a spoiled rich kid’s mother calling a judge a moron.

There is a baseball metaphor concerning spoiled rich kids. I can’t remember the exact wording, but it says, in essence, that being born on third base is not the same as hitting a triple. Its use in describing Paris Hilton is ideal.

Paris Hilton was born on third base. However, it was a matter of circumstance. It’s not like… Paris planned it. Nevertheless, her PARENTS kept her at third base and never explained how she got there or felt compelled to make her appreciate it.

They didn’t plan on spoiling the child. To tell you the truth, I’ve never met parents who looked into the innocent face of their newborn baby and made a list of the many ways they planned to screw the kid up. No matter, they spoiled her just the same.

She’s no longer a child, though. Her parents may have put her on third base, but she’s a mid-twenties young woman now. She’s still spoiled, but her parents are no longer to blame for it. She is.

Maybe this will be the beginning of her attempt to change. I don’t think that a 45-day stint in a Los Angeles County jail is all that it will take. She still does not understand the difference between having been born on third base and getting there by having hit a triple. But it might help. I hope so. If not, someone is going to bean her but good as she attempts to get from third base to home plate!

Finally, I come to Ashley and her “mom-mom.” As I listened to her talking to her mother, it was obvious that Ashley loves her “mom-mom.” Understandably, though, she’s a bit put off by having to wear a sweater on hot days. So, I spoke up and tried to explain something to her.

Now that I’m old enough to be a great grandfather, let alone a grandfather, I’ve learned a few things. Sometimes, when a “mom-mom’ makes you wear a sweater—even when it’s hot out—it’s because “mom-mom” is cold and she assumes that you are, too. You mean more to her than her own life and she doesn’t want you to get sick, Ashley.

Until next week, have fun and stay safe… but not necessarily at the cost of having fun, though. Safe in moderation is OK; otherwise, it can get colossally boring.

Joseph Walther is a freelance writer and publisher of The True Facts. Copyright laws apply to all material on this site. Send your comments. Just click here.