Category Archives: war

The New Normal. Guns, The Flip Side. We need ‘em.

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Welcome to the NEW NORMAL: Guns, The Flip Side. We need ‘em.

Yeah, I just put out my 3-yr plan to get rid of guns, Mafioso style. As if that would work. Besides, nobody read it. Hell, Congress won’t even get rid of high-bullet magazines or assault rifles. So I started thinking about the real reason we need guns. Yes we DO need them. Sorry Bill Maher.

The problem is history, freedom and, most importantly, trust.

The history: the FBI estimates the  USA has about 300 million guns (and rising daily since Newtown).

Freedom: to use them anytime. We got ‘em we can shoot ‘em. So if you make new gun laws we will ignore them, just like the old ones. We don’t even pay attention to simple laws like stop signs, speed limits, or, making it more current, lying over the internet about our girlfriend dying of cancer to gain sympathy and more votes for the Heisman, lying about illegal use of steroids so you can win the Tour de France seven years running and make millions of dollars, lying to our constituents about taking money from lobbyist to gain office, beating our wives or children . . . I could go on and on, but you get it. I hope.

The last issue is trust. Why should I trust that I won’t get robbed walking at night in New Orleans, that my wife won’t be raped at night in Chicago, that someone won’t carjack me in LA? You know, I heard of a robber that forced their way into a home in Boulder, posing as a Mormon. We need guns because we don’t trust people. Not unreasonable. Did you know that there were over 11 million crimes committed in the USA in 2009. That’s one crime for every 100 people. What are the stats in your city? Murder rate, assault, rape, robbery, vandalism, drunk and disorderly, drug abuse, impersonating a Mormon? Lack of trust is in our genes, our country’s constitution, how the West was won (White Man speak with forked tongue), the CIA, our very jobs where everything has to be in writing about sexual harassment, sick leave, using cellphones, etc., etc., etc. We don’t trust our family, our friends, our priests, our bosses, our police, our military, or any other damn country in the world.

We have 300 million guns, the freedom to use them, either bad or good, and there are too many bad people out there to trust any stranger. Gotta have a gun. Simple. 

So, forget gun laws. They’ll never work.

Let’s focus on the insane. If we cure all of them, we will never have another Newtown, right? Are you shittin’ me? Do you have ANY idea how many people are on valium, lorazepam, Zoloft, Celexa, Abilify, Lunesta, Trazadone, Fluoxetine, Lithium, Aripiprazole, Quetiapine, Carbamazepine, Divalproex . . . and the list is literally endless. I bet half the third grade class in the good old USA is on Ritalin. How do you identify these “crazies?” Do you subpoena doctor’s records across the country to get a list of all the crazy people they’re treating? Once you have them all identified, how are you going to make them all better? You obviously know more about treating them than their doctor. Or is it just the ones that are not getting treatment? Okay, let’s round up all the crazy homeless people and put them in institutions. That will go over big, like the movie that made Jack Nicholson famous as a crazy man in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Okay, fine, just put them in jail. Our prison system is not overcrowded. Much. Wait, you say, I just want to keep the crazies from getting guns. You need to get that MRI quick. You already forgot the first few paragraphs above.

So, forget curing all the crazy people. That’s out.

We are left with lots of guns, lots of bad people we need protection from, lots of crazy people who can easily get guns from good people, bad people, or Wal-Mart, because it’s a free country and nobody wants to enforce the existing gun laws or change them.

Maybe we should just require all those good people who have guns to keep them from the bad or crazy people. Make them prove how well they secure their guns, keep them under lock and key. Problem is then we have to find all the gun owners, go to their humble and sacred abodes and inspect their security systems. That’s out, too. Hell, the NRA won’t even let doctors ask patients if they are keeping their guns locked up.

So, forget keeping guns safe by any laws. Period. Lock that one away. Throw away the key.

We just have to rely on all those gun owners to be good people, keep their guns secure and make sure no crazy or bad people get ahold of their guns.

What a new thought. We’ve been doing that for over a century. Worked well so far. Back to square one.

Let’s face it: We are at the NEW NORMAL. Yep that’s it, folks. The New Normal is that schools, sports games, movie theaters, crowded highway underpasses, any place you used think was safe is now a danger zone for a crazy with an automatic weapon and a grudge. Or maybe he is just a smart psychopath and no one in the world will ever know he’s crazy. But he has a gun! (Could be a she, too. Don’t count them out. Think of how many abused wives and raped female veterans there are, not to mention all those repressed in jobs due to their sex. God help the man from a woman scorned. Women caught up to men with lung cancer, so why should this new cancer of the gun be any different? Give ‘em time. )

The New Normal requires the same thing we did after 9/11 with airport security. We need security in all those previously safe places, and more, roaming the streets at night in those bad neighborhoods, keeping us safe from invasions. The good thing is there will be lots of jobs for those veterans returning from Afghanistan. There are others we want to hire, too. Job qual: can shoot and likes to wear a uniform, a bullet proof vest, Taser, Glock 17, and enjoys patrolling around movie theaters or being close to little kids. (Hmm, that sounds a little crazy to me.) You might have to make a law at the school so they won’t be watching videos or playing games or Tweeting on their smartphones instead of patrolling. Another law. Geez.

The NEW NORMAL: The USA is a war zone. The only thing we have to fear is each other. Bring us your tired, your poor, your starving, your mercenaries. We have just the job for them.  

I don’t know about you, but this sucks. I’m going to buy a gun.

And then I’ll write another thriller with lots of killing and maiming and torture, how we can’t trust the CIA or our doctor, how an ordinary citizen hiding in your midst could be a serial killer, because that shit is here to stay and everyone loves it. (Tongue out, Nanny-nanny boo-boo.)

Milt

Fathers and sons.

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These excerpts from “Dan’s War” witness a soliloquy by Dan Trotter, the main protagonist, a man who has a hard time with emotion, sees prime numbers the same way he sees his loved ones, in pastel colors. Yet, he does feel for his son, Jeff, as you will read.
I’ve included this video again as I think it is so powerful and adds so much to the book.

[This is Dan speaking.]
“What is a father’s love for a son? I’ve had some time to think about this … ”
“You might say it is, at first blush, the love of a name–my name, carried past death; a celebration of his birth realizing the continuance of a line, a pedigree. How stupid is that, right? It’s only a name.”
[Then Dan watches a little boy (whose name I will keep secret here) fall, not cry, but push up and run and smile at Dan.]
Dan grinned. “Yep, the boy-things I loved next. We were both guys, so we did rough and tumble things, testosterone-enhanced, like football, rugby, baseball–pitting strength, one against another.”

It was a long hike, but we got there! Lawn Lake

[Dan follows the little boy around a garden, a garden that is special to Dan and this book.]
“The next part is a bit complicated, but bear with me.”
[The little boy gazes in an open-mouthed smile, dimples and all.]
“I hoped he would be better–in the areas I failed, he would excel. So I pushed to make sure that my failures did not become his, that his life abounded in new opportunities. Then it happened, he grew into himself. I had to accept him as his own person: a different contribution, not only to the daily human conundrum and the DNA of life, but to the future. Whether I liked it or not, he traveled in his own direction; he was the future, and he would do it his way.
[The little boy does some things that make Dan cry, something he has done maybe twice in his life. The toddler then shows how smart he is.]
“You’re as smart as he was. After I accepted Jeff him as Jeff, not Dan’s son, it was cool to see him puzzle a scenario in Resident Evil, show Katie how to solve an algebra problem, and feel his strong arms hug me. I didn’t always lik hugs, you know. Or him caring enough to show affection in public.”

The next bit will give away too much, so you’ll have to read it in the book.

The love a father for a son can be as strong as any emotion on the planet. Of course the love of a daughter is just as strong, only different. And yet we still send our sons and daughters into battles to save our asses.
Why is that?

Two days old.

I remember singing this song to my son, my daughters. That was way before Cat Stevens became Muslim. But it still applies. Maybe more so after 9/11 and so much hate has erupted between us and Muslim countries. Now I sing it to my grandson.

Hug your loved ones, today, now. DO IT! They may not be here tomorrow.

Milt

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Two things to do for Veterans EVERY Day

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One will add to the other, and you will be glad you did both. If you need motivation, take a peak at this video of a father and son reunited.

1) Give one veteran something from YOUR HEART to THEIR HEART! My suggestion is music, a song, a collection, a simple CD of music that has touched you in a way that makes you happy, makes you want to dance.
If you are a musical artist, give them a concert!
It’s your time to give back to the 1% that protect the 99%. If Toby Keith can do it, you can.

2) Do something that will stop wars. If we stop wars, there can be no more veterans suffering from ruined lives or families due to their experience in war. My suggestion is reach out and understand someone from a different culture, particularly Muslim, as we seem to need to understand them. One of the greatest generals and former President Dwight Eisenhower noted that the biggest way we can end wars is to embrace others as people, not alien beings who just don’t speak English.

Why not listen to music they like and dance and clap and laugh WITH them? Might be fun.
If you don’t think this next one is fun, go back to sleep.

Please try these two simple things. The results will be huge. Music brings us together, and I believe heals as well as any prescription I can write as a doctor.

Don’t let music, our music with each other, our love for one another, die.

Milt

PS. Okay, another thing you might give a veteran–a good book. Give them a Kindle and they can carry the Library of Congress with them, a Kindle Fire and they can listen to all that music and watch all those color videos, too.

40 years

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So here we are, summer winding down on the Front Range, cone flowers peaked,

 
wildflowers in the mountains a memory, and I’m coming to our 40-year Arapahoe High School reunion. Back then we’d come off a state championship in football in 1970. Unfortunately, we were far from state in the ’71 season—don’t I know. The summer of ’72 cruised in. Mark Spitz won a record seven gold medals at the summer Olympics. Then he was asked to leave the Olympics early because he was Jewish, after our first big taste of terrorism, the Munich massacre, overshadowed the games with Israeli athletes kidnapped. It only took thirty-six years for Michael Phelps to beat that record. I got fat, got white hair, my football knee doesn’t bend, and my ear hairs are out of control. Okay, not quite that bad, though it feels that way at times.

In 1972 we worried about a scholarship to college, or would we get drafted to Vietnam. Some already had a scholarship: football to Colorado University or Colorado State University; academic to Notre Dame. Some knew they would not graduate from high school. But the rest of our lives would be on us soon. We had to make plans.

What has happened to the rest of your life? Do you want to share that with others? This reunion is a way of reconnecting, completing at least one circle of life. Funny how things come around. I remember a guy, who I fist-fought in grade school, then later he was a friend and a revered teammate in high school basketball. He passed the ball to me; I passed the ball to him. Maybe I’ll see him.

Do you remember your concerns in high school? Who would go to prom with? Would your zits ever go away? Would you pass the course in history? How could you ever finish that English term paper before the end of the week?

Times were different. I took the bus to school or walked a mile through the cemetery unconcerned that a madman would hijack the bus or a pervert would kidnap me. I could even take in the latest movie, The Godfather, or Jeremiah Johnson, and not worry that a guy dressed as a mobster would come in the theater and open up with his tommy gun.

Did you need thick leather gloves to come to grips with your life then; maybe now; or the in between spots? Can you remember? Do you care to? I have a medical school classmate who does not even know his son, and will soon die of Alzheimer’s. Remembering can be a good thing.

I knew a girl in junior high, but only tangentially as the pretty locker partner of my girlfriend. In high school I dated that pretty locker partner. Then, she became my locker partner for life, my wife. We’ve been married for 36 years, had children and now a grandson. My grandson will not likely go to Arapaho High School, but, if I live another thirteen years, I will reconnect with high school ways, through him. I will see him grow through things I did, or didn’t. I hope to have more time with my grandson than with my own children. I was too busy to really enjoy their high school experience. Friends, work, make money, all those things vacuumed my time away forever.

Now we have different worries. Will the fracking going on in what used to be a free space behind my house contaminate the best-tasting water in the world? Will my daughter ever be able to buy a home since the average price of homes has gone up ten times—$27,500 in1972 to $275,000 now—and the average salary of a elementary teacher has only gone up four times from $12,200 to $50,000 a year. Will my grandson see the mountains as my son and I did when we camped in Rocky Mountain National Park?

Now beetle-kill trees, almost beautiful in the fall with their rust-colored hews offsetting the apple-green and yellow aspen, and what’s left of dark green pine trees, are ninety percent of the forest on the Western Slope. Here, just north of Fort Collins, the High Park Fire consumed over 25,000 acres, racing through beetle-killed trees and drought-crisp forests. Subsequent rains flooded the hillsides and turned the Poudre River black with soot, killed thousands of fish and destroyed entire mountains. Is there global warming?

High Park Fire made for beautiful sunsets.

What the heck am I going to do about those darn aspen trees coming up through my lawn?

But, hey, some things don’t change. We still have wars that take our children’s arm, or eye, or even worse, their mind so they can never enjoy the world in any form for the rest of their lives. Vietnam just changed names.

And, if my fourteen-year-old Labrador retriever poops in the house again . . .

Awh. Look at that face! She won’t do it again. Honest.

So, I’m going to the reunion to escape the current worries, have a great meal, get drunk and . . . okay, not really. I want to reconnect to a time of less intensity, when you had time to think without a tweet or cellphone bleep interrupting your thoughts. Or, maybe I want to at least put those times in perspective. They were different, and in some ways much more joyful, easier, simpler. Though, at the time, those pimples and getting that certain girl to notice me seemed pretty damn serious. For God’s sake I might have never had a family. I could have been a lonely bachelor and lived as a hermit in a time machine like Dr. Who. Hmm.

I’d like to see you, talk with you, find out where your life has gone, what has happened with you, discuss and laugh at the old times and perhaps share your current hopes and dreams over a pint of Easy Street beer, or a wee dram of Glen Morangie Scotch, or maybe just a Diet Coke. All these things are what make life interesting and what make us human beings. Our social nature cannot be denied. We learn lessons from others, and who knows, others might learn from us. The collective will grow.

So give in. Have fun. Reconnect.

The summer of our life, just like the cone flowers, will eventually wilt and turn brown; the stems weaken, the petals fall. At the 50-year reunion things will look much different, if I’m even around. I might be sucking Ensure through a straw wondering when the next morphine dose will come.

But for now, the flowers are still blooming and my grandson is a joy.

I hope you have joy. I also hope to see you at the reunion.

 

Milt Mays

Are there Miracles Anymore?

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You don’t have to look far. Even the mirror will do. But, you can go to your local hospital nursery, or talk to any new parent. Human beings are born every day. If you don’t believe that’s a miracle, just think about it.

Somehow two random people in a world of seven billion find love and create a new person. If the mom is in Iran or Syria or other hot spot where wars revolve around oil ( http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_ongoing_military_conflicts ), to have that great little miracle she must simply avoid starvation or getting shot.

She could be having fun gardening in the good old USA, in Colorado, and smoke from a drought-induced forest fire invades her back yard for days causing coughing attacks that lead her to premature labor. Maybe she lives in New Orleans and is swept away by the next hurricane, or develops typhoid fever from poor water supply.

These could all be due to energy problems, global warming. Or not. What do you think? The next link may take a long time to review, but keep it. Lots of good stuff.  http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20071116112401AArGExE

Okay, so about a mile away on my farm, an oil company fracked a well. No big deal, right? Hey, I own the mineral rights on that land. In fact, if I didn’t get the money from the oil company for fracking, my pregnant wife would be eating rice and ham, and we would have to forget going to the doctor since I couldn’t afford health insurance anymore. I heard that contamination of the water supply by fracking is very rare, so why not? My wife can get that great medical care, she can eat good nutritious foods, and we’re on our way to a healthy baby boy, or so says the ultrasound. And, to top it all off, how great can it be that I’m doing the patriotic thing for my country, making us energy independent. Right?

Joe, my neighbor invited us over for spaghetti last night. That’s not what the MF wanted, though. He flicked his Bic lighter and the water flamed on from his faucet. He’s blaming me and my fracking well. Hmm. Could the water be contaminated from fracking?

Okay, so forget about babies for a minute. I am, by virtue of my middle class USA standing, in the top 1%, economically, of human beings in the world. My son graduated from high school. He’s done well. He’s used those one-hundred billion neurons in his brain to rank him in the top 10% of the top 1% of humans in the world. I wanted him to go to college, but he wanted to serve his country. Why not? He goes to Iraq. I’m a very proud parent. He goes to Afghanistan.

Then today someone knocked on my door in full dress uniform and had an envelope in their hand. Yeah.

Yes, miracles occur every day. A human is born, creates a painting, writes a song, or maybe despite being raised by his mother after his worthless African father runs off, he becomes President. And he’s got a weird name like Obama and he’s black. Or maybe a baby boy I loved my whole life goes off to war, and doesn’t come back. Don’t guess that last one was a miracle.

For some reason we ignore all those daily miracles by doing stupid things to preserve quick and easy energy for the USA. We have become a nation of quick and easy—news, money, food, energy. Has this translated to quick and easy lives of the few that we risk for the quick and easy comforts of many?

Are we willing to modify our comforts to make sure those human lives are not put at risk?

Would we be willing to give up two hours a day of lights, or instead of driving to work all by myself carpool with three other people at work?

Power is in numbers. If only a few do it, nada. If millions do it then we may no longer use so much oil every day, need so much coal for energy, and perhaps, just perhaps we could become energy independent. We would not need to frack our country to death.

Do would not need to kill thousands of human miracles every year to maintain our comforts or would we be willing to do a few simple things to keep us from having wars over oil?

Milt

Bad Day?

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Woke up, beer was stale, coffee cold and weak, it’s still 2012, and then I looked at last week’s blog–What is an American Patriot?

Damn. What a rant. All about freedom, too. Blek!

But, today is so much better. Forget patriots. Just look at Twitter or Facebook, or listen to the news—everyone’s a patriot. I have to move on.

There’s really nothing I can do to prevent war. Since about 3000 B.C., war has been a continuous human event. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_wars_before_1000 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lists_of_wars

Find out how to make shields and arrows out of bronze and look out baby, I’m gonna take over your pissant little Stone Age community. Gunpowder—oh hell. Nuclear bombs, computer-assisted, laser-guided bombs—one touch and I get my gold, my water, my oil, and you’re toast.

So what are my chances of getting rid of war? Rat’s ass chance in a box full of cats.

Back to business. All I have to do today is get up, have some coffee, edit a novel or two, drive to the store for beer, and watch Wimbledon. Of course there will be the smattering of Graham Norton, perhaps Preditor for the 1213th time(that’s a prime by-the-by), and finishing up Dashiell Hammit’s The Maltese Falcon (It’s old, but damn!). Maybe cut the grass, but only if it’s not raining and it’s green. I do enjoy the color green, don’t you? And when the grass is cut it’s so neat looking and even greener. Then again, I can still see the dog when she pees. She has to work to get through the taller grass and she needs to struggle a little to keep her legs strong. A fourteen-year-old lab needs all the help she can get.

Also, the mower uses oil and gas. Pity.

I would like to ride my bike thirty or forty miles, but since I’m not quite as young as I used to be (I did mention it was 2012, right?), maybe cut that in half. Actually, I did that, and the damn Poudre river is as black as soot—exactly as black as soot. How the hell am I gonna catch any fish in a river full of soot this summer? Probably not. Well, there’s plenty of other rivers I can drive the camper trailer to and have a jolly old time. A forest fire is such a hassle.

There is a damn good movie coming on tonight, and I gotta get a new blog out, so I’ll need electricity until about 10pm. That only uses coal, so I’m okay there—if only coal were a bit cleaner. That pizza and beer was damn good. A man has to assuage his sufferings somehow. Am I right?

Okay, so the day wasn’t so bad. We’re still at war and I didn’t have to give up a damn thing. Imagine that.

I wonder what it would be like to be eating a protein bar and humpin a seventy pounder (that’s a ground pounder term for hiking with a 70lb pack) over Afghan mountains wondering if that next step could trigger an IED and blow my leg off?

All to keep Big Oil flowing and to allow millions of strangers to enjoy freedom.

No thank you. Not for me. Glad someone else is giving up their life. I don’t even have to give up my movie. Why should I?

Let’s see. Tomorrow I’ll fly a gas-guzzling plane to visit my mom and brother. I hope the plane isn’t late.

Milt

What is an American Patriot?

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Are you flying your flag? Are you planning hot dogs, hamburgers and apple pie on the 4th? Did you fill your SUV with $100 worth of gas and pull your camp trailer to Rocky Mountain National Park, wade with your grandson in an ice-cold, gin-clear mountain river, hike with your daughter to a high mountain waterfall and catch a few cutthroat trout?

Okay, yeah, I did that. Been there. It was fun, too. And I’m ready for the next tee shirt.

Maybe you did much more. You believe so much in your constituent’s cause that you allowed their lobbyist to pay for a guided trip for superb bone fishing in the Bahamas, dinner at Café Matisse and after-dinner cocktails watching the sunset over the Nassau. So what if that constituent is Big Oil, who despite making billions of dollars of profits every quarter wants you to continue their government subsidies? After all, without oil, how would we ever defeat all those terrorists? Those pack of jackals waiting to take over the USA.

Or maybe you decided to give up something that no one else has, or ever will, something so dear that there have been debates for centuries about its price, something you are willing to sacrifice for all those who want to enjoy a walk around the block without a bullet creasing their hair, or a night of rest without worrying about being whisked to a concentration camp because they didn’t agree with a clause in the constitution, allowing them to sit with family and enjoy fireworks over a lake whose black mirror reflects deaths of millions and a celebration as old as our country, and something your wife and son may never understand—you were willing to give up your own life.

There are patriots, and there are those who call themselves patriots. If you call yourself a patriot, examine your reasons. Is it to get a pat on the back at a veteran’s pancake breakfast? Do you want to be handed thousands of dollars from our government for twisting your back in boot camp? Do you think because you have lots of friends in Big Oil that you must have the government give them more money so we can fight a better war?

I suggest that if you want to be called a patriot, you are not one. A true patriot gives up without asking for thanks, gives up for those he’s never met, gives up for an ideal most of us have never really thought about.

What are you willing to give up for the freedoms that we all enjoy?

If you want to give up driving that SUV for six months of the year, lighting your home for 2 hours a night, or keeping the AC at 70 instead of 74 all summer, then maybe you can do something to keep more soldiers from sacrificing their lives in war.

The wars we have experienced in the last two decades have mostly been about oil and energy. We want to drive our cars to work, without anyone else inside carpooling. We want to never sweat a drop in our own home in summer. We want to watch our TV, run our computers, listen to our stereos into the wee hours of the morning.

We want, we want, we want.

When will we start giving, giving as much as a true patriot? Probably never. But we can try to prevent them from giving their lives for us by giving at least something that causes us some pain. Every day.

Or, then again. Maybe not. Fly your flag, eat your hot dogs, have a little more ice cream on that apple pie, and drive your SUV. Patriot.

Milt

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Fire, Wind, Water. Can Disaster Change Your Life for the Better?

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In the midst of what will likely be the worst forest fire in the history of Colorado, The High Park Fire, I think of Hurricane Ivan in Pensacola, the disaster that brought us here, and my first post on this blog.

Those suffering from this fire: These are times that will not only test you, but can break you.

Don’t let it.

Can disaster change your life for the better?

September 16, 2004 I awoke at two a.m. to pitch black, wind howling outside, and a curious sound in the bedroom: my dog lapping water. But our wonderful blond lab, Maggie, lay at our feet, sleeping. The sound was swamp water percolating under the baseboards. Rolling off the mattress, my wife and I waded into stinky water, floating Purina Dog Chow and paper shredder confetti–welcome to the parade.

I’d had a great year: both daughters got married, I caught a 150 lb. tarpon on a fly rod, started a promising practice with great docs, and my son had orchestrated a surprise fiftieth birthday party. I was writing my first novel, a horror, techno-thriller about fictional events after 9/11, sure to outsell Steven King.

The day before the water came, the news said it was a monster: Hurricane Ivan, Cat 5 in the Gulf. I smashed one thumb and nearly fell off the ladder boarding up the second story windows. This made the inside a tomb of darkness, the garage door the only exit. Lynn and I discussed leaving the state. We filled the bathtubs, organized canned food and peanut butter (I could live off peanut butter and honey sandwiches for weeks), then moved the computer upstairs along with the important papers, dog food, fresh batteries in flashlights, etc.

At 7 p.m., in purple-olive twilight and paltry wind and misty rain, I played fetch outside with Maggie. No big deal. The news announced Ivan would weaken to Cat 3 at landfall. We decided to stay. Yes! No waiting for a week after the storm to get back over the bridge while looters had a field day, or water leaks went from tiny to disastrous.

We hunkered down—that’s hurricane talk—in our upstairs bedroom. The wind howled, trying to tear off the roof … right over our heads. No thank you. We trundled everything back downstairs, including a mattress, to the bedroom our son vacated last week. After all, our neighborhood had never flooded in recorded history. Who needed flood insurance? Our house had survived two other Cat 3′s with piddling damage. No prob.

Right. We’d never been in the northeast quadrant. Apparently we forgot.

For weeks afterwards we survived in a post-flood environment that reminded me of Sarajevo: feral dogs, fetid piles of rubbish, no water or AC, roving, camouflaged National Guard Humvees, and Red Cross water and food tents. I nearly lopped off a leg chain-sawing shattered trees, screwed up a knee replacing wallboard, and continued to work forty-hour weeks, sitting in rubbish-removal traffic jams for hours.

It shook our hearts and souls like a dirty rug. But we couldn’t get clean. The neighbors had the first, and last, Tiger Point trailer-trash party in their camper on their driveway next to the POD that held all their worldly goods. Their home was unlivable.

We sang, we drank, but we all knew: Never again.

The biggest lessons we learned? Things can be replaced. Loved ones cannot. Go after your dreams. Now.

My wife and I moved to Colorado, closer to roots and family. I wrote and guided fly fishing. She became a hooker—wool art hooking, okay. We camped in Yellowstone with Maggie. Then I realized I was not Steven King; gas prices skyrocketed; the adult kids moved back; guiding fly fishing made no money.

Time to go back to what I knew best, doctoring. I went to work for the VA.

Hurricanes and fire are nothing compared to war. War crippled our best, their bodies and minds. But not their souls.

Veterans taught me disaster can change your life for the better. My next novel, Dan’s War, was born.

Dan’s War is an award-winning techno-thriller with literary heart, about the end of world oil . . . in two weeks. Cajuns and one lone computer geek try to save us against an ecofanatic and his army. There’s love between a geek and a hottie Marine, a father trying to save a son, nanobacteria eating oil, and weird characters that will take you on an adventure to far away lands, and keep you turning pages wanting more.

Buy it now–Amazon:
Kindle e-book on sale now for SUMMER BEACH READ

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$1 of each book goes to Veterans

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Smashwords for all other e-book formats:http://tiny.cc/o0nh3

New Short Story only a buck! All proceeds go to US Veterans More at my Facebook Author Page:http://tiny.cc/sumdo

Contact me at www.miltmays@gmail.com

What is Freedom Worth?

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On a recent Chris Hayes Memorial Day video, a mother who was just told her only son was lost in the war asked the Marine casualty assistant officer, “Was it worth it?” He replied, “I can’t answer that for you.”

Why didn’t he just say yes? Because he knows that mother would filet him and serve him up as grilled dumbshit to every mom with a kid in the service. If he said no, his boss would fire him on the spot; have a nice retirement, and oh, by the way, you remember that UCMJ article that says you can’t oppose the President? You got some ’splaining to do, Georgy. I hear they have good books in Fort Leavenworth.

So, this is just a friendly blog and you can answer the question without the above. Just leave a name no one will know, and an email no one can trace. Yeah. Blogs are so private.

Okay, I’ll be the first. Freedom is worth Death for thousands and Suffering for those millions that survive–every damn day. Not good enough? How about, freedom is worth the complete annihilation of two Japanese cities, making them unliveable for, what was it for Hiroshima and Nagasaki, twenty years, twenty thousand years?

That’s taking it too far, you say. How about close to home. What is MY freedom worth: the ability to walk my dog in a pleasant neighborhood; ride my bike for hours at a time every day if I like, drive to a nice campground and catch fish on a clean river? If I gave those up, no big deal.

What about the freedom to talk to you about problems in our government, or discuss with my neighbor about how unfair the schools are to handicapped children, or publish a book that takes a political shot at the President, or a member of Congress? Hmmm. I still think I could live without those.

Then there is the freedom to sleep at night, or walk the streets without someone from our now non-free government, kidnapping me or my kid, and torturing us because they heard a rumor from the fanatical kid down the block that I didn’t like what a Congressman said on TV. Yeah. Me neither. Not big on torture. I think freedom as The Constitution outlines might be worth that, all by itself.

So where does this slippery slope begin, and where does it end? The real question is, shouldn’t we all have to suffer some to have freedom, not just the soldiers and their families?  Yes. And we do, every time we pay taxes. Right? Oh, yeah. That’s real suffering, spending a couple of hours on Turbo Tax figuring out how you can get a refund. Surely we suffer more than that. Hmmm.

What if every time we were at war we were not allowed to use any electricity after 8 p.m.? That would save a lot of money, make us realize every day we wanted to get rid of war, and make each of us suffer some.  Any other suggestions?

Here’s the other problem, though. In order to have freedom we have to convince those bullies around the world that want a piece of the USA to NOT be aggressive about it. Or we have to fight back.There ain’t no principle of the school to settle our differences. We have to do it. Just the Pres, his diplomats, and our army against theirs.That’s it. And sometimes their army shoots at our army and there you have it: war. How do you keep them from shooting? How do you avoid shooting back?

What about Iraq and Afghanistan wars? Did someone shoot at us? No, other than almost 3,000 people killed at 9/11. Did we have to shoot, or could we still have pretty much the same freedoms we had before 9/11 today, without those wars? Seems to me the terrorists still got us terrified enough to invent Homeland Security, and search everyone going on a plane ride like you were entering San Quentin. Okay. Worse.

Did killing all those Iraqis, Afghans, along with a few kids and other innocents, and, oh by the way, our best and brightest hearing Taps from six feet under, did that get rid of that terror? I don’t think so.Then again, did it prevent the terrorist from having more 9/11′s? Hmmm. Hard questions.

Milt

REVIEWS:  http://tiny.cc/mt6b7

Buy it now–Amazon:

$1 of each book goes to Veterans

Barnes and Noble:http://tiny.cc/htmrb

Smashwords for all other e-book formats:http://tiny.cc/o0nh3

New Short Story only a buck!
All proceeds go to US Veterans

More at my Facebook Author Page:http://tiny.cc/sumdo

Contact me at www.miltmays@gmail.com

 

How to Handle Insults

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“Darn, I forgot to get the eggs.” I thought I said it nicely to the young man at the checkout station in King Soopers.
“That doesn’t surprise me, gramps. You’re old.”
I’m hoping that angry young man, barely old enough to sport a whisker, will call someone to help. He merely holds out a hand towards the back of the store. “Better go get it, grandpa.”
What do you do now?
Behind door #1: I rush back and find the extra large Eggland, the most expensive, and jog back to the nice young man in his oil-speckled shirt with his sarcastic eyes.

I stand there. He finally stops texting.
He sips his Monster energy drink and eyes my eggs. “Wow. You should really stop eating those. Next thing, you’ll be having a stroke and lose more of your pathetic memory. Good thing for you we have an AED on the wall to shock your worthless old butt back to life so you can spend the next year in rehab spending the rest of my Medicare benefits.”
I open the package and smash the eggs on his head.
He pours his drink on my head. I must admit, I feel energized.
I get out my Rohrbauh r9 pistol and aim it at him. Not great for long range, but at five feet, I will have no problem etching two eyes and a smile on his forehead, à la Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon. Of course this hairless, skinny-assed sixth grader only knows Mel Gibson as a priest on Signs, or a wannabe priest in real life. This little tadpole missed the good stuff, the long-haired crazy-assed Mel. And he’s going to miss a lot more.
He reaches under the counter and pulls out his Berretta 92FS. Nice gun. A bit heavy and hard to conceal, but it will do the job.

And it does.
There’s lots of blood mixing with eggs and Monster drink. The AED won’t work for either of us. Damn. He died an angry young man. I died an angry old man. Billy Joel was right.

Behind Door #2: Instead of smashing the eggs on his head, I shout, “I want the manager.” And the older woman behind me says,”Damn right. Get the manager over here for this sad excuse of a checker.”
The manager comes over, and I say, “This is the third time this month one of your checkers insulted me. I will no longer be coming to your establishment.”
All the other “time-challenged” wise people in other lines yell, “Yeah. We’re not going to take it any more!” Us old guys can be grumpy.
The manager’s eyes resemble Eggland extra-larges. “I am so sorry. How about this. For the next ten minutes all Diet Coke will be one dollar per twelve-pack. No limit.”
There’s a big crowd at the DC. Go figure. On the way back, a rather sexy brunette with a few too many wrinkles to warrant that beautiful black hair says, “This store has gone downhill with that new manager. I don’t care if he gives us free sirloin steaks, I’m not coming back.”
The crowd huddling around the manager agrees. “We’re still not coming back. You can shove your store.”
These guys are even grumpier old men. Okay, here’s the sex–Well at least inuendo.

Next week I see that poor little boy downtown, on the street by The Mission, smoking and looking pretty scraggly, along with half the other King Soopers checkers. I pull over (a bit brazen for an old fart, I admit, but I have my gun) and ask him, “How come your not checking, wise ass.”
“Oh, Grandpa Moses. You’re the one got us all fired. No health insurance. Got a few dollars?”
Guess he learned a lesson. Don’t mess with us wise old coons.

Choice #1=direct armed conflict: You pick it: Colombia, Pakistan, Iraq, Afghanistan, Sudan, Syria, etc. There are twelve major conflicts (they don’t like to call them wars) in the world right now. Major=1000 deaths a year. Okay, so that’s not so bad. Hiroshima was 150,000, give or take 10,000. That only took a month.

Choice #2=Embargo. Rememeber Iraq. Only problem, 300,000 children perished in those years.

Okay, so wars and embargoes cost a lot of lives.

There’s got to be a simple solution to handling an insult that prevents loss of lives and suffering. Any ideas?

Come on people. There are over 7 billion of us now. We need to learn to live together. So give me some suggestions. Please. 

Milt

REVIEWS:  http://tiny.cc/mt6b7

Buy it now–Amazon:

$1 of each book goes to Veterans

Barnes and Noble:http://tiny.cc/htmrb

Smashwords for all other e-book formats:http://tiny.cc/o0nh3

 
All proceeds go to US Veterans

More at my Facebook Author Page:http://tiny.cc/sumdo

Contact me at www.miltmays@gmail.com