America's Quarterback?

What's not to like about this guy?

Having grown up during the era of Johnny Unitas and seen the comings and goings of such greats as Joe Montana, Dan Marino, Fran Tarkenton, Terry Bradshaw and a host of others (no slight intended by the omission of all those names here; there are simply too many to list) who've all brought to the game and to the quarterback position a level of performance–true greatness–that served to burgeon the record books and genuinely add something to the sport, I tend to be perhaps a bit overly critical and demanding of current players. I do not try to make that popular assessment of "Best Ever" in any sport because I don't think it's possible to reach such a determination (with the possible exception of the Cleveland Browns' great fullback Jim Brown—who many of us believe must've come from another planet, anyway…like maybe Krypton). I long ago concluded that the closest one can come in trying to determine that exalted status is to say that an athlete was the best in his time; Eli Manning didn't play with a leather helmet (and no face mask), and Otto Graham never had to contend with Lawrence Taylor. The game has changed. The rules have changed. The equipment, training methods…everything has evolved, and it's as unfair as it is impractical to draw comparisons that span decades and generations.

Having said that, I give you Brett Favre.

Personally, I was unimpressed when he broke into the NFL (as were the Atlanta Falcons, apparently—their loss). Good, to be sure—but, as someone once pointed out, "these guys were all 'full-ride' in school"; trying to stand out amid such a wealth of talent is a tall order, as the difference between the best and the worst is often measured in fractions of a second—with dozens more sandwiched between them. However, Favre has grown on me over the years, and I have much more respect for him now that he's nearing the end of his career (if there is such a thing).

Through the course of this season, I've observed:

a forty year-old QB jumping in the air, chest-bumping with linemen, and running downfield to embrace the receiver who just caught his zillionth (or so) touchdown pass with an exuberance rarely shown even by callow rookies (he already owns the record for most career touchdown passes, by the way).

a forty year-old QB completing a pass, then running twenty yards downfield to throw a block (yes, a real, football-player block—not the quarterback variation thereof) for his receiver.

that same QB completing a pass, then sprinting to the aid of the receiver who was injured at the end of the play—the first man to arrive.

that same QB, standing on the sideline while his team's defensive unit is on the field, being the first to go down on one knee to assist an injured player from the opposing team.

…all this from a man who seems remarkably unjaded in his…what? Eighteenth season? Eightieth?

Much has been said and written about the complexities involved with acquainting a quarterback with a new team's "system" upon arrival; this guy slips into a new system like most of us put on a new suit. Business as usual.

He's that rare player who immediately makes the players around him better; the how of this dynamic defies explanation—but, it's there. You can feel it.

We've suffered with Brett Favre through a litany of personal tribulations including pain-killer addiction and rehab, his wife's bout with cancer, and the death of his father (who can forget that Monday night game?). Ever the gamer, he's thrilled us all so many times that we've long since lost count of the dramatic comebacks; we now take note only of those rare occasions when he doesn't pull a rabbit from his helmet. We've watched him bare his soul in his retirement announcements (secretly knowing, of course, that he'd be back; there's still too much football left in him, too much fire in the belly—and a genuine love of the game. No "quit" in this man.). We've watched a consummate competitor immerse himself in charity work with the same zeal he brings to the stadium. We've watched him take bone-jarring hits, then pick himself up and keep going as if nothing had happened—and he's never missed a start since first taking over the position in Green Bay in 1992 (another of his many NFL records).

And he's done it all with class. No cheap shots. No lame excuses. No unsportsmanlike "in-your-face" antics. Just a man who gives it his all every time he puts on the pads, and with a comportment that we all wish could be more common—and, oh, Lord, will we miss it all when it's finally gone. If he ever goes for good. (There's never been a more certain lock for first-ballot induction into the Hall of Fame; all that's required at this point is that he stay retired long enough to be voted in.)

No one will openly rejoice more at his eventual retirement, of course, than devoted Packer fans; they've been schizo ever since he left, painfully dividing their loyalties—especially now that he's wearing that purple jersey that they think just doesn't look right on him, anyway.

As noted above, I wasn't impressed at the start of his career. I am now. So are many others. Even fans who don't much care for the Packers, despise the Jets, and couldn't care less about the Vikings keep tabs on him every Sunday afternoon. Probably the last aging QB to enjoy such universal adulation was George Blanda—and that was mostly because he made legions of middle-age couch potatoes feel good. We admire Favre's hard work and passion—regardless of who he's playing for. To win through actions respect from those who don't give it freely is a major achievement; it speaks to the measure of the man. He was never fawned-over by college recruiters, and wasn't taken in the NFL draft until the second round. Nothing was ever handed to him; he earned it. No one questions his greatness, anymore.

Long after his playing days are over, we'll remember him not just for the records, but for that special something that he brought to the game.

We'll remember–and revere–the man.

To Bow—or Not to Bow

Okay, so I'm trying to understand this.

Mr. Obama raised quite a stir when he bowed to the Saudi king (he looked really oafish in the effort, by the way). His ill-considered kowtowing was never fully explained by his minions (who initially denied that he'd bowed at all, contending that it just looked that way because the king is so short. Ri-iiight. Anybody buy that one?), and immediately rekindled the familiar questions regarding his rumored Muslim faith. It was correctly noted by many that he hadn't likewise bowed to Queen Elizabeth—of even more diminutive stature, by the way—who as a monarch of an allied nation shares at least equal status, diplomatically speaking.

Now, he's gone and bowed to the Japanese Emperor.

Hmmm.

Let's see; they're all three monarchs…the King is Muslim, but neither the Queen nor the Emperor is…

…but the King and the Emperor are both male, the Queen female.

…(clicking, buzzing, whirring sounds of feeble minds at work)…

Could this be simple misogyny? Not likely. The political career of a black (well…half-black, anyway) Democrat would've been torpedoed long ago had he shown indications of merely having issues with women.

It has been asserted, however, that some of Obama's unexplained past behavior could be indicative of his (rumored) Muslim faith. As an example: for him to show any degree of obeisance to a female would be unacceptable in Muslim culture.

…(more clicking, buzzing, and whirring)…

Which some will conclude (correctly or not) accounts for the disparity in deference to the aforementioned blue-bloods; i.e., he may bow to a man—but the Muslim culture forbids him from doing so to a woman. ("A-HA! You see? He's a Muslim! Just like we've been tellin' ya all along! Voilà! ")

This, coming from a man who has steadfastly denied any ties to Islam—and who would likely face political ruin should any such association be clearly established. A man who's proved unable to dispel lingering doubts about his true beliefs—and who seems to deliberately shroud himself in mystery and uncertainty.

Unlike the narcissist-in-chief, I freely admit that I'll probably never become widely renowned as the smartest guy on the planet; ergo, if I can connect these dots in something under five minutes, I figure it's a virtual lock that many others will, as well. An Obama regime constantly surrounded as it is by rumors and allegations (from the legitimate to the borderline-loony) regarding Islam, birth certificates, education financing, home mortgaging, Jeremiah Wright, Bill Ayers, hidden agenda, socialism, ACORN, "enemies lists" and so forth ad infinitum really doesn't need to be heaping more fuel on the fire.

So, what the hell was he thinking?

All of which overlooks an even larger issue: the President of the United States shouldn't be bowing to any foreign dignitary. Period. None of his forty-three predecessors did. None. Ever. They all understood the importance of protocol—and appearances. And the appearance of a US President with his face dipped to belt buckle-level is anathema to this nation—as it always has been. We can expect unconfirmed reports at any moment of all the Founding Fathers turning over in their graves in unison, so distasteful is the thought.

So…what the hell was he thinking?

"Shut up and drink the Kool-Aid."

The 2008 election swept into the White House a candidate promising ethics, bipartisanship, transparency, and a revived economy; thus far, we've been treated to cabinet members who don't pay taxes, partisan authoritarianism, and behind-closed-doors skulduggery. And then there's that rapidly-swelling deficit, prompting one to wonder how Obama plans to make good on his claim that he'll lead us into prosperity and light "without adding a dime to the deficit"—or raising taxes.

We've already endured a steady procession of Obama appointees who seem only too eager to flaunt their socialist views—and agenda. Obama has himself spoken openly about "wealth redistribution." The ongoing saga of promised health care reform has comprised a litany of contradictions and obvious chicanery. The auto and financial industries have already been placed in the yoke of the Federal government, and the same wonderful folks who brought us those fiascoes are hell-bent to insure that the throats of both the medical and insurance communities find similar residence under Obama's boot. The newly-appointed FCC "diversity advisor" (the first ever; Obama simply created the position—along with an ever-growing list of "czars" equally exempt from the scrutiny of confirmation hearings) lectures about the need for government control of the media, extolling the virtues of that autocratic (and socialist) buffoon in Venezuela. We've seen a White House Communications Director who takes her inspiration from Mao Tse-tung (a warm, fatherly figure credited with responsibility for the deaths of 64 million of his own people). This administration hit the deck running, spending gobs of money and shaking up pretty much everything in sight within days of the transfer of power—yet can't seem to arrive at a decision on troop requests for the war in Afghanistan (an engagement pronounced by Obama to be "a necessary war") after more than two months. The long associations of Obama and many of his henchmen with allegedly corrupt organizations like ACORN have seriously called into question this "ethical" administration—and many other prominent Democrats.

Well, then…how about that promised "transparency"? Thus far, we've been allowed to see Harry Reid's closed door–from the outside–while the details of sweeping health care coverage "reform" are hammered-out by a tiny cabal within. Obama campaigned on the promise that any such proceedings would be public, televised on C-SPAN for all to see; instead, he's given us…well, Harry Reid's closed door. When Helen Thomas (hardly an icon of right-wingery) took the White House Press Secretary to task over the administration's tight control of information flow, it was a pretty good indicator that something's rotten at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. It seems almost impossible for a guy who spends as much time before the television cameras as Obama does (has he missed a day since taking office?) to spew so many words—yet tell us so little.

So…what happens when disgruntled citizens raise a fuss over any of this? Does this new, sensitive government sit up and take note, promising to address those concerns?

The basic response–in actions that speak far more loudly than words–has been: "Shut up and drink the Kool-Aid" (though some would characterize it as being more like "Shut up and bend over"). Obama's consistent reaction to criticism–or even inquiry–goes far beyond merely adopting a defensive posture or issuing a blithe dismissal. He attacks. (Just ask reporter Barbara West of station WFTV in Orlando; she dared to ask Obama's then-running-mate what was arguably the only question he faced during the campaign that wouldn't be considered a "softball"—and immediately felt the wrath of Obama for her effrontery.) Simple isolation and vilification are merely his most benign methods. He brooks no dissent, and there appears very little that he considers "over the top" on the way to getting what he wants. Furthermore, showing the audacity to question anything that comes out of this White House (or Congress, to a slightly lesser degree) immediately subjects the skeptic also to charges from Obama's legions of sycophants ranging from racism (the new first resort) to disloyalty to obstructionism to being akin to Hitler to killing Cock Robin.

By turns, both the House Speaker and the Senate Majority Leader declared that they couldn't deliver Obama's most coveted jewel–health care reform legislation–without including the "public option"; shortly thereafter, they both announced that they couldn't get legislation passed with it included. Then they couldn't get there without it. Then they couldn't include it. Again. (Repeat as necessary; frankly, they've each changed their respective stories more times than most people can keep track of. That they've repeatedly changed what they're going to call it–"public option", "government option", "consumer option", etc.– in an attempt to sneak it in under the radar has further confused matters.) Finally, Queen Mum Pelosi managed to ram through a massive bill that no one really likes or even completely understands (even her fellow Democrats candidly wondered what manner of arm-twisting and deal-making that required—and the entire effort deliberately negated bipartisan participation). She and Obama both think we should all learn to love it. (Lord knows why they would expect us to; apparently, neither of them has even read the damn' thing—nor, it seems, has anyone who voted for it.) The entire effort may prove moot, however, as indications are that the House measure won't find sufficient support in the Senate—despite a strong sense of urgency among Democrats in both houses to get a palatable measure passed quickly, lest they all find themselves facing the music in next year's mid-term election; delaying action beyond the end of this year would seriously threaten to derail the effort.

Is it any wonder that public confidence is rapidly deteriorating—not only in the Obama regime, but in Congress, as well?

After seriously depleting the treasury (and our wallets), this administration has achieved nothing that benefits the country as a whole; the economy remains in shambles, unemployment is rampant, our foreign policy is a puzzle even to our allies, and we seem a nation rudderless and adrift—one that can't even balance its own checkbook (a concept foreign to both the White House and Congress, to be sure).

Obama's answer to every problem seems to be: (a) spend more money (b) make another television appearance (c) blame Republicans in general and George W. Bush in particular–gotta wonder how long he's gonna try to milk that one–or (d) take another trip (quickly, now: has Obama spent more time in Washington—or on his road trips? Has anyone tallied-up the cost of his seemingly-endless world tour?).

Oh, and (e) …

"Shut up and drink the Kool-Aid."

Heroes and…"Not exactly"

Has anyone else noted the disproportionate rise in the “hero” supply? Seems like we have a bumper crop, these days. Has the population suddenly become more courageous? Are we more “heroic” than we were just a few years ago?

I suspect not.

A stretch of highway near my home was recently renamed. It’s now called “Heroes’ Highway.”

Which heroes?

Not to rain on anyone’s parade, but…I recently heard one time too many the people killed at the World Trade Center on 9/11 collectively referred to as “fallen heroes.” Excuse me? “Heroes?” Precisely what was heroic about simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time? While by no means attempting to mitigate the heinous nature of the attack (nor the horrendous loss that resulted), the question must be asked: Were these people heroes?

Borrowing a reply from a popular car-rental ad: “Not exactly.”

They were victims. Period. That some of those victims reacted heroically is unquestioned, and should be duly noted; however, merely being in close proximity to a disaster does not a hero make. The cops and firefighters and other rescuers clambering over the rubble qualify as heroes; victims do not. (Given the also-popular predilection for claiming “victim” status, this would seem sufficient—but, that issue is reserved as fodder for a separate rant.)

In a society that’s become increasingly obsessed with anointing heroes, we’ve lowered the bar. We now proclaim as “heroes” many that would not traditionally have been deemed worthy of the mantle. In a way, this is reflective of other segments of society; for example, recall the vignette from a popular movie wherein we hear the remark alluding to a marginally-athletic boy having garnered a collection of ninth-place ribbons and other “feel-good” awards. While such well-intentioned efforts may do wonders for a child’s self-esteem (though there’s doubt about that, now, as well), it also has the practical effect of diminishing the achievements of those who do deserve recognition.

It has become a common (and laudable) practice to hold ceremonies marking the return of local reserve military units from tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan. Frequently, these soldiers are regaled by dignitaries proclaiming: “You’re all heroes.”

No, they’re not.

Did they discharge their duties faithfully? Yes. Did they “give a good account” of themselves? Certainly. Are they deserving of our thanks for a job well done? By all means. Should we acknowledge and reward their efforts? Absolutely.

That said, however, they are not all implicitly heroes. Rarely can one truly justify the designation “hero” for each and every member of an organization. There are certainly some genuine heroes among them, of course, and they deserve that extra measure of recognition—recognition that’s effectively denied them by wrongly affording everyone else the same status.

Try telling every participant of an Olympic event “You’re all champions” and you just might get an argument from the legitimate gold, silver, and bronze medalists who worked so hard to distinguish themselves from the pack. Tell those few elite stellar college students that the entire graduating class will be designated Summa Cum Laude and see what kind of reaction you get. Inform the winner of a popular reality show (if you dare) that the million-dollar first prize will be split equally among all the participants, “because you’re all winners.” Tell the widow of a Medal of Honor recipient that the revered blue ribbon and white stars paid for in blood by her late husband will now be standard issue for all recruits “because they’re all heroes.”

In short, we’ve always drawn distinctions between degrees and levels of achievement, dedication, and valor; blurring those lines gains us nothing—and costs us plenty.

So, what does qualify as “heroic?”

If your car skids off a lonely stretch of road and ends up in a ditch, is the (increasingly rare, granted) guy who stops to help you a hero? No. A nice guy, certainly, and a fine human being. A Good Samaritan. But…not a hero.

Okay, now, let’s say that after your car landed in the aforementioned ditch, you were trapped inside. And you’re slowly freezing to death. Now, your Good Samaritan becomes something of a hero; though the net cost to him was the mere expenditure of his time–and his risk minimal–he has nonetheless pulled you out of a tight spot. Your rescuer would be rightly credited with saving your skin, and certainly deserving of the accolades he’d receive.

Now, let’s say that you’re trapped in your car and it’s caught fire. You’re in very real danger of being burnt to a crisp, and it’s quite possible that the fire will ignite your car’s fuel tank—with obvious results. Your Good Samaritan braves the flames and ignores the risk of explosion to extricate you from certain death. Not only did he save your neck, he did so with selfless disregard for his own safety. He laid it on the line for you–a complete stranger–potentially sacrificing himself for no other reason than because he encountered someone in imminent peril.

Now, that is a hero.

Why are we so anxious to manufacture heroes? Is it because there are so few real heroes to go around? Are we so accustomed to mediocrity and the “I don’t want to get involved” mind-set that even the most meager effort looks heroic by comparison? Has the concept of sacrifice–be it one of life, security, wealth, or personal comfort–become so foreign to us that we eagerly latch onto any perceived facsimile of heroism to exalt?

We used to think of others in terms of “He’s a stand-up guy,” or “She’s someone you can always count on,” or “He’s a solid citizen.” No heroics. None needed. We admired these simple yet admirable traits.

And when the occasional hero appeared in our midst, we rightly sang his praises.

We’ve heard countless comments over the years from World War II vets, for example, that went something like this: “I wasn’t a hero,” or “We weren’t heroes, just scared kids sent to do a tough job.” We appropriately recognized and rewarded such efforts (and, by the way, admired the modest, self-effacing manner)—while just as appropriately lauding the genuine heroics of those who did stand out.

The plain truth is that not everyone is destined to be a hero, anyway. Admiral William F. “Bull” Halsey said it best: “There are no extraordinary men…just extraordinary circumstances that ordinary men are forced to deal with.” How many of us will live out our entire lives without ever being thrust into such circumstances? A true hero, after all, by definition stands apart from others as a result of having risen to the occasion when faced with an uncommon–extraordinary–situation. Our ordinary lives simply don’t present many such situations in which to acquit ourselves.

It should be satisfying enough for most people to be known as the dependable neighbor that can be called upon for help at the worst of times, or as the “go-to guy” in the office. Lest it be forgotten, the extraordinary hero who courageously charged across a battlefield to attack an enemy machine gun emplacement did so with ammunition and grenades furnished via the very ordinary duties of a supply clerk—without whom there’d obviously have been no heroics to praise. Fate simply never placed the clerk on the battlefield; as we’ve seen, though, there’s no particular ignominy attached to not being a hero.

Concentrate on leading a good life. Do exemplary work. Help out others where you can. If you do all this, we’ll notice—and speak highly of you. Just don’t expect too big a pat on the back for common acts of courtesy and kindness, nor for merely doing your job; undeserved praise is hollow, anyway. Should you be placed in extraordinary circumstances–and rise to the occasion–we’ll notice that, too. Then, we’ll call you a hero.

The next time you assist an elderly woman across a street like a good Scout…or stop and help someone who’s broken down on the road…take a moment and ask yourself: Does this make me a hero?

A voice will answer from somewhere inside you.

“Not exactly.”

I Nearly Killed You Last Week

I nearly killed you last week.

You, of course, didn’t notice—preoccupied as you were with that oh, so important phone call (though judging by your laughter and coquettish looks moments later…well, it seemed rather light-hearted).

I was driving a 78,000-pound tractor-trailer rig through Birmingham, barreling downhill and struggling to maintain control (the city’s government forbids the use of engine brakes, by the way—making things even dicier) when you made a U-turn across three lanes of traffic to plant your pretty self right in front of me—at a speed about twenty miles per hour slower than mine.

How you could fail to notice a thirteen-and-a-half feet tall, eight-and-a-half feet wide truck lit up like Macy’s on Christmas Eve (though it was broad daylight) coming right at you is beyond me; as I said, though, your phone conversation obviously was mighty important.

Important enough to risk your life?

Well, you did.

Under ideal conditions with a relatively light load on flat, dry pavement, it takes a lo-oooong time to stop a truck; going downhill at nearly the maximum legal weight stacks the deck against you to a degree you can’t even fathom.

I noticed the temporary license tag on your car, by the way. Brand new. Very pretty.

Had I been unable to avoid you, the impact would’ve had the practical effect of dropping your pretty new car into a trash compacter—with you in it.

I suppose I should give you credit, though; at least, you weren’t “texting” (which is even more distracting—and appears to have been contributory to a significant number of fatal mishaps), you didn’t have a child in the back seat (unlike the woman in Dallas last month–also talking on her phone, by the way–who cruised right through a stop sign just as I started a left turn in front of her; she never did stop—though she did look directly at me and cringe when she saw the nose of my tractor dip as I hit the brakes), and you weren’t doing anything patently illegal (unlike the guy driving the Volvo station wagon near Town Creek, Alabama who was so concerned with the safety of the two kids he had securely strapped into their car seats that he purchased the vehicle touted by its manufacturer as “the safest car in the world”; Volvo, however, can’t indemnify idiots who try to pass trucks on the shoulder of a two-lane highway and manage to just miss a looming bridge abutment by a split second—though he skillfully continued his phone conversation throughout. He seemed to not even notice that I nearly rolled over my truck in my attempt to avoid him. I had to shake my head at the irony of the “CAUTION: CHILD ON BOARD” sticker that adorned his car’s rear bumper.)

Sadly, these are not fabrications; all these events occurred as described. Worse, they’re becoming more commonplace.

Ask any truck driver: when we see an expensive late-model car going usually five to ten miles per hour below the posted speed limit (as if you don’t have a cruise-control feature) which may or may not be weaving…five’ll getcha ten that when we pull alongside you you’ll be engrossed in a phone conversation. We equate this with the fundamental inability to walk and chew gum at the same time.

You, like increasing numbers of drivers, forgot that the single most important task facing you was to control the vehicle. And it nearly cost you your life.

Cell phones have become a part of our lives; they’re not going away—nor is talking while driving. If you can’t “multitask”, though…park the car.

I don’t need you on my conscience.

Veterans Day

Note: This started as a simple email to friends and fellow veterans. Owing to the response I received, I decided to spruce it up a little and include it here. —Jim

To my fellow veterans:

Perhaps it's because of the times we live in, with troops in harm's way. Or it might be the still-fresh memory of the massacre at Ft. Hood. Or it could be owing to recent communications with former brothers (and sisters) -in-arms. Whatever the source, I'm feeling particularly sentimental about Veterans Day—our Day—this time around. It always happens, but…for some reason, it's a stronger feeling today.

Some of you I served with. Some, I didn't. No matter. I've always felt that—regardless of our respective histories—we share something very special. I suspect you all feel the same.

Some time ago, I was seated at a blackjack table in Tunica, MS. I'd been engaged in sporadic conversation with the young man seated alongside me, and learned that he'd recently returned from his second tour in Iraq. I asked the usual questions (we all know them—right?) : Where are you from? What's your MOS? How long've you been in?

This, of course, revealed to him (we all recognize the signs and subtle signals) that I'd spent time in the military, as well—and in fact we had Army service in common (like I said: we all recognize the telltale signs of a brother-in-arms). He then surprised me by extending his hand and saying: "Thanks for your service."

Such a gesture seems to have become more common in recent years—and I kinda like it. However, no one had ever said it to me before; frankly, it caught me a little off-guard. Yes, I'd served. My military career was, however, decidedly unremarkable. No hero. Just did my job—like most of us. To be honest, I felt a tinge of humility hearing a "Thank-you" from someone so recently returned from the jaws of Hell.

Almost sheepishly, I grasped the proffered hand and shook it firmly. "No," I said. "Thank-you. My time was long ago and a helluva lot easier."

And then he said it.

"You served," he said evenly, still gripping my hand. "That's all that matters."

And the steady, certain look in his eyes confirmed that he'd meant what he'd said.

He was right.

It doesn't matter whether we were cooks, grunts, supply clerks, swabbies, wrench-turners, jarheads, or cannon-cockers.

We served—and that is all that matters. Many—most—didn't. We did.

I'm reminded of a Marine recruiting billboard showing a split-view of a young man's face. One half was the boyish look he'd borne before he enlisted; the other half was the steel-jawed look that Uncle Sam put on him. The caption was simple: "The change is forever."

And it is. It changed us. All of us. And we'll always be different for it. Regardless of which branch each of us served in or what we did.

How many times have you sat around swapping lies with other vets when you suddenly noticed the rapt attention being paid by one of them, those who never took our oath?

We share a common bond—one that will never be broken. It's a special fraternity. It's something that they will never have, nor even completely understand.

I pity them.

They'll never know what it feels like.

Whether you did a two-year stint courtesy of your draft board…or had nothing better to do for a few years after surviving high school…or felt a call to duty…or made a twenty- or thirty-year career out of it…

You served. We served. And whether we like it or not, we still have feelings that stir themselves up from time to time.

We know what it feels like, and sometimes have to choke down some pretty strong emotions. They haven't a clue as to what that's all about.

They don't know our friendships spawned amid shared adversity, our camaraderie forged by experiences they can't even imagine. They'll never know those memories that we won't—or can't—talk about except amongst ourselves, our brothers. They don't understand that particular annoyance we feel when the entertainment superstar of the moment butchers the national anthem at a football game, or why we feel compelled to throttle those who fail to remove their hats or place their hands over their hearts or at least shut the hell up while it's being played. They puzzle over why we rail against a giveaway to someone who earned nothing, but we'll give anything—anything—to one of our brothers in need. They'll never know that bittersweet tug on our heart-strings whenever we hear the mournful strains of Taps being played.

I've been waging a years-long battle to try to get people—them—to understand the difference between Veterans Day and Memorial Day. It sends me into a slow boil every Memorial Day when I see TV and newspaper ads proclaiming: "Thanks to all our veterans!"

I appreciate the sentiment, but… that's not our day; that day is for those who didn't return—and blurring the line between the two occasions cheapens their sacrifice.

I've probably aggravated a lot of people by correcting that misconception.

This is our day. This is the one we earned when we raised our hands and swore our oaths—when we entered that special fraternity…when we underwent that change that we'll take to our graves…when we were all bound to one another forever.

Thank-you all for your service. Enjoy your day; you earned it. Go grab the free chow at Applebee's and Golden Corral, and be appreciative that some, at least, acknowledge your service and sacrifice. Muster-up a dash of humility if a kid says "Thanks" today because a teacher or parent had enough class to instill that sense of values. Choke back your tears when the bugler plays Taps at The Tomb (or let them flow; you earned that right, too). Call an old Army buddy (or Navy; you get the idea). Shake hands with fellow vets you know; they're your brothers-in-arms, and it's their day, too.

Having now gotten all maudlin, I'll leave you with one final thought expressed by Rudyard Kipling:


"I've eaten your bread and salt,
I've drunk your water and wine.
The deaths ye died I watched beside,
and the lives ye led were mine."




Jim


"A veteran is someone who, at one point in his or her life wrote a blank check made payable to 'The United States of America ' for an amount of 'up to and including my life.'" —author unknown

Had Enough?

Consider the following scenario:

Let’s say that you and your family have retired for the evening. While you’re sleeping, your neighbor sneaks into your home and rummages around for your prized jewelry. You, however, have taken the precaution of locking away your valuables in a safe—to which only you and your family members know the combination to unlock it. His efforts awaken you, and you confront him with a weapon. You tell him on no uncertain terms that he must leave your home immediately or you’ll summon the police.

Frustrated and angry, your neighbor organizes a protest march, drumming up support from your other neighbors (some of whom have likewise attempted to relieve you of your valuables). They parade down Main Street, waving banners and chanting, complaining bitterly about your “unfairness” and demanding that you give them all access to your family jewels and other assorted goodies. Their effort garners considerable media attention, and they even manage to enlist the support of a number of political figures (many of whom—coincidentally, perhaps—see the protesters as potential voters). Before long, there’s a rising groundswell of demands that you unlock your safe and allow free access to anyone who breaks into your home.

Sounds a bit far-fetched, doesn’t it?

Or does it?

A recent article appearing in USA Today spotlighted the growing activism among illegal aliens. In much the same fashion as the aforementioned neighbor, they came to this country by way of sneaking across the border. Not content with what they’ve already gained by illegal means, they’re now demanding—yes, demanding—that they have open access to the nation’s goodies. Astonishingly, an alarming numver of politicians have taken up this mantle (re-read that part about “potential voters”).

Had enough?

About the Man Behind the Curtain…

As some of you may already know, I’m a truck driver. Sometimes. I used to have a career that was (arguably) a bit more prestigious and respectable, did reasonably well for myself, and retired a few years ago.

Until my wife told me to get out.

Actually, as I recall her exact words, she said: “Get the hell out of here. Go fishing. Get a job. Go play golf. I don’t care. But, get the hell out of here. You’re driving me nuts.”

And so, my seven-month retirement came to a halt. (Truth be known, I was getting bored, anyway; though the life of a couch potato has its allure, it can wear thin. And then there’s that premature heart failure thing to consider.)

In reality, I’d already considered the wisdom of having a fall-back occupation. You see, I’d only held basically two jobs in my entire adult life: the Army, and my recently-ended tenure with the Federal government as an air traffic controller. While I retired fairly comfortably, I’d also considered the possibility that I might someday need to acquire extra income—and would need some sort of marketable skill that would enable me to do so. Inasmuch as the sum total of my occupational skills consisted pretty much of shooting people and shoving airplanes around (neither of which I can do, anymore—at least, not legally), it was clear that I needed to expand my horizons. So, I decided to take the plunge into the world of trucking.

The most common reaction to my new career aspiration was: “You’re gonna do what ?!?!”

And then there was the doctor’s reaction when I showed up for the required physical exam: “Are you out of your mind? Do you know how dangerous that is?” This he asked a split second after he thumped me solidly on my forehead to get my attention (literally).

Actually, I never thought of driving an 80,000-pound missile as particularly dangerous (though truck-driving is consistently listed among the ten most hazardous occupations). And driving met my three primary requirements: (1) I refuse to be chained to a desk, (2) I refuse to punch a clock, and (3) I absolutely refuse to ever wear a necktie again as long as I live (a policy particularly worrisome to my potentially marriage-minded daughter, who no doubt cringes at the very real prospect of being given away at the altar by the only guy present without neckwear).

Anyway…for better or worse, I took the plunge, got my commercial driver’s license (hereinafter referred to as a CDL), and hit the road. Until a dispatcher aggravated me—and I quit. Then, I got tired of being retired (again), and started driving for another company—until yet another dispatcher didn't take seriously my warning that my bullshit-tolerance capacity had long since been exhausted by the Federal government and I didn't really need the job, anyway (is a pattern beginning to emerge?). So, I drive for awhile–until someone gets under my skin–then I retire for awhile. And so on.

I tell you all this only because some of what will appear on this site comes from my newfound occupational perspective.

Introduction

Welcome to my curmudgeondom. As you’ll soon learn, your reactions to my missives here are likely to range from fear to loathing to tears to outright rage—and I just might evoke from you an occasional sober nod or two.

The purpose of this blog is simple: to provide me a vehicle for sounding-off on whatever topic suits me at the moment. While there’s sure to be no shortage of politically-oriented palaver here, it is by no means all (nor necessarily even most) of what will be proffered to your discerning mind. You’ll also find that my personal politics, ethics, morals, and standards are pretty much “all over the map” (according to my mother-in-law)—so, don’t be surprised to see rants regarding, say, the interference of churches in politics, politically-correct anything, “nanny” laws, taxes, the United Nations, Congress, the Commissioner of Baseball, the State of Ohio’s speed limits, steroids, Jesse Jackson, the “mainstream” media, ultra-liberals, ultra-conservatives, the price of cigarettes, Obamarxism, regulating sales of alcohol, gasoline price manipulation, Muslim foot baths, illegal immigration, laws banning the sale of adult sex toys, cell phones, heavy-handed cops, meddlesome politicians, Hillary, Billary, our all-but-self-proclaimed uncrowned Queen Nancy, “W”, eminent domain, freedom of speech, and the designated hitter all in succession. It is, as I said, my curmudgeondom — and I have the credentials and bona fides to lay claim to the title of The Curmudgeon. So, there.

Some of the postings you'll encounter may seem familiar—especially to those who know me personally. By way of explanation… I once had an ongoing relationship with a local newspaper, and had a number of published opinion pieces—some of which may be posted here. My arrangement was for a feature entitled An Opposing View; given that the editorial staff had a generally liberal, left-of-center view, it stands to reason that my "opposing" view would generally be perceived as coming from the right (in more ways than one, in my humble opinion). These posts will be annotated as having been previously published.

Comments, of course, are always welcome. You may agree or disagree with me. Doesn’t matter. Of course, I reserve the right to completely ignore you — but, feel free to let your feelings be known, anyway. And if you don't want to comment directly here, my e-mail address is: jimseeber@gmail.com .

Oh, and…yes, I can spell. That "Write-wing" is only a play on words. So, there. Again.

Welcome, once again. Strap in and hang on.