So we now have another tragedy involving guns. A nutcase in Arizona shoots 19 people, including a United States Congresswoman, a high ranking judge, a child, old people, young people. There is practically no segment of society that he missed, is there?
It amazes me that in this society tin which we live today, with the illiteracy rates at high levels, the unemployment levels at higher levels than anytime in recent memory, the political rhetoric more nasty than ever before with Americans hating on Americans like no time since the Civil War (quaint term—“civil” war) that random crackpots like this guy in Arizona could just waltz in to a gun shop six weeks ago and legally purchase a handgun. Yet, that is exactly what happened. And it isn’t like he came out of nowhere---the police were aware of his history of making vague threats on social networking websites and yet, his name was never placed on any watch lists for handgun sellers to peruse and make a determination that maybe, just maybe, this guy was a little off kilter and shouldn’t own a gun. Why wasn’t his name put on a list like that? Because there isn’t one. Unless he had a prior felony conviction, this (alleged) murdering swine took six lives and ruined another 13 because he was able to just walk into a store and buy an instrument of mass murder. If his name had been Abdul or Ahmed, it is possible that he would not have been able to board an airplane for a vacation in Cancun, or anywhere, because there is a very good chance that his name would have been on a terrorism watch list.
I’m not here to debate the second amendment, a clause to the Constitution of the United States that, despite the claims of the NRA and gun owners, responsible and otherwise, is vaguely worded at best. I am here to state empirically that not everyone should be allowed to own a gun. In most, if not all states, to go out in the woods and hunt a deer with a rifle requires a hunting license. To get that license you have to take rifle safety classes in most states and pass an test proving a minimal competence with the weapon. Yet, anyone, in many states, like Arizona, like Georgia and others, can just walk into a pawn shop or a sporting goods store and walk out 15 minutes later with a killing machine. This has got to change, people. I have seen people in the aforementioned pawnshops, people that I know to be thuggish and aggressive, buy a Glock while I am browsing the used DVD racks. They have come in, picked out a weapon, filled out the minimal paperwork, and paid for and walked out the door with gun in hand before I have even found a movie to watch. This has got to change. With great power, (the power to kill in an instant), comes great responsibility—and it is the duty of the government of the states and the country to make sure that anyone who wants to buy a gun has to meet some kind of standards. We license drivers, electricians, plumbers, hunters, anglers, and more. Time to require licenses for ALL guns, and the ability of the gunowners to prove to us all that they deserve such great power.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Sunday, January 9, 2011
New Year's Column
Well, there goes another year. People died. People were born. Countries waged war on other countries and as always, innocent people got killed. In Haiti, an earthquake turned an already starving, under-developed third world country into something closer to a Stone Age civilization, and after the appropriate initial outpouring of sympathy and charitable telethons, it was quickly forgotten by all but a few.
In this country, the political scene just got uglier as a popular president became less popular and the two major parties can’t agree on anything. What that leaves us with is two factions fighting each other and the only loser is the entire country.
Speaking of which: beginning in mid-March, I will not only be talking the talk, but walking the walk---literally---across the entire country. I will start at the Atlantic Ocean in Savannah and begin a trek of around 2800 miles westward, hopefully reaching the Pacific Ocean in four months or less. As a younger man I used to do a lot of 20 mile walk-a-thons and usually managed to finish in a little more than six hours. Even using conservative estimates, adding another five miles a day makes the whole thing doable in 120 days.
Along the way I will be sending in dispatches from the road, as well as taking myriad photographs, and will also begin working on a book about my journey. I will also set up a website where I will be adding daily (where possible) updates on my location and the people I meet. I’m assuming that over the course of 2800 miles I will meet a few people.
The idea for this came about back in the spring of 2009, while I was doing my workout at Fitness USA, here in Jackson. I’ve written a couple of columns for this paper concerning healthy eating, exercise and lifestyles, and I found myself staring at a very unhealthy number on the scale one morning and decided that at age 49 I had better do something about it. The idea just popped into my head as I churned away on the elliptical machine that is my daily dread, and I immediately knew that this was something I could do with the proper training and conditioning. I’ve now been working out hard, have lost the equivalent of a fourth grader or so, and now feel that my legs are ready to carry me across the country.
The number on the scale that morning was 355. I can’t imagine a human being weighing that much, but there it was, digitally displayed---closer to 400 pounds than 300. The day I write this, I am down to 272, so I have lost 83 pounds to date. My goal is to reach 220, which will fit my big frame nicely. This trip should put a fine point on it.
I cannot do this alone. While the bulk of my expenses will be for food and water, I am looking for help covering my expenses, beyond what I am paying for out of pocket. I have several sponsors, commercial and personal, and could use a few more. If anyone is interested in sponsoring me, you can contact me at the email address posted at the end of this column.
Am I nuts? No. I am a firm believer that life is short, and you need to cram as many adventures into it as possible. This is just the next one…
In this country, the political scene just got uglier as a popular president became less popular and the two major parties can’t agree on anything. What that leaves us with is two factions fighting each other and the only loser is the entire country.
Speaking of which: beginning in mid-March, I will not only be talking the talk, but walking the walk---literally---across the entire country. I will start at the Atlantic Ocean in Savannah and begin a trek of around 2800 miles westward, hopefully reaching the Pacific Ocean in four months or less. As a younger man I used to do a lot of 20 mile walk-a-thons and usually managed to finish in a little more than six hours. Even using conservative estimates, adding another five miles a day makes the whole thing doable in 120 days.
Along the way I will be sending in dispatches from the road, as well as taking myriad photographs, and will also begin working on a book about my journey. I will also set up a website where I will be adding daily (where possible) updates on my location and the people I meet. I’m assuming that over the course of 2800 miles I will meet a few people.
The idea for this came about back in the spring of 2009, while I was doing my workout at Fitness USA, here in Jackson. I’ve written a couple of columns for this paper concerning healthy eating, exercise and lifestyles, and I found myself staring at a very unhealthy number on the scale one morning and decided that at age 49 I had better do something about it. The idea just popped into my head as I churned away on the elliptical machine that is my daily dread, and I immediately knew that this was something I could do with the proper training and conditioning. I’ve now been working out hard, have lost the equivalent of a fourth grader or so, and now feel that my legs are ready to carry me across the country.
The number on the scale that morning was 355. I can’t imagine a human being weighing that much, but there it was, digitally displayed---closer to 400 pounds than 300. The day I write this, I am down to 272, so I have lost 83 pounds to date. My goal is to reach 220, which will fit my big frame nicely. This trip should put a fine point on it.
I cannot do this alone. While the bulk of my expenses will be for food and water, I am looking for help covering my expenses, beyond what I am paying for out of pocket. I have several sponsors, commercial and personal, and could use a few more. If anyone is interested in sponsoring me, you can contact me at the email address posted at the end of this column.
Am I nuts? No. I am a firm believer that life is short, and you need to cram as many adventures into it as possible. This is just the next one…
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Life and almost death in Jackson, GA
I had quite the experience today. I was sitting at my computer in my place of business, just “vegging” in front of the keyboard, when the door burst open and a woman I have never seen before entered. She was frantic, and was pleading for help at the salon next door. She said there was an old man in the chair over there and he was having some kind of attack and couldn’t breathe, and that the ladies over there needed help moving him to a more comfortable spot so that he might be able to get some air. I immediately ran over to the salon, and sure enough there was a very pale, older gentleman in some kind of terrible situation. His eyes were rolled back a bit and he appeared to be out of it, and almost out of time.
Now, I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV, but I do know that when someone is in the kind of trouble that this man (I’ll call him “John”) was in, you need to remain calm and think things through. The ladies at the salon were begging me to do something to help him get air, but when I asked him several times if he could breathe, his eyes focused on me for a second and he said, in a weak voice, that he could breath. And then his eyes closed and he became unresponsive. One of the stylists began to cry and hugged him and was kissing him on the head and pleading with him not to leave us. I held his hands and asked him to squeeze my fingers if he could hear me. His eyes were still closed but his grip tightened on my hands and it was the best feeling to know that he was alert and responsive. Then, in the middle of all of this, his eyes opened and he did a very curious thing---he yawned. At first I thought he was opening his mouth wide in an attempt to get air but, no, it was indeed a yawn, which he repeated a moment later.
We kept at him, talking to him and keeping him awake as best we could, until the paramedics arrived, which was only a few minutes later. His wife had been called and she arrived shortly afterwards, and she rode in the ambulance with him to the hospital. The last time I saw him he was sitting up slightly in the back of the ambulance, much more alert and talking. I don’t know what happened to him but it was a scary situation.
It got me to thinking about life, and death, and how I want to go out, if I ever do. I have NO plans to ever die, and I figure that all of my losing Megamillions lottery tickets must have some cosmic significance, and that my “lottery” winning will be 500 year life span here on earth. Or not. But if I do go out, I want it to be somewhere that is not a beauty salon, and I don’t want a stranger from next door holding my hand, unless she looks like Morgan Fairchild…
“John”, you had us all scared. I hope you made a full recovery.
Now, I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV, but I do know that when someone is in the kind of trouble that this man (I’ll call him “John”) was in, you need to remain calm and think things through. The ladies at the salon were begging me to do something to help him get air, but when I asked him several times if he could breathe, his eyes focused on me for a second and he said, in a weak voice, that he could breath. And then his eyes closed and he became unresponsive. One of the stylists began to cry and hugged him and was kissing him on the head and pleading with him not to leave us. I held his hands and asked him to squeeze my fingers if he could hear me. His eyes were still closed but his grip tightened on my hands and it was the best feeling to know that he was alert and responsive. Then, in the middle of all of this, his eyes opened and he did a very curious thing---he yawned. At first I thought he was opening his mouth wide in an attempt to get air but, no, it was indeed a yawn, which he repeated a moment later.
We kept at him, talking to him and keeping him awake as best we could, until the paramedics arrived, which was only a few minutes later. His wife had been called and she arrived shortly afterwards, and she rode in the ambulance with him to the hospital. The last time I saw him he was sitting up slightly in the back of the ambulance, much more alert and talking. I don’t know what happened to him but it was a scary situation.
It got me to thinking about life, and death, and how I want to go out, if I ever do. I have NO plans to ever die, and I figure that all of my losing Megamillions lottery tickets must have some cosmic significance, and that my “lottery” winning will be 500 year life span here on earth. Or not. But if I do go out, I want it to be somewhere that is not a beauty salon, and I don’t want a stranger from next door holding my hand, unless she looks like Morgan Fairchild…
“John”, you had us all scared. I hope you made a full recovery.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Jackson C. Frank Remembered
On March 31, 1954, gas fumes and coal dust buildup, a deadly brew if ever there was one, ignited, and a fireball flew down the corridor of a wooden annex attached to the main building at the Cleveland Hill School in Cheektowaga, New York, a suburb of Buffalo. In a room at the end of the annex, thirty one 6th graders were practicing their rhythm sticks. The door was open and the fireball blew into the room. Thirty minutes later the entire annex was burned to the ground. Fifteen students were dead and the rest were all burned in various degrees. The worst burned of these children was a boy named Jackson C. Frank. This is his story.
The fire had really done a number on young Jackson. His parathyroid glands, which regulate calcium in the body, had shut down, causing large amounts of calcium to settle in his joints instead of passing out of the body in the usual way. This resulted in a stiffening of his arms, legs, back and hips that was excruciating and permanent. Recovering from his injuries, young Jackson learned how to play the guitar, as part of his physical therapy, and he became quite proficient. He began to write songs.
In 1964, he received an insurance settlement of $80,000, a large amount for the time. He decided to take a trip to England to buy cars. While there, he began to make the rounds of the folk clubs where he had the good fortune to befriend a young American singer/songwriter named Paul Simon. Simon, just arrived on the scene himself, liked Jackson’s music so much that he brought him into a recording studio and recorded a full album’s worth of songs, including one called Blues Run the Game. Columbia-EMI Records released the album in August, 1965, and it quickly became known as a classic, and Jackson C. Frank’s future looked very promising.
Then, life happened. After a successful round of performing around Europe, Jackson began exhibiting unusual behavior, later diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenia, and soon found himself broke and unemployable, both causes for Her Majesty’s Government to send him back to the states, which they did.
Back in the US, Jackson settled into a mundane lifestyle, playing the odd gig, living in and out of psychiatric hospitals, but mostly hanging around the village green in Woodstock, New York. In 1983, he decided to take a bus to New York City to find Paul Simon and get some money from him. There he was picked up by city officials and periodically institutionalized, spending ten years, mostly on the streets but for short periods of time in places like Creedmore. It was a demoralizing existence.
It was at the end of his ten year stretch in New York that our paths crossed, when a mutual friend got a letter to me that Jackson had written to him, asking for help. Unable to do anything, he asked me if I was willing to try. I said yes.
A few days later I drove to New York and met Jackson. He was old, obese, crippled, and in pain. I made arrangements to get him the help he needed, got him out of the city, back to Woodstock, and to a near normal existence for a while until his ailments got to be too much for him, and he needed to be placed in a supervised situation. With help from old royalties due him from various musicians’ performances, his needs were met. A couple dozen new recordings emerged, whetting the appetites of a growing legion of fans, and by the year 1999, his last, he was a full fledged cult legend, his influence acknowledged by people like Paul Simon, Al Stewart, Counting Crows and Sandy Denny and many others .
We would play music together and I like to think his last years were happy ones. He died on March 3, 1999, of pneumonia.
The blues run the game, indeed.
The fire had really done a number on young Jackson. His parathyroid glands, which regulate calcium in the body, had shut down, causing large amounts of calcium to settle in his joints instead of passing out of the body in the usual way. This resulted in a stiffening of his arms, legs, back and hips that was excruciating and permanent. Recovering from his injuries, young Jackson learned how to play the guitar, as part of his physical therapy, and he became quite proficient. He began to write songs.
In 1964, he received an insurance settlement of $80,000, a large amount for the time. He decided to take a trip to England to buy cars. While there, he began to make the rounds of the folk clubs where he had the good fortune to befriend a young American singer/songwriter named Paul Simon. Simon, just arrived on the scene himself, liked Jackson’s music so much that he brought him into a recording studio and recorded a full album’s worth of songs, including one called Blues Run the Game. Columbia-EMI Records released the album in August, 1965, and it quickly became known as a classic, and Jackson C. Frank’s future looked very promising.
Then, life happened. After a successful round of performing around Europe, Jackson began exhibiting unusual behavior, later diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenia, and soon found himself broke and unemployable, both causes for Her Majesty’s Government to send him back to the states, which they did.
Back in the US, Jackson settled into a mundane lifestyle, playing the odd gig, living in and out of psychiatric hospitals, but mostly hanging around the village green in Woodstock, New York. In 1983, he decided to take a bus to New York City to find Paul Simon and get some money from him. There he was picked up by city officials and periodically institutionalized, spending ten years, mostly on the streets but for short periods of time in places like Creedmore. It was a demoralizing existence.
It was at the end of his ten year stretch in New York that our paths crossed, when a mutual friend got a letter to me that Jackson had written to him, asking for help. Unable to do anything, he asked me if I was willing to try. I said yes.
A few days later I drove to New York and met Jackson. He was old, obese, crippled, and in pain. I made arrangements to get him the help he needed, got him out of the city, back to Woodstock, and to a near normal existence for a while until his ailments got to be too much for him, and he needed to be placed in a supervised situation. With help from old royalties due him from various musicians’ performances, his needs were met. A couple dozen new recordings emerged, whetting the appetites of a growing legion of fans, and by the year 1999, his last, he was a full fledged cult legend, his influence acknowledged by people like Paul Simon, Al Stewart, Counting Crows and Sandy Denny and many others .
We would play music together and I like to think his last years were happy ones. He died on March 3, 1999, of pneumonia.
The blues run the game, indeed.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Keep Away From My Junk
“We have met the enemy, and he is us”---Walt Kelly, via Pogo
When those people who hijacked those planes nine and a half years ago flew them into those towers and got their misguided point across, they had no idea what they really had wrought. How could they have known that what they really were doing was planting a seed of paranoia that still grows at a fast and furious rate all these years later.
First, our knee-jerk reaction was, correctly, to attack al-Qaeda in Afghanistan, a move that our then-president apparently decided was too difficult, and instead opted for invading Iraq, a famously incorrect and ill-advised move that got rid of a despotic dictator who had no connection to the attacks of 9/11, trashed the infrastructure and centuries of antiquities of one of the great civilizations of the world, and did nothing to help our country get cheaper oil or gas, the prices of which actually rose by more than a little bit.
Then, we find out that the “war on terror” brought us the shameful news that certain agencies and public officials had made the decision that it was okay to use torture in special cases, such as those involving terror suspects. Well, you know something, folks? It’s NOT okay to torture another human being, no matter what they are, or have done. That was why the Geneva Conventions were created, to try to keep a very uncivil act---war---from being any more barbaric than it already is.
Those hijackers also probably didn’t know that they were going to make life very difficult for good, decent practitioners of their own religion, since the less intelligent denizens of the land have decided that it is okay to vilify an entire belief system based on the misdeeds of a relative handful of radicals. Well, folks, that’s NOT okay either.
And now we have the current Big Controversy: the intrusive and invasive tactics of the TSA at our airports. I never thought I would find myself agreeing with Tea Party members, or Republicans, or even Democrats. It appears that NO ONE wants to have their naked body seen by a total stranger in a remote location or be patted down or groped by a different total stranger in front of a line of fellow travelers, who are also strangers.
This latest issue is the one that comes across as something to protest, and that is because it has the possibility to affect them personally, unlike waterboarding, or being threatened or intimidated for wearing Muslim traditional clothing.
I want to fly safely as much as the next person. The stated purpose of the TSA is to prevent would-be terrorists from bringing weapons or explosives aboard. The tally of terrorists caught at the airports by these methods to date: zero. So, am I feeling safer because of this? No. These full body scans of old ladies and little kids are ineffective, a violation of privacy, and just are not necessary. This is where the remaining vestiges of common sense have flown out the window. A friend of mine who works for TSA in Greenville, S.C. told me of having to pat down a flier who set off the machine when she passed through it, necessitating a hands-on search, only to discover that the alarm was from the new artificial hips that the woman---Betty White by name---had recently had put in. To her credit, Ms. White was very cordial about it, but in truth, she never should have been patted down. Folks: it’s NOT okay to search Betty White! Or me. Or you.
A solution: bomb sniffing dogs. They cost about five thousand dollars each, which means that 40 dogs could be purchased for the cost of one body scanner. And dogs, which are used to great effect in Israel, can detect much more than those scanners can.
Let’s not be our own worst enemy, folks. We already have enough.
When those people who hijacked those planes nine and a half years ago flew them into those towers and got their misguided point across, they had no idea what they really had wrought. How could they have known that what they really were doing was planting a seed of paranoia that still grows at a fast and furious rate all these years later.
First, our knee-jerk reaction was, correctly, to attack al-Qaeda in Afghanistan, a move that our then-president apparently decided was too difficult, and instead opted for invading Iraq, a famously incorrect and ill-advised move that got rid of a despotic dictator who had no connection to the attacks of 9/11, trashed the infrastructure and centuries of antiquities of one of the great civilizations of the world, and did nothing to help our country get cheaper oil or gas, the prices of which actually rose by more than a little bit.
Then, we find out that the “war on terror” brought us the shameful news that certain agencies and public officials had made the decision that it was okay to use torture in special cases, such as those involving terror suspects. Well, you know something, folks? It’s NOT okay to torture another human being, no matter what they are, or have done. That was why the Geneva Conventions were created, to try to keep a very uncivil act---war---from being any more barbaric than it already is.
Those hijackers also probably didn’t know that they were going to make life very difficult for good, decent practitioners of their own religion, since the less intelligent denizens of the land have decided that it is okay to vilify an entire belief system based on the misdeeds of a relative handful of radicals. Well, folks, that’s NOT okay either.
And now we have the current Big Controversy: the intrusive and invasive tactics of the TSA at our airports. I never thought I would find myself agreeing with Tea Party members, or Republicans, or even Democrats. It appears that NO ONE wants to have their naked body seen by a total stranger in a remote location or be patted down or groped by a different total stranger in front of a line of fellow travelers, who are also strangers.
This latest issue is the one that comes across as something to protest, and that is because it has the possibility to affect them personally, unlike waterboarding, or being threatened or intimidated for wearing Muslim traditional clothing.
I want to fly safely as much as the next person. The stated purpose of the TSA is to prevent would-be terrorists from bringing weapons or explosives aboard. The tally of terrorists caught at the airports by these methods to date: zero. So, am I feeling safer because of this? No. These full body scans of old ladies and little kids are ineffective, a violation of privacy, and just are not necessary. This is where the remaining vestiges of common sense have flown out the window. A friend of mine who works for TSA in Greenville, S.C. told me of having to pat down a flier who set off the machine when she passed through it, necessitating a hands-on search, only to discover that the alarm was from the new artificial hips that the woman---Betty White by name---had recently had put in. To her credit, Ms. White was very cordial about it, but in truth, she never should have been patted down. Folks: it’s NOT okay to search Betty White! Or me. Or you.
A solution: bomb sniffing dogs. They cost about five thousand dollars each, which means that 40 dogs could be purchased for the cost of one body scanner. And dogs, which are used to great effect in Israel, can detect much more than those scanners can.
Let’s not be our own worst enemy, folks. We already have enough.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Thanksgiving...
In some ways it is the greatest of holidays. Greater than Christmas, greater than Fourth of July, greater than any others. It’s not because of the big meal promised and enjoyed. It’s not because of the football games. It is because it is a day for us, as Americans, to take stock of what we have---no matter how meager---and give thanks. Doesn’t have to be to a god, doesn’t have to be to any person or entity. Just be thankful and grateful for what we have.
It is the last chance we have to give thanks before the orgy of consumption that immediately follows, and lasts until January. And when it is over, we walk away from the table and know we have work to do because taking stock also involves seeing what we don’t have, and where we need to fix the things that need fixing.
It’s not going to be easy, and it’s not going to happen overnight. But if we want it bad enough, it will happen.
We can change things. We don’t need presidents, senators, congressmen or politicians to do it for us, because time and time again they have let us down. Promises made give way to reality all too often, and every year it’s more of the same.
We don’t need them. We need us, and we need each other. We can make change. It doesn’t have to be as Americans, but just as citizens of the world. We have to get off our lazy backsides and get out there and do something. Taking charge of our own destinies is the only way that we can ensure that things will get done.
Being that it will be Thanksgiving, the first image that comes to mind is one of food. It is at this time of year that we often are made aware of the sad truth that in a world with enough food to feed every single human being on this planet, millions and millions of people go to bed hungry, including over 17 million children in this country alone. Proof that not everyone is created equal, despite what a piece of paper somewhere says.
It is time to change that. It is time to begin caring for and about each other. Being responsible for, and caring for others is the purest kind of love, and in recent years it seems that that love has vanished from the foreground. It’s time to change that. One of the great hypocrisies of the last century is this notion of being more holy, more Christian than the next guy and then acting in exact opposite ways. How some people can look at the misery of others, and not want to do something to help a fellow human being, especially when they have tremendous resources to do so, is beyond my level of comprehension. I hope it is also beyond yours too.
So, watch the football games, enjoy your lovely dinners with family and friends, and then go out and fix your country, and your world. Change things. For yourself, for your family, for your community.
It is the last chance we have to give thanks before the orgy of consumption that immediately follows, and lasts until January. And when it is over, we walk away from the table and know we have work to do because taking stock also involves seeing what we don’t have, and where we need to fix the things that need fixing.
It’s not going to be easy, and it’s not going to happen overnight. But if we want it bad enough, it will happen.
We can change things. We don’t need presidents, senators, congressmen or politicians to do it for us, because time and time again they have let us down. Promises made give way to reality all too often, and every year it’s more of the same.
We don’t need them. We need us, and we need each other. We can make change. It doesn’t have to be as Americans, but just as citizens of the world. We have to get off our lazy backsides and get out there and do something. Taking charge of our own destinies is the only way that we can ensure that things will get done.
Being that it will be Thanksgiving, the first image that comes to mind is one of food. It is at this time of year that we often are made aware of the sad truth that in a world with enough food to feed every single human being on this planet, millions and millions of people go to bed hungry, including over 17 million children in this country alone. Proof that not everyone is created equal, despite what a piece of paper somewhere says.
It is time to change that. It is time to begin caring for and about each other. Being responsible for, and caring for others is the purest kind of love, and in recent years it seems that that love has vanished from the foreground. It’s time to change that. One of the great hypocrisies of the last century is this notion of being more holy, more Christian than the next guy and then acting in exact opposite ways. How some people can look at the misery of others, and not want to do something to help a fellow human being, especially when they have tremendous resources to do so, is beyond my level of comprehension. I hope it is also beyond yours too.
So, watch the football games, enjoy your lovely dinners with family and friends, and then go out and fix your country, and your world. Change things. For yourself, for your family, for your community.
Friday, November 19, 2010
America, America, Man Sheds His Waste on Thee
We are living on this planet as if we had another one to go to.
— Terri Swearingen
Keep Our Butts Beautiful —Bumper Sticker seen in Jackson, Georgia
You people should be ashamed of yourselves. The guilty know who they are. Those of you who are not guilty, feel free to join me in chastising those who are, because this affects all of us.
I’m taking a break from healthcare and other political issues to focus on something that really hit me hard this week. While taking a little five mile walk between Jackson and Flovilla, training for a planned cross country trek next year, I noticed that there were an awful lot of soda bottles and cans in the ditches along Highways 87 and then 42. As I looked a little closer I could not believe the absolutely massive amounts of trash that people throw out of their cars and trucks, and it’s not just cans and bottles I am referring to, but the entire gamut of garbage. There were pieces of furniture, old baseballs, food, an entire rotisserie chicken, still in its bag, various birth control devices, (and on the other side of that topic several dirty diapers), syringes, little baggies that I hear are used for packaging marijuana (these must have blown in from Griffin, since I have it on good authority that no one in Jackson smokes the evil weed), various business signs that have toppled, rotted and were never re-erected, cups, plastic bags from stores that are not even in Butts County, medicine bottles, clothing, shoes, hats, auto parts, tools (thanks for the wrench, whoever threw it in the grass near American Woodmark), broken plastic pieces that could have been anything, and much more general refuse and junk.
It is understandable that on occasion napkins and pieces of paper will inadvertently blow out of a car window when a passing truck stirs up the air, but they usually break down when it rains. (A note to the state: those losing scratch-off lottery tickets need to be made of a less hearty paper—there were more of them blowing around than any other single item I saw). The junk I passed was deliberately tossed out.
I have also noticed many times that cars and trucks will pull up in store parking lots and even in front of restaurants, doors will open, fast food soda cups and containers and bags will be covertly deposited on the asphalt, while a trash can often sits feet away. Are we that lazy that we can’t be bothered to dispose of our refuse the proper way? I can’t count the times I have gone shopping, and in the store’s parking lot not seen at least one folded up and taped up dirty diaper. To me this is the nastiest act of all, and all I can say is, “You know who you are, and you are a pig.”
I realize that inmates from the prisons are trotted out every so often to clean up the garbage, but, in truth it is not their job to pick up after non-incarcerated slobs. It is the duty of every American, not just in Georgia, but everywhere, to be responsible citizens. That is what we allegedly teach our children in school and at home. What kind of example are we setting by opening the window and tossing our trash out on the highway? A dog won’t soil where it lives, but people do. Who is more evolved?
Beautiful Butts is beginning to look more like butt-ugly to me.
— Terri Swearingen
Keep Our Butts Beautiful —Bumper Sticker seen in Jackson, Georgia
You people should be ashamed of yourselves. The guilty know who they are. Those of you who are not guilty, feel free to join me in chastising those who are, because this affects all of us.
I’m taking a break from healthcare and other political issues to focus on something that really hit me hard this week. While taking a little five mile walk between Jackson and Flovilla, training for a planned cross country trek next year, I noticed that there were an awful lot of soda bottles and cans in the ditches along Highways 87 and then 42. As I looked a little closer I could not believe the absolutely massive amounts of trash that people throw out of their cars and trucks, and it’s not just cans and bottles I am referring to, but the entire gamut of garbage. There were pieces of furniture, old baseballs, food, an entire rotisserie chicken, still in its bag, various birth control devices, (and on the other side of that topic several dirty diapers), syringes, little baggies that I hear are used for packaging marijuana (these must have blown in from Griffin, since I have it on good authority that no one in Jackson smokes the evil weed), various business signs that have toppled, rotted and were never re-erected, cups, plastic bags from stores that are not even in Butts County, medicine bottles, clothing, shoes, hats, auto parts, tools (thanks for the wrench, whoever threw it in the grass near American Woodmark), broken plastic pieces that could have been anything, and much more general refuse and junk.
It is understandable that on occasion napkins and pieces of paper will inadvertently blow out of a car window when a passing truck stirs up the air, but they usually break down when it rains. (A note to the state: those losing scratch-off lottery tickets need to be made of a less hearty paper—there were more of them blowing around than any other single item I saw). The junk I passed was deliberately tossed out.
I have also noticed many times that cars and trucks will pull up in store parking lots and even in front of restaurants, doors will open, fast food soda cups and containers and bags will be covertly deposited on the asphalt, while a trash can often sits feet away. Are we that lazy that we can’t be bothered to dispose of our refuse the proper way? I can’t count the times I have gone shopping, and in the store’s parking lot not seen at least one folded up and taped up dirty diaper. To me this is the nastiest act of all, and all I can say is, “You know who you are, and you are a pig.”
I realize that inmates from the prisons are trotted out every so often to clean up the garbage, but, in truth it is not their job to pick up after non-incarcerated slobs. It is the duty of every American, not just in Georgia, but everywhere, to be responsible citizens. That is what we allegedly teach our children in school and at home. What kind of example are we setting by opening the window and tossing our trash out on the highway? A dog won’t soil where it lives, but people do. Who is more evolved?
Beautiful Butts is beginning to look more like butt-ugly to me.
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