Old Fruit and Autumn

Wrinkled Crabs
Originally uploaded by mdt1960

Sometimes I'll see a nice looking piece of fruit in a bowl, but when I pick it up and inspect it closer or go as far as to take a bite out of it, I realize it isn't very fresh. In fact, the overly ripe fruit is probably closer to rotten than it is fresh. That's the analogy that seems to apply to my life at this point in time. Don't get me wrong, at 47-years-old, I'm not writing myself off as rotten or dead, but I am getting pretty far along like that piece of fruit that's been passed over.

If life were condensed into the 12 months of the year, middle to late August is probably where one would find me. However, as I look at the world around me here in mid-October with the Wyoming autumn on the wane, I seem to relate to much of its imagery.

At first glance, most strangers probably think I'm in decent shape, but any feats of athletics from my youthful past are either impossible or dangerous if I were to try them now. The other day I looked at a wide open field and thought to myself how inviting it was to perform a series of back handsprings (i.e., flip-flops) across the soft turf as I used to twenty-some years ago. Considering the havoc it might wreak on my middle-aged wrists, back and ankles, I opted for a few simple cartwheels and called it good. Another twenty-some years from now, I'll probably have to settle for simply walking across that same field.

Midwest Midnight

One of Goodyear’s long-gone buildings

The following was written for National Public Radio in response to their request (from listeners) to answer the following question: What music has changed your life?

Growing up in Akron, Ohio, working-class rock-and-roll music seemed to find its way into nearly every home—ours was no exception. And while Dylan, Springsteen, and Mellencamp permeated the airwaves, the one song that stirred me to my soul (and still does to this day) was written and performed by a singer and band that fell just short of national stardom status—Midwest Midnight by The Michael Stanley Band.

Stanley once said that Midwest Midnight was, "...the most honest song I've ever written," and it was the first song that spoke to me about my hometown—or at least that part of the country that I called home. Stanley's anthem left me feeling that there was no denying who I was or where I was from—no matter where I chose to live following my high school graduation in 1978.

It's funny how one can know the words of a song by heart after all these years and still only possess a vague notion of the song's intended message—such is art. Today, the lyrics of Midwest Midnight are still abstract to me and at 47-years-old, I would have thought this little mystery would have been solved by now. Perhaps I really don't need to know what Stanley was trying to say because his song has woven its way into the fiber that defines me, which is understood, but not necessarily articulated.

Living in the wide-open spaces that straddle the Wyoming and Montana border, I consider myself a Westerner now. And while my taste in music has expanded exponentially over the years, every now and then my MP3 player will select Midwest Midnight in the shuffle mode and I'm instantly taken back to the world of Northeast Ohio—its overcast skies, industrial skylines and its proud, working-class ambience.


Excerpt from Midwest Midnight

With thirteen lovers I hid beneath the covers
got staples in my hands for my time
With the radio low so the folks don't know
I proceed with my passion of crime...
And though somewhat obtuse, I've been told this abuse
will more than likely make me go blind
But with a heart that's aching, it's a risk worth taking
'cause true love, they say, is so hard to find...

Why can't she see what she's doing to me
If that bandstand girl only was here
And I'm living the dream, getting lost on the screen,
doing Presley in front of the mirror...
And I'm hanging around, getting high on the sounds
of the ladies and electric guitars
Cross a double yellow line to who knows where
with six sets of glory at night in some bar...

(CHORUS:)
Midwest midnight
Ten thousand watts of holy light
from my radio so clear...
Bodies glistening, everybody's listening
as the man plays all the hits that you want to hear.

New Digs Morning

Bed & Chair
Originally uploaded by mdt1960

My friend Ken just moved into a new home. He's 60-plus-years-old, so I know he's been through all of this before. He slept in his new place for the first time yesterday. I know that feeling—especially the awakening in the morning to the new setting. It's akin to being reborn. The strangeness of the new surroundings at first is momentarily adventurous, perhaps like waking in a new lover's bedroom for the first time.

Typically one is up late the night before getting the new bedrrom properly arranged, so by the time they go to bed and close their eyes, they really haven't spent much time looking at it. I suppose that's why it's so fresh and new the next morning.

This reformed awakening has a stange way of making one feel like they have a renewed lease on life—or at least it's a new chapter in their life. However, there is the downside to this unique sensation—the agonizing process of moving.

I think I'll rearrange my bedroom one of these nights, maybe I'll wake the next day with this same sensation.

Three McCullough Peaks Haikus

McCullough Dusk
Originally uploaded by mdt1960

19 May 2007
Summer Storms
When summer storms dawn,
shelter is not or distant
in the McCulloughs

Southern Wind
Steady southern wind,
millions, billions, trillions now,
molecules of air.


Darkness Wins
Crescent moon tonight.
The abyss lies below me.
Darkness wins again.

Beyond High Gas Prices

Ohio Turnpike Ticket
Originally uploaded by mdt1960

Recently I completed a road trip of 1,880 miles from my home in Powell, Wyoming to my parents home in Akron, Ohio. The route of travel wasn't the most direct trip as past trips nor did I complete it in anything close to record time. So, it's safe to say that besides the $500-plus petrol expense, it was a relaxing road trip for the most part.

The trip involved some interstate, national and state highway travel. While the interstates were fast and direct, many of the secondary roads in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, for example, were slower and not as direct. Of course there was plenty of construction along the way and some stretches of road begging for construction—improved simply if the asphalt were ripped up and the surface returned to a graded dirt road.

Perhaps the worst section of road I travelled was a remote stretch of Minnesota's state route 210 winding through Jay Cooke State Park. Some of the bumps and holes in the asphalt made me think of roadside bombs in Iraq—and I was only traveling at 35 mph during much of this drive. Fortunately it was a scenic drive. Beyond SR210, I found the remainder of Minnesota's roads acceptable.

Although I've never traveled New Jersey's Turnpike, I've heard enough horror stories about it throughout my life—even in song. Yet after this recent trip, I'd be surprised to discover that the Ohio Turnpike isn't in the same league as New Jersey's famed ribbon of treacherous asphalt.

Trucks, trucks and more trucks… everywhere on the Ohio "Truckpike!" And many of them don't have time to hang out behind a leisure-driving vehicle from Wyoming. For good or bad, today's truck drivers represent the new cowboy in the 21st century. And if the semis breathing down your back don't give you a migraine, than the jarring potholes in the road and the road construction will. Twice I pulled over at one of the turnpike plazas and neither time did I need petrol or a toilet, I simply needed to dry off and calm down. When I finally exited the Buckeye State's turnpike, I felt payment was owed to me rather than paying Ohio's interstate landlord for such a miserable driving experience.

I'm unsure what it would take to make the Ohio Turnpike more pleasant—more lanes, fewer trucks, smoother asphalt, all of the above? Perhaps they should divvy it up into two dedicated car lanes and two dedicated truck lanes in both directions. No doubt, such a proposal would be extremely costly, but as long as this continues to be a major east-west running thoroughfare, perhaps it could be easily justified and accommodated—once we stop pouring billions of dollars into our country's war-making machine.

Lou Dobbs and Immigration, Part 1

Cattle Sign
Originally uploaded by mdt1960

Every night at 6:00 p.m. my folks sit down in front of the television and watch Lou Dobbs and his broadcasts on current events. I suspect there are few nights that go by that he doesn't rail on the subject of immigration here in the United States. I can't say I'm in agreement with everything he says, but I think he's an acceptable alternative to the dumbed-down talking heads on Fox News.

And perhaps his show isn't 100% journalistic given his facial expressions to any given story, but it appears he and his staff do their homework.

Regarding his agenda to put an end to illegal immigration, I watched the other day (what was probably) a typical "American" family work a rest stop on one of our nation's interstates. They were responsible for restocking the vending machines. The two plump children—both teens—walked around aimlessly with their attention devoted to their cell phones while their obese parents waddled about their work. They drove away in a brand new, full-size GMC panel van with handicapped plates on it. Overweight and slow moving certainly, but I wondered who was handicapped?

I tried to imagine members of this family working in the sun-baked fields weeding rows of crops or servicing rooms in a motel... work commonly carried out by our "illegal" friends—who have been doing the majority of this work for years.

My point here is this: in the day of cell phones, internet and 100 things to view on television (all for the most part distractions), how do we get our own legal population who have been exposed to/engaged in these distractions to carry out work that is considered "base," "monotonous" and not very rewarding? Compared to typical Americans of 50-100 years ago, todays American's are for the most part overweight, lazy and unimaginative. Sadly, they are not interested in true, hard work, (and most troubling) they are not physically capable of it. Perhaps all Americans should consider obtaining handicapped license plates as well.

A couple of questions to consider: Suppose we devised a way to automate menial/manual work as mentioned above and people with backs to break were no longer needed. Do you suppose we would still have an immigration problem? Let's say the nation begins cracking down on illegal immigrants that results in exporting them and preventing them from crossing our borders, how much will be have to pay legal citizens of the United States to work the fields and as a result, how much more expensive will that head of lettuce really cost at the market?

U.S. Constitution & Vatican II

Ritzman Flag
Originally uploaded by mdt1960.

Just for the record: I own a .22 caliber handgun. I also own a 16-gauge shotgun, a Savage .410/.22 double barrel shotgun and rifle, a Marlin lever action .22 rifle and another .22 caliber rifle that I can't remember the manufacturer's name. Not that it matters, but four of these firearms were given to me. I purchased the handgun outright.

After the Virginia Tech Massacre, I'd gladly give them all up. I said the same thing after the shootings at Columbine too.

I'm not a hunter although I've envisioned myself as a bird hunter some day in the future when I have the time for such folly. Further, I don't believe these weapons serve as a deterrent from any criminal action that may find me since I don't keep them loaded, nor do I keep the ammunition for them in the same location.

Really, I don't need them, do I? Certainly not the hand gun.

Some have said that it's my right to possess a gun—a Constitutional right. I suppose. That made a lot more sense in the day of George Washington and a new-born and vulnerable country that didn't have a powerful army to defend itself. I'd like to think that George and other founders would be alarmed to know that today's average weapons are capable of firing 15 rounds in a semi-automatic mode and would therefore be disapproving of any American citizen wielding that kind of fury in a firearm. I guess we'll never know how far they intended that right to go.

In my mind it's high time to revisit our constitution and bring it up to date in a few areas—gun ownership specifics in particular. Even the Vatican Council had enough sense to make a few changes in Church doctrine over the last two centuries in order to keep up with the times. In the same spirit, our Constitution could use a little "freshening up" too—if nothing else, just to clear up a few of these 200-year-old ambiguities.

Gun ownership? Fine. How about a black-powder, single shot firearm? Not only will such firearm limitations/regulations prevent one of us from massacring everyone at a McDonald's during the lunch hour, but perhaps it will level out the playing field during the hunting season too.

Equinox Overlook

Equinox Bones
Originally uploaded by mdt1960.

21 March 2007: Late this afternoon as the sun was making its way toward the western horizon, I headed for the mesa (Polecat Bench) north of town. It was the first day of spring—the equinox—and as usual, I was out to photograph the light on this special day. I do the same when the solstices come around too.

Once the sun was down and the "good" light was gone, my frantic pace associated with photography and diminishing light left me and I found myself standing on a small lip of cliff overlooking an obscure little canyon on the bench's south side. The air was starting to chill in the absence of the sun. Like the Four Corners (Navajo Reservation), the silence was complete. I scanned the horizon and everything in between.

It's times like these when the most profound thoughts come to me. By "profound" I would likely say these thoughts are simply more intense rather than deep or knowledgeable.

Gazing over at the dirtied and cluttered outcropping of oil/gas-extracting related equipment on the other side of the canyon, I couldn't help but think how primitive it all looked—out of place and disgusting too, like a circus clown showing up for a funeral.

I pondered the human race and its harnessing of energy through the ages. Constant of all has been the sun—since crawling out of our caves we have tapped its invisible rays for one thing or another. This lasting relationship of man and renewable energy would seem destined to evolve and refine itself further. Surely future societies will look back on all of this someday and say, "Man, where they ever stupid." And perhaps we'd already be there by now if there wasn't so much money to be made in the business of fossil fuels. I asked my wife when I returned home, "If you owned an oil company and knew that all of your customers could obtain their fuel needs through a renewable and relatively free source, wouldn't you drag your heels as long as you could?"

Next, I spied the crescent moon drifting toward the Beartooth Plateau where the sun had just disappeared. Not far from it was Venus. Even in the blueness of the waning sky, the planet was visible—the first star of the night. I thought of my recently deceased cat and friend, Sadie. I thought about those last moments with her and what happened as she drifted from my arms into that place that awaited her next. I imagined her saying to me, "You can't even grasp 5% of what this is all about." Even a cat ascends so much higher than my simple self once finished here.

Indeed, the silence and stillness touch me. I suppose someone else might experience the same in such settings and interpret it all as the voice of God speaking to them. Perhaps it is and I'm not bright enough to recognize who's speaking to me, but in my mind—I wonder sometimes—does it matter who's speaking to me as long as I hear them?

Is Thomas Timid?

An open letter to Senator Craig Thomas of Wyoming

Senator Thomas:

I'd like you to seriously consider backing the non-binding action regarding the war in Iraq. I think it's time for our congress to turn away from its timid practices (or lack of) and look out for our men and women who are in harm's way which has resulted due to the world's largest boondoogle ever committed.

Let's spend the money for redeployment of our troops and anyone in Iraq who really wants out. We did it before in Vietnam, didn't we? I've no shame in our country about what happened in Vietnam in terms of not "winning the war." We've spilled enough of our own blood in Iraq—no one can accuse us of not caring. It would have been nice if things would have worked out better, but there's no indicators that promise a better tomorrow under the current policies and resulting circumstances. I don't believe in beating our head against this wall any longer... do you?

It's water under the bridge, but the money we are spending could have been used for so many other things that would better our country and the world—alternative energies come to mind. Let's not be afraid to say, "We made a mistake in Iraq."

Regards,

Morgan Tyree
Powell, Wyoming

Haircut Bliss

Inspection
Originally uploaded by mdt1960.

Tonight I got a haircut. I certainly needed it. The last one was sometime after Thanksgiving and now it's mid-January.

Tanya cuts my hair. Although we are married, we don't talk much during this time; I'm a client and she's the stylist. They are the best haircuts of my life. I hated getting a haircut when I was a kid; especially when having long hair was cool. One could never grow it long enough before our parents forced us to get it cut.

Although these haircuts are second to none, they are quite modest. There's no special chair or equipment—no salon. I usually sit on one of our kitchen chairs, typically on the back porch outside. It's easier to clean up. Even in the winter, if our timing is good, the sun is strong enough to warm us during this activity. But tonight, as mentioned earlier, it's mid-January and the sun has been down for hours. So, we push the kitchen table off to the side against the bench and cabinets and place the chair in the middle of our tiled linoleum floor.

When she cuts my hair, she uses the pair of scissors that are in the cup where pencils and pens are kept on the kitchen bench. They're just normal craft scissors. And the comb she prefers is a standard black, plastic, pocket comb—the same type that James Dean or Marlon Brando pulled out of their pockets in those old movies from the 1950s.

As Tanya goes to work, my eyes are closed as she pushes my head around like the loosened pivot head of a tripod. They only open to look at her face when she is standing in front of me—bent over, with her feet far apart and checking the levelness across the top of my head. Her eyes are dark with determination and her face expressionless until she notices me looking back at her, and then a smile as her eyes begin to dance.

She never went to school for this, she learned to cut hair by watching the beauticians work on her and other customers in the salon. As a child she cut the hair of her dolls—all of them eventually would end up with short hair. And whether or not she takes twice as long as a trained, certified barber/beautician, I prefer her extended sessions.

She comes across so serious at times, flitting about as if she's working on a masterpiece sculpture. But, it's only me and my thinning hair and mug of an ordinary man. How does she become so engaged? This feeling of being fussed over makes me feel like a show dog about to go on stage. What does she think about me during this time? I'm sure there's nothing therapeutic about it for her as it is for me.

With eyes closed I listen to the mesmerizing sounds around us. At first I hear her irregular breathing in the form of short breaths and various sighs—like a form of Morse code, and if I knew the code I could read her mind. Beyond our small space is the steady exhale of the furnace blower through the duct work of the house as it competes with the muffled racket of the clothes dryer on the other side of the kitchen door—a form of do-it-yourself white noise.

When we are outside, there are the sounds I typically don't notice under any other circumstances. I can hear the different vehicles going up and down the street from the other side of the house. Then there are the sounds of birds; not just any birds but the different kinds as well—like the voices of friends and family behind a party's closed door.

Perhaps the sound of the grinding scissor blades as they cut through my hair are the most blissful of all. It's as if she's cutting away huge amounts with each swipe like some guy with a weed whacker in an overgrown, vacant lot. These are the times I'm almost convinced that my hair has somehow become thicker and more voluminous than the day before. Then there is this subtle, irregular ticking when the plastic comb and scissors make contact or when she taps them together lightly to knock off the accumulating harvested hair. Add to all of this the gentle touch of her fingertips to my scalp—and like a box of chocolates—it's as if I'm receiving a sampler of heaven. And like the ending of any good thing, I'm always disappointed when she finally says, "There, all done."

I could care the outcome in these haircuts—she could cut it any way she wants as long as she cuts it. I only wish my hair would grow as fast as Tanya could cut it. Sometime afterwards she'll ask me how I like my haircut. But it hardly matters to me at that point in time. I'm still too stunned by the overdose of bliss, like someone who has been in a sauna too long. My reply is usually something like, "I haven't looked yet."

Bad Dog, Bad Neighbors

Lane 35
Originally uploaded by mdt1960.

An open letter to my next door neighbors.

I could have written the following long ago and countless times:

Not that it happens everyday, but when you decide to leave your muttonheaded dog out all morning while you are away (as in today) to bark at every little sound in the air, it once again demonstrates to me (and I can only assume other neighbors who choose not to speak up) how well the two of you have mastered the arts of self-centeredness and inconsideration. I wonder if you are so thick that you believe your dog doesn’t bark habitually or if you just don’t care. I suspect the latter. Thankfully it wasn’t a summer day with all the windows open in the house—which has been the case numerous times in the past.

I’ve grown weary in contacting the Powell Police Department and their hapless “animal control officer” since they seem to neither have the inclination nor talent in truly addressing the nuisance of barking dogs within the city; hence this correspondence.

I doubt it matters to you, but in this particular instance the barking and howling started sometime between 7:00 and 8:00 a.m. (in what would have been a “peaceful Saturday morning”) and has continued up to the time of this writing—1:00 p.m.

My only hope in rectifying this sporadic and on-going annoyance will likely arrive in the form of a “sold” sign in front of your for-sale-home in the near future.

M

Grandma's View

I hate for this blog to seem like it's all about knocking Dubya, but please, just one more little story and I'll leave him alone... Do I have to promise?

My friend Dave's 103-year-old grandmother was recently released from the hospital after injuries suffered from a fall. Before her release the doctor wanted to make sure her mental condition was still satisfactory, so he asked her what year it was.

"1972," came her reply.

The doctor looked at her grandson with concern. He asked the centurion another question.

"Who is the president of the United States," asked the doctor.

"Bush," she fired back.

The doctor then asked, "Which one?"

Without hesitation she replied, "The crazy one!"

She was released without further questioning.

Image of his Grandma's hands by David Vaughan
Dave at Rock Rabbit

Daaaaa, which way do I go?

Is there no greater proof of how screwed up the war on terror, the war in Iraq (or whatever you want to call it) has become when the man and his administration who dove in head first now is completely dumbfounded as to what is next? Things have to be pretty bad when you don't know whether to send in more troops or cut back.

Tell me again, how did we elect this buffoon?

Crossing out Cubin

It appears the good folks of Montana might finally be coming to their senses about Conrad Burns. The latest surveys show that challenger John Tester with his flat-top haircut is leading Burns in this last month of campaigning. My question is, will the voters of Wyoming have the same epiphany in time to show Barbara Cubin the door as she seeks her seventh term for Wyoming's only seat in the United States House of Representatives? Can you believe it—her seventh term? If this isn't an illustration of voter apathy, I don't know what is.

Admittedly, I'm not much of a Babs fan—person or politician. I've always been ready to vote for the other candidate as long as they've had a heart beat. When I day dream of Barbara Cubin, I don't find words like "stateswoman" or "competent" coming to mind—rather phrases such as "prom-queen-gone-bad" and "ding-a-ling" rise to the top. So, forgive me, it's only my twisted look at a bad politician. But even when I dig a little deeper and attempt to look at her as a public servant—sans her June Cleaver personality—she still registers in the department of unqualified.

Where does Barbara Cubin stand on anything except in the shadow of George Bush and his stay-the-course-no-matter-what administration? Ask the average Wyoming voter what they know about Barbara Cubin and what she stands for and they'll probably just shrug their shoulders.

From most voters' vantage point her campaigning is all about smearing the competition. In examining the junk mail she has generated in the past month, one is hard pressed to determine who they are suppose to vote for if not the person her campaign is trying to demonize. Cubin is the little girl in the school yard who taddletales on her classmates even if they are doing nothing wrong. To put it bluntly, Barbara Cubin's legislative message is as empty as the high deserts she represents.

Cubin is hardly a mover and shaker in the nation's capital, and considering she's our only representative, that can't be good. To no one's surprise, Cubin's voting record is extremely conservative when she actually shows up to vote: the American Conservative Union gave her 2005 voting record a rating of 96 points out of 100. Yikes! Well, I suppose if over-the-top conservative is your cup of tea, she's your woman.

I've read that she isn't a big fan of gun control—in fact the NRA loves Babs. She's lucky the rural voters of Eastern Pennsylvania can't weigh in on her candidacy. But whether one agrees with her on this issue or not, there are other issues out there that she has been relatively quiet about. When questioning Cubin, one might as well ask George or Dick directly as her Borg-like response is sadly in lock-step with theirs. How does a nation consider itself strong when it has such paltry representation as Cubin's in Washington?

Listen carefully when she isn't reciting the party line, and you'll discover that she really doesn't have much to say. Recently she was questioned about House Leader Dennis Hastert and his job performance in light of the Foley scandal, she could only muster up something about him doing a good job. Yet another blown opportunity by Ms. Cubin to demonstrate some form of substance in her character.

I understand that almost anyone can make themselves look good the first time around and win an election, I just don't understand how she has managed to get re-elected again and again and again. Has this state no shame, no other choices? Surely we could find (at least) ten more qualified people (Republican or Democrat) right here in my hometown of Powell that could run circles around her if given the chance to represent the Cowboy State in Washington.

Does anyone require more examples/proof of her legislative ineptness? Here's a few more to mull around for now—if need be, you might want to revisit them just before you head out to vote.

In speaking about voters recently, Cubin boasted, "People always know where I stand. They may not like what I have to say, but they know I'm telling the truth." Whatever Babs! Once gain, another shining example of not saying much. Where does she get her canned-Pollyanna-clipart quotes? She speaks as if voters are a bunch of children or idiots and she is the teacher/genius. We'd all be better off if Cubin was selling shoes or make-up at a mall-based J.C. Penney's rather than weighing in with her inert viewpoints regarding the country's heavy legislative matters.

Then there was her famous remark from the floor of the House of Representatives when they were talking about guns—classic Babs in action: "My sons are 25 and 30. They are blond-haired and blue-eyed. One amendment today said we could not sell guns to anybody under drug treatment. So does that mean if you go into a black community, you cannot sell a gun to any black person?" It appears she mixed up her House of Representatives business with the KKK meeting she attended earlier.

Another time Cubin shocked a gathering of GOP donors during a speech on energy policy by interjecting, "I know what Victoria's Secret is. She's a slut." I'm unsure what the connection is between energy policies and Victoria's Secret, but… of all the things to say! Wow, can't we can find someone with a bit more integrity?

Barbara Cubin claims that she is all about the people of Wyoming, but according to the Center for Public Integrity, Cubin's largest campaign contributors include the tobacco industry, livestock companies, and extractive industries (including oil, gas, and mining companies). Surprised… anyone?

There are countless other reasons to not vote for Barbara Cubin, many are probably more justified than what I've cited here. Nevertheless, I would challenge voters to do a little research on her candidacy before giving her the unconscious nod in 2006.

Sadly for people like myself, in the latest poll Cubin miraculously (in my mind) leads the nearest challenger Gary Trauner with 44 percent of the votes compared to his 37 percent. Admittedly, I don't know much about Trauner, but it's hardly a big leap of faith to let him have a go at it. After all, if he turns out to be a dud, what's the worse thing that could happen—we could bring Babs back for another shot? Naaaah, he couldn't be that bad.

Some believe that the re-election of Democratic Governor Dave Freudenthal will work to Cubin's favor because Wyoming voters (mostly Republican) don't want to cast too many votes to the Democratic party (how deep). God forbid, someone outside of Wyoming might make a "Freudianthal slip" and call us Democrats!

Bring it on North Korea?

I don't get it, we thinks Iraq has WMD and they treat their people badly... we attack. North Korea definitely has WMD and treats people poorly. Why we not attack? Oooooh, that's right, me forget, North Korea doesn't have oil.

"North Korea isn't the kid in a wheelchair that Iraq was, it's a kid with a baseball bat in his hand, standing on his own."
—AMP

Lies, lies, and more lies...

Listen directly to the former deputy secretary of state Richard Armitage tell his bold-face lie on the radio regarding his threat of the U.S. bombing Pakistan into the "stone ages."

Armitage & Company

And if that doesn't get your knickers in a twist, this certainly will...

A K.O. punch from K.O.

Is Montana really going to re-elect Conrad Burns? If so, we can't blame old Conrad any longer for his blunders and bafoonery, only the voters of Montana. Of course how many times have Wyoming voters given ditzy, prom queen Barbara Cubin the nod? Absolutely pathetic.

The Oil & Gas Eyesoar

Pryor Wilds
Originally uploaded by mdt1960.

An open letter to Mr. Robert Bennett, Wyoming State Director Bureau of Land Management

I recently became aware of the BLM’s plans regarding the auctioning of oil and gas drilling leases in the McCullough Peaks area near Powell and Cody. I’m sorry to hear that these plans will likely materialize if any protests brought before you have “no merit” in your opinion. Not to doubt your credentials or judgment Mr. Bennett, but I find it disturbing that such “planning” and decision-making falls on the head of one individual—especially when the stakes are this high.

Not only am I in protest of this decision-making process, but I’m also opposed to the entire idea of leasing off land in the McCullough Peaks for yet another short-sighted energy plan. Are the state coffers not excessive enough from all the other energy development around the state? Is such activity in the area truly beneficial... say, fifty years down the road given the delicate terrain of the high desert?

Further, I dread the visuals of this scenario as I consider nearby Polecat Bench to the north of Powell. So, before you make your decision, I invite you to have a look around up there to see how the oil and gas industries have “enhanced” this adjacent area. Even to the most casual observer, it’s obvious that the oil and gas industries have no regard for what becomes of the land as they suck the oil and gas from the subsurface—while their continued presence is that of a dirty, infected eye soar. Yes, while you’re there, make sure you take in the majestic, obtuse and awkward shapes of the equipment and machinery littering the region—talk about bad taste. Make sure you get close enough to see and smell the gallons of residual, black spooge that spills out and around any given well. Think about coming upon that on your next mountain bike ride in the McCullough Peaks.

I’ve heard some complain of a wind farm’s visual “unsightliness,” but the oil and gas landscape is the undisputed champion when it comes to downright “butt-ugliness.”

Here in Powell, it is said that when the winds blow just right out of the north, Powell takes on the fragrance of hydrogen sulfide from the Elk Basin region; the same is true regarding the feed lot west of town. And in the spring, there’s the ever-present burning of fields and ditches followed by a good dose of dust as farmers embark on a new growing season. Personally I believe the air quality of Powell is way overrated considering it’s located in a state that has the best air quality in the country. And now you’re telling us that we get to inhale more gasses coming from the McCullough Peaks area—might as well develop a new cologne based on the aroma of hydrogen sulfide while you’re at it.

A Rare Rain Day

Droplets Etc.
Originally uploaded by mdt1960.

Today has been one of those extremely rare days for Wyoming—when the sky becomes completely overcast and the sun seems absent; when rain is steady all day in the form of a light drizzle and an occasional mix of wet snow between the hours; when the wind blows elsewhere for once and as one colleague of my reported, "the snow is falling straight down instead of sideways."

It's a day that might normally sadden me if it were, say October, but knowing that it is late April and the days grow longer, I'm not bothered in the slightest by the dampness or the cold that accompanies its reign over the day.

Tomorrow the forecast promises warmer weather and the usual blessing of sun that is abundant in this part of the world. I welcome its return as much as I welcome the quiet of this cold, damp day with its big drops of water on the new growth, the robins' chirps throughout the neighborhood, the hiss of the car tires on the streets' wet pavement and the stillness in between it all.

Silage Sanctuary

SilageBarn4
Originally uploaded by mdt1960.

Autumn 1996
I didn’t know what it was when I first saw it. The first words out of my mouth were something like, “What the hell…” From a mile away, the unobstructed and irregular horizon of the high desert was cleanly broken by a massive gabled roof. As I drove closer I could see that the conventional roof was not attached to conventional walls, but rather was simply resting on the ground, as if a giant tornado had blown it off of a building miles away, and, with some degree of gentleness, set it down. A closer look revealed that foundation and walls were nothing more than a notch cut into a small mound of earth; the roof simply straddled this gouged-out terrain.

The aged roof was made of spaced wooden slats covered with dried grasses and straw. There were several places where the blanket of organic material was thinning or had blown off completely. Outside light filtered through the balding roof and softly illuminated the inside—saturating every inch of the building’s interior.

Mysterious explanations came to my mind regarding the structure’s existence. It reminded me of the giant airdock in my hometown of Akron, Ohio. The airdock once produced the world’s largest helium-filled airships. I imagined the glittering silver of a new blimp inching its way out of this isolated barn-like structure on a sunny, summer morning. I also contemplated a secret military structure—a dilapidated-looking disguise that housed some kind of sterile, high-tech gadgetry related to a secret weapon in the ground below. Now aimless cattle wandered through its huge, permanently propped-open doors.

As I walked toward the center of the old barn, a small group of pigeons rose from the earthen floor that was covered with dried manure and straw. They escaped my approach by flying in between the exposed slats above. The sound of their flapping wings was quickly absorbed, and a calming silence returned to blanket the interior like a thick down quilt.

The interior was stripped with the exception of occasional orange bailing twine clumps, scattered tumbleweeds and shredded black visqueen littering the floor. The zenith rose approximately 30 feet, while the earthen walls measured about 12 feet high. A rusted, decommissioned air conditioner hung from the wall opposite the giant doors—it was slightly larger than a portable home air conditioner. Dwarfed by the cavernous space, it was surely doomed from the start in its attempt to cool the giant structure.

Since that first visit, various agriculture-oriented sources have informed me that the colossal building is probably a silage barn. I have become rather obsessed with the building’s existence. What’s so fascinating about a silage barn, I keep on asking myself?

Maybe I’ve stumbled onto a sacred place—a cathedral of sorts. Its large doors are akin to the doors of a church like Notre Dame, while the gaping holes in the ceiling are nature’s interpretation of stained glass windows—the light is as glorious. The rising pigeons translate to incense and, thus, the Holy Spirit. And the rusted air conditioner suspended halfway up the wall at the opposite end might be the crucifix or cross that often looms over the alter.

I don’t think there is anything unusual about our inclination to designate as sacred various creations of nature. What then would be so unusual if nature were to sanctify our creations—such as the silage barn?

As I walked out of the run-down edifice during a recent visit, I heard the loud mooing of unseen cattle from nearby farms—an almost scream-like lowing. On that hot autumn day, perhaps they longed for the cool sanctuary of the silage barn.

Boondocking 101

BoonDocked
Originally uploaded by mdt1960.

August 2001

Last month my brother from St. George, Utah summoned me to assist him in relocating his household to Salmon, Idaho. This meant, I would have to drive from Powell, Wyoming to St. George, follow him to Salmon from St. George and than make the return from Salmon to Powell. As some may know, driving from Powell to St. George is a long, long one-day drive. The punishment of such a drive seemed inconceivable so, I decided to stretch it into two days and find out for myself what all the recent hoopla was regarding boondocking (overnight camping in a Walmart parking lot). I reckoned that the Walmarts in Rock Springs or Evanston would be the most likely "camps" depending on what time I left Powell.

While passing over the great expanses of Wyoming’s high desert, I wondered about my boondocking status—i.e., if I was good enough. There’s no silver bullet Airstream trailer parked in my backyard nor the big rig required to pull it. I don’t even have one of those pop-up tent/trailers. Nope, just a Mazda 626 equipped with a padded cot that folds up to fit in the boot and an old quilt for bedding. If rain came, the back seat of the Mazda and the little comfort offered there would have to do. And what if the Walmart authorities kicked me out of their lot for not having enough recreational mass according to their definition of a boondocker? What would they think of me—actually sleeping outside of my “rig” on my fold-out cot in the open air? Would that be taking the boondocking concept a wee bit too far?

Before reaching Evanston, I’d been contemplating my arrival under the cover of darkness. Would there be any signs of “camp” camaraderie and if so, would it be present at this late hour? I feared any social activity from the evening would have ceased in preparation for the various early departures in the morning. After all, who would really want to prolong the camping experience in a Walmart car park—as if the store’s staff would come by in the morning knocking on RVs and offering them a continental breakfast?

Some four hundred miles from Powell, I arrived at the Evanston, Wyoming Walmart—around 10:30 p.m. I stumbled into the Arby’s next door and treated myself to a meal of fine fast food; it seemed like the right thing to do after a day of nothing but bagels in my diet. This late arrival was not determined by fate alone. I had purposely chosen the later hour of arrival in Evanston over the earlier one in Rock Springs. If I had been so determined to check out the pre-camp atmosphere during the early evening, I could have opted for the Walmart at Rock Springs. But my fears of becoming a boondocker outcast outweighed all the other factors in my decision.

Simply put, I didn’t want to make my formal and obvious entrance into the fraternal order of boondockers with such a modest display of camping gear; I felt better about arriving at a later time and thus drawing less attention to my deprived recreational state. Perhaps on another day I would make a second entrance that included all the recreational stuff worthy of boondocker status.

Before I go any further, I just want to make sure that anyone who reads this drivel knows that I’m by no means partial to Walmart. Yeah, I shop there sometimes but I’d hardly consider myself a dedicated fan. Be assured, they haven’t made their mint from people like me.

So, there I was in the Evanston Walmart car park—plenty of campers to report, but there was no activity. To say that the parking lot was well lit would have been an understatement. I was wondering if anyone could sleep in this environment as it reminded me of the lighting that is used for interrogating a suspect in a crime. At this time, I started to rethink my idea of setting up the cot on the surface of the car park next to my Mazda. For one, it was noisy, thanks to the refrigerators and engines idling from the various semis parked there. I hadn’t counted on this strain of boondocker. Secondly, I decided it might be interpreted as disrespectful if a boondocker slept out on the deck of the car park. If someone else had set up a tent, or constructed a hammock between the lighting structures than surely I would have set up my old cot. Later that night, I pondered the rebel status directed at me from others as I considered my cowardliness in sleeping out on the asphalt. I felt unworthy of such character.

Nevertheless, I set up my bed by folding down the back seats in the 626, allowing my legs to expand into the boot. By midnight there were nine RV parties that I could identify and nine semi trucks. There may have been a few scant cars like myself but short of actually going up and looking in the windows to determine if they are camping or just local teenagers making out, I couldn’t be sure. For all I know, the scattering of sedans may only be those that have been left behind after a day of business. I’m sure Walmart  always has a car or two remaining everyday from those customers who return to their car following a shopping spree only to find it won’t start.

The Morning After
Well, it wasn’t exactly like a one-night stand where the involved parties feel guilty and slip out before the day’s light. For one, I couldn’t get myself out of the car before 7:00 a.m.; long after the sun had been trying to shine on me through my car windows. In a quick survey of the anticipated vacant lot, I discovered more RVs and semi trucks had arrived following my retire. From this perspective, it also appeared that no one had departed early as all the RVs that were present the night before when I made my survey were still present at this hour. So much for my theory of not wanting to hang around in a Walmart car park.

After restoring my “rig” back to it’s usual travel mode, I moseyed on over to McDonald’s for a light breakfast and most important, a strong cup of coffee. Walking across the “campgrounds,” I expected to see more rubbish and other discarded material left behind by the boondockers but, for the most part, it was minimal. I suppose the oil and radiator fluid leaking from the cars of Walmart shoppers on any given day is no better than the night’s refuse associated with a band of boondockers.

From a quiet booth in the McDonald's next door, it came to me like an epiphany; that the string of fast-food establishments near the Evanston Walmart and other stores like it must profit from the boondocker fallout in the same way Walmart profits—and they don’t even have to worry about cleaning up the car park. And what of the gas station/convenience store just down the road? Is their business deprived or blessed as a result of the boondocker factor? Further, what is the “break-even distance” from a Walmart for any given business? Does it matter what kind of business it is? Now I know what to write about for my dissertation if I ever seek out that illustrious Ph.D.

Butte, Montana
In my return trip from Salmon, Idaho, I decided to drum up a discussion or two with fellow boondockers about their views on the Cody Walmart boondocking controversy. I reckoned the more-seasoned boondocker might shed some light on the issue in ways I hadn’t thought about.

The new Butte, Montana Walmart Super Center turned out to be where I would make my second attempt at boondocking. My early arrival assured me that I would have plenty of daylight to seek out fellow boondockers for their viewpoints on why overnighting at a Walmart isn’t such a bad idea.

Admittedly, I was a bit uncomfortable when I walked up to the back of a pick-up with a full-size camper hailing plates from Ontario. I’m sure they found me a bit out of place at first and were likely a bit cautious as to why I was asking them questions about their camping choices—probably thought I might be from the IRS. Another couple were corralled in the car park as they were making their way toward their thirty-five footer with a trundle full of Walmart goods. They turned out to be from Rhode Island by way of Texas. From these two parties alone, I learned quite a bit about the everyday concerns of RVers as well as clearing up some theories in my mind. So, to those kind folks, I’m thankful for their time and consideration.

Here are a few things I learned about RVers and why they choose to overnight (boondock) in a Walmart parking lot.

• Walmarts aren’t the only businesses that offer free overnight parking to RVers. Several other stores around the U.S. and Canada encourage free camping as well including Fred Myers and Flying Js. Some even offer free dumping of an RV’s on-board waste.

• For the same reason that so many of us go to McDonald's when travelling across country, RVers stay at a Walmart and others like it. There won’t be any surprises. Think about it, how bad can one mess up a parking lot? Though their needs are minimal when they choose to overnight at in a store’s parking lot, they can be sure of a consistent experience (or lack thereof). Sometimes when they are pressed to find a place to stay, Walmart can be their safety net. One RVer told me about pulling into a Walmart, “Sometimes it’s like coming home.” (Yup I know, so sweet it hurts your teeth.)

• There are many variables to overnighting in a campground from the perspective of RVers. Besides paying for something that they may not really use much of—water, electricity and sewer (if they are just pulling in to get a night’s sleep), they are also paying for something that they are uncertain of until they claim their space.

Variables include: on-going conditions of toilets and showers from the time they pull in until they leave; space surrounding their RV to other RVs; noise from unruly neighbors such as their animals, children or partying; maneuverability (especially a concern for the bigger outfits); and access to other businesses such as supply stores and restaurants. One RVer told me, “This one campground we stayed at, the RVs were so tightly packed that my neighbor had to step over my sewer pipe when he walked out his door.”

• Some campgrounds may have nice settings but minimum provisions in their little on-site stores. Then you have Walmart with it’s base provisions as far as a space goes but you have this on-site store that has everything you would ever need and in the case of the Super Center stores, they’re open twenty-four hours. Keep in mind, all boondockers want is a safe place to camp. Ambiance isn’t a consideration, so any old parking space will do—especially if there is plenty of room.

At some point, even the biggest and most contained RVs have to pull up for the night in a campground and recharge their batteries, dump their sewage and take on more water. But as in the case of Bob and Carolyn and their 35-footer from Texas, they can go almost a whole week on their own provisions—that includes a washer and dryer on board! So what’s their incentive in staying in a campground every night if they really don’t need to? Are they really cheating the taxpayers in Cody and other communities in North America out of their rightful duty? If we ban boondocking in a car park, than why should RVers be permitted to park anywhere for free?

Here’s my opinion, for whatever it’s worth: If the various businesses that profit from the RV crowd object to boondocking, then perhaps they should offer more pricing choices based on the needs of the perspective RV customer. For example; offer a free or minimum rate for just a parking space—no electric, water or sewer. Even in this scenario, I suspect Walmart would still win out—having that big store with everything they need so close is simply too tempting to pass up.

No doubt it must be tough to be a campground owner these days. Not only do you have to fight the usual capitalistic fight with other campgrounds but you also have to contend with this growing trend in RV development that keeps on making them more self-reliant. And have you had a look inside the newest RV’s lately? Man, you’re gonna have to have a hell of a nice campground to make them want to stay with you when they have so much luxury on board. Perhaps today’s campgrounds and RV parks should concentrate on attracting “real” campers—those that still sleep out in tents and (God forbid) cots. Wouldn’t it be cool to be travelling up a road and come across a campground sign (in neon no less) that declared, “No RVs.” I’d go out of my way to stay there. Let’s face it, it’s hard to feel good about “living close to the earth” when your RVing neighbor in the next space is watching satellite TV in the comfort of his leather recliner with a bag of microwave popcorn making all that noise.

Nevertheless, I reckon Walmart and other stores have set a pretty good example for us to follow. What a better world it would be if all of us who had the extra space in our lives made it known to the RV folks that they were welcome to park at our place overnight—free. Reminds me of that song Louis Armstrong sang, “And I say to myself, what a wonderful world.” Face it, it’s just a good neighbor policy. Surely there are a handful of you out there right now saying to yourself, “All you’re doing Morgan is inviting trouble to show up at your front door.” But really, have you seen the people who typically drive around in RVs? It’s not like they’re going to show up, transform their RV into a meth lab and never leave your property. One RVer was telling me that it is almost an unwritten policy amongst the RV crowd that boondocking is only a one night stay in any given location.

So in Butte, Montana I did it—at the newly opened Walmart Super Center. I parked the Mazda on the perimeter and set up my cot between the curb and the car so I was hidden from the Walmart store. Like all the other Walmarts, it was extremely well lit, even on the outskirts of their parking area. I positioned the head of the cot in the shadow of my "rig" so no big, bright lights were raining down on me. It was cold that night. I still felt a bit “trashy” or cheap as I crawled out of my cot the following morning. Anyone who would have seen me, must of thought I was homeless—and a ten-year-old Mazda isn’t a far stretch for someone who is homeless. Regardless, I could really get this boondocking thing down over time. I started thinking about the other equipment I might have along in the future and how I’d outfit my 626 to make the most of space without becoming too cluttered. Than my mind took it a step further: I thought of a mini-van I could travel and camp in and then the next thing I knew, I projected myself in a full-blown 35-foot RV touring the country and writing about life on the road.

Quickly and quietly I gathered up my things early that morning and made my way to McDonald’s for a badly-needed cup of coffee; besides, I just love those little plastic coffee stirrers they provide for mixing the milk into your coffee.

I choose Quark

Most people in the graphic arts profession know of the page layout war between Adobe InDesign and QuarkXPress. In fact, most of us know the basic history of the page layout wars: In the beginning there was only Aldus Pagemaker. Then along came QuarkXPress as a competitor. A mass exodus to Quark followed its 3.0 version and Pagemaker never really recovered—not even after Adobe purchased it from Aldus and attempted to revamp it.

Well, to say that it "never really recovered" might be a bit misleading in that there were more licensed copies of Pagemaker than any other desktop publishing software. Even in Quark's zenith of success, they never matched the sales of Pagemaker. While most of the high-end operations were based in Quark, the small businesses, printers and publishers were content with Pagemaker—who were the lion's share of page layout users.

Nevertheless, in the end, not even mighty Adobe believed it could reconfigure the old codes of Pagemaker. So, they did the unthinkable—they built a completely new page layout "factory" from the ground up—enter InDesign.

And a better program InDesign was—even in the early stages. Now that it's in its third major edition, ask anyone in the "biz" today whether they prefer QuarkXPress or InDesign, and there's a good chance they'll answer, "InDesign. Quark is old school."

The tables have turned indeed. Like Pagemaker's early reign of desktop publishing, Quark is no longer king of the hill. Having been accused of customer service neglect and resting on its laurels, Quark is now in the battle of its life. A new upgrade is due out any day now that will better rival InDesign. Some say it's too little and too late. Perhaps.

War no more
Up until recently, another heated software war was constantly brewing in the industry, only this one had to do with the illustration/drawing programs of Adobe Illustrator and Macromedia FreeHand. Like the page layout wars, this one was another one of those great "Ford vs. Chevy" conflicts. Each side was adamant about the superiority of their illustration program over the other offering. And thanks to the heated status, both software products drove the other to greater performance levels.

But, this war took an odd turn when Adobe bought out Macromedia and its entire line of print and web-based publishing software which included FreeHand. And Adobe's response to the illustration prisoner of war? Kill it.

What an odd response to let an established program die on the vine (PageMaker) or to outright discontinue its offering after purchasing the rights to it (FreeHand). It's nothing new to hear of a particular desktop publishing application to be sold and revised under another company's name—that's what initially happened to Pagemaker when Adobe scooped it up from Aldus. And FreeHand was an Aldus product before it was purchased by Macromedia years ago.

But how is one gigantic software company suppose to behave if they already own one of the major illustration programs, and then acquire its major competition? What would happen if Coke acquired Pepsi? I'd like to believe that Coke would continue to produce Pepsi for all the faithful Pepsi drinkers. I'd be more than a bit pissed off if I was a Pepsi drinker and Coke announced to the world that they were discontinuing Pepsi simply because they owned it.

So, despite the volumes of FreeHand users throughout the world, Adobe chose to thumb their nose, and simply say, "It's Illustrator or nothing at all." (Ummm, that's if one doesn't consider Corel Draw a major player). I'm sure I know of at least one group of disgruntled FreeHand users in the world; the good folks of Christchurch, New Zealand. When I was there in 2001, FreeHand was everywhere and they used it for everything—page layout and imposition.

Then there is of course the swelling popularity of InDesign. Once again Adobe didn't do the page layout community any favors by eliminating PageMaker. One has to wonder how popular InDesign would be today if Adobe hadn't let Pagemaker die on the vine. Nevertheless, it was another one of those, "It's this or nothing at all" scenarios. In this case they said, "Well, it's InDesign or QuarkXPress, but we'll give you a sweet deal if you choose our product." At the same time, Quark's shelf price remained considerably higher. Quark's major blunder may have been that they didn't match Adobe's offer as everyone was abandoning the Pagemaker ship when they realized no upgrades would follow. Who can blame a page layout community if they are forced to move to another program—pick the one that's the cheapest because there will undoubtedly be some pain in any kind of transition.

At one time I had hoped that Pagemaker would resurface under another company's banner—Adobe would sell Pagemaker to someone like Corel or Macromedia after they felt everyone that could be lured to InDesign was hooked. Not so. Instead, they simply bought Macromedia. My crystal ball has grown dark.

Yet (and this is undoubtedly a stretch on my part), I still wonder if many of those Quark users who have now migrated to InDesign were simply moving back to Pagemaker (a.k.a. "Pagemaker on Steroids") because years ago they were forced to move, or felt compelled to move to Quark when they would have preferred to stay with the Pagemaker environment. Perhaps they've been waiting to jump off the Quark ship for a long time now, they were simply waiting for Adobe to build a decent rescue ship.

Adobe… the new Microsoft
I'm starting to think that the folks at Adobe are no different than any other money-hungry corporation. They're not too keen on competition especially if the competition is ahead of them or keeping up with them. If they have it their way, they'd just assume snuff out any formidable competitors (i.e., FreeHand) regardless of any ethical business considerations (i.e., the elimination of Pagemaker; desktop publishing's charter software).

However, things aren't as bad as I over-dramatize here. Thankfully, Adobe has a pretty decent record when it comes to the business of running a monopoly—consider Photoshop. Nothing comes close to this powerful image-editing software… not in donkey's years. And the application gets better with each revision. Let's just hope they do the same when it comes to Illustator—Adobe's newest monopoly.

By the way, let's not forget Adobe's other unchallenged powers. Most notable is Postscript itself. Every software company has an umbilical cord leading back to Adobe—yes, even Microsoft. You want to use Postscript in your application, you need to have a little chat with desktop publishing's godfather first. And don't forget, Acrobat is the king when it comes to anything to do with PDF (portable document format).

Be careful for what you wish, you might just get it.

I choose Quark
Some say the writing is on the wall. Quark is a very, very small company based in Denver, Colorado. They're no match for Adobe on Wall Street. It's only a matter of time before they buy out Quark as well. So some say.

If the unthinkable does unfold, the Adobe noose tightens a bit more as our options in desktop publishing software dwindle. In turn, Quark users will find plenty of comfort in the multitudes of former FreeHand users as they are forced to move into the trenches of InDesign.

In the meantime, I'm staying with Quark. I don't doubt that InDesign is a better program at this point in time. Yet, that's not enough to make me rule out Quark. Years ago when Quark had clearly beaten Pagemaker, some people still chose to stay with Pagemaker. Maybe they were lazy or maybe they truly liked the environment better. I never looked down on them for their decision regardless of their rationale. If Pagemaker melted their butter, who was I to say that they could be happier with something else. Besides, how fickle is that to jump to another program just because it has taken the lead. Talk about fair-weather fans. And mind you, I'm an active supporter of Adobe in so many other departments—Photoshop, Acrobat, Postscript (and now Illustrator I guess). They need nothing else from me.

As I see it, the decline of Quark's popularity will either lead to its demise or the company will become hungry again and meet InDesign's appeal. Hopefully it will be the latter scenario. Besides, with Quark still hanging around as that proverbial thorn in Adobe's side, we are all guaranteed two quality programs for years to come—and there's plenty of users out there to go around.

Three Years of Shame

KC Head On
Originally uploaded by mdt1960.

The three year anniversary of the war in Iraq has come and gone and what have we to show for it? The first thing that comes to my mind is that over 2,000 of our own young men and women are dead along with a growing and uncountable number of Iraqi civilians who have also been claimed in the all-about-oil fiasco.

Many people believe Iraq was better off under the iron rule of Saddam. Well, at least it was stable. Nevertheless, I'm not from Iraq, so my opinion is pretty shallow on this subject. But wouldn't it be an interesting poll if we could get all the Iraqi citizens to tell us which country was better—the pre-war Saddam Iraq or the post-war Bush Iraq.

To put it lightly, I'm amused to know that the person who put us there (our President) keeps telling us to be patient and that "we are implementing a strategy that will lead to a victory in Iraq." As I consider his request for patience, I find myself considering the lies, half-truths and blunders of the man and his administration that have lead us to this point in time.

First there was the "axis of evil" Dubya coined regarding Iran, North Korea and Iraq. This proved to the President's best attribute as a leader—spreading fear among his own countrymen. I've never doubted the potential harm any of these countries could bring to the world, but I never saw them any worse than China, India, Pakistan, Israel, Russia, or other nuclear-armed states. His rhetoric (as usual) was simply over-the-top and unnecessary.

Next, Wyoming's very own, Dick Cheney, went on the record to say, "There is no doubt that Saddam has weapons of mass destruction" to use against the United States and its allies. "No doubt." Is that right, Dick? Don't people get fired for making such asinine claims in other occupations?

Then it was back to Dubya and Condoleeeeeezzzzzzza Rice and their visions of a smoking gun in the form of a mushroom cloud—no doubt their vision included the diabolical cloud lingering over a large metropolitan city of the United States. Terrorism, terrorism, terrorism! (Our leader's most popular and worn-out word.)

Our war-bent leader was next standing before the United Nations (because it wasn't enough to just tell us) claiming that Iraq was "a grave and gathering danger." Oooooooo! He went on to say that Saddam and al Qaeda were working together on bomb-making projects and developing poisonous gasses. The administration continued to insist that there was "solid evidence of al Qaeda in Baghdad"—training in chemical and biological weapons.

At the same time, United Nations weapons inspectors were coming up empty-handed and refuting some of the President's claims regarding Iraq attempting to purchase uranium in Africa. Dubya also concluded that a discovered cache of aluminum tubes was "suitable for nuclear weapons production." As it turned out the African uranium was based on forged documents and the tubes were only being used for a small rocket project. Still Bush insisted on Iraq's desire to obtain nuclear weapons. No one listened to the United Nations inspectors, everyone listened to our fire-breathing President.

As we prepared to invade Iraq, Dick Cheney told us that our troops would be welcomed in Iraq as "liberators." Ahhhh... excuse me Dick, did you mean the same kind of liberators that freed France and other European countries during WWII? Right...

Finally, I thought President Bush looked pretty dumb on the deck of the Abraham Lincoln after his fighter-jet-arrival with the "Mission Accomplished" banner waving in the background as he spoke. Looking back on it now, I think he looks even dumber. The man seems to redefine the term every time I turn on the news.

Two years later and several investigations and commissions (including one appointed by Dubya himself) we've learned two distinct things:

1. There were no weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.
2. There was no relationship between al Qaeda and Saddam Hussein

So, basically we went to war based on two false premises, and now we're stuck there. The ultimate quagmire. And we thought Vietnam was bad.

And things aren't getting any better in Iraq since our arrival no matter how much President Bush sugar-coats his anecdotal accounts. Consider the city of Basra: Many considered this to be the first major city of Iraq to get on its feet because it is mostly Shiites and there was very little conflict when the troops moved into this coastal town. Yet today, three years after the invasion, sewage runs freely in the streets, unemployment is catastrophic and electricity is still iffy at best.

Civil war in Iraq? This just in…

BAGHDAD, Iraq - Insurgents stormed a jail around dawn Tuesday in the Sunni Muslim heartland north of Baghdad, killing 19 police and a courthouse guard in a prison break that freed at least 33 prisoners and left 10 attackers dead, authorities said. As many as 100 insurgents armed with automatic rifles and rocket-propelled grenades stormed the judicial compound in Muqdadiyah, about 60 miles northeast of the capital. The assault began after the attackers fired a mortar round into the police and court complex, said police Brig. Ali al-Jabouri. After burning the police station, the insurgents detonated roadside bombs as they fled, taking the bodies of many of their dead comrades with them, police said. At least 13 policemen and civilians and 15 gunmen were wounded.

In defending this accusation of civil war in Iraq, President Bush said that the country's army is still united and hasn't broken up into sectarian divisions. I'm not an expert on civil war, but if this isn't civil war, surely Iraq is only one step away.

Here's what gets me. People get fired from their jobs every day for a number of reasons—some of which are quite petty; reporters loose their jobs for getting the facts wrong, cashiers are turned loose for dipping into the till and lawyers are collecting unemployment because they can't win enough cases. So, it seems like a no-brainer to me that if someone starts a war that was based on lies and/or faulty intelligence they've collected, I'd say that's good enough reason to give them the pink slip. How is it that this bozo is still in charge?

I know one isn't suppose to say this, I suppose it's rather unpatriotic, but thanks to the country's leadership and dreadful foreign policy, I'm quite ashamed to be an American. There, I said it. Big deal, so what? Nevertheless, I haven't given up on America even if I gave up on George Bush and his cronies long ago.

Time and time again, George W. Bush props himself up on the target range—and what an easy mark to hit. Can anyone blame me or others who keep on returning to this colossal bull's-eye?

Coming to a Halt

Otto Unknown
Originally uploaded by mdt1960.

2 April 2003

Yesterday was an eventful day in Powell history. The first combat casualty of the war with Iraq was laid to rest here in this small town of just under 6,000 residents. Of all the places to claim the first loss of life in the war, Powell’s name came to the top—what a lottery to win. Although the Lieutenant did not grow up here, his parents have been residents for several years and thus, Powell ended up in the nation’s headlines.

The funeral for 2nd Lt. Therrel Shane Childress was held in the college gymnasium with an estimated 1,200 in attendance. The town turned out like he was truly one of their own. The funeral was short and simple. Following the services, Lt. Childress’ remains were taken to Crown Hill Cemetery on the outskirts of town for burial including full military honours. I did not attend the burial due to an afternoon class commitment.

That evening after night class, I jumped on my bicycle and headed home while thinking of the Lieutenant. Every time someone is laid to rest that I know (or at least know beyond the news), I always find myself thinking about them on that first evening following their burial. A stark and blunt epiphany finds me, “This will be the first night of an eternity that he will spend in the cold, dark ground.” The idea or thought comes to me as if that person were still alive or aware of their surroundings. As if they were sentenced to an eternity of camping out in the same place and being totally self-supporting. Even in death, Lt. Childress’ body was cared for and watched over up until last night. Resources were consumed. I was told by one reporter at the funeral that a lone marine stands guard over another marine’s body twenty-four, seven until he is finally laid to rest.

And so yesterday afternoon, all the inertia related to this fine soldier came to a final and definite halt. While the dynamics of the world beyond his tomb continue to move about and change, nothing will change within that tiny, confined space of a coffin that is now the only world of what remains of Lt. Childress. And nothing is needed from beyond that tomb for the remainder of the soldier’s journey wherever it may lead—not even the basics of food, warmth or companionship. Barring the catastrophic destruction of the earth, relocation of the cemetery or some future law that will abolish and call for the destruction of cemeteries, what remains of Lt. Childress can and will always be found in the same place here in (of all places) Powell, Wyoming—you can count on it.

The Gas Pump Blues

Joplin Pump & Bus
Originally uploaded by mdt1960.

When I was growing up, one of the things my father instilled in me was how dangerous it is to play with matches and, worse yet, the dangers of including gasoline in such frivolity. Everyone gets that lecture. And rightly so, as anyone who has ever worked with gasoline can attest to this everyday fuel’s extreme volatility.

Naturally, this is the rationale for the warning signs posted at gas pumping facilities stating it is forbidden to smoke or leave your engine running while one is fueling. And as big, bold, and numerous as these signs are, that should be enough to discourage anyone from doing otherwise. However, a population amongst us appears to have anointed itself exempt in following such safety precautions.

In the past year, when filling my gas tank on three different occasions, I noticed someone who was smoking and/or running their engine as they fueled their vehicles. In fact, two of these incidents happened last summer on the same day—once in Evanston and the other, later that evening, in Riverton. To no surprise, the offenders were both young men (under 30) reeking with invincibility as if they were a super-hero comic book figure.

After the Riverton incident, I headed toward Powell in dismay, wondering if the laws had changed regarding the handling of gasoline or if the oil companies (unbeknownst to me) had recently changed the chemistry of gasoline so it was no longer flammable outside an internal combustion engine.

In the first two occasions, I pointed out their dangerous “oversight,” and asked them to quickly correct their action, without sounding too offensive (but really, who is offensive in this scenario?). I half-expected them to acknowledge my vigilance—if not outright thank me—but instead the young man in Evanston gave me a sly smirk as if to say, “Whatever old man,” and slowly leaned out of his rig and snuffed the fag out on the concrete of the petrol station. The young man in Riverton didn’t even acknowledge what I’d said, but walked away to the cashier’s box, flicking his cigarette to the concrete slab without snuffing it out.

Maybe it’s not that dangerous anymore to smoke while pumping gas. I thought it was. And what of the danger associated with running your engine while pumping gas? I reckon that’s just a bit of pump station hysteria. So then, what gives with the signs?

I decided to call around and talk with those who might know the truths and laws related to fuel handling and the dangers associated with the activity. My first calls went out to the local petrol stations in town to see if they could fill me in. Yes, they all reassured me that gasoline is indeed highly flammable and that the signs posted are not just there to make peoples’ lives more difficult. What struck me odd, however, was that no one really knew for sure if disobeying such signs was a violation of any law(s). One manager told me that if they see someone smoking, they’ll request them to put it out, while another said they were to shut off the pump immediately. None mentioned a course of action that would involve reporting such violations to law enforcement officials.

I decided to call law enforcement here in Powell to see what they knew about this. At first, no one had an answer for me, but they’d check into the matter and call me back. I called later in the day after not receiving a response. They seemed a bit annoyed, but I pressed them.

I asked, “What would happen if a police officer pulled up to a petrol station and observed someone pumping gas into their vehicle as they were smoking or their vehicle was idling away?” Both Powell and Cody officials (including one officer) “didn’t know of” or “didn’t believe” there was any law against such activity.

“Didn’t believe.” “Didn’t know of.” How’s that for getting it from the horse’s mouth?

One police official told me rather matter of factly, “If a person wants to have a cigarette while they fuel their car, I guess that’s their business.”

I questioned both departments about the consequences of discharging a .22 from my back porch into the blue yonder above. They didn’t have to do any research on that question. Without hesitation, I’d be ticketed and fined.

Am I the only one who finds all of this a bit odd—I can risk the lives of several people by simply ignoring safety notices at the pump and not be fined or ticketed? Yet, I’ll receive a fine for firing a tiny piece of lead into the air that won’t lead to anything catastrophic (unless it lands in the middle of a gas station where some careless individual has spilled gasoline all over the island). Better yet—how would speeding down Bent Street at 50 mph be any more dangerous to the general public than smoking while pumping gasoline?

If the gas station management is unsure about any laws that address negligence at the gas pump and local law enforcement “doesn’t know of any laws,” why are those annoying signs posted all over the place? What leg does some peon like me have to stand on if I wish to stop such careless actions?

Well, thankfully, I hooked up with an official at the state fire marshal’s office in Cheyenne. In that little phone call, I learned what all gas station owners, operators, employees, and law enforcement officials should already know: Those signs aren’t just for safety matters only. They are state law, according to the 2003 International Fire Code (IFC) which was adopted by the State of Wyoming and is considered law. Violations can be a misdemeanor and punishable by fines and/or jail time.

What was really disconcerting for me in our little visit was the laws regarding gas station attendants. You know the people who take your money, stock the shelves, clean the toilets, sweep the floor, make the coffee and all that. Section 2204 of the 2003 IFC spells out the following: “Attended self-service motor fuel-dispensing facilities shall have at least one qualified attendant on duty while the facility is open for business. The attendant’s primary function shall be to supervise, observe and control the dispensing of fuel.” From my experience, this primary function appears to be way down at the bottom of their list of job duties.

I also learned that all the regulations of the IFC are the result of someone seriously injured or killed related to the listed violations. In other words, we learned the hard way that smoking at the gas pump and leaving your engine running is has some serious consequences.

When I shared my findings with the fire marshal’s office regarding law enforcement’s ignorance on this topic, they showed no surprise in this lack of policing at the pump because local police do not deal with IFC violations very often.

Perhaps this local-level confusion regarding one particular state law explains and illustrates the series of intelligence blunders resulting at the federal level regarding the events of Sept. 11, 2001.

In defense of local law enforcement, we can’t expect them to stay up with every fire code that’s out there, but this particular one is directly related to the responsible operation of a vehicle and, in my mind, should be policed no less than violations for speeding or failure to stop at a controlled intersection.

Despite this ambiguous and apparently obscure law, I suppose if someone wants to flirt with exiting this world in a blaze of glory at the local gas pump, who am I to stop them, all I ask is that they not include me in their science project. Does anyone else object?

No doubt, some of you out there are probably saying to yourself, “So what? Who cares? I see this stuff all the time and nothing ever happens.” This is just another one of Morgan “Tyrade’s” rants.

Well, maybe we are all a bit lucky to date, but keep this in mind: If and when a gas station does go “poof,” I doubt the resulting injuries will be a little scratch or a bump on someone’s head. There is approximately one “gasoline incident” per month in the state of Wyoming alone. Not all of these lead to an ignition, but the potential outcome in these spills is considered hazardous enough to report.

If all of this isn’t enough, earlier this month, on my way out of town and topping off my tank at the Maverick Store, a late-model pickup truck attended by yet another young man pulled up and started pumping gasoline while his engine was chugging away. Surely he didn’t notice my family sitting in the car in his approach. In dismay, I looked around and sure enough, there were those darn signs about not smoking and turning off your engine while fueling.

What is it about these guys? Is showing a lack of caution while fueling your rig a part of proving one’s manhood now, or is it just dumb luck on my part that carelessness at the gas pump seems to be practiced by young men in pickup trucks? I suspect such wrecklessness extends beyond this demographic—for better or worse.

Like last summer’s incidents at the pump, I confronted this latest young man asking if he was aware that a vehicle’s engine is required to be off while fueling. He confidently looked at me and replied, “Yep.”

I sounded off again, “What then, do you think you’re better than everyone else around here?”

“Nope,” said the monosyllabic homo-habilis.

And that was it. He climbed into his daddy’s idling truck after the tank was filled and away he went.

I walked into the Maverick store and informed the cashier of the incident as he drove off. I’m sure nothing became of it because attendants are likely no better informed than law enforcement in this violation of fire code.

As I returned to my car, I reasoned that this was the ultimate rationalization for reinstating mandatory gas station attendants who work the pumps as well—as in Oregon. Maybe big government is the best thing for everyone because the masses can’t be trusted to be 100 percent responsible. Think Enron, think Columbine, think Halliburton. “Trickle down” is a great concept, but there will always be those who abuse its inherent lack of accountability—ruining it for everyone else.

Too bad I’m not more confrontational than my series of spineless questions. I recalled how my Uncle Earl would have handled this in his day. Nothing would have been said. No, my Uncle Earl would have walked over and simply punched the “homo-yungmanis” square in the chops and then reached into his truck and turned off the ignition. And that would have been the end of it.

Of course, that’s not how things work in this day and age. Assuming I didn’t get beat up for attempting such an act and actually succeeded in duplicating the feats of Uncle Earl, no doubt I would have ended up in jail for several days, fined and sued for over $100,000—and of course dismissed from my job.

Finally, here’s the irony of it all—anyone can fill up his vehicle while the engine idles and he has a smoke with the potential outcome of disintegrating any number of innocent folk along with him. Assuming nothing catastrophic unfolds in this gamble of lives, (at best) these offenders will likely only be reprimanded by schmoes like myself in such modest confrontations or editorials. Yet, there would be a stiff penalty to pay if someone had given him a deserving and—for the most part—harmless fat lip for his total wrecklessness and disregard of others.

One morning in the near or distant future, I’ll awaken to the news of some families cremated while they sat inside of their cars at a gasoline station. Surprise will unlikely overwhelm me.

Stale Justice

Give it up for California Governor Arnold Schwartzenegger and his efforts in making sure justice continues to be served—albeit a stale and moldy serving of it in his denials for clemency regarding the former Crips member Stanley "Tookie" Williams and 76-year-old Clarence Ray Allen.

This whole spiel reminds me of a refrigerator that has been unattended and all the food in it is... well, it's not food anymore. It's something else. And when justice in this form starts to stink this bad, I start to wonder if capital punishment is worth it.

I suppose there would be nothing to write about if those guys had been given their just sentencing when it was timely.

Yeah, I feel so much better knowing that my hard-earned tax dollars aren't keeping their sorry butts alive any longer… ahh, even if it has been over 20 years since their conviction. So much for a swift justice system. Who is really benefiting from a wheel-chair-ridden and nearly blind 76-year-old's execution? How many of us are walking around feeling like the world is so much better off now that he's finally dead?

So, who is to blame when it comes to the delays in carrying out a convict's execution order?

Lawyers? Probably.

The system itself? I suppose.

Can it be fixed? Doubt it.

My take on it is, that if it takes longer than a year to execute someone who has been given the death sentence, their sentence automatically is turned over to life imprisonment without parole. Simple as that.

And then I start to wonder if that's moving things along too fast. What if evidence turns up later that clears your name if you had been given that final one-way ticket not long after your trial? How good would you feel about that? That's quite a bit worse than driving all the way home and finding your take-out order is completely wrong.

So, now I'm thinking, perhaps capital punishment isn't such a good idea, period.

Why is that? Well, for one, people change. Even nasty ones. I'm certainly not the same person I was 10 years ago and I doubt anyone else is either. And when one is locked up behind bars, well, there all kinds of transformations that happen to a person—starting with finding Jesus in the big house. So, who the hell are we to put another down once their life has come back around for the good?

I find it hard to believe that the Stanley "Tookie" Williams who was executed last month is the same person that killed four people 25 years ago? I've subscribed to the idea that when in prison, prisoners were often subject to rehabilitation. Apparently not as far as Arnold is concerned—one has to show more than just writing a handful of children's books that send a positive message about staying away from gangs.

I won't argue that these guys didn't kill anyone. All I'm saying is that after 25 years in prison, I'm sure they're not the same people anymore. Who is after 25 years—however they spend that time.

And if it were me... say some bloke killed my sister 23 years ago and finally, his execution orders are in place, how would I feel? Well, I can only project myself into that situation, but I'd like to think that I'd feel rather hollow about revenge after all that time. Sure, I could have pulled the switch myself in that first year following the trial. But after 23 years, I can't imagine I would be too passionate about greasing the dude.

Cold War Warm Thoughts

Sometimes I wish the cold war with the Soviet Union could be brought back. This seems to be the only thing that keeps America's "bully" attitude in check. It's a tough call: Russian ICBMs continuously hanging over my head or knowing at anytime I could be labeled a terrorist (without my knowing), wisked away, imprisoned (and tortured likely) indefinitely and unknowingly by anyone else. I can see me sitting in my orange jumpsuit contemplating a novel... Postcards from Guantanimo: Cuba's Real Hell.