On Namesakes

Names are important. I know this because my name is important. It's not a famous name or a wealthy name. It is not attached to any great invention, and you won't find it listed on any Trivial Pursuit card. My name is important because I was named after my grandfather.

I never knew my grandfather; he died July 24, 1966, in Pleiku, South Vietnam. I missed being born on this date in 1980 by twelve days. I became his namesake. It has influenced my life in incalculable ways--his name was important, my name is important.

I joined the Army in September, 2000 under the legacy and history of my name. A year before 9/11, I joined when it was unpopular and old-fashioned to sign your life away. I was no September baby, as we called the wave of incoming privates. I did it because I wanted to be a soldier; I did it because my grandfather had done it.

I always signed my name with the Roman numeral two. This was partly in fear that the Army's giant paperwork bureaucracy would somehow mix me up with my grandfather and I would not be issued boots or those wonderful brown BVDs. More importantly, I had a high bar with which to measure the conduct of my professional career. I could not be one of the guys under discipline for drinking or fighting without having tarnished the name. I could not dishonor the sacrifice my grandfather made. This higher standard worked in my favor and allowed me to rise quickly in my career. I was chosen for two sniper schools while in the service. This in turn opened the door for me to work with some of the greatest men I have ever known. I became Recon. It was an indirect gift my grandfather gave me, a name that was worth something, a name I could not let down.

In 2004 I went to war with the same patch my grand-father wore in Vietnam. We both served with the Tropic Lightning (or Electric Grapefruit, depending on your view) on our shoulders. In the course of the year I had to make a call home one night on the Colonel's SAT-phone. I had to tell my father, who lost his father "officially" to a mortar round, that I had also been hit by a mortar round. I assured him my wounds were minor; but the truth was, a few seconds slower or a few degrees of angle more, and I would have been the second of my name to die in a foreign war in a city hard for most Americans to pronounce. My father almost lost his son as well as his father, but by the grace of God I did come home.

This November 5, by the same grace, I was granted the privilege of naming my firstborn twin boys. Earlier, whenever I had thought of having a son, I agonized over the responsibility of what name to give him. When I learned that we were having twins, I knew their names right away. I had been given a great gift; there was symmetry. I could name my sons after the two platoon mates, my brothers-in-arms, my two friends, who did not come home from Iraq.

Names are important. My sons' names are the most important. They are named after two of the greatest men you will never know. They are named after men of honor and sacrifice. My boys will have the duty to live a life that is worthy of such sacrifice. They can never replace the men they were named for, but they can live up to them. They must live a life both men gave up so that new life can follow destruction and loss. One day when they are older I will explain all this to them. I will tell them that names are important. I will tell them they are named after: Adam Plumondore KIA 16 Feb 2005, Mosul Iraq, and Benjamin "Rat" Morton KIA 22 May 2005, Mosul Iraq.

David Paul Spears II

Adam Plumondore & Benjamin "Rat" Morton

 

Adam Luther Spears & Benjamin Oliver Spears

On Persistence

I am constantly surprised by how many things I should not be able to do. Life can feel like a giant obstacle course at times. Not only do you contend with serious obstacles that boggle your mind and test your courage, the course itself seems lined with spectators screaming out reasons why you should fail. It is very hard to face the obstacles while turning a deaf ear to the counselors of doubt. It is easy to listen to reasons why you can’t, why you shouldn’t, and why you will fail.                

                My latest run in with the counselors of doubt has been in the realm of buying a house. The old American dream of land ownership is awash with fears and doubts. Lenders are fearful of lending and buyers are fearful of buying. There are many complex reasons for this and not all of them bad in the least. While it’s not my intention to explain the housing market, I do want to explain the waters I find myself sailing through; they are not calm seas.     

                After reading The Intelligent Investor by Benjamin Graham I have been on the constant look out for value. With fear griping the housing market, I believe I have found value in a $135,000 home. It looks like the home we could live in for the next thirty years and pay off in ten.  An opportunity has presented itself, and so have the obstacles.

                My bank of at least eight years would gladly approve a loan of $100,000 dollars and not a penny more. I was told I simply don’t have enough income to warrant a bigger loan. I could have left it at that and given up on the opportunity I was seeking, but I decided to try my luck elsewhere.  I was given the number of a great mortgage broker who went by the name Bob.  After a few pleasant and informative phone calls, Bob, as helpful as he was, explained he could easily get me more than $135,000, but I needed at least six months at my current job; I had one month. He told me six months was not that long to wait.  Once again I could have walked away saying that I had tried my best. I contacted a third mortgage broker. He was also named Bob. He was slow to return email and phone calls and had nowhere near the charisma of the first Bob. What he did have was an underwriter who was willing to pre-approve me for a loan. After about a month and a half of, “No, it can’t be done,”  I made an offer on the house today.  

 I know there are hundreds of ways for this deal could go south, but there is one way it could go through—persistence. Persistence is a virtue I will teach my sons. It may be out of fashion in our fifteen minutes of fame culture but it is a virtue all the same. I would not have a shot at this opportunity if I were less stubborn.  I would not have any sons to teach if I had been less persistent in the courtship of my wife. I could never have courted my wife if I had not been persistent in my duties as a soldier.  All my life I have heard plenty of reasons why things won’t work out.  In the end most of those reasons are just more obstacles for those of us who like a good challenge.                         

                    

On Labor

In 1776, Adam Smith wrote the words, “A man must always live by his work, and his wages must at least be sufficient to maintain him.” That simple sentence has been causing me considerable grief. The idea has found no resting place in my mind of late. It keeps tumbling around my mind like three quarters loose in the dryer. It is very unsettling.

I am very good at my work. I don’t write that to boast. It is much more just a statement of my experience. I am very good at my work because I have rare and extensive experience. Ten years of working in a trade is long enough for a man to gain mastery if he applies himself. It’s not just time though; I have been places, I have done things. Some of things I have done become the muse for historians and movie stars; people are impressed with my resume. Everyone always say, “Wow, you were a sniper?”

The rub of all this is simple. What good is it to be an expert in a field that no one values? This week I completed the first week of my new job. I now use my considerable skills and experience to guard a high-end shopping mall. I am no longer using my observation and recon skills to hunt terrorists; I use them to keep juveniles from spitting off the top floor of the parking garage. Is this is a preview of my next ten years? Can I really say I am “living by my work,” and if so what sort of living is it?

I am happy to have a job in these down times, and I really like the people I work with, but something is not right. I can hear loose thoughts clanging around in my mind. With my wages will I be able to provide for two boys that are soon to start their adventures in this life?  I don’t mean provide them with iPods, smart phones, and forty dollars designer t-shirts I buy on credit. I mean provide them with opportunity. Did I, “Study war and politics, so my sons could study mathematics, and philosophy,” or is it more like the Drive-by Truckers song and, “I am trying to hang onto the worst of places, a family can’t live on fast food wages”?

I am a man blessed with many things but professionally I am on the bottom rung. My current wages will not produce much of a future; they may get us by on a wing and prayer, but is that really enough? It is not for me. I hate life as a grind. Living paycheck to paycheck is not much a life. There are always ways a man can better himself, ways he can grab that next rung. I have chosen education. Education might be the key to opening the doors that are currently closed.  Writing might be another. The truth is I am on the lookout for any honorable thing to grasp if it will help provide an opportunity upward.

The true genius of Adam Smith’s work was his ideas for helping the poor. He thought the way to help the poor was to help them work. He also thought such work should provide them with a future. I may be working, but I still look for my future.       

On Friends

The days of summer have kept me from writing much of late. Who wants to sit and write when daylight lasts so long and it’s dry in the Northwest? A word processor seems a poor friend when compared to evening strolls and ice-cream in the park with my wife. Lately there, miraculously, is always a good excuse to be away from my desk. I love summers.

This last weekend reminded me of how much I love summers. Even more, it reminded me of how much I love friends. It is easy these days to forget the value of friends. I mean there is so much busyness and noise in a man’s life that it is easy to be friendless. It’s easy to look at the forest and miss the trees. It’s easy be distracted by all the responsibilities and worries of life; it’s easy to by distracted by the toys. It’s easy to think friends are what you check on Facebook.

This last weekend was different. A long time friend asked me to go fishing with him. This might not seem much but you lack the back story. I grew up in Alaska and the Northwest. My childhood was formed by rivers and lakes; Zebcos and hip boots. There was the time I almost fell head first into the white water rapids that would have swept me under a log jam to surely drown, and that time when dad almost walked right into a brown bear. I grew up outdoors and I remember landing my first fish while everyone believed it to be a snag; I still think I am right when everyone doubts me.  That fish might have made me the resilient man I am today. Sadly though, I have not fished in many years prior to last weekend. Life got in the way. I had jobs to do, money to worry about, toys to distract. If not for my friend, fishing would still be something that I used to do.  That is the value of a friend. They can remind you of who you are.

They can also remind you of who you want to be. The same friend joined me for a guy’s night out to watch Inception. It was surprising to me how quickly we fell into long debates about the meaning of a good story; of who were the good guys and who were the bad. Sci-fi is a shared passion, not because we are enamored with technology or we like the action. No, we both want to be inspired by a story. A good story can inspire you to be a better soul. A friend can help you be one.

It has been my experience when a person faces hard times or succumbs to the easy path of rebellion, the first thing to go is their dependability. They don’t show up for events and they stop caring about others. They become the centers of their own universe and friends become people they used to hang out with. I know this has been true of me; I am guilty of it. It is easy for me to become a slave to the grind of life. There is always one more paycheck to worry about or one more thing I must do. The simple peace of walking a river out in the middle of nowhere—the peace of silence becomes a luxury and unimportant. Friends become just people I see on the weekends in passing.

This weekend was different though; I was reminded of the true value of a friend by a friend

On Print

I have learned many valuable lessons in life from watching Monday Night Football. I learned about team, dedication, vanity, and defeat. I rooted for underdogs and hopeless cases; I had to because I was a Seahawks and Bills fan. One lesson has resonated with me stronger than most. One night, game and teams forgotten, I remember an announcer quoting Murray Kempton, “A critic is someone who enters the battlefield after the war is over and shoots the wounded.” After hearing those words I knew I did not want to be a critic. I never wanted to be the man who puffed himself up by lowering those around him. I wanted to be the guy on the battlefield—I have been the guy on the battlefield.

Times change, my battlefield days are at a close and my family days are just beginning. I too must change with the times. I am, with the help of academia and professors, changing my intellect from reaction to critical reasoning. I am learning to be a critical thinker. It is in this light that I write a criticism of the Clackamas Print. Not as someone shooting the wounded for kicks, but as someone who sees that the paper could be much more than it is.

My complaint starts in the year 1791, December 15^th to be exact. It is the date the first ten amendments to the US Constitution were ratified. It was the birth date of the Bill of Rights. It is also where any discussion on modern American journalism must start. The famous First Amendment is very unique: “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of the speech, or the press, or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.” The amendment protects only one industry out of the entire vast American economy, the press.

The founding statesmen of our country did not protect the press on a whim, nor did they do it out of a corrupt self interest. No, they did it because of complex philosophical and legal reasoning. Alexis De Tocqueville, a French observer of the American experiment, wrote about his nine month journey across America in 1831. His understanding of the importance of free press is very noteworthy. He wrote, “In a country where the doctrine of the sovereignty of people obviously holds, censorship is not simply a danger; even more it is an enormous absurdity.” The free press, like voting, private property, and market economics is fundamental to a republic; take one away and you are no longer in a free republic. Again Tocqueville explains:

In certain nations who claim to be free, any agents of the government may violate the laws with impunity and the constitution of the country gives no power of judicial redress to the victims. In such a nation the independence of the press must not be considered one of the guarantees but the only guarantee remaining for the freedom and safety of their citizens.

The idea that the press is more than just an industry, that it is in fact a protector of freedom—even more, a protector of the citizen—is at the heart of my complaint and disappointment with the Clackamas Print. The Print has forgotten why it is protected by the US Constitution.

The federal government cannot censor the Print, but the Print, whether intentionally or unintentionally, has in essence censored itself. An example of this is the article “Tuition Increase Predicted to Turn Away Returning Students,” by Brain Baldwin. Again, I write this not as an attack on the work of Mr. Baldwin but as a necessary complaint. The article deals with the raise in tuition voted on by the school board. It is almost fatalistic in its acceptance of the decision to increase tuition. The article reports that the board was forced to raise tuition because of a drop in state funding, propounding a view of the situation as given by members of the school board and members of the ASG. This is classic run-to-authority reporting. You should ask yourself if you are getting the whole story.

The opinion article by Annemarie Schulte entitled “Rising Tuition Costs Continue to Cause Anxiety for Students” takes us one step further down the slippery slope. The article starts nicely by saying that knowledge is power, but then Schulte somehow spends the rest of the article bemoaning the cost of tuition without ever offering any fix or even knowledge of the causes. The article vaguely blames the economy and asks the question why tuition always seems to go up but gives no answers. Schulte even goes so far as to say that fewer students are being admitted, which is factually not true. But the real blunder is this: why doesn’t either article ask the obvious question? How is the school spending all the money and why does it always seem to need more?

I did a quick and simple Google search to find the Schools proposed budget for 2010-2011. It is a treasure trove of financial foolishness and overspending. One graph clearly illustrates how Clackamas has continually overspent the state average for community college to educate students. Another telling section of the budget shows that the school is one hundred and twenty three million dollars in debt. A little investigative journalism on my part and you have a very different picture than the one the school board wants you to see, or consequently, what you find in the Print. I don’t share Schulte’s anxiety from feeling at the mercy of forces I can’t control or understand. It’s all there in black and white and red, mostly red. The current budget crisis has as much to do with a history of fiscal irresponsibility as it does with the current funding shortage. We are only short because we overspend and overgrow. This is the story the Print completely missed.

The tuition debate was the best chance for the Print to stand and defend its readers, to cry out against the tuition increase by promulgating the real facts of the matter; sadly the opportunity was lost. Some might argue that the Print should be objective and not take sides, but this is easily refuted. Objectivity in the face of injustice is no virtue. An objective industry needs no special protection in the Constitution. The press is not privileged without reason; it has a moral responsibility to its readers. It must be the champion of justice and truth for it readers. The Print, unintentionally or intentionally, did end up choosing sides in the debate. It did so by reporting only the words of the board members or others working for the school. It chose the school’s view at the expense of the students. Where was the Print when we needed its voice? It was justifying the tuition raise by censoring out important bits of the truth when it failed to report them. The battle was lost; the tuition went up.

The battle may have been lost but the struggle remains. There are other stories to write, and other injustices to right. If anything needs a good looking over, it is the ASG. Why do the ASG students never take a class on governing and then get a trip to Washington? Why does someone running on a “green” platform plaster every flat surface on campus with posters, thus destroying the natural beauty of the school? Just who gets those scholarships and how? The Print needs to remember why the press is so important to a healthy society. It needs to get its hands dirty and kick over some rocks.

I started this post not wanting to be a critic, and end with the same intention. No one admires the man that sits on the sidelines while there’s work to be done. This fall I plan to add my pen to the Clackamas Print. I want to be protected by the First Amendment as I challenge injustice. They say the pen is mightier than the sword. I have used the sword and found it lacking. It is time I use a pen, not to shoot the wounded, but to help fight for the common good. After all, Murray Kempton—he was a journalist.

On Joy

Joy is timeless. Joy is Freedom. Joy is future proof and starting for around thirty-six thousand dollars and quickly moving north. Bayerische Motoren Werke, or in English, Bavarian Motor Works will sell you joy—it is about time.

In the world around us, blood is dumped out in sand for oil, and oil is dumped out into the sea. Men work for mastery of their labors but never know the masters of their labor. The employer-employee relationship is a broken marriage, but that is no surprise in the land of no-fault divorce. What was once a family is quickly being replaced by “two income providers.” I am very glad someone will sell me joy because it is such a rare commodity in our declining culture.

Let’s take some time to deconstruct the new market campaign by BMW. At its heart is the idea it can sell us joy. But how? To get anywhere it is helpful to know who created the idea to sell joy. It is the brainchild of GSD&M Idea City, an advertisement company based out of Texas. You might recognize some of their other work. They are the creators of the US Air Force’s slick modern recruitment ads. Another client of theirs is good old John Deere. It strikes my curiosity whether a company that sells war can also sell joy and not be in a conflict of interest. I am not a pacifist, so the question is not as simplistic as it seems on the surface. It does give one pause though. Come to think of it, BMW was a company born of war.

Back to joy: the ads themselves are well crafted. I particularly like the “jump for joy” commercial that pokes fun at Audi in a clever way and make one want to jump from Audi to BMW. The ads overall are very positive and upbeat. They appeal to both the young and the young at heart. The cars are a status symbol but also address the concerns of those sensitive about the environment.

Owning a BMW also promises the owner a bright and safe future. One ad claimed Joy is future proof. What an odd statement that joy, or in this case owning a BMW, is future proof. It scared me when I understood the ad’s underlining assumption. It tells us the future is bad and you must guard against it; the future does not have joy. You need a BMW for that. You need a BMW to be future proof.

This seems to be a trend in ads of late. No longer is a product faster, stronger, better. They are spiritual. By buying a widget or gadget you can fill your social and spiritual needs. Spaces once filled by church and family and friends can be replaced by an object or so we are lead to believe. Joy is BMW.

The thing is, I really like BMWs. They are beautifully crafted cars. I also enjoy driving across the American landscape. A country drive is a joyful pastime for me. The ads really do resonate with me as a viewer, but yet I question how healthy is it to call an expensive man made object, Joy? Being media literate means we question meanings and read past the slogans. BMWs are joyful to drive but they are not the driving joy of my life. BMW is not joy the way joy should be understood. This is just another case of false advertisement.

On Bookstores

At this very moment do you want a glass of wine or a glass of water? Don’t answer straight away! Take a moment and think about your personal tastes. Maybe the situation will play a bigger factor than your tastes. If you are at work, it might not be the best time for a glass of wine. If you are eating a well prepared, succulent rack of lamb, maybe water is not the best choice. Mark Twain once quipped, “My books are like water; those of the great geniuses are wine. (Fortunately) everybody drinks water.”

The experience of choosing a bookstore contains fundamentally the same question; it’s a matter of tastes and circumstances. I am going to compare a big chain book store with my favorite small independent “Mom and Pop” book store. I think each has its own place and value but they are fundamentally different experiences, much like water and wine.

I will start the comparison with my impressions of the Barnes & Noble at my local mall. Walking in, you are immediately hit with marketing, and lots of it. This is the lease attractive aspect of one of my favorite pastimes. I am already a fan of spending time in book stores so I don’t really need the extra sell. Walking in the door, one almost trips over the “Nook” help desk. They really, really—really— want you to buy one. E-book readers are the new front lines for big corporate booksellers. It is a sign of the changing times.

Once past the e-book stand you see a few tables set up to catch your eye. Unmistakably, they are placed smack dab in the middle of the walkway. There is no chance to get where you were headed without walking around a table. This was most definitely planned, but I don’t want to imply it was done so by some unseen evil mogul intent on my downfall. The table I walked around was neatly stacked with books about money, markets, and finances, one of my favorite subjects. I was happy to see many of the newest books written on the subject. It was as easy to find a book that would occupy my time as it is to find a refreshing glass of water.

For a completely different experience I will share with you another bookstore. If you travel north to the town of Auburn, Washington you find my home town and my favorite book store, Comstock’s Bindery and Book Store. It is a cozy little store on Main St. owned by a husband and wife pair. When you open the door, be sure not to let the cats out. This will likely not be much of a problem as they most often just stare at you somewhat lazily. The first impression you get, caused by the narrow walkways crowded with high bookshelves, is one of near claustrophobia. A strong feeling of history also permeates the quiet atmosphere; it is actually hard to find a new book in the store.

I enjoy this uniqueness and as I came of age in this town, I loved finding books no longer in print to add to my library. The sections on science fiction and military history were vast expanses of literary adventure for a young man eager to grow up. The bookstore not only taught me history, it became a part of my history.

At the end of the agonizing chore of choosing out only the books I could afford and replacing the rest on the shelves, I always enjoyed good conversation with the owner as he (or more often his wife) operated the old cash register. The outgoing books they logged in a paper notebook that somehow kept order to the flow of their inventory. A fair warning though: when you walked up to the counter, you often had to cough or make some other ruckus, as the owner was often oblivious to your presence, absorbed in the work of repairing old bindings and unloved books. Like old wine refined by time, Comstock’s is an acquired taste for a well developed palette.

So back to my original question: do you want water or wine? Do you want the easy convenience of a quick-stop bookshop, stylishly packed with every new thing, or do you want to spend some time exploring the deep rich and somewhat dusty history of literature? Both stores have their places; both serve a purpose. Water or wine, man needs to drink.

On Media

If you look out across the American social landscape, one distinction is clear—we are consumers. Consumption has replaced the old American dream. In 1865 a Frenchman named Jules Verne accurately predicted America would be the first nation to put men on the moon because, as he said, “The Yankees, the world’s best mechanics, are engineers the way Italians are musicians and Germans are metaphysicians: by birth.” Sadly, our dreams are no longer of putting men on the moon, and boldly going where no man has gone before; no, our dreams are filled with who Tiger Woods shagged and Team Edward vs Team Jacob.

If one consumes massive amounts of alcohol, we call them a drunk. If one consumes massive amounts of indiscriminate sex, we call them a deviant. If one consumes massive amounts of drugs, we call them an addict. If one consumes massive amounts of media, what do we call them? Informed, relevant, hip, popular? Like the eighteen year old who has never been taught how to drink responsibly, we consume our mass media and then get behind the wheel and expect the car to drive itself. It’s not surprising then we find our beloved America in a ditch and, make no mistake, it is we who have crashed the car. Just because we are too drunk to feel the effects now does not mean the consciences won’t be there tomorrow.

The last two days I have compiled a media log of all my personal consumption in the realm of mass media. While I don’t consider myself a drunk yet, there is definitely some bingeing I am not so proud of. Of late, I have been giving much thought to how, economically, I can move from a consumer to a producer. My internet usage reflects this quite accurately. On April 12^th I checked my stocks three times, and my wife’s book ranking four times; all during a twelve hour school day. At first glance I could say I spend most of my time working on the internet and be proud of myself; I am afraid you might be smarter then that. Is it really a productive use of my time to check my stocks three times a day? Would not my time be best spent reading a book that could teach me better ways to invests in stocks? What about checking book sales that I have no control over? Above my desk sits a sign that reads, “Don’t waste time.” It has proven a flimsy dam against the currents of mass media entertainment and only I am to blame.

Checking stock prices and book ranking is a form of entertainment to me; as boring as that sounds, it’s true. Ironically, the more conventional entertainment listed on my log—watching “Chuck” on Hulu—I am more proud of than I am of my work. When I watched “Chuck” it was with my wife. I watched the show not simply for the merits of the show but because it was an event to share with my wife. Thinking long term, we are both adamant that our children will not be raised by television, Wii, or i-anything. It is not that they are bad in and of themselves (I love my iPhone), it is more that we desire our entertainment to be a family event, something that brings us together as a whole. We will teach our children how to drink responsibly when they come of age, just as we will teach them how to watch TV responsibly. We might even read a book or two to them.

In conclusion, I have found keeping a media log very helpful and a bit damning at the same time. Just like when my wife made me start keeping a budget, I found I am not as well off as my pride leads me to believe. I sit here as a consumer. This consumer though has started to swim against the current. I am no longer floating by on a river of ignorance believing that what I consume does not matter; don’t look for me to partake in that drunken revelry.

Media Log

April 12^th – April 13^th.

April 12^th

7:05-7:15am Checked stocks/ book sales/ e-mail/ news, on personal computer.

8:04-8:37am Printed Oregon Constitution/ checked stocks/ e-mail/ book rankings at Vet Center.

11:20-11:50am Checked stocks/ e-mail/ read Oregonian online at Vet Center.

1:30-2:00pm Read the Wall St. Journal before class in class room.

7:35-7:42pm Checked e-mail on iPhone while waiting for ride home from classes.

7:46-8:00pm Listened to radio in the car on ride home.

8:55-9:12pm Checked book rankings/ Facebook on home computer.

April 13^th

6:30-6:48am Checked stocks/ book sales/ e-mail/ news, on personal computer.

7:43-8:23am Listened to radio in the car on ride to school/ read Wall St. Journal in

car.

11:30-12:22am Listened to radio in the car on ride home.

1:31-2:20pm Checked stocks/ book sales/ e-mail/ searched for book blogs on

personal computer.

4:03-5:30pm Listened to radio on Pandora (internet radio) at home/ read text book.

5:30-6:15pm Watched “Chuck” on Hulu.com on personal computer.

6:12-9:09pm Listened to radio on Pandora on personal computer.

9:09-10:00pm. Posted Media Log on personal blog/ checked email.

On 061020

061020—that is the numerical expression of modern democracy.

The other night I bravely ignored my growing backlog of homework and left the comforts of my wife’s company to witness our American democracy in action. Senator Jeff Merkley was holding a town hall meeting at Clackamas Community College. I eagerly journeyed across town unsure of what to expect. I have taken every class available to me on the subject of politics, but I have rarely been an actor in the process myself. It was exciting to be taking the next step. It was exciting to be part of a bigger conversation.

I arrived early and started signing the guest log. It was the old habits of a combat veteran that made me case the room. I first noticed the security guard standing prominently by the way. He looked in good shape to run about seven or eight paces before his heart burst from the effort. He looked about as bloated as our national debt. If I were a more devious soul, I knew I would be safe from any consequences. The guard would never catch me or any other without at least a year of Dr. Atkins’ help.

It was easy to see the guard was just a show piece, but that made me really start thinking; why is our democracy’s first impression one of force? Was I really in any danger? Did a simple town hall meeting need a guard? I was not even halfway through signing my name and I already had a sinking feeling about the evening and the health of our democracy.

The next surprise came as I was asked if I wanted to ask any questions of the Senator. I was a bit taken back--I had not really thought of any great questions yet, having just only signed my name to the guest log. I had naively assumed I would sit and listened before deciding if I wanted to voice any questions. Not that night; I was pleasantly informed by a man in a suit that questions were by lottery. If I wanted to ask a question, I would have to have a raffle ticket. I was given the sage advice of, “Better safe than sorry, might as well take a ticket.” My raffle number was 061020.

I took my seat early and was rewarded with a good view halfway up and in the middle. The setting was absolutely Shakespearean. The meeting was being held in the school’s theater of all places. The soft lighting, raised seating, and modern stage, all silently witnessed to the fact I was about to watch theatrics, not democracy. The smooth jazz playing even set a relaxing mood as we waited.

I looked around the room as a slow trickle of participants filtered in. The most disheartening fact of the whole evening was the sea of gray hair. I could have counted the people under thirty with out using any toes. The majority of the crowd looked over fifty and a handful looked like they had flown with Eddie Rickenbacker. Where was my generation? Do they even care? Modern Warfare 2 has a pause button I think. I did, in the end, recognize a few of my fellow students of politics. The reason was not extra credit but they, like me, have been shocked into concern by a slightly combative political science teacher who, to his credit, is a voice that breaks through the clutter and make one actually think in college.

To get on with the evening though, Sen. Merkley was nicely introduced by our town mayor. I must admit I enjoyed watching him speak. It was the same feeling as watching a great ballplayer hit it out of the park or seeing Pete Townshend windmill on his guitar. I was watching a professional in action; he only misquoted the US Constitution once. He worked the crowed with a soft delivery and easy smile. He deflected anger smoothly and turned every question into a speaking point for his cause. He was the most articulate person in the room; the poor souls who went up to ask questions never really stood a chance no matter how upset they were.

True to my family’s luck, my number was never called. I had thought up many questions to ask while Sen. Merkley talked, but my chance never came. 061020 was just an unlucky number I guess. My evening started out with excitement, but ended being more like a crap shoot. What I witnessed of democracy made me think more of the time my dad took me to a casino than anything else. It only lacked a good Elvis impersonator. Democracy was reduced to a Powerball ticket. I left that evening thinking more and more about how my teacher describes our democracy as having a cancer. I also thought a lot about my desire to become a surgeon.

On Captain Kirk

As a boy I was always inspired by heroes; one of my favorite heroes was Captain James T. Kirk of Star Trek. He saved not only the world and our galaxy but even the space-time continuum and humpback whales. My love of adventure and science fiction grew from watching Captain Kirk in classic films like the Wrath of Khan or the 1967 TV episode the “Arena.” There is nothing like a good mix of adventure and futuristic Sci-Fi technology.

One thing that always amazed me about Captain Kirk was his communicator. If you watch the early episodes from the sixties, you will see his communicator looked and acted exactly like a cell phone. I would even argue we have cell phones today because of Star Trek. The communicator was exactly like a cell phone in all but one aspect. It never seemed to go off at the wrong moment. It never, ever started blasting “Who let the dogs out?” and Captain Kirk never told his arch-enemy Kahn, “Hold on a sec, I have to get this.”

It seems absurd to imagine our heroes acting in such ways, but we ourselves don’t have any problem with it. We, as a society, need to rethink how we use communicators. Our cell phones interrupt in class, at work, and during church. I am as guilty as the next in having bad cell phone etiquette. What is worse, I never thought much of it, or if I did give it a second thought, I justified my actions. It is very easy to think a few interruptions are just the price we pay for progress. No one wants to be using strings and cans to communicate, and I am in no way an old curmudgeon who shuns technology. I love my iPhone. I have come to realize, however, how we use our cell phones reflects a bit about who we are. It is an ugly reflection.

To focus in on the problem, let us examine cell phone use in the classroom. We can use it as a microcosm of the bigger picture. On the surface the problem seems to be one of manners. Manners are a lost virtue in our society. They are the rules and customs we use to interact with each other and the medium for transferring respect. They are the visible manifestation of our ethics and values. Cell phones ringing out in class is a clear indicator that there is no longer a social norm forbidding interruptions in class. This in turn reflects how much we value education and our fellow students; we don’t respect either by the way we use our cell phones.

The simple do not see the value in manners. They only see the rules. “Don’t put your elbows on the table”, “Don’t wear your hat indoors”, “Don’t use your phone during class.” These rules become a random collection of archaic social restrictions; a bunch of rules made by old people who don’t want anyone to have fun. Peter Leithart says that, “Manners have a moral dimension but not all rules of manner are moral laws.” The simple understand the second part of his statement, but not the first. They don’t understand the moral dimension and only think of the rules.

There is a legitimate danger in one-for-one correlations of morals and manners, but that is not the ditch we find ourselves in. Manners, almost non-existent today, serve a deeper social purpose than the simple can understand. They are not a form of blind legalism enforced by the old. They guard us against fracturing important social bonds and allow us to think of others more than ourselves. They are, at the same time, both the window dressings and the steel girders of a healthy society.

The deeper we investigate the problem of cell phone use in class, the more we see it is not only about rudeness and manners. The heart of the problem is a much more dangerous unhealthy self-centeredness. I came to this conclusion not by any great deep revelation but by observing friends posting on Facebook while in class. Skip past how rude and distracting this is for the rest of the class, it was the messages they wrote that troubled me. The messages were all about how bad the class was and how the teacher was wrong about this or that. Do you see the danger?

The student has inverted the relationship with the teacher. The student, instead of respecting his own inferiority and having a humble thirst to learn, has become the judge and ruler over the class. It is no longer about learning what you can from a teacher; it is about telling all your friends about how un-entertained you are. A rude misuse of a cell phone and the ability to text allows everything to become about the student. They short circuit their own learning process even though “…it is the duty of the pupil to show himself teachable” according to Quintilian.

The classroom is not the only place this happens. I know of more than one friend who is constantly texting in all social occasions. Texting becomes more important than the people they are actually socializing with. This is because texting allows them to be the center of their own attention; a conversation with others does not. The text is addressed to them and them only; they always get to dominate the conversation. This is what I mean by an unhealthy self-centeredness, a simple inability to see past one’s own self and the consequences of actions. Our daily use of cell phones exposes both our aversion to manners and our deep rooted selfishness.

The old soldier in me has an easy fix. Outlaw all phones in class; simple, easy and effective. Enforce manners! If people cannot govern themselves the school should do it for them. Flog them all. We would be better off if the school had more backbone and the discipline to put an end to this rude behavior. I could learn more without interruptions, and students who text during class might be forced to pay attention.

The budding political scientist in me looks deeper and knows more rules will only cure the symptoms and not the root cause of our problem. Outlawing phones in class will not cause self-centered, simple minded people to think outside of their narrow horizons. The way to get people to expand their social consciousness is to be social with them. By building healthy relationships, we can teach people to look past themselves. By being good friends, we can teach the true worth of manners. The real fix is outside the class room.

How we use our cell phones is a reflection of our values. Changing our phone habits will improve our classrooms only slightly. If we take a deeper approach and strive to improve our social values, then we will see real benefits. The golden rule will not be like El Dorado, an unattainable dream. The gap between who we are and who our heroes are might not be as vast as we think. The future of Captain Kirk and communicators that don’t interrupt might not be so fantastic. So let’s turn off our cell phones and see what adventures the future might hold.

On Blame

As I look around my world with a writer’s curiosity, I cannot help but see an ugly expression of man’s lower qualities—shifting blame. It can be called by many names: pointing fingers, shirking, dodging, fudging, skirting; it is all the same thing, transferring the responsibility of your own actions onto someone or something else. When we do it in the realm of family and finances, it can lead us down a ruinous path. It also might be the most sublime and seductive character flaw a man can have. After all, it’s not your fault you have the flaw.

If you wholeheartedly agree and have consequently already started thinking of someone you know who fits the mold of a shirker (a family member or politician?), then you have missed the direction of my observation. We all know blame shifting is a moral quicksand, yet we still do it; this phenomenon is worth some thought. If it is quicksand, why are we all busy building sandcastles? Why is our collective lack of personal responsibility destroying our families and economy? I, sadly, can’t say I am different. Why do I dodge blame? Why don’t I take more responsibility for my own actions? We are like children pulling at loose strings, unaware that we are unraveling the very fabric of our society.

The biggest thread we unravel belongs to family. This has been on my mind lately because my wedding ring is about forty days old. I boldly got married in the age of no-fault divorces. The very name of these divorces implies shifting blame and not taking responsibility. In this case we shift the blame by saying there is no blame. What a dangerous idea. No one is held responsible for breaking the vows with which they bound themselves. I am not arguing for a world without divorce; however, the very ease with which we can break our covenant, our contract, our promise to each other might be related to the epidemic levels of divorce we have in this nation. Think for moment of your friends who have been through a divorce and the sad results. I know only a small handful of friends who have benefited from divorce; for the majority it is a painful, bitter experience. Maybe we should rethink what responsibility means in marriage.

Another area where responsibility is shirked is in the realm of money. Unless you have been studying earthworm burrowing patterns in Mongolia for the last few years, you are probably aware of the economic crisis we face as a nation. Everyone is quick to point the finger at the cause; few are quick to say they are at fault. I am amazed at how many times I have heard someone say, “The bank sold me a house I could not afford.” What an astounding statement. Why is it not, “I bought a house I could not afford,” or, “I bought a new car I could not afford,” or, “I bought a plasma TV I could not afford”? Our economy is a house of cards built on debt. We act surprised at a collapse in order to make it easier in shifting the blame away from our own spending habits. We look to blame the banks because they do have mistakes they need to be held accountable for. Unfortunately, while blaming the banks might improve our banking system, it will do nothing to improve our own economic happiness. Blaming others will not help us pay a single bill or stop that next frivolous credit card purchase.

This was very true in my own life. At the age of twenty-seven, I had sixteen thousands dollars of debt to my name and not much else. My money and my future were not my own; they belonged to my debt. As much as I wanted to marry my girlfriend, I could not. I had no means to do so. All the blaming in the world would not get me any closer to my goal. My family and my economics both suffered until I took responsibility for my actions. There was no one left to blame but myself.

My story has a happy ending; I got a job overseas, paid off my debt, and married my girlfriend by the age of twenty-nine. I now have close to three thousand dollars in a savings account and am going to school full time—yet my story is not over.

As I come to a close, I realize I wrote this as much for myself as for any reader. Maybe that is part of the solution. Maybe we need to reflect on ourselves more than on others. Maybe we should be concerned more with the outcome of our own actions then with finding ways to blame others. If my marriage is to avoid divorce, and my finances to remain healthy, I must stand diligently vigilant against the easy path of seeking others to blame for my choices. I find no greater solution then, “It is my fault.”

On Home (A speech)

My favorite place is home; home—not an exotic location or a mythical land. I can’t tell you about Las Vegas or the mountains of Mordor. I can’t spin a wild adventure for you; I can only tell you of mundane, unromantic home.

My love of home started early. My childhood was filled with the importance of home. It was not that we had a picturesque stately home or the all-American farm house. In fact, we moved all the time. One of my most prominent childhood memories is the moving van and boxes as far as the eye could see. One year we lived in a large house with a large pound, another year we lived in my grandma’s basement. What made home important was our family. It was strong family that defined my childhood, not the houses we passed through.

While my childhood built a foundation, it was not till I traveled to the dark heart of the Middle East that I truly understood the blessings of home. I still remember clearly our platoon Sergeant ordering us all to head back to the house at the end of our patrols. It was one of the most meaningful word phrases of my life—“Head back to the house.” Each and every day we would go out into a city ruled by violence and hate. Each and every day we all tried make it, “back to the house.” Some days it was a goal unaccomplished. After a year of days, those of us who were left returned again to our homes; I made it back to my house. Only when death is a constant companion do you understand the safety of home.

Today, though, if you ask me why home is my favorite place, it not because of memories and feelings of safety. It is much more personal and simple. Now when I come home after a long day of school I find dinner waiting for me. My home is not filled with silent books and abstract internet searches. I find conversation, interesting and complex. Old chores like washing dishes become an exercise in companionship. My house breathes life and personality; my own house has become a home. Home is where my wife is. My favorite place is home.

On Sheep

Ah…Facebook, you are a constant muse. If my pen runs dry I can just look to you for inspiration and wisdom.

I started noticing women posting colors yesterday. I thought nothing of it; I assumed it was some meaningless posting (like song lyrics without context). My wife dug a little deeper and informed me that it was for a cause. Women were posting their bra color to raise awareness for breast cancer. I let it go until I saw my own sister’s bra color on Facebook. I decided enough is enough. Please allow me to vent my anger over this phenomenon.

I am already aware of cancer. I know a friend who has breast cancer. My nephew almost died of cancer and my grandmother did. To me it is not some trite cause you can support by telling me your underwear color. Can anything be more insulting, trivializing such a heartbreaking disease? Sorry. You cannot get to feel good about helping a cause unless you do something concrete to help. Please give money or time to help fight the disease not meaningless gestures. Don’t cheapen yourselves or the pain felt by many families with empty words. I know what it’s like to hear people say, “Support the troops” and watch as they go about there daily lives as if nothing is different. I hate cheap and empty words.

The deeper anger I feel is how these postings are degrading to women. Moreover, the women who are degrading themselves don’t even notice. Can you only express yourself through your sexuality? It seems so as I read over and over each girl telling the world the color and style of her bra. Think about this from my point of view. I will turn thirty this summer. I do not want to think about what bra a seventeen-year-old girl is wearing. It is disgusting for me to think of such things, yet there it is out in a public arena for all to dwell on. I can understand a seventeen-year-old girl not understanding her sexuality because it is new to her. What really irks me is how older women of wisdom and stature, who should guard against such foolishness, have also posted. You should know better. You should know the power of your sexuality.

I want to get this point across because I will not be part of degrading women. I can’t stand it. I will further explain the mind of a man for women who think this is no big deal; after all, it’s just a bra. Women, after posting your bra color, the next man you engage in conversation (even when you have something important to say like asking for cancer research donations) will be thinking to himself: “I wonder what color her bra is today. I wonder if it has lace. I wonder what her nipples look like.” And don’t go thinking it will be some sleaze ball creep either; it will be a man of character. He probably doesn’t even really want to think of you sexually but he is designed to. The more character a man has the more he appreciates beauty and there is no greater beauty then a woman’s form.

A man of character has to deny himself until the proper time to enjoy such great beauty. Some men are better at this than others. When sexually intimate images like a bra color is given out, they spark the imagination of a man. I don’t excuse a man of his actions, but it seems to me that Facebook posters don’t understand the consequences of theirs. Don’t make it any harder for a man to hold you in respect and honor.

Just so I don’t sound too harsh and sexist. What of all the boys who posted jokes or fake colors of their own? They are the fools. They trivialize the very people they should honor, and degrade those they should protect. They are not even worth the time it takes to write about them.

I thought it was very telling that one poster kept posting “SUPORT THE CAUSE” over and over any time a color was added to the collage of immaturity. At least someone understood the people were just acting as sheep following those in front of them. If this can happen on Facebook, what of our electoral process? What of our democracy?

On War

The problem with explosions is that I participated in one, more than one actually. If you really want to know, one almost killed me on New Year’s Day, 2005. It was a few seconds late and a few shrapnel pieces short of the ending credits for me. It did hurt like hell though and I had a gimp limp for about a month. Someone almost got that prize money for giving me the hard good-bye.

This all came searing back into to my brain while watching Sherlock Holmes in the theater. It was the brilliantly-filmed, slow-motion, multiple explosion scene that made me think. While I should go into a long diatribe about how real explosions don’t let you get up and run through them, I won’t. What struck my mind, as I watched the flames reach out and grasp for the hero, was how explosions—the premier expression of violence in our day—have become our entertainment. Is this the price we pay for fighting wars year after year without end? Our entertainment becomes confused with our nightly news? The news and movies are filled with the same explosions therefore they must be the same. Maybe I read too much into it all but I have had a very intimate experience with a very real explosion. I hope you only watch the romanticized version on the big screen. Even more, I hope you can still distinguish between the two. I don’t want to live in a world where you can’t.

Yet what really bothered me as I watched the story unfold is how our hero is also a simple expression of violence. Sherlock Holmes, one of fiction’s great intellectual heroes, is reduced to using his logic and deductive skill to maim and bully—we call that cool. He is reduced to a back room brawler who destroys out of boredom. Does he fight evil? No, just any weaker than himself for a night's sport. Has man’s ability to think become only expressible through violence? Is that what we have become as American men? What ever happened to the idea of the common good and our heroes standing up for the weak? Why don’t our heroes use intellect to create more and destroy less? I am so tired of the anti-hero. Can I please have one hero I can look up to and strive to be like?

I could go on about this more but I am tired of asking questions; I want to go eat some popcorn and watch Gran Torino.