Define "Art"

As an occasional student of art history, I strove for years either to discover or to create an acceptable definition of art. Google "art, definition of" and you will learn that I am by no means alone in my quest. And with no more or no less success.

Art is "the class of objects subject to aesthetic criteria" seems to me a cop-out, like saying "philosophy is the totality of topics examined by philosophers." It doesn't say what art is.

Speaking of philosophers, don't go there to find a definition of art lest you find your brain twisted like a pretzel. [See Stanford University.] On the other hand, a less rigorous approach, which took up an entire book, defined art as "making special." Uhh, did I miss something?

Two definitions of art come close to the one I have settled on as my own. Tolstoy defined art as "a use of indirect means to communicate from one person to another." And John Ruskin defined art as "communication by artifice of an essential truth that could only be found in nature." [See Wikipedia.]

My definition: Art is a message to you from your own core which is mediated by someone else. This is true even if you yourself are the artist. And it follows that if a work of art doesn't speak to you, it is for you not art.

And there it is, to be analyzed, categorized, and criticized.

≈ ≈ ≈

Update # 11: The recuperative process

I met with Dr. Tyler on Monday, Dec. 12th, and --unfortunately-- again on Monday, Dec. 19th. Though it looked good to me, he was unhappy with the way the incision was healing. It seems an unhealed tunnel had been left under the scar tissue on top, so he called me back into surgery and cut through to the tunnel and rejoined the sides of the incision, which is now covered by a "wound-vac".

My wound-vac is a 6 X 6-inch sheet of plastic with a vacuum pump fitted to its center. The pump works 24/7 to pull the sides of the incision together and remove excess bodily fluids. So... I'm currently attached to a 3-pound portable pump which hangs from a shoulder strap. And will be for the next four weeks.

Sometimes the recuperative process seems endless! But... I'm still trying to be a patient patient. And keep my sense of humor.

Ever thankful for your support, I am...

JR~Rocky~John~Dad~Brother~Son

≈ ≈ ≈

Update # 10: Whipple and beyond...

The Whipple procedure was performed as scheduled on Wednesday, Nov. 9th and the oncological surgeon, Dr. Tyler, related that all went well. I spent another 14 days at Duke, arriving back in Waxhaw on Thanksgiving eve. Unfortunately I was unable to enjoy the feast since my new "plumbing" is still struggling with how to process food. At the moment, the only thing remotely palatable is peanut butter on a saltine. Go figure.

The incision is healing with help from twice-daily dressing changes by the angel who married my brother. Both Diane and Larry have watched over me with a measure of grace and concern for which I shall be eternally grateful. God bless family!

Next milestone is an appointment at Duke with Dr. Tyler on Dec. 12th. Presuming all goes well, I expect the follow-up chemo will begin soon.

Once again, I deeply appreciate your prayers, good vibes, caring thoughts, cards and letters. I can feel your support. Just knowing you are there for me gives me hope for a continuing positive prognosis.

~ in peace and love for all of you ~

≈ ≈ ≈

Update # 9: Whipple on!

I apologize for the lack of communication of late, but I suffered a setback of sorts. The stent inserted in my bile duct in Tucson in July became clogged, which resulted in a return of the jaundice symptoms. The stent was removed at Presbyterian Hospital in Charlotte and eventually replaced at Duke University Hospital in Durham.

However, things are still on schedule. The Whipple procedure is set for Wednesday, Nov. 9th at Duke University Hospital. I am to call the evening before to receive an exact check-in time, probably somewhere between 4:00 and 5:00 AM.

I am already looking beyond the surgery to a speedy recovery and a return to some semblance of normalcy. Please keep me in your thoughts and prayers–especially this coming Wednesday morning.

≈ ≈ ≈ Dona nobis pacem ≈ ≈ ≈

The news is good!

Get well card from grand niece, Kessa (11 yrs)

The CT scan at Duke revealed that the cancer has not spread and the oncological surgeon pronounced the pc "mass" resectable, i.e., removable. I thanked Dr. Tyler for taking my case and told him that if he keeps statistics on patient survivability, I intend to increase his batting average and make him and his team look good!

Dr. Tyler seemed pleased with the way I had progressed through the radiation/chemo therapy and noted that this should presage fewer post-surgical complications. Ergo, I may not need a post-op weep tube for a leaking pancreas nor a feeding tube directly to my stomach.

In my fight against pc, I am determined, but not desperate. I cannot grieve over the prospect of my passing. My life is just not that important in the greater scheme of things. Though I could wish for an "individual awareness" in an afterlife, I will be satisfied for my spirit, my life force simply to return to its source.

Meanwhile, I intend to carry on for as long as I can and work on my growing "bucket list". :-)

≈ ≈ ≈

Update # 7: Moving On

Bell of freedom!

Monday, Oct. 3rd was a milestone in my "pc" saga. I received the final treatment of the five weeks of radiation/chemo therapy! Yes! I'll miss my caregivers [see photo] but won't miss the daily 25-mile trip to the hospital and back, nor will I miss the unsettling side-effects.

My daughter Jennifer said the side-effects I experienced–nausea, loss of appetite, altered food tastes, indigestion–sounded like being pregnant! OMG, how do women tolerate that for 9 months?!

Next? A trip to Durham on Monday, Oct. 10th, to meet with the oncological surgeon at Duke for a CT scan and the decision regarding if and when to schedule the Whipple procedure. 

Several of you have related tales of folks who've survived the Whipple procedure for five years or more. Thanks for that encouragement! There's lots I hope to accomplish yet.

In peace, love, and wonder,

John/Rocky

P.S.
Join the movement to save our country from political corruption and corporate greed. Read and support MoveOn.org and Nation of Change.

≈ ≈ ≈

Update # 6: Stuck in Time

Unlike Billy Pilgrim, I'm stuck in time. Somewhere between purgatory, limbo, and the twilight zone. I'd love to become unstuck and see what the future holds for me. I'm ready to resume my journey but must live with the uncertainty regarding what's around the next corner. So it is, I suppose, for all of us. C'est la Vie!  Paraphrasing Zorba, "Life is uncertain. Only death is not. To be alive is to undo your belt and face the uncertainty."

Easy for you, Zorba!

If I am to become a long-term survivor of pc, the Whipple procedure is a must. But the surgery will be performed only if the radiation and chemo stop the cancer in its tracks and shrink the tumor. So, I wait.

The preliminary therapy began in earnest on Monday morning, Aug 29th. The chemo consists of four seemingly innocent, peach-colored pills taken twice daily. I hesitated before ingesting that first dose of toxic medicine (oxymoron?), but knew it had to be done. Down the hatch!

Later that morning, the first radiation treatment. Another oxymoron? Isn't  radiation known to cause cancer? So how does it treat cancer? By giving the cancer cancer?  It's a mystery!

Still... so far, so good. Among the long and frightful list of possible reactions to the peachy pills, I've only experienced a mild nausea–for which I have another pill. As for the radiation, no reaction and I've made several new friends–the hospital security guard who waves and opens the gate to the special parking, the smiling secretary at the radiology department, and half a dozen cheerful radiology technicians.

However, the 45-minute drive to and from the hospital five days a week is like going back to work (shudder). Never mind, my "work day" is only 20 minutes long. :-)

≈ ≈ ≈

Update # 5: Ready...Set...Go!

     Two appointments last week.
On Monday, a renal scan to check on the functioning of my kidneys. On Friday, a CT scan to map out the position of the "pancreatic mass" for the radiation treatment. I now have several cross-hair targets drawn in Magic Marker on my torso that would make me very nervous if Sarah Palin were in the neighborhood. :-)

     One appointment this week.
The radiation treatment "dry run" is set for Friday, with the actual treatments, both chemo and radiation, to begin on Monday, Aug 29th. The chemo consists of four pills twice daily. The bottle is marked TOXIC, which gives one pause...

The radiation is beamed in from front, back, and both sides so as to cause minimum harm at the entry points. The idea is that the four beams intersect at the "mass" causing it maximum harm. Makes sense to me.

Otherwise all is well. I am enjoying being near family again. I can visit with my 92 year-old mom and play golf with sons Jack and Andrew. Larry and Diane treat me like royalty and the dogs, Marley & Izzy, are always good company. And it's comforting knowing the rest of the family are nearby.

Coming soon: The joys of rad/chemo therapy.

P.S.
Thanks for the reading recommendations. Special thanks to those who sent books.

≈ ≈ ≈  

Update # 4: Rage

                      Do not go gentle into that good night,

                      Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
                       Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Above is the first stanza of a well-known poem by Dylan Thomas. The complete poem is available here. The poem was a reaction to his father's failing health at the close of life, but the clear intent of the poem is to encourage all of us to grapple with the Grim Reaper whatever the source of the threat.

At present, with no pain and few symptoms, my pc is just a concept–a construct in the minds of doctors, a smudge on the image of my pancreas, a treasonous traitor within. Even when the radiation and chemo treatments begin next week, I expect my initial rage will be against the side effects of the treatment. I will have to remind myself to focus my wrath on the cancer itself. :-)

I have decided to have the preliminary rad/chemo treatment here in Charlotte. There are to be five and a half weeks of rad/chemo followed by a CT scan to evaluate the effects, several weeks of R & R to recover from the treatment and, if all goes well, the Whipple procedure at Duke Cancer Center in Durham. The surgery would be followed by four more months of chemo treatment.

The die is cast. I wait and anticipate.

"This too shall pass" --John, JR, Rocky

P.S.
If you've read any good books lately, I'd love your recommendations. As the nausea and fatigue kick in during the treatment, I expect to spend a lot of time reading.

≈ ≈ ≈

Update # 3: Pancreaticoduodenectomy

[The gist of the first two updates are contained in the previous post to this blog. See below.]

This past Monday, Aug 8th, I traveled to the Duke Clinic in Durham, NC, where I had a CT scan and individual appointments with the three doctors assigned to my case.

[Medical details follow. The squeamish among you are permitted to skip this update altogether. :-]

The good news is that my prognosis falls within the 15% for which the Whipple procedure is an option. Yippee! This means that the cancer has not developed very far, it appears not to have spread to other organs, and the tumor has not wrapped itself around a mass of blood vessels which would make removal difficult or infeasible.

At Duke, the Whipple surgical procedure is preceded by both radiation and chemotherapy for a trinity of reasons: (1) Many patients experience difficulties after the surgery which prevents them from receiving immediate chemotherapy to "clean up" any cancer thereafter. With the Duke protocol, patients get the advantage of the chemotherapy beforehand. (2) If the cancer continues to grow and spread while under attack from the rads and chems, the surgery is unlikely to be successful. (3) If the cancer responds to the therapy by shrinking, it makes the surgeon's job easier and less invasive–and improves the patient's prognosis.

At the moment I'm trying to decide whether to have the four to five weeks of radiation and chemotherapy performed at a clinic here in Charlotte or at Duke, which would mean relocating the fifth wheel to a campground in Durham. The therapy is a Monday through Friday affair, so my weekends would be free to travel or entertain visitors at the campsite.

Fingers and toes crossed for a victory of the rads & chems over the cancer cells. Getting finger cramps already. Where's my banana?

That's it for now. Update # 4 when I know more.

Thanks again for your support. I can feel it through the ethers...

--John, JR, Rocky...

May you always have love to share, health to spare, and friends that care. –Anon?

Sunday Aug. 7, 2011

When I initiated this blog in December of last year, I did warn readers that I might write about most anything. So far I have posted my own poems and those of others; reviews of books; political rantings; expressions of affection for pets and wildlife; and the progress of my building project in Hereford, AZ.

Well, my life took an unexpected turn a few weeks ago in that I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer (pc–small letters; I refuse to give the malady the dignity of capital letters :-). Until now I have hesitated posting anything here or on FaceBook. To my surprise many of you responded to the pc news with warm support and asked to be kept in the loop. So, I've decided–for better or for worse–to put it "out there" on this blog.

I made peace with my mortality decades ago; still the pc has posed a real test of my philosophy of life. Unless you're an Islamic suicide bomber, death is almost universally regarded with dread and negative emotion. My defense against death is Hopeful Agnosticism, a lazy religion which is practiced without the need for worship, rituals, tithing, or other obligations. However, I do consider myself a spiritual being, perhaps having a "human experience" as Buddhists believe. Reincarnation, dejà vu over and over again until you get it right, is to me much more palatable than the Heaven or Hell duality.

The pc cloud does have multiple silver linings: the malady will not keep me from growing old (already there!) and I won't have to worry about running out of retirement funds. My "bucket list" includes exotic cruises, a round of golf at Pebble Beach, and perhaps a vacation in Bali. I'm determined to become neither morbid nor maudlin about the pc. I've no cause for regrets: au contraire, I've enjoyed a life filled with travel, adventure, and wonderful people.

[NB: Feel free to skip the next three paragraphs of boring medical stuff.]

So, here's the chronology: In late June I noticed symptoms that WebMD indicated might be hepatitis. Since my primary care physician was out of the country, I went to the Emergency Room at the Sierra Vista Regional Health Center. Blood tests for hepatitis were negative and a preliminary diagnosis indicated a blockage in the bile duct of my gall bladder.

Okay, I could deal with that. I figured they'll remove my gall bladder and that's that. What I didn't understand is that the bile duct is actually a part of the liver and is closely connected with the pancreas. The blockage was caused by a "mass" (read: tumor) in the head of the pancreas pressing against the bile duct. Biopsy of tissue from the mass was found to be malignant. Ultimate diagnosis: little pc (pancreatic cancer). Hmmm...

On July 18th, a doctor at the University (of Arizona) Medical Center (UMC) inTucson installed a stent at the site of the blockage. I have never been in any pain and the stent eventually provided relief from the hepatitis symptoms. My appetite has returned and my energy level increased. I have lost 25 lbs which greatly improves my appearance in a bathing suit.

On receiving the pc diagnosis, I decided without hesitation to return to NC to be near family. My son Jack flew to AZ on July 24th, and we drove my truck and fifth wheel across country, arriving at my brother Larry's home in Waxhaw, NC, on Sunday, July 31st.

Duke University Medical Center has accepted me as a patient and I'll have my first meeting with the doctors there on Monday, August 8th. I will post an update when I return.

Thanks for all your warm wishes, kind thoughts, and prayers.

–John Roquemore Floyd, Jr. (aka JR, aka Rocky)

≈ ≈ ≈

Spiders on the Trail

Once again in North Carolina, I've resumed the walks with my brother's gentle Rottweiler, Marley, which means dealing with spiders whose webs crisscross our wooded trail every few yards. There are of course spiders in Arizona, too, some of them quite daunting --tarantulas, wolf spiders, and the dreaded brown recluse-- but they live in burrows and do not build elaborate webs at eye level across hiking trails.

I have a great deal of respect for spiders, not just for their ability to inflict pain and in rare cases death to humans, but because of the beauty and intricacy of their webs. They are fishers of insects, casting nets in the air. As a child, I watched garden spiders build beautiful orb webs in the windows of our house to catch the bugs attracted by the light on our side of the window. Clever spiders.

Beautiful as a well-constructed web might be, they're a nuisance to hikers and runners. I always carry a small branch with me to clear the way, leaving the spiders all a twitter about the "big one" that got away. As they are critical to the spider's survival, I do not wantonly destroy webs and will take a detour around a web on the trail if I notice it before my branch takes it down.

I suppose if I were a real man, I would walk without the spider branch. But beautiful as they may be, there's still something creepy about a spider's web...

≈ ≈ ≈

Little House in the Desert

View from the East

The Little House in the Desert reached a milestone yesterday with the lifting of the  containers onto the support columns. The crane arrived at 06:45 AM and within an hour the big steel boxes were in place atop the columns.

View from the North

It was magical! The containers had been sitting in place for nearly two years and suddenly they were where I had envisioned them. It's still a shock when I first look out in the morning and see them there, reaching up to the sky.

View from the South

I did take lots of video of the event, but will need a few days to edit and upload to this blog. Stay tuned...

≈ ≈ ≈

Wildfire!

As of today, Sunday June 26th, officials say the Monument Fire south of Sierra Vista is 75% contained. Total containment is not expected until mid-July, but it seems certain the danger has passed. For the first time in two weeks no smoke can be seen wafting over the profile of the Huachuca Range to the West.

Cross survived ~ Chapel burned

The most anyone can venture regarding the origin of the fire is that it can be blamed on extremely dry conditions and someone's carelessness. Anyone except John McCain, who used the occasion to advance his own political agenda by publicly suggesting that the fire may have been started by illegal aliens. Shame on you, Senator!

Lone Star Cafe survived ~ Ricardo's burned

The fire started around 1:00 PM on Sunday, June 12th. On Monday and Tuesday all that could be seen during the daylight hours were billows of grey smoke, but at night the flames etched across the face of the mountains, creeping like open sore, a cancer. It was an eerie and ominous sight, reminiscent of scenes from the movie Blade Runner.

Plastic fencing doesn't survive well

By Wednesday, the fire was still ten miles away, high up in mountain terrain that made it difficult to combat. And then came the winds. My section of Hereford, six miles from Highway 92 was put under a pre-evacuation order. On Thursday, a Border Patrol agent enlisted to supplement the police informed me in no uncertain terms that I should pack up and evacuate as soon as possible.

Devastation everywhere

Whatever the cause of the fire, its effect was compounded exponentially by the wind. At near gale force the wind worked like a huge bellows, fueling and pushing the fire-line faster than a man can run.

According to one report a 10-ft wall of flames leapt over a line of firefighters who were trying to prevent the fire from crossing Highway 92 near Ash Canyon. Instead of fighting the conflagration head on, they found themselves chasing after it.

I  was permitted to return after five days. The aftermath: fifty-seven homes and five businesses destroyed, forty-seven square miles charred, 10,000 people evacuated, millions spent fighting the fire. Luckily no serious injuries or deaths. I am very thankful to have been spared the devastation you see in these pictures.

≈ ≈ ≈

Unhappy Trails

The so-called "Monument Fire," still burning today (June 20th) in the Huachuca Mountains, has devastated some wonderful hiking country–Ash and Carr Canyons. Miller Canyon with its peak of 9,466 ft, the highest in the Huachucas. As I ruminated over my personal loss resulting from the fire, I recalled a hike with my now ex-wife Judy.

As usual in our gender-crossed relationship, she chose the hike, Joe's Canyon Trail, and led the way. We parked at the Visitor's Center at base of the Coronado National Memorial, near where the Monument Fire would begin, and headed toward Montezuma Pass–3.1 miles away and 1,345 ft up. We didn't bring much with us, our day packs each with a bottle of water. Judy said we would only do part of the trail. I should have known better. We never planned to hike as far as Judy's singular determination would ultimately take us.

About half-way we ran out of water, but Judy insisted we press on. She was certain there was water at Montezuma Pass and since we were half-way, what would be the point of turning back? Never mind that the next half of the ascent was probably steeper than what we had accomplished thus far or that we'd really only hiked a quarter of the way since we'd have to turn around at the top and make our way back down the mountain.

     An historical note: The Montezuma Castle National Monument
     near Camp Verde in Northern Arizona is the last known habitat
     of the Sinagua, a pre-Columbian people who disappeared
     around 1425 AD. Their Spanish name derives from the fact that
     they survived in a land "without water". It was therefore altogether
     fitting and proper that, on this day at least, Montezuma Pass was  
     sin agua!

Seriously dehydrated, we did not finish the 290 ft ascent to the top of Coronado Peak (6,864 ft) nor did we dally to take in the view at the pass, but immediately began our descent along the winding dirt road that most people drive up to pay tribute to Coronado's memory. We had high hopes of engaging someone in a vehicle from whom to beg water or a ride down the mountain–perhaps a Forest Service Ranger or Border Patrol Agent.

No luck. It was middle-of-the-week, off-season and we were seriously on our own. We trudged a mile or so down the dusty, twisting road and then… a miracle! Judy produced two ripe plums from her day pack!

I like plums okay, but I made love to that one! I caressed it and kissed it and eventually devoured it with my passion. I believe to this day that those two plums are the reason we didn't become debilitatingly dehydrated. Though providing only a modest amount of moisture, the sweet juices of the fruit encouraged the cells of our bodies with the hope of more to come and permitted us to stumble down the mountain to safety.

It will be many years before Joe's Canyon Trail will be again as it was, but until then it will endure in our memories along with the trails of Ash, Carr and Miller Canyons.

 ≈ ≈ ≈

Monument Fire in AZ

I am currently a "refugee" from the Monument Fire near Sierra Vista, AZ. On Thursday last the fire reached within two miles of my property in Hereford. The Cochise County Sheriff's office issued a mandatory evacuation of Hereford, so I hitched up the fifth wheel and drove to the Turquoise Valley RV Park in Naco (near Bisbee, AZ).

The Monument Fire, which started near the Mexican border at the Coronado Monument, has destroyed over fifty homes and several businesses, including a couple of my favorite restaurants. It has also "displaced" an estimated 10,000 who have been evacuated from their homes, most of whom do not have wheel on their houses as I do.

The fire has burned its way from the Monument at the foot of the Huachuca Mountains through some beautiful hiking country in Carr and Miller Canyons. For more information and pictures, go to Facebook > Monument Fire in AZ.

 (Photos by Jim Adams)

≈ ≈ ≈

Pilgrim's Progress

At last, current pictures of my home-in-the-desert project! Sorry for the delay but work on the project was–as they say–overcome by events for several weeks.

The masonry work is essentially complete. The columns are filled with concrete and steel, ready for the two containers to be set in place.

Next, the scary part. lifting the 5,000 lb containers onto the block columns, which will be done by crane.

P.S.
I've not read Pilgrim's Progress, but like John Wayne I've always liked the word pilgrim, perhaps because I once had a girlfriend named Fay Pilgrim. I wonder where she is now… After looking over the synopsis of Pilgrim's Progress on Wikipedia, I'm not likely ever to read it. If I'm in the mood for religious allegory, I'll re-read Herman Hesse's Siddhartha or watch The Poseidon Adventure (1972 version). Click here for analysis.

≈ ≈ ≈ 

Sound Familiar?

    A quote:
            These days the chief executives in America move from
            company to company lightly, vote themselves bonuses
            just before bankruptcy, sell out the retirement fund,
            and so on.

Care to guess when this observation was made? Last week? Last year? Would you believe more than twenty years ago, say 1990? The quote was a passing comment in Robert Bly's seminal book, Iron John.

       Here's another:
               The best lack all conviction, while the worst
                      Are full of passionate intensity.

Sound familiar, like maybe Jon Stewart's analysis of our current political environment? Democrats fiddle away while Republicans rant about the deficit. Notice the poetic format? It's from a poem titled, The Second Coming by William Butler Yeats, published in 1916.

       Yet another:
              Those who don't know history are destined to repeat it.
                                                              –Edmund Burke

Hmmm... I don't know when Burke wrote this, but he died in 1797. Get the picture?

Remember "Where have all the flowers gone?" The Kingston Trio, 1961. Pete Seeger's verse was about the futility of wars but could well have been about the abuse of power. The refrain at the end of each verse asked, "When will they ever learn, when will they ever learn?"

When will we ever learn? The answer to this question has been blowing in the wind for fifty years. Isn't it time we finished forever with war? Isn't it time we insisted our leaders in business and government take the high road and do what's best for the country and its people rather than securing their own fortunes? Where are the "philosopher kings" of industry and government? Where are the true stewards of the country's welfare? They are sorely needed to shepherd us around the perils of the past.

≈ ≈ ≈

Little House in the Desert

The picture, taken yesterday, shows the current status of my project in Hereford, AZ. The grey block columns will support the two cargo containers that will form the second floor of the small two-story abode. The columns are half way to their eventual height of 8 feet. All the grey block columns have 5/8-inch steel reinforcement and will be filled to the top with concrete to give good support for the 5,000-lb containers.

The tan block walls are "dry stacked" and waiting the application of surface bonding cement (SBC). The SBC, applied just 1/8- to 1/4-inch thick, contains fiberglass filaments which hold the blocks in place. The tan block walls are just 32 inches high and will support 2 x 4 framing up to the underneath of the containers.

With all that block so close together, the current look is "brick sh*t-house!" Since this valley regularly hosts 40-50 mph winds, a building needs to be substantial. Since all the blocks will be stucco white, I think the final look will be whitewashed Mediterranean under boxcar. :-)

≈ ≈ ≈

Treason

So… if the country doesn't shape up and reduce its debt, Standard & Poor is threatening to downgrade the rating of U.S. Treasury bonds. Why does this bring to mind Joseph Heller's satirical novel Catch-22, in particular Lt. Milo Minderbinder and his M & M Enterprise?

For those of you who haven't read Catch-22 or disremember, Minderbinder was a U.S. Army Mess Officer in Italy during World War II. Much like our current crop, he was an entrepreneur without a conscience; he would do anything to make money. As CEO of M & M, he contracted with the Germans to have his squadron bomb its own air base. Minderbinder was subsequently charged with treason, for which he was exonerated by demonstrating how capitalistically profitable the venture was.

As for Standard and Poor, isn't their pronouncement tantamount to an attack on the U.S. Treasury? Isn't this treason? Isn't this biting the hand that feeds you? What authority has S & P to evaluate U.S. Treasury bonds in the first place? What impertinence? That's like a child rating his mother's brownies.

Furthermore, doesn't S & P bear a heavy burden of responsibility for the current economic mess we're in? Seems I remember S & P was instrumental in propping up the house of cards called "collateralized debt obligations," with their mindless, misbegotten AAA ratings? So long as they were paid, S & P was happy to endorse these stacks of bound-to-fail mortgages. Maybe, just maybe if we weren't in this Great Recession, our governments (local, state, and federal) would have the resources to take care of their current obligations.

And maybe, S & P should back off, sit down and shut up!

Want to know more about S & P's role in the Great Recession? Read All the Devils are Here and/or The Big Short. Better yet, read Catch-22.

≈ ≈ ≈

Prisoners of the Storm

Prisoners of the storm, Dulce and I watch and listen to our keeper. Rivulets form on the window; the wind howls at the corners of our shelter; menacing clouds roll over the mountains to the West, an evil presence that will soon envelope us. Eyes, brown and blue, survey the desert landscape. Bare, squat, thorny mesquite trees wave stiffly in the breeze. Dry grasses bow to the earth sweeping the dense brown crust.  As the rain increases, shallow streams form, obediently following the Tao of least resistance. Birds urgently seek protection in heaps of brush. Though the rain still falls, the sun breaks through–the Devil is beating his wife? A rainbow appears, Roy G. Biv, messenger of God's promise.

She knows none of this. She continues to stare though there is nothing to interest her. No coyotes to growl away; no javelina at which to lunge; no rabbits to race. She has no name for tree or bird. She can sense the rain, but it has no meaning for her. The scene through the window is what it is. At last she grows tired, rests her great jaw on my thigh and sleeps. My experience is surely richer for language to impart meaning which may be preserved and shared. But what wouldn't I give for a glimpse of the world with her innocent brown eyes --a vision pure, unadorned, immediate.

≈ ≈ ≈

January 2010 - Hereford, AZ
(photo by Judy Rupel)

Be prepared!

For an involved reader, a bittersweet literary postpartum follows from the completion of a truly great novel. The resolution of the narrative hangs in the air like the final chord of a symphony. You long for more, already missing the characters, their lives and their emotions. However, upon finishing Cutting for Stone by Abraham Verghese, you may feel washed up, wrung out and left to dry–the book falling to the floor as you collapse with an exhausted sense of relief. The events of the closing chapters of the book are heaped upon the reader in a barrage that evokes a yin and yang of human emotions designed to tear your heart to pieces and leave you choking on your tears.

Love in all its manifestations. Regret and guilt. Passion, betrayal and forgiveness. The righting of old wrongs, returns to sacred places and reunions with cherished loved ones. Mysteries solved, misunderstandings resolved, on and on... There's no way to prepare for the emotional onslaught of this powerful and authentic story.

On rare occasion I will read again a really good book –The Magus, Catch 22, The Sot-Weed Factor, Catcher in the Rye. Though Cutting for Stone is surely one of the finest literary works of this era, it will take a great deal of courage to re-enter its roller-coaster maze of human emotions. I don't think I could take it. Not again...

≈ ≈ ≈

Understanding politics

Every man for himself – Republican

We're all in this together – Democrat

Take your pick!

Wizard or Hermit?

As the Bard of Stratford-upon-Avon noted:
          What's in a name? that which we call a rose
          By any other name would smell as sweet...

All the same, I wager Stratford's wordsmith would agree that, "With a name like Smuckers, it has to be good." And, too, "With a name like Rocky, you gotta be a fighter."

My full name, John Roquemore Floyd, is a copy of my father's with a "Jr." at the end. Just as my son's name is a copy of mine appended with "III". What's in our name? Our heritage, muddled as it is–Welsh, French, and Scots-Irish. Our middle name recalls my paternal grandmother, Maude Roquemore.

My father was called John or Johnny and to avoid confusion, I was given the nickname, Rocky, which I never felt I lived up to. A short and skinny kid, for a time I was given a daily tonic for anemia. Though I eventually grew to 5 ft - 10 inches and 205 lbs, on my first driver's license at 16, I was listed as a puny 5 ft - 6 inches and 149 lbs.

Though I abandoned the nickname after high school, it did serve me well on one occasion. I played trumpet in the band. After a road trip during which I laid some heavy petting on one of the majorettes in the back of the bus, her boyfriend met with me after school. In the middle of my junior year my family had moved to Charlotte, NC from Atlanta, GA. My new best friend Woody, a drummer in the band, told me the boyfriend was looking for me and that he had told the guy that I had been a "Golden Gloves" champion in Atlanta.

With the sound of Rocky Floyd evoking images of Rocky Marciano, Rocky Graziano, and Floyd Patterson, the boyfriend took the bait and I got off with a discussion instead of a concussion. Thank you, Woody! End of story.

To the present... As noted in a previous post, I have moved my home on wheels back to Arizona and no longer hang out in Waxhaw. I live alone here on my secluded homestead, so perhaps I should change the name of this blog from "The Wizard of Waxhaw" to "The Hermit of Hereford". But then, What's in a name?

≈ ≈ ≈

Pyrite in the sky

       Would that I could mine the sky
             I'd be a wealthy man.
          There's gold up there aplenty
             Enough for many a man.

          Once each day at evening
             Sun and cloud conspire,
          To spin in truest alchemy
             The metal of my desire.

          No want for pick and shovel
             Though a ladder I'd surely need
          To join the fiddler on the roof
              And satisfy my greed.

          Truly I am not the fool
             I may appear to be.
           No more could mine the sky
            Than could I make a tree.

          Yet–shall I be wealthy
              So long as there are these:
          Spacious skies and rainbows,
              Sunsets and trees.

                          ≈ ≈ ≈

Back in the U.S.S.R.

About a month ago I returned to my retreat in southeastern Arizona. I have named my eight-acre RV home base and wildlife sanctuary, Under Spacious Skies Retreat.  So... with apologies to the Beatles, I'm "Back in the U.S.S.R."

I'm resuming work on a small house here. The pad was poured a week ago and currently there are six stacks of concrete blocks which will form the walls for the first floor and the support columns for the two 8 x 20 ft cargo containers that comprise the second floor.

Other than the pouring of the concrete pad, I'm the only worker–architect, contractor, plumber, carpenter, and chief grunt. I will have the 5,000 lb containers lifted in place by forklift and will get help with the metalwork–cutting window openings and welding the containers together.

Difficult as the work can be, watching plans on paper morph into physical living space can be very rewarding. I should be working today. Bright sunshine, sixty-two degrees. But a mean wind is sweeping up the San Pedro River valley between the Huachuca and Mule Mountains. Thirty mph sustained winds with gusts up to fifty. The wind is so foul it's blown down my weather station!

So, there's nothing to do but remain inside, observe & honor the vernal equinox–do some ironing, scrub the shower, clean the windows (interior only), and write for this blog.

≈ ≈ ≈

Nunc est bibendum!

The Latin scholars among you will understand the above phrase to mean, "Now is the time for drinking!" At least that's how my Sigma Chi fraternity brothers and I translated it. We were very fond of short phrases loaded with layers of meaning particular to our circumstances. During the second half of my pledge year, 1959/60, I roomed with two brothers –Ed Summers and Joe Eagles– and my fellow pledge, Ted Kratt. We rented a two-bedroom apartment and always answered the phone, "This is it!" Which was to say, you have connected with the coolest guys on campus.

We were probably pre-hippies, seeking to align ourselves with the wildly hedonistic Black culture. Many of our pet phrases were taken from the Afro-American musicians who played in our basement dance hall on weekends. "Come on, man!" entered our lexicon when the band leader was trying to get his combo together to begin playing. We found a plethora of contexts in which to invoke the phrase. Another, "Tell it! Tell it like it is!" I'm not sure of the exact origin but the flavor is definitely chocolate.

So what in the psychopathology of everyday life brought this to mind? Well... I imbibe a single, measured 3-oz gin and tonic every evening at my retreat in SE Arizona. During the warmer months, I enjoy this end of day ritual from the comforting rhythm of my porch swing and try to coincide the finish with the sunset over the Huachuca mountains to the west. As the sun sets later and later, I must delay each day's toddy by a few more minutes in order that the timing of my buzz synchronizes with the sunset. Ergo, the "time for drinking" is not the same time every day...

≈ ≈ ≈

Birds of a Feather

Did you know that bird-watching is the largest spectator sport in America? While I'm not a true birder, I do provide for the birds on my Sonoran Desert retreat. I maintain three types of feeder (wild bird seed, thistle, and hummingbird) and I keep water available. When I cleared a space for myself, I left several tangled piles of mesquite brush for roosting and nesting.

I have a field guide, Birds of Arizona, and have noted more than thirty species and sub-species on and above my property. Most are common wildfowl–finches, sparrows, doves, and quail. I have also spotted less common fowl: a pair of great horned owls, a blue grosbeak, and a male lazuli bunting. The female lazuli was probably with him, but she looks so much like a common sparrow I overlooked her. But then isn't that the point of the female having less gaudy plumage?

The birds seem appreciative of the food and water, but have no idea that I am their benefactor; they scatter to the winds when I come near. Why does anyone go to the trouble and expense of taking care of wild birds? My neighbor, whose wife also caters to wildfowl, once quipped, "I wonder what the birds did before bird feeders?"

As he was hinting, I expect the birds got along just fine. It's just that they were not feeding where I could pass the time observing them and marveling at the rich diversity of the bird world.

Need a bird feeder or want to learn more about wild birds? Here's the place to go.

~ ~ ~

Wealthy is he who knows he has enough. –Lao Tzu

According to Robert Reich, "Last year, America’s top thirteen hedge-fund managers earned an average of $1 billion each. One of them took home $5 billion."

Heavens to Murgatroyd! What in the name of Zeus does a single man or woman do to deserve an annual salary of a billion dollars? Where does the money come from to pay a billion-dollar salary?

According to Wikipedia, "[H]edge funds are open only to a limited range of professional or wealthy investors... and are exempt from many of the regulations that govern ordinary investment funds." Hmmm... then the work of a hedge fund manager is to help the rich become even richer.

Most hedge fund managers are compensated on a "2 and 20" basis, that is, they receive 2% of each investment "up front"–plus 20% of the profits. So a manager who earned $1 billion increased the wealth of his or her investors by $5 billion (of which he took $1 billion). And where did this $5 billion come from? Presumably from other investors who lost an equal amount of money in this zero-sum game.

So, do hedge funds contribute to the economy? Do they produce a product, provide a service, create jobs or stimulate the economy? Nope. A hedge fund is just a huge crap game played by the super rich. Winnings are taxed at the "capital gains" rate of just 15%, which is a "wash" as far as the IRS is concerned since the losers are able to declare an equal amount in "capital losses" on their tax returns.

And you thought the rich invested their money in banks, which provide capital for entrepreneurs to fund businesses that create jobs for workers. Isn't that how "trickle down economics" is supposed to work? Isn't that the reason the Republicans don't want to burden the rich with high taxes? The hard truth is that supply-side economics does not work because the rich would rather play "hedge fund games" with their money and invest it off-shore where they get better interest rates than paid by the banks in the U.S.

The solution? Return to a progressive income tax. Robert Reich has proposed a tax system as follows:
    $15 million and up would be taxed 70%
    $5 million to $15 million would be taxed 60%
    $1/2 million to $5 million would be taxed 50%
Taxes on earnings less than $500K would be cut. [NB: We're talking individual earned income, not corporate & business taxes.]

So, if you managed a hedge fund and earned $1,000,000,000, and couldn't find any loopholes in the tax laws, you'd still take home $300,000,000. Even at the lower end of the highest tax bracket, with a salary of a mere $15,000,000, you would still take home $6,255,000. Shouldn't that be enough?

Enough is enough!

Most of us think of tax as a "four-letter word," but it is a necessary evil. A progressive tax is the only way to control the greed of the super-rich and bootstrap our economy out of the Great Recession. Think Robin Hood! We simply must take from the rich–especially the super-rich–not to give to the poor, but to provide the middle and lower classes with a decent living–with jobs, education, and health care.

It only seems fair that those who are sucking the cream off the top of the economy should pay more in taxes than those of us left with skimmed milk in our trough.

P.S. Watch "Real Time with Bill Mahr," the Feb 18th episode.

~ ~ ~

What's wrong with this picture?

If you watch the evening news you know that the Republican governors of Wisconsin, Ohio and New Jersey are trying to end union rights for teachers. The governor of New Jersey recently said, "I'm attacking the leadership of the union because they're greedy, and they're selfish and they're self-interested."

Teachers are greedy and selfish? Here's a quote from the Feb 17, 2011 post on the blog of Robert Reich, a PhD economist:

      Last year, America’s top thirteen hedge-fund managers earned
      an average of $1 billion each. One of them took home $5 billion. 
      Much of their income is taxed as capital gains – at 15 percent –
      due to a tax loophole that Republican members of Congress have
      steadfastly guarded.

      If the earnings of those thirteen hedge-fund managers were taxed
      as ordinary income [at just 28%], the revenues generated would
      pay the [annual] salaries and benefits of 300,000 teachers. Who is
      more valuable to our society – thirteen hedge-fund managers or
      5 million teachers? Let’s make the question even simpler. Who is
      more valuable: One hedge fund manager or one teacher?

...or one nurse?
          or one truck driver?
                    or one fireman?
                              or one farmer?
                                        or one librarian?...

Think about it.

~ ~ ~

Joe Stack (1956-2010)

Remember Joe Stack? He's the guy who after twenty years of Kafka-esque frustration with the federal government crashed his small plane into the IRS office in Austin, Texas. It was a year ago today. Joe's particular beef regarded a provision in the 1986 tax reform act that negatively impacted his ability to operate his business and earn a livelihood. Along with others like him, he spent considerable time and money trying to get relief from what he felt was unfair treatment. To no avail.

The utter futility he felt was aggravated by the corporate bail-outs in 2008 which marked the beginning of our current "Great Recession." He wrote in his online suicide note:

     Why is it that a handful of thugs and plunderers can commit
     unthinkable atrocities (and in the case of the GM executives,
     for scores of years) and when it’s time for their gravy train to
     crash under the weight of their gluttony and overwhelming
     stupidity, the force of the full federal government has no
     difficulty coming to their aid within days if not hours?

Joe concluded his online manifesto, "I have just had enough."

Joe has been characterized as a crackpot and the incident described as "domestic terrorism." Others, including me, think of Joe as a hero who had the courage to put his life on the line to call attention to the fact that the U.S. government is broken. We no longer have a democracy, we have a "corpocracy." Our representatives do not represent the people, they represent the corporations that buy them their seats in the Congress.

Remember Joe Stack! He deserves our admiration and respect. And maybe someday, when more of us have "had enough," his death will be avenged by a return to government by and for the people.

How to begin? Campaign Finance Reform!

~ ~ ~

Toilet Tissue (advertisement)

As a psychologist trained in ergonomics I always appreciate a product that works well. Recently while visiting a friend I discovered a toilet tissue that I liked. I couldn't locate the original packaging, but the tissue had a distinctive embossed pattern, scallops around what could be a rose. After looking like a pervert pouring over the toilet paper stock of several supermarkets, I finally found the tissue. It's White Cloud brand Soft and Thick and it's available exclusively at WalMart.

What makes the tissue special? Well, it is soft but not as thick as some brands. However, thickness is not nearly as important as strength. You can use fewer panels with a stronger tissue. Since I live full-time in an RV with a holding tank for septic waste, fewer is better. Also important, "desolvability." Drop a White Cloud toilet tissue in a glass of water, let it sit for 5 minutes and stir. It breaks into small pieces suitable for any septic system.

But most of all–White Cloud always tears evenly along the perforation. Nothing is quite so aggravating as tearing a tissue off the roll, expecting it to separate along the perforation and have the tissue tear half way across the perforation and then split off up the roll. As Charlie Brown would say, "Arrraaagh!" This flaw, typical of many brands, is not only frustrating, it's wasteful.

White Cloud tissue is also unscented, hypoallergenic and dermatologist approved. It's considered a non-premium brand and therefore costs less. And it's even kinda pretty!

I wonder... Is anyone else this particular about the performance of toilet tissue or is my anal retentive personality showing?

~ ~ ~

Hug a tree

Early in my college career I penned the following poem:

                Mother Nature strong and pure,
                You're the one will all endure.
                Ever noble, precious and fine,
                Your only misfortune is mankind.

Did I mention I was a sophomore? I must have been in my Joyce Kilmer phase. Speaking of whom:

                                     Trees

                I think that I shall never see
               A poem lovely as a tree.
               A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
               Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
               A tree that looks at God all day,
               And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
               A tree that may in summer wear
               A nest of robins in her hair;
               Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
               Who intimately lives with rain.
               Poems are made by fools like me
               But only God can make a tree.

                         –Alfred Joyce Kilmer (1886 - 1918)

The poem is often abbreviated, edited and quoted (scandalously) as follows:

               I think that I shall never see
               A poem lovely as a tree.
               For poems are made by fools like me
               But only God can make a tree.

Okay the poem is a little sappy (oops!), though it is immensely popular. Many readers must think it was written by a girl (oops, again!). Kilmer was definitely a guy, an American soldier who fought in WWI and was killed in France at the age of 31. The poem is often disparaged and parodied for grins, but let's be fair. It was written at the end of the Romantic era and Fate denied Kilmer the opportunity to take his poetry to the next level.

As for me, I have since come to a deeper and more complex understanding of mankind's relationship with nature. Birds build nests. Foxes dig holes. Humans are no less a part of Nature and are not just crashing the party. And Mother herself can be rather destructive. Nonetheless we must be ever vigilant regarding our impact on the rest of Nature.

As for my poetry... time will tell.

There are numerous tributes to Kilmer, a special one in western North Carolina maintained by the U.S. Forestry Service where, if you have very long arms, you can hug some very old trees. 

~ ~ ~

L'chaim!

I have for a number of years collected quotes that begin, "Life is..." My obsession began with a line from the movie, Zorba the Greek: "Life is trouble, only death is not. To be alive is to undo your belt and look for trouble."

Some of the quotes are flippant; others pithy. All contain at least a grit of wisdom. Here are some favorites from my collection:

    Life may not be the party we hoped for,
         but while we're here we should dance. –Unknown

    Life is what happens to you
        while you're busy making other plans. –John Lennon

    Life is now, is today, is this eternal moment. –Rumi

    Life is the whim of several billion cells
        to be you for a while. –Unknown

    Life is the sum of all your choices. –Albert Camus

    Life is a brief opportunity
        to do something prehumously. –Robert Brault

    Life is not fair. –Milton Friedman (among others)

    Life is simple, it's just not easy. –Unknown

    Life ain't nothin' but a funny, funny riddle! – John Denver

    Life is either a daring adventure–or nothing. –Helen Keller

    Life is like a box of chocolates;
        you never know what you're gonna get. –Forrest Gump

Here are a couple of creations of my own:

    Life is what happens when matter finds its voice,
        creates a language, and begins to think.

    Life. It's not a race.

~ ~ ~ To Life! ~ ~ ~

Save the Children

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed. –December 15th, 1791

What a pity there's not a national organization to promote the second amendment of the Bill of Rights. According to the Children's Defense Fund, "In 2007 [in the U.S.] 3,042 children lost their lives to gun violence and an additional 17,523 suffered non-fatal gun injuries..." Who's killing our children? We need to arm the populace so we can stop this mayhem.

If there were only something like a National Rifle Society or a National Rifle Association, we could take up our rifles and defend our children from attack by these scoundrels. Anyone with a handgun would be shot on sight, handguns being the weapon of the criminal and the outlaw, while the noble rifle is of course the weapon of the soldier and the hunter.

There is already a National Rifle Association? Oh. Then the children are safe!

For more on the on-going tragedy of gun violence in the U.S., click here and check out Michael Moore's film.

~ ~ ~

Homage to La Luna

Naked the moon peeks shyly
            from behind a veil of mist;
Then boldly dances into light

 stolen from the sun.

At precisely 4:22PM today, the moon blooms full. In homage to La Luna and in recognition of the feminine side of my psyche, I fast from the evening prior to the full moon until the morning after. At each and every full moon, thirty-six hours of passive, worshipful hunger.

I am spiritual but not religious. I consider myself pantheistic; I find Spirit everywhere, especially in the heavens–sun, moon & stars. The sun gives me life; the moon gives me pleasure; the stars make me wonder. At my retreat in Arizona, I am often blessed with a simultaneous sunset and full moonrise–a natural yin and yang that gives me great peace.

Once each month, twelve times a year, I formally honor the woman within me. She argues for kindness when I am angered, for hope when I despair, for faith when I doubt. Without her I would be much less a man.

~ ~ ~

Wisdom of the Beat

While composing a previous posting, I was reminded of the "beat" poet Lawrence Ferlinghetti, who was popular in the '50s and early '60s. The beats, or beatniks, were precursors of the hippies of the late '60s and early '70s. Hedonistic and anti-establishment like the hippies, but with an intellectual flair. Ferlinghetti first came to my attention when a friend quoted the last line of one of his poems:

silence hung like a lost idea
                                        and a statue turned
                                   its head

Wow! And that's just one of many visually evocative lines in Ferlinghetti's poetry. I was never sure of his message, but I was always awed by the images his poems conjured up in my mind's eye.

I was reminded of Ferlinghetti when writing about the shortsightedness of Republicans with regard to national health care. One of his anti-war poems opined satirically that life is not so bad if we don't mind "bombs in our upturned faces" and "small minds in high places."

Ferlinghetti was writing during the post WW-II cold war era when everyone was legitimately and fearfully concerned about being nuked by the Russians. The movie "Dr. Strangelove" provides a humorous and satirical, but nonetheless chilling look at this era. As is evident, Ferlinghetti took a cynical view of politics and government, which is as appropriate today as it was in the '50s and '60s.

Ready for Ferlinghetti's poetry? Check out A Coney Island of the Mind and/or Pictures of the Gone World. Be prepared for a mind warp that may open up an alternative vision of reality.

~ ~ ~

Comma to me

Language truly is peculiar and the English language particularly so. Words that are pronounced the same yet spelled differently–there, their and they're. Words that are spelled the same but pronounced differently and have different meanings–lead and lead, sow and sow, wind and wind. Synonyms, homonyms and acronyms. Idioms and slang. What a mess!

My hat is off to anyone who learns English as a second language; I have trouble enough as one born into an English-speaking culture–sort of. By comparison, German, which is perfectly phonetic, is a snap–even with all that der-die-das business.

Reading English is easy enough, I suppose. Conversing in English is somewhat more difficult. But... give a man a writing assignment and he'll break into a cold sweat. I've had students in college classes who would rather hang by their thumbs for a week than sit down write a term paper.

One real bugaboo of written English is the necessity for punctuation. One can speak without commas, colons and semicolons. But when it comes to the written page, something has to be done to partition the thoughts and ideas, one from another.

A single comma can alter meaning altogether. Take the four words: eats shoots and leaves. Place a comma after "eats" and the two nouns morph into verbs. And you've got the makings for a racy joke involving Panda bears. Oddly enough, Eats, Shoots & Leaves is the title of a nifty little book that may change the way you feel about our language. If you pay attention while you're laughing at book's subtle humor, you may come away feeling less anxious about whether "to comma or not to comma." I can almost guarantee that you will be amused.

The full title of the book is: Eats, Shoots and Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation, by Lynn Truss. Your local library may have a copy and then there's (theirs? they'res?) always Amazon.com.

~ ~ ~

Tribute to Yogi

Ladybug on the rim of a glass
               going round and round;
                             déjà vu, déjà vu,
                                           déjà vu all over again.

Follow the Money

The 112th Congress convenes today. Since the Republicans now have a majority in the House, they control the agenda. The first item thereon: Repeal of Obama's Health Care Reform plan.

Yes! Right on! Just do it! Get rid of that bureaucratic albatross and replace it with HR676!

If you know what HR676 is all about, you know that this plainly logical event is not about to occur. John Boehner and his comrades do not want to provide the nation with health care of any sort–except that of the Health Insurance industry.

The stated objective of their effort to repeal the Obama plan is to reduce government spending. They argue that the U.S. government has no responsibility for the health care its citizens. Never mind that this is the case in every other country in the developed world. Never mind that in the long run HR676, "Medicare for All," would save money–in several ways.

One way: The cost of administering the current Medicare program is 3%, i.e., for every $100 doled out for health care, $3 goes for the government administration of the program. On the other hand for every $100 doled out by the Health Insurance industry, $30 goes to administration (and profit)! Uh, that's 3% vs 30%. Isn't this a no-brainer?

You bet it is! Any U.S. legislator–Republican or Democrat–who is against "Medicare for All" is not worried about government spending; he or she is worried about how little they will have to spend if they vote against the wishes of the Health Insurance industry.

Which is why the first item on the agenda of the 112th Congress should be–not Health Care Reform (or not)–but CAMPAIGN FINANCE REFORM! How can a member of Congress vote for what's best for the people when he or she is on the payroll of big oil, big health insurance, big defense, big finance and/or any other big greedy industry out there? [Didn't Republican President Dwight Eisenhower warn us against the tyranny of the Military-Industrial complex?]

On the other hand, how do we get Congress to take up the issue of campaign finance reform and vote against their own best interests? Hmmm... Maybe if we consulted with the movers and shakers of the Republic Party. The G.O.P. has been duping the middle and lower classes into doing just this for years.

Want to understand U.S. politics? It's easy, just follow the money.

Want to learn more about HR676? Check out The Citizens Alliance for the Public Option and Physicians for a National Health Plan (where you can read the actual text of HR676–all 30 pages :-)

~ fini ~