Guns, Police and Fantasy Land – A Rant in Progress

One any given day there are articles posted on the internet pointing out someone’s slanted belief that when certain police officers are called out, SWAT, that it will almost certainly mean the death of some poor individual who might have been saved had it not been for the military machine mentality of police departments. There are plenty of articles which point to the right of the individual to bear arms. I dare say that I’ve read plenty of blogs deriding the police state coming to take your weapons away without a warrant and on and on. Somehow there seems to be a flip flopping of thoughts expressed as to whether the police departments are at fault for not being intrusive enough to save helpless unarmed individuals or too intrusive when knocking down doors to kill mentally challenged folks who could have been talked out of being walking time bombs.

The sacred cows, those places where “children” might be found, all refuse to permit weapons except by the police departments which are employed by these places. Children are defined as anything from pre-school infants to post graduate students in their mid 40’s, a fairly wide definition to be sure. I would have to say that if I were a student working on obtaining a Bachelor’s Degree, my Masters or a PhD, anything past high school, I would consider it an encroachment on Constitutional rights to have any college or university attempt to prevent my right to defend myself by arming myself.

Those students and others who were slain in the Virginia Tech massacre were denied constitutional rights, no different than the right to speak their mind when they were denied the right to bear arms. The families of those slain should seek some form of restitution for wrongful death based on the SOP’s of the University which put such policies in place. I have read where some are complaining that the police took too long to jump through the door, that so many could have been saved if it weren’t for those overly cautious public servants, the police officers waiting for SWAT to arrive, following SOP’s which were in place (link provided in title bar). Wake up and take responsibility for you lives and quit putting it off on someone else.

If a criminal breaks into your home I hope you aren’t expecting a police officer to automatically arrive and save you; you aren’t are you? From what I’ve read, maybe some of you expect the police department already has an officer assigned, hiding in your closet spying on you while you type your anit-government articles to post on your blogs. (I must tell you about the off duty police officer I found working on the A/C unit located in my closet while I was going through the application process to join the Houston Police Department; if that wasn’t a coincidence which requires a good bit of consideration I don’t know what more to say.) If that’s your belief, then I hope you and your fantasy world do better than those at Virginia Tech.

“Paranoia strikes deep, into your mind it will creep…”, words from an old song, “step out of line the man comes and takes you away…What’s that sound everybody looks what’s going down…” Maybe the anit-war movement has prevailed to some extent, the flower children now run government, our universities, the news media and our public schools. Is it any wonder that the “sheeple” don’t understand it’s their responsibility to take up for themselves, not to wait for the police or anyone else?

Police Departments all over the place often use catchy phrases; “To Protect and Serve” is one. “Fresh Donuts Served Here”; maybe that’s going a little too far. I like to think that most officers will do a reasonable job of stopping violence when they come upon it; the key word is reasonable. Unfortunately we live in a world of litigation and micromanagement. Police officers are not one man armies permitted autonomous and complete destruction of the evil they encounter. Police officers are highly managed employees who have been carefully removed from engaging their respective departments and cities from litigation. Police officers have nearly been stripped of individual decision making through the multitude of civilian law suits, complaints and internal affairs findings which have proven to those employees that working outside of the departments SOP’s is fatal to any employment with those departments.

It’s a sad fact that as long as nothing goes wrong, that no complaints are generated, that nobody gets injured or killed and lastly and more importantly, no law suits are filed; then and only then did the police officers do a good job. If, on the other hand, any of those ugly opportunities avail themselves as a result of an individual officer’s actions, actions which fall outside parameters of the SOP’s which are written to protect the Department and the City, at that time the officer is the one who cuts off the only limb which provides support. It has come to the point where it is in the best interest of each individual officer to choose between employment or unemployment and to understand that venturing into the land of heroes also means leaving the safety net of the SOP’s.

The idea that it must be the police department’s job to defend the defenseless is pure poppy cock. It is the individual’s responsibility to defend himself/herself and to say otherwise demeans the spirit of America. Some of the articles and comments I’ve read sound more like the sort of nonsense I’d expect from those demanding that FEMA perpetuate the “victim” status for Katrina “evacuees” for yet another year, as if the government was responsible for any and all issues. Those kinds of escapes into fantasy land are why the socialist movement in our country has gained such a strong foothold.

For those wishing to leave a comment, those who might also be living off the free meal ticket supplied by FEMA or some other government assistance program which I am paying for but which you are enjoying; you must first obtain government form 1587-05b from your case worker. In the event that your case worker is not familiar with form 1587-05b, ask your case worker if he/she has any toilet paper. Sheryl Crowe has insisted that we curb excessive use of form 1587-05b to save the environment; but if you have a fair amount of BS ( I really intended to use the word poppy cock, really I did) to share, feel free to use an extra square or two. I’m a retired police officer so use simple words that I will be able to understand.

Guns Lost in the Police Property Room

I read in the Houston Chronicle this morning, HPD suspends 2 after 21 guns missing
( linked via title bar ). Basically, several pistols that had been tagged into the property room as evidence vanished and some of them have turned up in the hands of criminals on the street.

I was going to title my article, The More Things Change …; but decided that it would be totally neglected by those scanning for impact statements. There are plenty of folks who will stop by to read about possible police corruption, abuse or stupidity; wonder why that is? I should complete the thought, …The More They Remain the Same.

Going back to the early 70’s when I was a low seniority police officer working Central Patrol Evenings, I had the opportunity to become involved in a very exciting incident. I should explain the police work is pretty much a ho-hum job most of the time; it’s those “very exciting” moments that only last a few minutes that police train for, that movies and television action series are based upon. If it weren’t for those randomly dispersed moments of sheer adrenaline, police work could be done by book keepers or grocery store sackers; I’m exaggerating considerably.

I'd gotten back to work after having enjoyed a vacation up in the mountains of Colorado with my young wife; having low seniority meant that I had to pick my vacation schedule after the Summer peak and before the opening of Hunting Season. The last week of September and the first week of October were fine with me; all those fall colors up in the mountains were awesome and we had the national parks almost to our selves. Anyway, getting back to the police department, upon returning to work I got a call to “Report to Homicide”.

You have to understand the mindset of a low seniority police officer; I’m sure that it translates easily to other jobs, “What did I do wrong this time?”, as I made my way up the stairs to Homicide. A detective had me step into his office where he asked me several questions about a pistol which had turned up at a double homicide investigation; a very particular pistol that had my “mark” scratched into it under where the wooden hand grips would cover them, where police officers had been instructed to place that mark in order to be used in the judicial process later on.

The detective started to describe the pistol, a Colt 357, blue steel with ramped sites. I knew right away which pistol it had to be, having only tagged one like it into the property room in my short tenure with the department. I began nodding to let him know that I was familiar with it. “We’d like to know how that pistol had your mark on it.”

Flash back a few months to a soggy Sunday afternoon when I was riding patrol. My partner and I had finished lunch, so it had to be evening but not yet dark as we drove through our beat in the 3rd Ward, a predominantly Black neighborhood. We heard a couple of gun shots ring out close by and observed several folks bailing out of a small club called the Green Hornet Lounge. They were escaping out the back window and the front door as if it were the OK Corral scene in the movie. A light rain was falling as we positioned our patrol car safely in relation to the front door of the lounge. One rather agitated Black man stepped out the door and stood, looking in our direction, holding a huge honking pistol in his hand. We assumed the necessary defensive positions using the opened doors of our patrol car as cover and returned his “invitation” by aiming our equally huge honking pistols in his direction. I couldn’t say for sure what we told him at that time; what ever it was, he believed us as he put his hands up to surrender. We approached him cautiously, cuffed him and I took possession of the huge honking pistol.

On any other given day that would have been enough; cart the bad guy off to jail and smile; not so on this day. As the rain continued to fall, our suspect standing with us as we were about to march him back the short distance to our patrol car; a sudden burst of excitement erupted from within the darkened confines of the lounge as folks continued to hurriedly exit shouting, “He’s got a gun!”.

That didn’t sound right; we already had the gun and the guy, didn’t we? My partner and I peeked around the door frame and as we did the lone individual remaining in the joint saw the blue uniforms, our guns drawn and ready so he placed his little Saturday Night Special on the floor and gave up without a fight. We made our preliminary investigation; noting that nobody had been shot and that most of the damage had been done to a set of drums, not exactly what the drummer had in mind when making a rim shot.

Did I mention that being young and ignorant of our location in relation to the Black Panther Headquarters we had not considered the impact we had on the rest of the patrol officers when we radioed to the dispatcher that we had “shots fired” at our location. It looked like Christmas with all the police cars arriving with their emergency lights flashing away, all those knowledgeable officers getting to our location as fast as they could to save us from God only knows what. We had plenty of help securing the scene.

The forms and reports we filled out took the better part of the evening, about 4 hours of writing to explain what happened in just a few minutes. Both pistols had been reported stolen so we had to make supplement reports to their originals and we were glad that shift change matched up with the conclusion of our reports.

Okay, back to the October meeting in the Homicide Division office where the detective was inquiring about the huge honking Colt pistol with the fancy ramped sights. I explained that all he needed to do was look up the original report. I was told that no report existed in the Records Division, no call slip record to indicate that we had been where the incident occurred, no Property Room record of the pistol ever having been submitted; in other words, it never happened according to the HPD.

When I was a rookie cop one of my senior officers made it clear to me that any time I checked in evidence, turned in property or made a report that had the slightest chance of hitting the courtroom with me having to justify my actions; make a copy of anything related to those incidents and file them away in my own folder for future use, just in case.

That “just in case” had come to pass. I asked the detective to let me call home so that Lucy could go into my file folder. It only took her a few minutes to locate the report which had a copy of each and every “lost” record attached to it. There was a copy of the incident report, the booking slips, the call slip and the evidence submission forms for both pistols. I had not screwed up after all, a feeling of confidence filled my chest as I was once more able to breathe in and out normally. The detective asked me to drive home to retrieve those forms so he could have a copy to place in the department file.

I have no idea what kind of secondary “investigation” was started to figure out how the criminal, the one I’d put in jail the first time, how he got his hands on that pistol which I’d checked into the property room pending the outcome of any court ruling. I’d have remembered going to court on that one; it never happened. The bad guy used that pistol, the same one he’d thought about pointing at me, he’d used it to murder two women and then he burned their bodies in an attempt to cover up the evidence. The solid link to him ended up being that huge honking Colt 357 Magnum pistol with my mark inside the grip. Some things you never forget; don’t think you’re supposed to forget them either.

Chief Hurtt wasn’t the man in charge back then so it would hardly be fair to throw all of this on his back to go along with the 21 pistols that are currently missing from the Police Property Room. I think there are some policy changes that need to be made, things that would require recording each and every submission of evidence digitally, with video back up and secondary systems which would include commissioned police officers to oversee the activities of civilian personnel who happen to work in classified areas. I would expect those new policies to include a section or paragraph requiring an authorization form to include a place notifying the original submitting officer (s), that activity was taking place on evidence which he/she had an interest in. I would also require a supplement incident report to accompany any removal or transfer of evidence or property from the Police Property Room. I’ve been in car dealerships that had more security than the Houston Police Department Property Room; yes, there is room for improvement.

Editing note: After reviewing the information I noticed that I had originally placed the location of the Green Hornet Lounge in the 5th Ward; I went back to correctly place it within the 3rd Ward for those who require accuracy, call it a "senior moment".

How to Murder a Socialist

I finished watching an old Jack Lemon movie a while ago, How to Murder Your Wife. In case you’ve never had the pleasure, it’s worth the effort. Near the end of the show there’s a court room scene in which Jack Lemon’s character decided to cut loose his attorney, an attorney who’d done everything except strap him into the electric chair through bungling inefficiency, and take over his own defense. ( link in title bar )

He puts his attorney; the brow beaten henpecked wimp of a middle aged man, in the witness chair and presents a bold option to him, one that would turn the law upside down. Drawing a small circle on the railing in front of the jury box with a piece of chalk, a jury box which consisted entirely of middle aged married men, Lemon explains that by pushing the imaginary button his wife and all the baggage that goes with it would vanish; nobody would know he did it and he would be free to do whatever he wanted.

The lawyer’s wife protested and promised to make his life a living hell; that is right up until the moment when he walked over to the jury box railing and pushed the button, exclaiming as his finger settled onto the white chalked circle, “Shut up you old bat!”, followed by, “Remove the woman, put her in the tank if necessary.” The judge immediately asked the jury for their finding, “Not Guilty!”

The scene closed with all the men in the courtroom celebrating their new found freedom from the bands of “slavery” associated with the now defunct establishment of marriage. The court room begins to clear as they exit carrying the acquitted victor on their shoulders leaving those women present sitting speechless and bewildered at the prospect of being relegated into obscurity at the whim of their masters.

I took a moment to contemplate what those women were experiencing, the fact that the law that had regulated life up until that moment no longer existed. I know, it’s only a movie; but that feeling couldn’t exist without some merit. I saved this in my file system under Government and History because I knew where this thought process was headed as soon as that feeling registered, that feeling that the laws that have regulated life here in these United States of America no longer can be counted upon.

I am one of those sitting in that now vacant courtroom, the jubilation of shouts and jeers from the hallway from a party out of control clamoring and celebrating the overthrow of foundational basics which have governed society but are now no longer relevant. I’m not sure what happened; one day things looked as they should and then the rug got pulled out from under.

I refer to so many things that I’m not sure where to begin; perhaps the idea that marriage is a sacred bond between a husband and a wife, at least it was a few days ago. Then there’s the idea that the money I earned is being taxed at better than 50% when you include user fees, sales taxes and income taxes; that money that is being redistributed to folks who are living it up on money I earned actually believe that they are “entitled” to a better standard of living and have elected socialist representatives to make it so. Then there’s the band of free market assassins who have hijacked the system and in its place have introduced governmental controls to, in their words, make it a safer place for the consumer. The legislature has given these monkeys control over business licensing, which is nothing more than turning citizens into serfs, servants of the manor, subjects who must beg permission to do that which at one time was within their individual dominion. Rights granted to individuals by God have been reviewed at the highest levels and been determined to be irrelevant, that the elite rulers, once our peers, are far more capable of determining what is best for the common man; but I’m rambling now.

Maybe I should get a piece of chalk and draw a circle, looking for a place here on my desk. I’ve found a spot here in front of my computer monitor that will do nicely except I don’t want the chalk to damage the beautiful wood so I cut out a circle from a scrap of paper. I want you to follow my lead, place an imaginary button there in front of you. Remember how good it felt when you read the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution and the Bill of Rights; that feeling of being an American, how your chest would swell, head held high with a sense of pride in knowing that you lived in a country where every individual was empowered and responsible for his own success or failure. I want you to think about who it is that has robbed you of that, who it is that continues in their pursuit to strip you of any remaining vestige of that glorious heritage. I want you to push that button.

No one will know that it was you who pushed the button. Those who have perverted the American way of life will simply vanish as if they never had been. Your freedom will be restored and all that was fought for by our founding fathers will have been restored to its proper balance. Those who desire more will have to do more and those without will have the opportunity to improve based on desire, hard work and perseverance; just like anyone else, no entitlements based on supposed deficiencies caused by skin color, sexual orientation or religious involvement. Go ahead, Push the button!

In my movie, How to Murder a Socialist, at the end of the courtroom scene, the only ones sitting quietly in their chairs, a blank expression as if hit by a two by four, will be those who have been sponging off their neighbors for so long that they thought the free ride would last forever. Push the button!

Bird of Prey

Lucy called to me a few minutes ago, “Come Look!”, pointing excitedly as she washed the morning dishes in the sink. There outside our kitchen window, on my next door neighbor’s rook was a bird of prey, I think it’s some kind of Falcon.

The Mockingbirds were making life miserable, dive bombing and pecking the Falcon’s head unceasingly as it had wandered into their territory. I took several pictures with my digital camera, never once catching a mocking bird in harassment mode. Lucy suggested I go outside and get a little closer, a chance to capture the Falcon in all its splendor. The moment I moved around the hedge at the corner of my house where it meets with the driveway the Falcon made its escape into a tall pine on the next street behind us. It happened quicker than I could snap off a picture of the wings stretched out, Mockingbirds in hot pursuit.

THE SON

I got this in my email, just another “forward” to toss in the cyber trash can, or so I thought. Thanks and a tip of the hat to my friend Andy Ricker.

The Son

A wealthy man and his son loved to collect rare works of art. They had everything in their collection, from Picasso to Raphael. They would often sit together and admire the great works of art.When the Vietnam conflict broke out, the son went to war. He was very courageous and died in battle while rescuing another soldier. The father was notified and grieved deeply for his only son.

About a month later, just before Christmas, there was a knock at the door. A young man stood at the door with a large package in his hands. He said, "Sir, you don't know me, but I am the soldier for whom your son gave his life. He saved many lives that day, and he was carrying me to safety when a bullet struck him in the heart and he died instantly. He often talked about you, and your love for art." The young man held out this package. "I know this isn't much. I'm not really a great artist, but I think your son would have wanted you to have this."

The father opened the package. It was a portrait of his son, painted by the young man. He stared in awe at the way the soldier had captured the personality of his son in the painting. The father was so drawn to the eyes that his own eyes welled up with tears. He thanked the young man and offered to pay him for the picture. "Oh, no sir, I could never repay what your son did for me. It's a gift."

The father hung the portrait over his mantle. Every time visitors came to his home he took them to see the portrait of his son before he showed them any of the other great works he had collected.The man died a few months later.

There was to be a great auction of his paintings. Many influential people gathered, excited over seeing the great paintings and having an opportunity to purchase one for their collection.

On the platform sat the painting of the son. The auctioneer pounded his gavel. "We will start the bidding with this picture of the son. Who will bid for this picture?"

There was silence.

Then a voice in the back of the room shouted, "We want to see the famous paintings. Skip this one."

But the auctioneer persisted. "Will somebody bid for this painting?, Who will start the bidding? $100, $200?"

Another voice angrily, "We didn't come to see this painting. We came to see the Van Gogh's, the Rembrandts. Get on with the real bids!"

But still the auctioneer continued. "The son! The son! Who'll take the son?"

Finally, a voice came from the very back of the room. It was the longtime gardener of the man and his son. "I'll give $10 for the painting." Being a poor man, it was all he could afford."

We have $10, who will bid $20?"

"Give it to him for $10.

Let's see the masters." The crowd was becoming angry. They didn't want the picture of the son. They wanted the more worthy investments for their collections.

The auctioneer pounded the gavel. "Going once, twice, SOLD for $10!"

The crowd applauded. A man sitting on the second row shouted, "Now let's get on with the collection!"

The auctioneer laid down his gavel. "I'm sorry, the auction is over."

"What about all of the other paintings?"

"I am sorry. When I was called to conduct this auction, I was told of a secret stipulation in the will. I was not allowed to reveal that stipulation until this time. Only the painting of the son would be auctioned. Whoever bought that painting would inherit the entire estate, including the paintings. The man who took the son gets everything!"

God gave His son 2,000 years ago to die on the cross. Much like the auctioneer, His message today is: "The son, the son, who'll take the son?"

Because, you see, whoever takes the Son gets everything.

FOR GOD SO LOVED THE WORLD HE GAVE HIS ONLY BEGOTTEN SON, WHO SO EVER BELIEVETH, SHALL HAVE ETERNAL LIFE...THAT'S LOVE

You may forward this, if you wish. Do whatever you like, but remember that maybe "one" of the people you might have taken the time to send this to, may be just the person who needs to hear this message. You have a choice to make." God Bless.

Check out the link in the title bar, something I posted a couple of years ago. When I was learning the tricks of blogging, at that time I had not learned how to properly link to other articles. Instead of pinpointing the chapter intended, the secondary link was too general. Here is where it should have gone:

http://pecawsgift.blogspot.com/2005/06/pecaws-gift-chapter-38-conversions.html

Wow!

I get a kick out of being with my grandchildren. They have the ability to let go with their expressions of joy without fear of ridicule. JJ was with me on a couple of locksmith jobs this past week to keep me company. We went past Hook’s Airport on the Stuebner-Airline side and he got to see several small airplanes taking off and landings, almost as if they’d known he was coming. They were practicing take offs and landing, making a circle and coming back for more as we did a dog leg left around the small airfield on our way up toward Tomball on FM 2920 and JJ could see these small airplanes as they came over the top of a stand of trees and lined up for landings. ( In case you’re wondering, FM stands for Farm to Market, an antiquated reference to roads which used to be out in the “sticks”; but are now major thoroughfares in the urban sprawl of Houston and neighboring suburbs )

When the first locksmith job was completed another job came in that would take us past the big airport, IAH. JJ had been there a couple of times and had seen the big passenger jets take off from a distance; he’d even got to fly on one on a trip to see his great grand parents in Florida. The lock job happened to be at Robbin’s Chevy dealership on the Eastex Freeway just east of the airport between the two most used runways as planes lined up on final approach out of the East on their way in. JJ got to sit in the front seat of my work truck with the windows down watching planes on either side of him while I finished up. I cleaned the finger prints off the mirrors; I have no idea what he was drawing, perhaps he was keeping count of the number of jets he watched pass by.

I decided to go back home via FM 1960, basically the same way we’d come in order to avoid some of the places on the freeways that back up during evening rush hour. This route would give JJ yet another chance to watch airplanes land as 1960 runs along the northern airport boundary. We were sitting at a red light with the windows down when JJ noticed the sound of a large jet, very close; so close that the truck shook. JJ looked leaned forward as far as the seat belt would permit as the 737 crossed 1960 directly over our vehicle to land. For many unsuspecting drivers unfamiliar with how the runway is aligned, it might appear that a large jet is making an emergency landing on 1960 because of the angle of approach. We got to experience a jet coming up from behind us and all we could see was its belly with the landing gear locked down as it glided over the boundary fence. All JJ could say was “Wow!”; that’s about all I could say too.

That would be enough for what I wanted to say except that I was relaxing in my easy chair letting my back freeze with an ice pack positioned on my lumbar section. I had the Yankee/Red Sox game on ESPN’s Sunday Night Game of the Week. I watched as the inning started, the Yanks were ahead 3 to zip when all of the sudden Manny Ramirez ripped one over and out of the park to put the Sox on the board with their first run. A couple of pitches later the next JD Drew dropped one into the right field bleachers, the next batter, Mike Lowell drilled one over the fence and out onto the street and then Jason Variteck, the next batter, followed with yet another home run. “Four home runs in a row!”, “Back to back to back to back, Wow!” All four were hit off the same pitcher and it was the first time in Red Sox history that had ever happened. I’m not certain; but I think it’s only the 6th time, possibly the 8th; I’m hoping that the announcers will look that up in the books, that 4 home runs have been hit back to back in all of baseball history. “Wow!”

CT and MRI Scans

This past month has given me a chance to experience first hand some of the modern technological tools used by the medical field. I went through a CT scan; a fascinating machine that took a series of pictures of my body, similar to an x-ray machine. The MRI machine was similar; but much more noise involved. I thought I’d put my thoughts down and possibly make it easier for somebody else, a chance to preview the procedure which, I’m told, is a major worry for folks who are claustrophobic or afraid of the unknown. I’ve also provided a link in the title bar for a web site which I found very informative.

The CT scan machine, sometimes called a CAT scan, looked almost identical to the MRI machine; a large donut looking device with a table which moves back and forth in order to position the patient so pictures can be taken. The technician talked about what the machine would do, how there would be instructions on when to breathe and hold it, when to remain motionless and that the table would move slowly and that my arms needed to be held over my head in order to facilitate going through a rather small opening through the “donut hole”. She also explained that there would be a contrast agent, iodine, introduced into my veins and that I would feel something like a heat wave as it circulated through my body; that it might fool me into thinking that I was urinating on myself even though no such thing had occurred. I was asked if I was claustrophobic and I mentioned that I have experienced Vertigo; but that it was almost a pleasant experience.

I should explain my thoughts regarding Vertigo. I first learned about this when I was at the chiropractor’s office. They had a fancy table which I stepped onto and then leaned into as it was hydraulically lowered from its vertical position into a completely horizontal working position to accommodate treatments. They would attach TENS unit patches on my back to massage the muscles electrically; cold packs or heat packs depending on how bad my back was. I would then be left to relax, my eyes closed as if I were going off to sleep, with the lights dimmed as the TENS unit hummed for about 15 minutes. I thought that the fancy table upon which I was lying was set up to gently rock back and forth, sort of like a see-saw, as the sensation of rocking matched my measured breathing. I later found out, having mentioned to the chiropractor how much I enjoyed the gentle rocking of the table, that the table had been flat the whole time, that I’d imagined or more accurately, that my inner ear had experienced Vertigo.

I experienced something similar with the CT machine. When I closed my eyes to relax I imagined that the table was moving back and forth, even when it wasn’t. I also imagined that it was being elevated and lowered on a horizontal plain, sometimes straight up and then down, other times as if being moved toward a ten o’clock or eleven o’clock position relative to the opening of the “donut hole”. I took in the experience, cognizant of my past “imaginations”, opening my eyes only to find that I was stationary and that it was all inside my head, the sensation of movement and the near euphoria that accompanied the dream like state I was in. I mention this because I’ve been told that many folks are more than a little anxious, afraid to lie still and endure the procedure. In contrast, I found it totally relaxing, similar to a pleasant “flying dream” where I’m able to violate the laws of gravity and physics while gliding effortlessly in nocturnal bliss.

The MRI machine was quite noisy; almost nerve rattling at times when I was in the middle of the “donut hole”; which is more like an elongated tube, similar to something you’d find on a submarine that would be used to shoot out torpedoes. I could see how being in such a cramped space might be disconcerting, your nose nearly touching the top surface of the tube while your arms hugged the sides. The machine’s built in voice instructions would explain when to remain motionless, when to breathe in and how long to hold it. What they didn’t explain was that right in the middle of having to be still a loud mechanical thumping, more like crashing of a sledge hammer on a piece of sheet metal, would pierce the already grating sound of the rotary imaging device. That clunking would sound off unexpectedly; most un-nerving even when I knew it was going to happen.

I found that some of the images taken were not clear enough or for some reason did not satisfy my doctor’s desire to understand what my insides look like. I had to go through a second CT scan the other day and those results were not satisfactory either. I will get to go through yet another MRI as soon as a slot becomes available. There’s a hint of worry in the back of my mind as I know that these tests are extremely expensive and that the only reason for going through them again implies the probability that something nasty showed up; just not enough to figure out what it might be.

I’m glad I have insurance to cover most of the expense; the CT scan, MRI, blood work and x-rays taken last month when I was in the ER came to a little over $ 9800, of which I paid only $ 150. I am more than a bit concerned with what the future might hold depending on what those additional tests show. That imagination that has me floating or rocking back and forth, even when no such movement is actually happening, also reaches into the dark side where nasty ailments and illness eat living tissue and dissolve confidence.

The Legend of 1900 Revisited

The Astros game against the Chicago Cubs at Wrigley Field was postponed due to “inclement weather”; imagine that, precipitation and 24 degrees holding up a baseball game. I had a rough day pain wise and was going to tough it out in bed anyway. Lucy began flipping channels and I heard some familiar music as I recognized the movie, The Legend of 1900.

The first time I saw it several years ago was flipping channels and I caught it already in progress. A young trumpet player on his first trans-Atlantic trip was being treated to a sea sickness remedy courtesy of 1900. The tuxedoed piano player had the trumpet player release the brakes of the grand piano in the empty ballroom during the middle of a lightning storm. The rolling of the ship created a dance of sorts as the piano, its two passengers along for the ride, made circles on the floor and eventually crashed through a stained glass partition, down a corridor and smashed into the captain’s quarters. “Care for a ride?”, oblivious to the circumstance as he smiled toward the captain. The two of them spent some time shoveling coal as part of their penance in the bowels of the ship. That was my introduction to this particular movie, a movie that probably is on the “do not watch” list due to some vulgar language; language which I shouldn’t have laughed at but did anyway.

There’s a line in the movie, “He had America stamped on his eyes”, a reference to the observed fact that one passenger on each of the crossings could be counted on to be the first to see America, to alert the other passengers of their arrival in the promised land, the land of opportunity, the pot of gold at the other side of the rainbow. I have to wonder, in a cynical sort of way, has that stamp of American been removed, if it ever was there, from some of our own citizens? Are they so caught up pointing out the flaws in the system as to over look the beauty offered in America’s basic structure?

Maybe it’s time to watch another show, South Pacific. They say the human race is falling on its face and hasn’t very far to go…but every whippoorwill is selling me a bill and telling me it just ain’t so… They call me a cock eyed optimist immature and incredibly green… No, I looked in the mirror a few minutes ago and I’ve still got it stamped there; America! America!

X-Rays got switched by mistake

Yesterday I posted an X-ray of what I thought was from my packet. A close examination of the film with that of a well known celebrity’s has uncovered the possibility that the hospital accidentally switched my X-ray with those of Kermit the Frog, the famous Muppet Host. Kermit was unavailable for comment and calls to his agent have not been returned.

Say Ahhhhhh…

The folks at the place where I’m getting my physical therapy were having some difficulty in obtaining the lab reports associated with the all the fancy tests that I had taken at the hospital. Lucy called and found the right person who was more than happy to make a CD of all the tests along with those reports that summarized what those pictures, MRI’s and X-rays showed. Lucy then took that CD over to the physical therapy clinic and kept a copy for our files.

I figured out how to follow the simple instructions and spent the last half hour or so looking at my innards here on my computer. There were hundreds of pictures that showed what I looked like as if sliced and diced and then stacked and packed. I used to look over the ER doctor’s shoulders when they were examining a gun shot victim’s X-rays when I was a cop. I got to see some interesting “shots” complete with shattered bones, arteries spewing and filling voids that shouldn’t be spewed and filled. These pictures were a little different, these were mine.

I hope they figure out what’s pinching and how to make it right soon. I’ll share this one, a standard view of my crooked spine. If there are any medical students out there, have fun and stop laughing.

The Jiggle Bed

Lucy and I saved up and bought one of those fancy “Sleep Number Beds” about a year ago; I’m a “35”. We spent a few extra bucks to have some extra features; the mattress that lets you lift the head or the legs to conform to comfort along with a vibrator built in that soothes away a rough day. This past week I was hurting pretty good and just wanted to find a way to get comfortable and catch some shut eye. Lucy pushed the wrong button and the next thing I knew the bed had me folded like a taco. The improbable part was that it felt better so we modified it only a little and set the vibrator going until I dozed off into a light sleep. The vibrator mode has a secondary button which makes it feel like a wave moving back and forth until it times out after twenty minutes.

Many years ago Lucy and I drove from Houston to see my folks in Florida. The first leg of the trip took as far as Tallahassee where we wanted to get a good night’s sleep before pushing on the rest of the way the next day. They had one of those “jiggle beds”, the kind where you drop a quarter in the slot and get 15 minutes worth of vibration to help you get off to sleep. The only problem was that the mechanism that’s supposed to be affixed to the bed in order to transfer the vibrations was no longer affixed. I dropped the quarter in and the box began jumping around inside the box spring mattress; thumping and bumping and making all manner of racket but nothing that would be relaxing. I’d wasted a quarter and could only hope that racket would stop so I could get some sleep.

We noticed, after a few minutes, that the folks in the adjacent room had taken notice of the thumping and bumping that must have amused their imagination as they began to marvel at our “stamina”. I popped another quarter in the device and was prepared to continue until I ran out of quarters as the gasps and laughter continued from the other side of the wall. “They must be newlyweds” and related amazement mixed with laughter applauded our presumed horizontal performance.

The next morning as we exited the room and headed down to our car to finish the second leg of the trip I made it a point to give a “thumbs up” high sign to the curious fellow watching from the adjoining room, a broad smile on his face as he nodded back. I wonder what he wrote in his journal that night.

Appreciation for my health

I’ve been struggling these past two weeks tying to get back to top form. There's a bundle of nerves pinching in my back that has made it painful to move and has affected the way my right arm works. I still can’t feel part of my right hand and that makes working a challenge.

I went to physical therapy this morning and was reminded of how blessed I really am; noting that the fellow next to me had suffered through a couple of major strokes and was severely limited in what he could do. I didn’t want to sound like I was complaining, recognizing that I am able to work, to enjoy my family and continue pursuing that elusive "happiness" afforded by our unalienable rights.

It could have been much worse, not being able to get the job done and having to watch as the competition walked away with the prize; a little like the Astro’s relief pitching staff choking away the first two games of this young season (linked via title bar). Maybe I can get my arm back in time to fill a slot in the bullpen; put me in coach, I’m ready to play.

It’s Never Too Late

If you listen to Satan he’d tell you that you’ve already gone too far, you’re past saving so why even bother trying; but then again, he’s the father of lies. This weekend was the 177th Annual General Conference of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. I hope you had a chance to listen to or watch each of the sessions; but if you didn’t, it’s never too late. You can catch them as recorded in the archives section either by individual talks or by session break downs. The archival process takes a day or so to be completed and Saturday’s sessions were just now posted. Click on the title bar for a link.

Step into my time machine

Last month I posted about a neat book that Lucy brought home (linked via title bar); one that had reproductions of letters and pamphlets in little pouches and pockets, items that could be removed and handled as if transported in time in all their antiquity. The key to the time machine must still work and Lucy brought home yet another “museum in a book”, this one by Mark Essig, “Inventing America – The Life of Benjamin Franklin”.

Anyone who reads my articles knows that National Treasure is on my list of movies that I can watch over and over, the chance to touch history vicariously through the invention of others. Here’s a chance to hold a copy of a Silence Dogood Letter as it appeared in the New England Courant, to wonder which line and which letter holds the next clue to finding the treasure left by the Knights Templars. Would handling an aged copy of Poor Richard’s Almanack complete with water stains or technical drawings for one of Franklin’s many scientific endeavors make your heart race?

Reading about history involves only one of the five senses or having it read to you would add yet another; how much more interesting our link with the past becomes when we involve touch; just step into my time machine and find out.

Evan Sayet Said It

I was catching up on my blog visits last night and ran across a cluster of thirteen short video clips that David over at Third World County posted ( linked via title bar ). I liked one with a cat playing the piano; but then again I’d watch an old Shirley Temple movie over the Matrix.

The one I’m impressed with, the one that might explain more about the Liberal mindset was recorded at the Heritage Foundation. I never heard of Evan Sayet until last night; but he has something worth listening to, “How Modern Liberals Think”. Be prepared to spend 48 minutes; not exactly a short video clip; then go visit Third World County and watch the cat playing the piano.

God Given Rights - The Heart of the Matter

I posted an article last week regarding the 2nd Amendment as it pertains to gun ownership rights given by God who is the Author of our rights (linked via title bar). One of the interesting things about blogging is having to answer any and all comers in the comment section; sometimes requiring a little soul searching to justify a position taken. I’ve been enjoying such a “tennis match” of opinions for quite some time with Probligo who resides in New Zealand and has a different set of values, at least as far as gun ownership goes. Here is a link to Probligo’s article, “The Joy of …2”

http://probligo.blogspot.com/2007/03/joy-of-2.html

I’ve thought about some of the aspects that are tied with my head strong conviction that government has no business attempting to restrain individuals when such restraints step into the area of God given rights. I’m of a firm belief that there is a huge difference between God given rights and powers granted to government by the governed. That one sentence may summarize what America is in comparison to all the other countries in the world, our founding fathers acknowledged that God given rights must supersede those powers granted to government by the governed. The Declaration of Independence set the tone and the foundation for our nation’s creation and separation from that which had been; the Constitution and Bill of Rights were put in place as reminders of that most important differentiation.

The nerves that run down my right arm and control my pinky and ring fingers are numb and so I’m struggling to type, not being able to feel the keyboard and having to retype as I go along, thank goodness for this being a word processor instead of an old fashioned typewriter or having to jot this with pen and paper; still it’s more than a little annoying not to have a smooth transfer of thoughts. I tried unsuccessfully to find a letter that I wrote many years ago, one that I sent through the chain of command in the Houston Police Department to address an internal issue regarding my belief that the Department had overstepped its authority regarding my off duty time and how I elected to use that time.

A directive had come down from the Chief’s office requiring officers to apply for extra job permits; even for non-police related extra employment which had nothing to do with representing the City, the Department or police work in any way. In other words, the Department wanted to supervise me 24 hours of every day 365 days a year. I had agreed to be an employee working a set number of hours for an agreed upon wage; I had not signed over my God given rights to pursue any otherwise legal endeavor during those hours for which the Department was not paying me. There already existed a very straight forward set of rules and guidelines for officers who wished to secure extra employment in the capacity of police officer; rules governing how many hours could be worked and included were all the rules and regulations which would apply to that officer the same as if he/she were to be working a regular duty shift.

My issue with the Department was that I didn’t have to tell anyone what I did with my off time as long as I wasn’t violating any of the already existing rules of conduct, that it shouldn’t matter if I stayed up all night watching movies, going bowling or making keys for a side income as long as I didn’t represent myself as an employee of the Department working in the capacity of police officer. I was being forced to submit to an authority other than God, in matters which had no relationship with my terms of employment. I eventually lost my bid to have that directive overturned and filled out the required form so that I could obtain a non-police related extra job permit. The reason that I lost was, as the Department’s legal staff cited, because I had not suffered any “harm” by having to ask permission since that permission was granted. Had I refused to request permission the Department could claim insubordination and I would have faced termination and so I really had no choice other than to submit to their intimidation and their demands.

What, if anything, has that got to do with the 2nd Amendment and the God given right to gun ownership? I’ll get to that in a bit; but only after rehashing a similar rift that I have with the State of Texas requiring me to submit to licensing in order that I might continue to pursue a livelihood in the locksmith profession.

I wrote and posted on, “Mandatory Continuing Education in Texas”, and also linked that with my original displeasure, “Business Licenses – Jump for Joy”. Both articles point to the fact that government has implemented laws which violate the principle that individuals obtain their rights from God while government obtains their power from the governed. In both cases the government has implemented secondary bureaucratic organizations which have the power to subject a law abiding citizen to their whims and also have the power to prevent that citizen from conducting an otherwise lawful endeavor. These bureaucratic obstacles were established through legislation; however, they are independent operatives, unrestrained and rather than being responsible to those whom they govern it is nearly the opposite. These tyrants wield considerable power and intimidation in order to obtain compliance; they are fee oriented and confiscatory in nature and they have taken over the once independent locksmith industry. They have ruled how I must advertise, what I must have on my service truck, my letterhead, my business cards and all in the name of protecting “free enterprise”. Pardon me while I put my head in a basket and hurl.

http://tfsternsrantings.blogspot.com/2006/05/mandatory-continuing-education-in.html

http://tfsternsrantings.blogspot.com/2005/03/business-licenses-jump-for-joy.html

Do you see the pattern which I’ve attempted to expose? In each instance a God given right has been forced to yield to government’s abuse of power, powers which were supposed to be restricted in order to protect the individual have been perverted under the false notion that the government is protecting individuals. Isn’t that something, I mean, the individual’s rights come from God and the individual is responsible to govern himself/herself when dealing with others. We don’t get our rights from government; government is what we need protection from in keeping those individual rights in their proper perspective.

It is not the government’s job to protect us in our individual homes; that is unless you are talking about the broadest sense of the word protection, as in war and keeping the enemy away from our shores. It isn’t the police department’s job to protect each and every individual from the bad guys; sorry to be the one to tell you the facts of life. The police department can catch the bad guys later and present a case in a court of law which would hopefully put the bad guys away in prison; however, those few minutes of impending danger when the bad guys are in direct confrontation with the good law abiding citizen, those moments fall into individual responsibility. If you want to be the one who comes out on top you better figure out a way to defend yourself and your loved ones. Once it’s all over the police will come by, make a report, collect evidence and go after the bad guys.

In taking responsibility for your own life and those around you; it’s not within the government’s powers, those granted to them by the governed, to limit the individual citizen’s ability to defend themselves; to include gun ownership in the home and in public. The false notion has been presented and taken for granted that citizens need to get permission to defend themselves from the bad guys has somehow surpassed logic. I continue to hold to my conviction that we should lump bureaucratic agencies of the government in with the bad guys, those who would take from us our God given rights to property and our lives. The hidden danger of sanctioning any bureaucratic cancer in an otherwise free society will cause the foundations upon which our freedoms exist to crumble away leaving only a memory of our once prized God given rights.

I have entered this article in the next Carnival of Principled Government. I wish to thank Dana over at Principled Discovery for hosting and supplying considerable effort to bring this carnival together.

http://gottsegnet.blogspot.com/

How to Worry Everyone All at Once

I went to my chiropractor this week after hurting pretty good and they thought I might have a herniated disk as they pushed and pulled my body trying to give me some relief. I had been awakened in the middle of the night with some fairly intense pain and never did get back to sleep. Each time I tried to lay down there was a terrible pain in my right arm all the way down to the fingers. No worries, Wednesday is my regular chiropractor's appointment.

Today I saw a homeopathic doctor, one that Lucy thinks the world of, and he told me I probably had at least one heart attack and maybe more during the week. I’d always heard that one of the symptoms was pain in the left arm; but he told me that a good percentage of folks have pain down the right arm, so much for that warning sign. I mentioned that my pinky and ring finger were numb and that I was sore all the way up to my arm pit. He kept nodding as he pointed to the center of my spine and explained that it wasn’t my back that was hurting, it was my heart and that that’s where the nerves are.

I was treated by some fancy new stuff that looked like it came from a Star Trek show that he used to help fix various problems. I still have to stay in bed for the next three days to let the damaged tissue mend; but it beats the heck out of having to stay in a hospital and put up with the mainstream doc in the box idiots that my HMO has on the payroll.

My parents and my kids are screaming at me for not trusting in the “real doctors” and for going to some kind of “quack”. I actually have more trust in an old fashioned homeopathic healer than I do with the pill pushing knife wielding MD’s. I better not die; at least not any time soon, or boy, will I be in big trouble.

I called to have a couple of priesthood holders from the Church stop by and give me a blessing; but as far as the non believing world goes, I may as well called the local witch doctors to shake a few bones in a cup, spit in the fire and toss a dead cat over the fence. I better get back in bed and get some rest. Lucy said I wouldn’t enjoy blogging with a broken leg; smiling at me with all her worries hidden behind that smile.

A Sense of Community

When I was very young I noticed little things that I saw my parents and my grandparents do, things which instilled a sense of community responsibility. I watched my grandfather bend down and pick up a cigarette butt that had been carelessly discarded in the courtyard of their apartment complex. He grumbled about folks who toss cigarette butts on the ground and then he looked at me and taught me the lesson I was supposed to get out of it, “It’s up to the responsible people of the world to do our part.” He then walked with me a few extra steps before depositing it in a trash receptacle, something that even a small child knows how to do.

I mention this because Jennifer, my daughter, noticed that when the trailer trash renters from next door moved out they left their dog to starve in the back yard. The neighbors had never taken care of the property, after all they were renting and had no reason to paint, mend the fence that was falling down or any of the other responsible duties involved in home ownership; they simply left. I suppose they figured that the dog would eventually figure out how to wander off through the broken fence.

Jennifer took the dog in, gave it several baths to make it clean enough for her back yard, fed it and took it to the veterinarian for shots and worming. This is the same dog that Jennifer would complain about barking at all hours; mostly because the dog was being neglected, now it’s her dog. They named it Monte and I’m wondering if they get another will they name it Patton; just a thought.

I was on the phone with my mother; she’d learned about this from Jenn. Mom was overflowing with praise for Jenn taking on the responsibility and this “sense of community”. Mom reminded me of the time she noticed broken glass scattered throughout the playground where we all would dig in the sand, slide and swing. She’d asked some of the other neighbors to join her, a chance to make the playground safe for all the kids and found that they were reluctant, as if that sort of task was somehow beneath their dignity and left to others. Mom ended up doing it by herself; after all it did need to be done. Nobody had to force her or place her under duress; it came down to somebody with a responsible nature stepping up to the line.

I’ll toss in my sense of pride for having a family with members from all generations, individuals who understand that it’s not enough to pick up after yourself; sometimes we have to pick up after our neighbors too. I think my grandfather would have been pleased with Jennifer and that line from John F. Kennedy, “And so, my fellow Americans, ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.” For all I know, JFK might have borrowed from my grandfather’s sense of community.

Morality Battle Lines Being Drawn

Last week I wrote an article, Immorality Emboldened (linked via title bar), in which I stood behind General Pace’s statement regarding his opinion that homosexual acts and adultery are immoral and should be used to determine who can serve in the military. Sunday, on the front page of the Houston Chronicle’s Outlook section, the battle lines from the immoral were drawn more clearly as they ran an op-ed piece, “What does it mean to be moral?” The declarative summary was issued by Nathaniel Frank, and as the credit reads, “Frank is senior research fellow at the Michael D. Palm Center at the University of California, Santa Barbara. This article originally appeared in the Los Angeles Times.”

http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/editorial/outlook/4640027.html

I suppose with such credentials, those with a differing opinion should pack up and turn tail, after all, Frank is a senior research fellow, academically superior in every way. “Nuts!”, I think that’s what the soldiers defending their position at Bastogne told the German high command when defeat was eminent.

Frank explained his definition of morality:

“The modern meaning of "moral" is broader than this, referring to standards of goodness and rightness in character and conduct. To put it simply, something that is moral is beneficial to society, and something that's immoral causes society harm.”

Frank then continued:

“Although people often conflate religion and morality, the two are not the same. Religion is about faith; morality is about goodness. Yet both are often invoked to express strongly held beliefs. Without offering an explanation of what is actually wrong with homosexuality, Pace, like those who invoke the Bible to oppose gay rights, is merely parroting dogma he inherited, not making a reasoned argument.”

I suppose if I were to swallow that hook line and sinker I’d have to give up and surrender; however, let’s take a look at what Frank wants us to buy into. The word “conflate” means to merge and the idea of morality, that which represents the “goodness” he so vaguely offers, springs directly from religion; religion being the acknowledgement that humans are supposed to follow God’s laws in order to become His children, those without morality spring from a different source. Faith is the action which causes those who believe to act on those beliefs in order to obtain blessings which are promised and yet not seen until that faith has been exercised.

Frank then goes about attempting to rationalize improper actions throughout the rest of his meanderings, all the while trying to do his best to separate religion from the equation; relying instead on Zogby Polls and Gallup surveys to show overwhelming statistical data that support such perverted behavior, behavior which is expressly mentioned in the scriptures as sinful. He then finishes with a cute little witticism, a play on words, “More people are harmed in this world, I would submit, by the refusal to look and to see than by the wish to ask and to tell.”

If you hang around folks who never thought about or don’t really care about their relationship with their Father in Heaven, never considered the all important link which established the United States of America as a Christian nation; that is correct and I’ll say it again, established the United States of America as a Christian nation, then you will sadly find that their ignorance of these simple truths will keep them from progressing.

The father of lies, Satan, would have us believe that there are no eternal consequences for our actions, for our choices, that our eyes have been opened, that we will be like God, knowing good and evil. Many claim that homosexual activity is perfectly acceptable, that abortion is as natural as having sex, that neither of these “harms society”. Any time God’s laws are violated, they are violated by individuals first and that the individual has to pay the price. Society is harmed anytime an individual is harmed, even worse, when that individual attempts to mitigate his poor choice by having others join in direct rebellion to God’s intended plan for each individual to follow His laws.

“…The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat.”

I’ll go a step further and say that more people are harmed because they have never bothered to read the scriptures, much less understand the laws God has established for our benefit, to save us from ourselves and our carnal nature. Their refusal to look and to see is equaled only by their lack of desire to gain the correct information from the source, God, the author of our morality. Sorry Frank, “that dog of yours just won’t hunt” as long as there are well informed Christians able to see through your smoke screen of deception.

So, What’s Your Point?

The Houston Chronicle ran a headline story posted by Roma Khanna, “No HPD officer ever disciplined for Taser use.” ( linked via title bar )

“In fact, no officer has ever been reprimanded for discharging the 50,000-volt Taser at a suspect, even though many of the suspects were never charged with a crime, according to the Chronicle's review of more than 1,000 Taser incidents since December 2004.”

I read the article and came away wondering, “So, what’s your point?”, noting that the purpose of the Taser was to control a situation in which some other force would have been used, force which would have caused longer lasting injuries or even death.

Performing the duties required of a police officer often require snap decisions in order to complete an arrest, decisions that will be reviewed by supervisors at many levels. If at any point it is found that any rule or regulation has been violated disciplinary proceedings are started; even when the rule or regulation violated had nothing whatever to do with the incident being investigated. Statistically speaking, “the more than 1,000 Taser incidents since December 2004”, would indicate that the officers used remarkable judgment each and every time; that’s 100% compliance, not only with the guidelines set forth for the use of Tasers, but also would include every other rule and regulation that would have influence during those incidents. Again I ask, “So, what’s your point?”

I’m thinking of sponsoring a piece of legislation, one that would require that Taser like devices be installed in the keyboards of every computer. These stun guns would always be armed and ready to discharge 50,000 volts of mind numbing electricity whenever the operator persisted in making a mountain out of a molehill; especially bloggers and journalists with nothing better to do than take pot shots at folks doing a really good job.

I had one of these installed on my computer as a means of testing the functionality of such an instant editorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…sorry about that, mmmmyyy fingers are still a little jjjjjjjjjjjjuuuuuuuuuummppppppppppyyyyy from the shock.