James Taranto has a bit today in the Wall Street Journal where he looks at the Associated Press' "fact-check" on Sarah Palin's new book and the attention they are devoting to the Democrats' health care overhaul:
An Associated Press dispatch, written by Erica Werner and Richard Alonso-Zaldivar, compares the House and Senate ObamaCare bills. We'd like to compare this dispatch to the AP's dispatch earlier this week "fact checking" Sarah Palin's new book.
Here goes:
Number of AP reporters assigned to story: • ObamaCare bills: 2 • Palin book: 11
Number of pages in document being covered: • ObamaCare bills: 4,064 • Palin book: 432
Number of pages per AP reporter: • ObamaCare bill: 2,032 • Palin book: 39.3
On a per-page basis, that is, the AP devoted 52 times as much manpower to the memoir of a former Republican officeholder as to a piece of legislation that will cost trillions of dollars and an untold number of lives. That's what they call accountability journalism.
Since this info is provided by a rightwingneoconwebsite I don't believe that the healthcare bill would cost "untold number of lives". Plus I am not able to verify the numbers of reporters allegedly assigned to the task of reading Ms. Palin's book. However, even if you cut in half the number of AP reporters covering the book, I still find the ratio of reporters of bill to book to be an excellent example of the prostitution of main stream media.
I'm also not saying that Ms. Palin would make a good president for the United States. Frankly, I would prefer a president who looks less cute, and doesn't drop so many Gs from one's vocabulary.
I am saying that I resent the fact that it is so difficult to gain an accurate perspective of certain presidential candidates via today's main stream media. I naively consider such object reporting to be part of their job.
I am saying that our Founding Fathers, while working hard to assure the freedom of the press, did not expect our "watchdogs of democracy" to devolve into such media whores.
I was involved in a contest of wit with a former college cheerleader a while back, and found out I was unarmed.
In order to not embarrass the young lass, let's just call her “Jessica”, okay?
So anyway, one night at the fire station I'm hanging out with a buddy of mine, Dan, who comes into town once in a while to run the ambulance with me. Dan is a terrific guy, very smart and a most capable EMS provider. He also has a wicked sense of humor. So wicked in fact that when the crew Captain makes up the duty roster, if Dan and I are running together the Captain sends out an email warning the rest of the crew. I am not making this up.
So, there I was trading jokes with Dan when a relatively new member of our crew, the former college cheerleader, wanders over and encroaches upon the volunteer fire department comedy channel. She starts complaining about how difficult it is to have a boy friend because boys mature SO much slower than girls. Dan and I, in sync and with no need of rehearsal, start saying "Oh yeah, they sure do!! SNORT! SNORT!! SNORT!!!!”
Basically making complete asses of ourselves, because, you know, we're BOYS!
Besides, to be fair to Dan and me, Jessica WAS warned.
Anyway, as Dan and I are snorting away Jessica rolls her eyes like a typical mature girl and walks away.
Shortly after that the former college cheerleader wanders back, probably because of Dan and my magnetic personalities.
She continues her lament and then says something that triggers my response of "Well ... you know ... boys DO mature slower than girls.", which I thought was incredibly witty. Dan and I prepare to begin our famous snorting routine once again when we are ambushed by Jessica as she opens her eyes wide, stares at me and says in a slightly brittle tone of voice (If I do say so myself):
"YEAH?!? WELL YOU'RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME!!".
Ouch.
Body slam.
Cheerleader - 1
Seasoned EMS provider - 0
Attached is a picture of the former college cheerleader. We had just run two calls, one including a difficult extrication from a car wreck. It was near midnight and we still had six hours of shift left. We are all tired with bags under our eyes.
She doesn't look like a perky college cheerleader NOW, does she?!?
So there.
I know that’s probably petty of me, but then again I’m a boy.
One of my lovely wife’s favorite movies is “Love Actually”
It is a Christmas movie, except this particular movie is seen many times a year in our household, unlike my Leg Lamp. But that’s another story.
Anyway, the movie begins and ends with a wonderful collage of people greeting each other in an airport. The touching scenes seem genuine, and indeed they are. The director secretly recorded families and friends greeting each other and if they caught a particularly good greeting, ran out and asked the participants to sign a waiver.
The scenes, as well as the movie, are heart warming.
However, it makes you wonder: who are these people? From where did they come? Where will they go next? What is their relationship to one another?
What is their story?
Ironically the same applies to volunteering as hosts in the USO lounge.
Every once in a while, not on an infrequent basis, someone will come into the lounge, drop a donation into the kitty, smile, and walk out.
Not a word is said, except of course our “Thank you”.
Who is this person? What is their relationship with the USO that would make them pop in, donate, and then move on in a Lone Rangeresk like manner? (Pity the reader who doesn’t recognize the reference. “Tonto, do NOT go into town alone! OOOOHHHHH!!!! I’ll bet that’s going to leave a mark”).
So, one wonders about this kind individual who supports the cause of the USO in such a stealthy manner.
For example, one day, a tall, lean gentleman stops in and donates, leaving as quietly as he entered.
Salt and pepper hair. Nice looking. Pleasant face.
Why?
Who?!?
Former military with good memories about the USO?
Family member current military? Friend in the military? Distant past relative current/former military?
Is he a fan of the Lt. Dan Band?
Does he listen to the local radio host Jack Diamond, a fantastic supporter of the USO?
Did he think of the deserving troops when he saw the USO sign?
Was he a Vietnam Veteran with thoughts of challenging service? Was a childhood friend a Vietnam Veteran?
Does he have a child in the service?
Is he just grateful, like me, to live in the land of the free because of the brave?
Alas, we have no waiver to which to refer for more information. No point of reference. Just a fleeting moment when a stranger, now a friend, stops in to support the cause.
And there you have it.
This particular story has no end. This particular story will remain untold.
Intriguing.
Mystifying.
Just as warm hearted as the movie, but not a movie. It’s real this time.
This one is face to face.
Certainly there are other Mysteries of the Universe, but this mystery feels good, like a warm quilt across one’s lap on a chilly Christmas Eve.
Halloween is considered a national holiday by my thirty-nine year old son, Ross.
In celebration of this holiday, Ross and family will decorate the home, yard and garage with scary stuff. He and his garage band also play some incredible tunes to entertain friends and family alike. They really are good and fun to watch (and listen).
As this national event approaches, Ross's lovely wife clearly states:
- only so many dollars will be used for new, terrifying displays
- decorating may not commence before October 1st, allowing just barely enough time to get ready for October 31st.
Despite these limitations Ross is as diligent now as he was as a kid, and his Garage of Terror has become a work of art as well as a central feature for the whole neighborhood, including a stop on the local hayride.
Of course, the front yard is duly decorated with the giant blow up spider, complementing the spider webs and headstones.
However, the piece de resistance is his two car garage. For Halloween, the garage is fully decorated including an entrance and, if the kids make it out, an exit. The path to follow is well defined by black sheets hanging from the ceiling, forming a Corridor to Hell. The garage is all blacked out except for the seizure inducing strobe lights. There are severed limbs, spiders, a casket, and ghouls; some in mannequin form, some family members and some local neighborhood kids who apparently hold a grudge against other kids, or are just bullies.
Included in the family of volunteers are Ross’s big brother, Jimbo, my lovely wife with a dark green witch's face and a large mole encased nose, family children, in-laws and, this year, my brother and his wife who currently live in an RV, unless you’re from the IRS in which case they live in South Dakota.
The Garage from Hell is designed with hiding places that are built in at strategic locations, allowing us to jump out and scare the snot out of children of all ages. As a group, we judge the success of our efforts by the decibel level of the screams, the number of kids (of all ages) that start to cry, the number of mothers who pull their children from the arms of the naive fathers as they start to enter the Garage with a Reputation, and finally, the amount of candy that is strewn about the floor of the Hades Garage, left behind by terrified children as they make a break for the exit (only to be ambushed by my brother one last time within sight of survival).
We all have individual stories of success. Mine include:
The two adults whom I trapped against the wall of the garage. An adult man and an adult woman. The woman was too terrified to scream, while her male protector could just stand there and yell “help! Help!! HELP!!!” It got to be so boring to me that I finally moved WAY over so they could make a break for it (only to be ambushed within sight of the exit by my brother).
The teenage girl (our favorite category of victim) who could just scream as she back up towards the recently vacated garage wall. As she screamed and took a step back, I screamed and took a step forward. It went on like that for quite some time. Scream … feminine step back. Counter-scream …. Ghoulish step forward.Scream …. Feminine step back. Counter-scream … ghoulish step forward. And on and on and on. I finally let her go. The kid with her complimented me on my style and gave me a high five.
Alas, one young teenage lady, given the option of “flight or fight” chose the wrong one and smashed my nose with her bag of candy. Felt like rock candy. She got away, and after seeing what happened to me I think my brother pulled back under his rock and let her escape.
Then there was the fearless teenage boy who struted through my kid’s garage, throwing his chest out in order to display his masculinity. My oldest son attempted to scare this kid but the kid just kept walking. As he turned the corner I leapt out with my ghoulish mask. I give him credit, he didn’t officially flinch, but I did detect a crack in the veneer of manhood as he froze in his tracks, eyes growing wide and uttering “What the fuck?!?!”. Regaining his composure, he then strolled past. Heh … heh … heh…. I’ll count that as a win.
In 1927 Charles Lindbergh flew from New York to Paris in 33 hours and 30 minutes. Lucky Lindy risked it all and hit it out of the park.
In 1974 Major James V. Sullivan, (pilot) and Noel F. Widdifield, (reconnaissance systems officer) flew an SR-71 Blackbird from New York to London in 1 hour 54 minutes and 56 seconds.
Only 47 YEARS after Lindbergh flew his historic flight!!
A ten year old kid who celebrated Lindbergh's flight would be middle aged when the SR-71 roared in to London.
Good grief. What astonishing progress in such a small amount of time.
Tobey Keith, Country singer, is opening a chain of restaurants "I Love This Bar and Grill" restaurant, named after one of this tunes.
First one is in Vegas.
Military with IDs get a free meal.
What a guy.
While on the Dennis Miller radio talk show, he also relayed a comment told to him by Trace Adkins while they were touring together. Adkins said that if he was there when Kanye West pulled the mic from Taylor Swift he“ ..would beat his ass, beat his ass again, and lay down on him, take a nap, and when I woke up I’d beat him again”.
My wife and I are honored to volunteer with the USO in the lounge at Dulles airport. I have my wife to thank for this. Although I do volunteer with the local fire and rescue company, death and destruction is not her thing and she preferred to find something we could do together. She came upon the USO at Dulles and we agreed to sign up.
Good stuff.
What a wonderfully rewarding decision. It gives us a chance to present a mere token of our appreciation to our troops by serving them refreshments at the lounge as they go about their worldly travels.As it turns out, the other reason I volunteer at the USO has to do with the people I meet, usually in the lounge.
There are the veterans of WWII, ably representing that greatest of generations. Now that that they finally have their own memorial proudly constructed on the Mall, many want to see it. With these veterans passing away at a rate of 800+ a day, time is of the essence. What are known as Honor Flights bring these veterans into local airports. The USO meets them with bottled water, snacks, wheelchairs and portable O2 bottles. The veterans are hosted and bused down to their nation's capital to visit their memorial, and to visit with others who fought in that cataclysmic event. They are proud of their accomplishments, and so are we.
Then there is the veteran of the "forgotten" war (forgotten by some, but not by all) who could teach us all the meaning of "cold", having fought on the frozen Korean peninsula during one of their coldest winters. Ever. Cold enough to freeze their guns, and food and thoughts. I have to admit that we met this particular veteran in Hawaii where he lives. After the Frozen Chosin he swore to never be cold again a day in his life and has a home in paradise. Good decision.
There was the Vietnam veteran that stopped in one day and dropped twenty bucks into to the kitty. Just because. Said that the USO helped him out several times and he just wanted to say thanks. That’s always a tough one, isn’t it? When a veteran says thanks to us?!? For what? Anyway, the veteran then went on to say that after a year of combat he returned home unannounced to surprise his parents. His father was working in the front yard when the young vet walked up and said hello. The father did not recognize the scarecrow caricature of his son standing before him. All three of us teared up when the veteran told us his story and we had to remind ourselves that “there’s no crying at the USO!!”
Our own son served during the first Gulf War, stationed in Saudi Arabia repairing the tankers who refueled the fighters who fought the war. He was on the receiving end of the SCUD missiles sent over from Iraq. It must have been fated that one of the last projects upon he worked before retirement was the Air Borne Laser which will defend our troops from such tactical theater missiles in the future, using Buck Rogers laser technology. Our son was the only member of that research team who had faced the pointy end of the missile threat. Thankfully, he came back from the war not only well and healthy, but also with his future war bride, our beautiful daughter in-law who was also in the United States Air Force, outranking our son. Still does. One fond memory they share is witnessing the last USO tour featuring Bob Hope. Can you imagine?
Meeting the veteran from the second Gulf War was quite the experience. Ayoung guy came into the lounge one night. Turns out he’s home for his sister’s wedding. That’s a little odd isn’t it? He leaves war, comes home to celebrate his sister’s wedding, and then returns to war. Can’t quite get my mind around that one. Anyway, the young guy comes into our empty lounge late at night and wants to talk. Vent actually, to strangers he will probably never see again. Fine with us, whatever we can do to help a troop. Seems that he could not get a ride home from the airport so his father was coming to pick him up, about a two hour drive if I recall. The father was irritated with having to drive so far to pick up his warrior son, and the son knew that the father would complain about it upon entering the lounge. During the quiet time prior to his father’s arrival, the young soldier talked to us about the realities of war. No glory there, just very harsh times including the death of his best friend and our young soldier killing the guy who killed his best friend. I wish he hadn’t learned such lessons. I pray that he is well and that in some small way we helped a soldier in need. Eventually the father arrived. The soldier was right, and I bit my tongue.
The veteran of the war in Afghanistan was a delightful teenager. This young lady was personable, friendly and a delight with whom to carry on a conversation. Seems that her goal was to become a military nurse, having already had battle field hospital experience removing the eye of a wounded soldier under the careful instructions of a medical doctor. Holy cow. What a teenager.
The veterans of the War on Terror graced our lounge as well. Any idea where we are fighting this war? Well, there was the ripped young Army Special Forces sergeant waiting in the lounge with his lovely wife. He was plying his trade in the sands of ….. North Africa teaching the indigenous population how to protect themselves from Al-Qaeda. Then there was one interesting afternoon when a hard, lean soldier comes in directly from the Philippines after fighting Al-Qaeda in the jungles for nine months! And I mean he just landed from the Philippines. I suspect he still had mud under his fingernails. He was tense and paced like a caged tiger. After traveling half way around the world he was less than two hours away from the love of his life, that which kept him going for nine months of jungle warfare, that which he could not wait to get his arm around, his pickup truck. Seems that his girlfriend was supposed to pick him up at the airport in his pick-em-up, but she was a no show. He had earlier suspected that there was trouble in paradise, but was hopeful that she would at least pick him up at the airport. The longer he waited the more agitated he became and the closer I came to offering him a ride home. Since I was (and you were) waking up every morning a free person on this soldier's nine month watch, I felt that he deserved such a minor show of gratitude. However, there was a Marine officer watching this story unfold so he quietly called a Marine base near our soldier’s home town and informed the base that there was a young Marine needing a ride from the airport to the base. The Marine officer hangs up the phone and tells the soldier that he is now a young Marine and that a car is on the way to take him home. Whew! You gotta love cross military cooperation. We figured that the driver of the car wouldn’t throw the soldier out once the truth emerged. I told the soldier to just keep saying “SemperFi” and everything would be fine. The car arrived after the end of our shift, but we suspect the soldier was reunited with his pickup truck.
Then there was the Mom who stopped in just to drop two twenty dollar bills in the kitty. Seems that two of her sons are Marines, one in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. Yikes. Let's review that one again: two of this mother's sons are Marines, one in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. Whenever she can she visitsa USO lounge and donates the two twenties, one for each son, all for good karma. We pray that her karma holds strong.
And what of the newest troops? Will they uphold the traditions of the finest military in the world?
There we were, staffing the lounge when a fine looking young Marine comes through the doors. We sensed that he entered with purpose, but provide him the usual “Welcome to the USO!”. His reply was “Those people are crazy out there!”. Uh oh. Young Marine, in BDUs, couldn’t be any more military and he’s met some crazies. Huh. So I ask “What’s up?”, fearing some slight has been done to our young Marine. He tells us that as he is walking though the airport waiting for his girlfriend to arrive and people keep coming up to him, shaking his hand and thanking him for what he’s doing. Well, okay, so far I’m siding with the crazies. The problem with the young Marine is that he has just finished basic training and has not yet been in combat. In his mind, he hasn’t done anything yet and so does not deserve the recognition.
So, let me see, he’s committed years of his life to an all volunteer military, successfully completed basic training with the United States Marines and is on his way to specialty training as a truck mechanic. From what I hear, every Marine is a Marine first, and performs some other job after that. A Marine cook is a Marine first, and then a cook. A Marine truck mechanic is a Marine first, and then a truck mechanic. I also hear that there is no more dangerous weapon in our arsenal of freedom than a Marine with a rifle. And our Marine is embarrassed when people come up to him to shake his hand.
Cripes.
We explain to this newest member of the current greatest generation that people appreciate all that he has done, and will do. He understands, but still shyly awaits his girlfriend's arrival. Secure and yet appreciated in the USO lounge.
