The Mongolian Maneater

"Did you get a lot of work done?" My lovely case manager, Erin asked me this morning, referring to my weekend.
"I knew you'd ask me that. But no, just a little... and that was by accident," I told her.
I was in her office to get some garden supplies for the 9:00 o'clock Garden Club. It was then
9:10, and both Paul and Erin were still in their office, technically making them late. Again.
On the other hand, Hardy and I were right on time. Early as a matter of fact. I had already brought out some water for the thirsty plants (no hose today. Erin likes to water the plants with a plastic bucket specifically designed for plant watering), and Hardy was already raking leaves.
"We'll be right out," Paul assured me.
"I spoke with a representative of the earwigs over the weekend."
"You did?"
"Yes, they said they won't eat the plants if you stop killing them."
"Really," Paul said.
"Yes, but you'll have to read my blog to see the entire discussion." (see, Saturday Stroll)
"Oh, a hook," Paul said, "I'll read it, but I don't trust the earwigs and will fight them until my dying day!"
By the time they got out there most of the work had already been done. How convenient. Erin began watering, and Paul began digging a whole in the ground for no discernable reason. My neighbor, Robert came out, sat down on one of the metal benches that are out there, and ate his breakfast.
Paul wants to build a raised section of the garden over an area that is thick with tree roots. We don't know what we'll use to build it, either wood, rocks, or bricks. We decided to go to Home Depot and buy some supplies.
Erin's car was full of stuff, and Paul's truck can only accommodate three people, so we ditched Erin, and Paul, Hardy, and myself took off to the garden store.
We headed north on Alameda, and I showed Paul the VA clinic on Temple as we passed it. Then Union Station, where the trains are.
"That's where I first came to LA at," Hardy said, "Union Station."
"When was that, Hardy?" Paul asked.
"Oh, nineteen fifty-two, or there abouts."
"How old were you?"
"Oh, about nine."
"And over there is Olvera Street," I told Paul, pointing to it.
"Really."
"Yes. Olvera Street is in the oldest part of Downtown Los Angeles, and is part of the El Pueblo de Los Angeles Historical Monument. Many Latinos refer to it as "La Placita Olvera." Circa 1911 it was described as Sonora Town. Having started as a short lane, Wine Street, it was extended and renamed in honor of Agustin Olvera, a prominent local judge, in 1877. There are 27 historic buildings lining Olvera Street, including the Avila Adobe, the Pelanconi House and the Sepulveda House. In 1930, it was converted to a colorful Mexican marketplace. It is also the setting for Mexican style music and dancing and holiday celebrations, such as Cinco de Mayo."
"Really. I didn't know that," Paul stated. "I just thought it was a good place to buy Mexican wrestling masks."
"And taquitos," I added.
My father used to take us there, many years ago.
We also passed Phillipes, the home of the French Dip sandwich. It has been operating since 1909, making it one of the oldest in Los Angeles.
"Have you ever eaten a French Dip sandwich?" I asked Paul.
"Yeah."
"They claim to have invented it there."
"I know. I once bought some mustard for my dad there."
"Uuummm, custom mustard," I said.
We eventually made it to Home Depot. Since we were already there we decided to go inside.
In the Nursery Section they keep all kinds of plants and flowers. We grabbed a shopping cart and wandered about, looking at stuff we could buy. We bought two bags of garden dirt, then checked out the ferns. There's nothing like a good fern to stabilize your garden. We chose two ferns of indiscriminate lineage. I wanted to get a nice five foot tall banana tree, but at $99.00, it was a bit too expensive. We also took home with us two more pepper plants, as these were the only type of plants that have produced some vegetables so far.
I had harvested the one big pepper that had grown in our garden.
"What I wanna know is how we're going to divide this up?" I said.
No one gave me a good answer. We shall see.
Unfortunately, Hardy got a little too close to a Mongolian Maneater and was heartily consumed, and Paul and I were forced to carry all of the stuff we bought back by ourselves.
Damn you, Hardy.

A Saturday Stroll

Thing, from The Addams Family


Earwig

On Monday mornings when I first meet my lovely case manager, Erin, we generally ask each other how our respective weekends went. She usually provides a brief description of the events that transpired during the previous two days, and I usually tell her that my weekend was good, and that I got a lot of work done.
She has come to expect that answer from me, which varies very little from week to week, especially the "I got a lot of work done," part.
"Did you get a lot of work done?" she asked me last Monday.
"Yes," I replied.
Not wishing to become predictable, I was bound and determined not to do any work whatsoever during this weekend. My box needed to be cleaned, I did not clean it. Piles of laundry were waiting patiently to be washed, I did not wash it. Research needed to be done, I didn't do it. Material that needed editing and transposing awaited me, I ignored it. It was hard.
My dear sister and I have grown into a somewhat compulsive nature over the years, and I have certain habits that bother me when they are not carried out, like doing my laundry and cleaning my box. Accordingly, I left my dirty little box yesterday and took a stroll through the neighborhood.
I arrived at the Hippie Kitchen near 11:30 in the morning, to complete my breakfast for the day. I had already consumed a tasty Mcdonald's cheeseburger I had purchased the day before. I had actually purchased 18 of the little bastards the day before, and handed them out to those who showed up for Movie Day. I ate three during the movie (Hancock), and Erin, Rodney and two others got a couple each. Erin wanted to give her second burger to Jose because she said she was full after the first one, but I pointed out to her that undoubtedly, at some point in the distant future, she would become hungry once again, and that she should save it. Which she did, I think. Besides, if she had given her cheeseburger away, I would have just given her another one, in an unending chain of cheeseburgers.
Anyway, I had a whole bunch of burgers left over, and ate one Saturday morning.
The little parakeets sang to me as I entered, going "Poo-te-weet! poo-te-weet!
The hippies at the Hippie Kitchen have been experimenting with the menu recently. Erin and I enjoyed some nice macaroni and pork, with salad, last Tuesday, and today I enjoyed some kind of rice and chicken gruel, with salad, and an extra helping of cooked potatoes, with a plastic cup of chocolate milk. Very good, and nutritious too!
I grabbed a bag of chopped lettuce the hippies offered and sat down near a fountain I had not noticed previously. It looked very nice and peaceful in the garden surroundings. At its base was a small pool where goldfish swam contentedly. I sat at a picnic table with two Hispanic, and one black gentlemen. We all enjoyed our meal.
By the way, dear readers, if you would like to become a hippie, and volunteer or donate to the Hippie Kitchen, you may do so at their web-site, which is right here:

http://lacatholicworker.org/visiting-and-volunteering/soup-kitchen

Afterwards, I walked north up to Fifth Street, then west all the way to Los Angeles Street, passing a variety of people milling about San Julian Park and the Los Angeles Mission. Some were playing checkers, or chess within the park. Others were selling marijuana, or cigarettes on the streets. Some, apparently overcome with exhaustion, were laying flat out on the sidewalks, fully asleep.
From Wall Street to Los Angeles Street a noticeable transition takes place, the local population changing from predominantly black to Hispanic. White people such as myself, are tolerated, and an accepted minority in these parts. I've been living here long enough that most street people have seen me walking around, often with my friend Ron, and accept my presence easily. And I haven't been called "a cop," for years.
Generally, I don't mind walking around. I often find myself daydreaming, and editing, or thinking of things to write while on such strolls. Sometimes I latch on to some small detail that needs to be changed in a post written weeks before. I try to remember it, and make those changes when I get home.
I continued north on Los Angeles to a little shop between Fourth and Third, that sells incense, scented oils, and other stuff that smells good. There I bought 60 sticks of incense for 3 dollars. The sticks were located just outside the shops entrance, and inside jars of incense juice. I was allowed to pick out my own sticks, and chose 20 lemon scented, 20 orange, and 20 coconut. My hands got sticky with incense juice as I counted out, and put into elongated plastic bags the sticks, but they had a nice little rag I could wipe them on inside the shop when I finished. The proprietor of the shop gave me another plastic bag to put my three bags of sticks in, and I was on my way. For the rest of the day, and well into the night, my fingers smelled like a mixture of lemon, orange, and coconut.
I next walked up to Third, then west to Broadway, and the Grand Central Market, where I purchased two tasty looking tacos, piled on top of rice and salad, from some Asian people, then I took a bus home.
I did have one responsibility that I could not neglect, and when I arrived back at my place I went to our garden to water the plants that live there.
There is a hose out there, attached to a leaky spigot, that I use to water the plants. Sometimes, one of my neighbors, an older Hispanic gentleman named John, who happens to live adjacent to our garden, and who knows that I'm out there to water the plants, and also that I'm likely to get soaking wet by turning on the leaky spigot, helps me out by reaching out of his window at the appropriate time, and turning it on. I must say it's a tad disconcerting to observe this disembodied arm reach out and turn the water on, and is the closest I've ever seen that resembles "Thing," from the Addams Family television show and films.
John did this for me yesterday.
"Thanks John," I said.
I then watered the thirsty plants. When finished, John reached out and shut off the spigot.
"Thanks Thing, er, I mean John," I said.
As I was about to leave I heard a tiny little sound coming from the garden. It sounded like a tiny, "Psssst, pssssst!"
I went over to investigate, and was astonished to see a little earwig standing up on its hind pincers, clutching a small white flag, and calling to me.
"Hey you, giant person," it said.
"What the hell..."
"I'm holding a flag of truce, so don't kill me," it continued.
"I won't kill you," I replied. "What do you want?"
"I want you to stop killing us, duaaaa."
"Well I, I don't kill you guys..."
"I've seen you try to," it said. "How would you like it being sprayed with ammonia? It wouldn't feel very good, now would it?"
"Well I don't know what to say..."
"And what's up with that giant blonde guy? He's always trying to kill us. He killed my sister and great aunt."
"I'm so sorry..."
"Sorry! Is that all you've got to say for yourself?"
"Paul thinks that you guys are eating our plants..."
"And his cohort, you know what we earwigs call her?"
"Erin? No I don't."
"The Maiden of Death, that's what we call her. Why are you doing this to us?"
"Because you're eating our plants."
"We won't eat your plants if you stop killing us."
"Really?"
"I swear on my sister's grave. We like to eat other bugs."
"Wikipedia states that you guys like to eat vegetables, and plants like sun flowers too."
"Wikipedia is a notoriously unreliable source of information," it said.
"Well, I'll certainly discuss this, uuumm, situation with Paul."
"Please do. And tell him to stop putting those traps in the ground. We're wise to that one now."
"I certainly will."
"Thank you. You will be remembered as a true friend of the earwigs, despite your murderous history. Goodbye."
With that it tunneled into the ground, taking its little flag with it.
I returned to my box and thought about what had just happened.
Will Paul and Erin believe me and stop the rampage?
If I were them, I certainly wouldn't.
We shall see.
And damn it! I've written this post, thereby doing some work.
Damn it!

D Day

On this day, 65 years ago, long before my lovely case manager, Erin was born, or even myself, the largest single-day amphibious invasion of all time took place, beginning at six-thirty in the morning, on the beaches of Normandy, France. This invasion was in response to Nazi Germany's subjugation of most of Europe and it's air attacks of Great Britain, and the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor, three and a half years earlier. Over 5,000 allied ships were involved, with 160,000, American, British, Canadian, Australian, and troops from Belgium, Czechoslovakia, France, Greece, the Netherlands, New Zealand, Norway and Poland participating. 11,590 allied aircraft supported the invasion.
Over 425,000 Allied and German troops were killed, wounded or went missing during the Battle of Normandy.
The invasion was a success, and along with the allied invasion of Italy the following year, and the persistence of the Russian Army to Germany's east, it paved the way for the Nazi's eventual defeat, the suicide of Adolf Hitler, and the liberation of his infamous network of concentration (death) camps. The estimated total of deaths endured during World War II, both in Europe and Southeast Asia, lie somewhere between 50 to 70 million.
The military term, "D- Day," simply means the actual day that a major event takes place, given certain variables, and can be applied to other military operations as well. Since the invasion of Normandy was the largest in history, the Normandy invasion and D- Day are often synonymous.
If you would like to actually see this invasion, and vicariously experience what it was like on that day, I recommend two films, 1962's The Longest Day, and Steven Spielberg's Saving Private Ryan.
The landing craft pictured above is of a type that I was trained to drive while serving in the navy. It is relatively easy to operate when not being simultaneously shot at. One forms up in a wave of similar craft (a horizontal row of landing craft), you drive up on to the beach as far as you can, drop the front ramp, deploy your troops or equipment, bring the ramp back up, throw the boat into reverse and back out a bit, steer to the right and get the hell out of there so the next wave can come in. I've been told that the life expectancy of a driver of such craft in combat is about ten minutes, accordingly I chose to serve during a time the United States was not at war.
My father, Ray, was not so fortunate, and served in Europe during World War II. He was a paratrooper in the 101st Airborne Division. I am uncertain of what part he may of had in the invasion of Normandy, but I do know that he participated in the Siege of Bastogne, a town in Belgium, which was surrounded by German forces in December of 1944. Famously, when asked to surrender the American commander, General McAuliffe in a written, one word statement, replied "Nuts." It had to be explained to the Germans that this was a term of defiance, and that American surrender would not be coming anytime soon. On the day after Christmas, elements of General Patton's Third Army were able to break through to Bastogne and relieve the soldiers there.
My father obviously survived World War II, and returned home on the Queen Mary, which is now parked in nearby Long Beach, where I've visited it myself several times. He was a war profiteer, bringing back with him a total of one German Luger (a hand gun), and an eight piece set of china, which my dear mother would routinely bring out each Thanksgiving.
Our President, Barack Obama, along with French President Sarkozy, British Prime Minister Gordon Brown, and Canadian Prime Minister Stephen Harper, honored those who served, and died in the Invasion of Normandy at Omaha Beach today, one of the invasions spear heads. He said these words: "Friends and veterans, what we cannot forget — what we must not forget — is that D-Day was a time and a place where the bravery and selflessness of a few was able to change the course of an entire century. At an hour of maximum danger, amid the bleakest of circumstances, men who thought themselves ordinary found it within themselves to do the extraordinary."
Nearby, 10,000 white crosses, perfectly aligned, marked the graves of US soldiers.
President Obama's grandfather, Stanley Dunham, arrived on Omaha Beach six weeks after D-Day. Dunham's brother, Ralph got there four days after the initial invasion. And his great uncle, Charles Payne, helped liberate one of Buchenwald's (a death camp) satellite prisons in 1945, and came with him to Normandy today.
The President was the first US President to visit Buchenwald in Germany yesterday, where over 56,000 prisoners died mostly by being worked to death and starved, but executions as well were routine, either by a bullet in the back of the neck, hanging, or medical experimentation.
Obama said these words: "More than half a century later, our grief and our outrage over what happened have not diminished."
Buchenwald "teaches us that we must be ever-vigilant about the spread of evil in our own time, that we must reject the false comfort that others' suffering is not our problem, and commit ourselves to resisting those who would subjugate others to serve their own interests." He added: "It's also important for us, I think, to remember that the perpetrators of such evil were human, as well, and that we have to guard against cruelty in ourselves."
I would suggest to the President, that the evil deeds of our own must be investigated and remembered as well.
There are those who deny that the horrors perpetrated in Buchenwald and the other death camps, never took place, like Iran's President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad.
"To this day, there are those who insist the Holocaust never happened," Obama said. "This place is the ultimate rebuke to such thoughts, a reminder of our duty to confront those who would tell lies about our history."
Yes it is true that our young people should be taught, and remember the lessons of the Holocaust and World War II, as too many died due to the follies of their national leaders.
I meet too many college graduates who know little of that war's history. And what happens when we forget the past?
Too often we are doomed to repeat it.

The Skid Row Housing Trust Piece

It has been an interesting week. Monday we started off with the Garden Club. I planted some more sunflower seeds in the hope of growing some nice big sunflowers, as the ones I had planted previously refused to sprout. Come on mighty sunflowers, grow and prosper!
Our tomato plants are thriving, getting bigger on a daily basis, but alas no tomatoes as of yet. Come on mighty tomatoes, grow and prosper!
We have four pepper plants that look quite sick, but one has produced a viable pepper. A big green one. We are going to have to figure out how to divide it between Erin, Paul, Hardy, and myself.
Our dwarf orange tree has sprouted little green buds, but nothing that looks like an orange yet. Erin says, "Hurry up and grow little oranges. I want some juice."
Paul continued his pogrom against the hated earwigs. They have been avoiding his traps as of late, disappointing him greatly, so he was forced to hunt them individually. "Die earwigs, die I say!"
His enthusiasm seems to be infectious as at one point I heard Erin exclaim, "Die you bad Earwigs, die, die, die!"
How appalling. I'm certainly glad I'm not an earwig.
We had a very strenuous yoga class on Tuesday. Beth asked us to visualize holding a brick between our hands, arms outstretched, and moving our arms up over our heads and then down again, among other exercises. After the class I asked her if I could have a lighter brick next time.
"It's all in your head," she replied. Well, my head is giving me a heavy brick!
Afterwards, Erin and I visited the Skid Row Housing Trust office to see Molly, the Director of Special Projects. A lovely brunette lady in her thirties. A few weeks ago she had asked me to write a piece for the SRHT newsletter that they publish four times a year. I was only too happy to do it, and Erin and I were there to pick up a copy of it that Molly had edited. She had made some minor changes and wanted me to sign off on it before it was sent to the printer. She was very nice, and flattered me much too much, as I have a little trouble accepting compliments. I had no problem with her changes and told her to go ahead and use it. She told me that she would come to the Cooking Club, at the Olympia Hotel today to take some pictures to accompany the piece. And she did.
Enchiladas today, beef and cheese. I was in charge of the meat (hamburger), and cooked it throughly. Erin threw in some chopped onions, and I started grating cheese. Earl was in charge of enchilada assembly, and soon the oven was full with four pans of bubbly Mexican exquisiteness. The lovely Molly arrived right on time to share in our efforts, and those were really good enchiladas. The best I've ever had. Really! There was enough left over for me to take some back to my box, and I am looking forward to consuming them later tonight.
Molly took pictures of everybody there, serving enchiladas, eating enchiladas, and stuffing ourselves silly with enchiladas. She took a nice group picture of the eight, or so, of us who showed up, outside, and a few of me standing at the hotel's entrance, smiling like an idiot.
Cameras are not my friend.
We ended our Cooking Club session today with the traditional cheese and pie desert, pictured above.
Below is my original version of the SRHT piece, which to my horror is quite revealing:

I've been asked to make a short statement about my relationship with Skid Row Housing Trust. It's a long story, but I will attempt to be succinct.
In 2001 I came to Skid Row having absolutely nowhere else to go. I was, and am to this day an alcoholic, or addict if you prefer, addicted to anything that would get me out of myself. Over the years it became a big problem, because ultimately alcoholism is an exceptionally selfish disease, and it took all of my time to maintain my addiction, which left little else for employers, family, friends, or wives. They soon would have no more of my nonsense, and I found myself alone.
And without resources. I had no money, no job, or hope of things turning around anytime soon, so I needed some help. After I came to that realization my path was relatively clear.
I'd lived in Los Angeles since I was three years old, but I rarely came to the "Downtown" area. None of my friends did either. It was a place to avoid. It was dirty, unkempt, with homeless people ruling the streets... not a nice place to be.
But I became a homeless person. In late December I exited a showing of "The Lord of the Rings" half sloshed on vodka, and discovered I had nowhere to go. I'd been kicked out of the Salvation Army's Adult Rehabilitation Center program many times, but I knew that the downtown Harbor Light facility would probably accept me, as they were an independent entity. By the time I made it there it was near midnight. Still, they took me in.
I graduated from their alcohol and drug program, stayed there a year, spent another year at the Weingart Center, but still had no place I could call a home.
I'm a veteran of the United States Navy, and one day at the ASAP clinic (a drug and alcohol program) at the Veteran's Administration, I met my old friend Ron, who I've written about many times on my blog (joycestake.blogspot.com). He had a nice apartment, was independent, and living quite well here downtown. It was he who got me set up with Skid Row Housing Trust, and after a short time being on a waiting list, I received permission to move in to my box, just on the outskirts of skid row. That was January of 2003, and I've lived there very happily ever since
I was eligible for the Shelter Plus Care program due to my close relationship with depression and addiction. The program requires that I participate in activities that are beneficial to me. I don't mind. I like things that are beneficial to me. I go to 12 Step meetings, depression groups at the V.A., and interact with my case managers from Skid Row Housing Trust, regularly attending their various support groups.
After the 2004 general election I finally found an interest that I became obsessed with ever since. You might say I found my life's mission, and now I devote most of my time to writing political and social commentary and satire, rather than being on the streets and wandering through life aimlessly. This was made possible in a large part by SRHT.
Skid Row Housing Trust has given me the opportunity to have my life back. I pay my rent, and now have a place I can call home. It's just a small room, but it's mine, and it's all I need. With the depression and all, what can I say, I take the medication, and some days are better than others, but I always know that I have a great place to stay, nice neighbors, and a truly wonderful and motivated support staff that I can come to whenever I feel the need.
My current case managers, Erin and Paul, (two young kids, compared to my fifty-threeish nature) are just the nicest people you'd ever hope to meet or work with. They are truly invested in their jobs, enjoy interacting with their clients, and keep inventing interesting things for us to do. We have a weekly Garden Club (where magic tomatoes, peppers, and oranges appear somewhat, well magically), a Cooking Club (enchiladas this week), Yoga Class, "Drama Free" support groups, and field trips (I once almost killed myself trying to ice skate in Pasadena). They are not only a reliant source of support and consistency, they have also become my true friends. And one can't have too many of those. (I have to say these nice things as Erin is editing this piece for me).
I've been told that the newsletter this testimonial is appearing in goes out to many possible donors to the Skid Row Housing Trust organization. In this day and age a viable answer to the problem of homelessness in the country couldn't be a better investment.
As usual I've gone over my allotted amount of words. So Thank you, and have peace in your life.
Richard Joyce

Global Warming

Our inner solar system contains four rocky, terrestrial planets. Mercury, Venus, the Earth, and Mars. Mercury is so close to the Sun that its atmosphere dissipated shortly after its formation, due to it's low gravity, the high temperature, and the solar wind. An unstable, very tenuous atmosphere of molecular oxygen, hydrogen, and other trace elements exist there today.
The same thing happened on the Earth early in it's history, but our planet is much further away from the Sun, and has a higher gravitational pull, and a steady state was achieved with regard to our atmosphere. Our first atmosphere consisted mostly of hydrogen, helium, methane, and ammonia, similar to the present day atmosphere of Jupiter. 3.8 billion years ago traces of water could be detected. 3.4 billion years ago our atmosphere contained mostly nitrogen, and free oxygen did not rise until approximately 2.3 billion years ago, which evolved as direct result of a phenomena called life. Currently our atmosphere consists of roughly (by volume) 78.08% nitrogen, 20.95% oxygen, 0.93% argon, 0.038% carbon dioxide, and trace amounts of other gases totaling a mass of about five quadrillion metric tons.
I know what your thinking. That's a lot of air!
Although it is certainly more than I'll breath in my lifetime, if you were to compare the Earth to an apple, then our planet's atmosphere is about as thick as the peal surrounding it.
The planet Venus is closer to the Sun than the Earth, and Mars is farther away. Both of these planets earlier in their history are believed to be much more clement than they are now. Streams of free flowing water at one time flowed over the surface of Mars, indicating a warmer planet, with a much greater atmospheric pressure. Oceans may have existed at some past time on Venus.
But something happened in the distant past. Something natural indeed, but also devastating, at least as the formation and maintenance of life is concerned.
Today Mars is a frigid desert, with no oxygen, no liquid water, no protection from the Sun's ultra violet light, an atmosphere one tenth of one percent of Earth's. Venus literally is hell, holding a crushing atmosphere 92 times more dense than our own, consisting of carbon dioxide and sulfuric acid, with a surface temperature exceeding 800 degrees Fahrenheit, hotter than what is needed to melt lead.
Planet wide climate change is possible. We know that to be true.
Greenhouses are used by horticulturists to cultivate various flowers, trees, cacti, and shrubs in a somewhat warm environment. They work due to solar radiation entering through the glass or plastic roof and walls, which heats the air and soil, and the infra red radiation, or heat is retained by the glass or plastic roof and walls. It gets hot in there.
The gas carbon dioxide, as well as other gases in our atmosphere act as the glass or plastic roof and walls in a greenhouse. And when an excess of these "greenhouse gases" is allowed in our atmosphere it isn't hard to figure out what happens next... except if your a republican.
Since the beginning of the Industrial Revolution in the late 18th century the amount of carbon dioxide has increased from 280 PPM (parts per million) to the present value of 387 PPM. On average the amount of carbon dioxide put into our atmosphere corresponds to one ton per person living on this planet each year. That's a lot of CO2. The planet has been getting warmer since 1910. The decade between 1998 to 2007 is the warmest on record. Glaciers are melting in Greenland. There really is a Northwest Passage now. The Wilkins Ice Shelf in Antarctica, which is about the size of Connecticut, is breaking up, which is the largest slab of ice to do so there.
When global ice melts, sea levels rise.
This poses a problem for us humans. A big problem. Although we will never experience as great of a runaway greenhouse effect as that on Venus, the problem of global warming is one of the greatest our species has ever faced. Coastal areas could become inundated. Crops will fail in areas where they once thrived, and will thrive in places they once languished. A warmer planet will increase the fuel for its weather mechanism. The ocean will become more acidic, conversely the oceans will hold less oxygen which does not hold well for the life that exists there. Pestilence will increase. On and on.
Most of the current credible scientific opinion overwhelmingly agrees that global warming has been taking place over the last two hundred years. A recent survey by the University of Illinois at Chicago polled 3,146 earth scientists and 90% agreed that warming is taking place, and 82% agreed that human activity is a major contributor to this warming effect.
Really, this is not rocket science. It's not even high school algebra. The more greenhouse gases you dump into the atmosphere, the hotter it gets!
To better understand the impact global warming is having right now, on human lives and our economy please read the following article from Common Dreams at:
http://www.commondreams.org/headline/2009/05/29
The only ones who do not agree that global warming is a threat are scientists (if you can call them that) who work for major carbon dioxide emitters, their bosses, and the Republican Party.
I've heard some of the wackiest denials of global warming spewing out of republican mouths. Global warming is occurring, but naturally. Global warming isn't occurring (Sean Hannity), our climate is actually getting cooler. Carbon dioxide cannot be a pollutant because it occurs in nature. We need more carbon dioxide, not less. Global warming is cyclical in nature, and therefore harmless. Wild fluctuation in atmospheric temperature have occurred throughout history. One moron claimed Greenland was called Greenland because it was once green (throughout recorded history Greenland has always been covered by glaciers, except possibly now). On and on. This is just a small sample, an inkling of the Republican mind set.
What difference could it possibly make if global warming were a naturally occurring phenomena, and not caused by humans (which is not the case)? Their argument is moot (not only that, it is irrelevant as well) as the results are exactly the same. All of the above consequences still apply! We are currently living in between ice ages. Would we ignore the practical aspects of a new ice age and freeze? I don't think so. Our species would fight it with every technology available to it (unless, of course, the Republican Party is still around at that time). The same should apply to global warming and its effects.
Except for the masking effects of the phenomena known as "Global Dimming," also caused by human activity, Hannity's position is too stupid to comment on.
Hydrogen cyanide appears in nature too, try sniffing it.
Most scientists believe we've got enough carbon dioxide in our atmosphere as it is, and a lot of it should go back into the ground where it came from.
Global warming due to increased amounts of carbon dioxide due to human activity is not cyclical in nature, and is therefore harmful.
Temperatures have fluctuated throughout history, and throughout most of history mankind was unable to do anything about it... now we can.
Argument after argument from the right wing can be knocked down like bowling pins. Why are the republicans so adamant concerning this subject (and every other bone-headed issue they champion)?
Money.
It will cost money, a lot of it, to tackle the problem, and cripple our economy. Or that's what they believe, or say they believe.
Even if that were true, which it is to a point, but changing to a green based technology and economy will offset the cost, and by the way, help solve the problem.
But that would mean change, and the republicans are the party of the status quo. They are terrified of change. They are willing to sacrifice the health and wellbeing of not only your children and grand children for the almighty buck, but are willing to do the same for their own as well. This is nothing short of sociopathic behavior, and the most irresponsible position imaginable.
To my republican friends, even if you are right, which you're not, but if you were, how could you possibly justify to your children, and to their children, the pollution in our skies (smog), the pharmaceutical chemicals in our waters, the poisons in our wells and drinking water?
What do you have to say to them?
But to you the problem simply does not exist.
How convenient.
And you keep getting paid.

Goodbye Marisela

My blood pressure remained that of a twenty five year old. 122 over 77, which means that I can continue to poison my popcorn with as much salt as I like. My temperature was a cool 97.8. My heart was pumping at a steady 68 beats per minute (pump on, dear heart, pump on!). I had even lost a little weight, 172 pounds, down from 180.
I must eat more donuts.
The nurse finished taking my vitals and asked me to wait in the adjacent room specifically designated for waiting. Appropriately they had comfortable chairs in there, magazines, and a television affixed high up on the northern wall so everybody could see it. The TV was turned off as I re-entered the waiting room, on the fourth floor of the large hospital (Building 500), at the Veteran's Administration Center in Westwood. There were about ten of us vets there, three siting with their significant others. Fortunately I had brought a book with me, still reading John Nichols, "The Magic Journey." I would finish re-reading this one that day, painfully experiencing the (Spoiler Alert) murder of April Delaney at the hands of the FBI.
What have you got to say about that, Scully and Moulder?
We were all there to see our endocrinologists. At least that was why I was there. I had been taking a lower dosage of my thyroid juice for over a month, and was there to see if my hormone levels fell within the normal range. This was happening last Friday, the 29th of May.
The last time I had been in that room the television had been on and I had sat through two complete showings of "Las Vegas." I hold little regard for the city itself, let alone a TV show depicting the inner workings of a fictional casino there, but it did have in it's cast one of my favorite actresses, the lovely Nikki Cox (pictured above), an LA girl, who, as it happens, is celebrating her 31st birthday today. Happy birthday, Nikki!
They fired her after the fourth season, and as I predicted, the show was canceled the next year. It can get really tiring being right all of the time.
The reason I watched two whole episodes was because they had me waiting in there for over two hours. They hadn't even taken my vitals in all that time. Somewhere in there between the second and third hour I just got up and left.
"Screw my thyroid," I told myself. A little gland in my throat began to throb.
Today, however they were right on track, and within thirty minutes after arriving my lovely endocrinologist doctor called my name.
That was good, as I was very pressed for time.
My lovely case manager, Erin, and I were set to go say farewell to Marisela, my lovely case manager before Erin came to us (also pictured above, seated on the left. To her right is her biographer, Traci, who seems to be having a marvelous time). Last Friday was Marisela's last day at SRHT (Skid Row Housing Trust), and she would be moving to Australia to continue her education. She was, and probably still is, extremely interested in the public's perception on judicial sentencing issues. I have no idea why. I have no idea why anybody would be interested in the public's perception of judicial issues, then again, I'm interested in the sex life of amoebas.
Anyway, I was to meet Erin at her office at 12:45, then drive over to the Abbey Hotel, where Marisela had worked after abandoning us. Then Erin and I would go pick up some pizza for Movie Day (Rodney insisted on showing the uplifting, "Valkyrie." After the end, after everybody in the film was executed (non-spoiler alert. This is history my friends. Look it up), all of us sort of were left speechless, staring off dazed into space, then wandering off).
"Well, its been a while since we've seen you," my lovely endocrinologist said. A brunette, Asian lady, in her late twenties.
"Yes."
"I first saw you last October, then we had an appointment in February, and we kind of got lost."
"That's one way of putting it, yes."
"So," she continued, "how are you feeling."
"Good, I feel fine.
"No hot flashes, feeling faint or sluggish... diarrhea?"
"No."
"How many times a day do you poop?"
"I give it the old college try on a daily basis."
"I see. Because looking at your blood levels, your thyroid level is still a little high."
"Really."
"Let's see... you're weighing one seventy-two. Blood pressures good... Humm, that should be the right dosage for your weight, but I can't ignore the lab results, maybe we should try a lower dosage."
"Okay."
"Let me examine you, then I'll confer with my boss."
She examined me, feeling up my poor little thyroid, and making me swallow. Then she went away to talk to her boss.
She came back after a little while, and said, "We just want you to stop taking your thyroid medicine on Sundays. That should get your levels down to normal."
Naturally I asked, "Could I not take it on Wednesdays instead, because I usually don't have any errands on Wednesdays, and it would be so much more convenient?"
"Sundays would be better."
"Oh, alright."
"Now I want you to come back in two months and we'll check again."
I made the appointment, then left the hospital. By then it was eleven thirty and I needed to meet Erin in an hour and fifteen minutes, so I decided to forego the unreliable MTA bus, and just run home instead (see Memorial Day).
By the time I got back to my box I was a little out of breath. I got inside just as my telephone rang.
"Hi Rick, it's Erin."
"Hi Erin. What's up?"
"Uuumm, my roommate came by to take me to lunch, so I won't be able to go with you for Marisela's ice cream thing." Marisela planned to serve ice cream at her going away party. The flavor was not specified.
"Oh, alright."
"But I'll see you at Movie Day."
"Okay, I'll see you then."
I got up and walked over to the Abbey Hotel, right behind the Midnight Mission. It was fifteen to one. One of the resident's of the Olympia was outside waiting.
"Are you here to see Marisela?" I asked.
"Yeah. I asked at the front desk, and she's not here yet. They said she'd be back at one."
"Okay."
So we waited. We waited until one o'clock, then a little after. We waited until ten after, then twenty.
"Man," I told my fellow resident, "Marisela's never been on time for anything, and now she's late for her own going away party."
He laughed. I told him that I had to go, and to say goodbye and good luck to her when, and if she showed up.
Great, I said to myself, I've been stood up twice today by case managers! This was not boding well for my self esteem.
To Marisela, good luck my friend. I will miss you, your laughter, your point of view, and especially your chicken enchiladas. You still owe us some of those, and one day when you tire of gallivanting all over the world, I expect you to come back and make us some.

The Ocean At Santa Monica

Early last Wednesday morning I found myself walking next to the Pacific Ocean along the beach in the city of Santa Monica. I don't know why.
My lovely case manager, Erin, asked what I had been doing there, and the only answer I could come up with at the time was that I had been coming to this place since before she was born. I certainly did not mean to be flippant or condescending, not with Erin, but my answer was true... I had been there many, many times in the past, sometimes partying with friends from high school, other times just to find someplace to reflect.
My lawyer has his office close by. The last time I was in Santa Monica was to see him, several years ago. But I wasn't there that day to see him, and certainly not at the hour I was there. As I walked along the seashore my friend Erin, within a five mile radius from where I was walking, was probably just opening up her sleepy little sunburnt peepers, in preparation for starting her work day.
Sometimes it is good to get away from downtown, even if only for a little while.
The mornings had been overcast for the last several days, clouds covering the sky high overhead. It was cool, in the low 60s, but even here, next to the largest ocean in the world, the air was not humid. I felt very comfortable.
Seagulls intermixed with their cousins, the pigeons, on the soft sands near the pier. If only humans could get along with each other as well, I thought. I watched the waves roll in and out. They're always doing that, constantly being pushed along due to the gravitational dance our planet orchestrates with our close satellite, the moon. I noticed one gull pretending to be a stork, or a flamingo, standing on one leg, as it too watched the waves roll in.
I looked out to the sea. Waves were breaking on a parallel series of rock formations about a hundred yards out. Buoys surrounded them to warn off small boats and surfers. I had spent three years living on the surface of this ocean while in the navy, and during the entire time I served not once did I ever swim, or even accidentally fall into it. The waters around Santa Monica, these days, are so polluted I couldn't imagine anybody entering of their own free will.
I found a couple of good rocks I would take home with me to use as meditation aids, and one nice seashell, then I headed up to the pier.
It took a year and a half to build the pier, which opened in 1909, ten years before my father was born. It stood until 1983, when a pair of storms wrecked one third of its length. The city wanted to tear the rest of it down and build an island with a hotel on it, but the people of Santa Monica thought otherwise, and voted those who advocated "commercial progress," out of office. By 1990 it had been entirely rebuilt. This September it will celebrate its centennial birthday.
I walked onto the pier. Of all the times I've visited this place I've never seen the indoor carousel actually run, although I'm told it does so on a regular basis.
I passed the Bubba Gump Shrimp Company restaurant. It was closed, but someone had left the television above the bar on. The entire pier was fairly deserted at this time. A few fisherman fished, a few joggers jogged, and a few dog owners walked their dogs. Seagulls stood at sentry positions along the piers railings, making sure the piers activities were all in line and copesetic. I watched an Oroweat bread truck make an early morning delivery. In Pacific Park, the piers small amusement park, one of the first in Los Angeles, technicians were testing the ferris wheel. Around and around it went, empty. How apt, I thought.
I strolled towards the end of the pier, past the Mexican seafood restaurant, Marisol, where one can dine on fish enchiladas, and on under the Harbor Patrol Station. I stood for awhile at the end of the pier, where below me two older gentlemen were out early, cleaning oysters for bait, hoping to catch some perch.
I vowed never to wind up like that.
Poor fishies, just trying to get along. Looking for a tasty bite to eat, finding something floating about, chomping down that days breakfast, a sudden flash of pain, then being abruptly hoisted out of its world into one of intense suffocation. I've fished in the past, but will never do so again.
What a hypocrite I am, I thought. You eat seafood all of the time. And chicken, and beef. Perhaps I should become a vegetarian, like Paul (except for cheeseburgers) and Beth. But plants don't want to be eaten any more than animals. A quandary.
I looked out over the sea. Directly west of where I was standing, if a camera lets say, could zoom out in a straight line of latitude, I'd first pass the beaches of Malibu, then over the Channel Islands of Santa Cruz and Santa Rosa, out over the Pacific to the Japanese city of Tokyo, west to Ulsan, South Korea, hitting the Asian continent near Qingdao, China, continuing west a tad north of Kabul, Afghanistan, then roughly through Tehran, the island of Cyprus in the Mediterranean, through Tunisia to Casablanca, out over the Atlantic, making landfall on the eastern seaboard over North Carolina to Columbia, South Carolina, past Atlanta, on to Socorro, New Mexico, on to the pier in Santa Monica, moving up to a lone man standing at the end of it, finally focusing on the small bald spot on the back of his head.
What a life I've had, I thought.
I looked at my watch. My lovely case manger would be leaving for work soon. I turned around and began my journey home.
We both had work to do that day.