Wolf Lair

A Soldier's Death in Vain

2008-09-23T19:41:00.001-05:00

Back in the Civil War, the U.S. Army would entice young Irishmen escaping the Potato Famine in Ireland into enlisting to go fight Mr. Lincoln’s war by, among other things, promising to take care of them for the rest of their lives should they get wounded, or their families should they get killed “defending our freedoms.” The Army lied. Just as it did in 1898, 1914, 1941, 1968, 1990, and now – just as it always had.

Okay, so that’s News, Mr. Two Wolves? Nope, but it leads into this story. You see, I was in San Diego these past few days and had reason to look at the local newspaper. In it was an Associated Press story about Marine Sergeant Rafael Peralta, another young man who believed the government’s lies.

You see, Sgt. Peralta was in Fallujah, Iraq on 15 November 2004, leading his squad of Marines on a house-to-house search. In the course of this patrol, Sgt. Peralta was shot, allegedly by his own Marines, “several times in the face and body.” Now, keep in mind that those who shot him were allegedly his own men – that becomes important.

Back to the story, according to the AP. As Sgt. Peralta lay wounded in the dirt, a grenade thudded into the dirt near him. A live grenade. Wounded as severely as he was, Sgt. Peralta nevertheless found the strength to pull that grenade to himself and roll his body onto it, absorbing the blast. He died instantly, but his comrades were spared.

The stuff of legend? Ya’d think so, wouldn’t ya? You’d be wrong.

Back in Vietnam, the news reported frequently on young men who did the same – who deliberately ate a hand grenade to save their buddies. These young men, each one of whom was loved and grieved for, received a hero’s accolades … and the Medal of Honor.

Oh, an aside here. There is no such thing as the “Congressional Medal of Honor.” Its name is simply the Medal of Honor. The only thing Congress has to do with it is to approve its being awarded. I just wanted you to understand that, to avoid any confusion.

Back to Sgt. Peralta. As I said, in Nam and doubtless all wars prior, swallowing a hand grenade like he did was absolutely Service Above and Beyond the Call of Duty; in short, was true heroism. In fact, it almost became de rigueur for the Medal to be awarded in these instances.

Almost. But not for Sgt. Peralta. Seems his having been shot by his own men first makes him unworthy of our nation’s highest award. It doesn’t matter why he was shot by them, just that he was. At least, that’s the hard-line stance Secretary of Defense Robert Gates has taken.

Gates, in all his wisdom, and after due collaboration with “forensic pathologists,” various generals, and even a prior MOH (short for Medal of Honor) winner, avers that Sgt. Peralta simply was too mortally wounded to be able to “knowingly” grab that pesky ol’ grenade and pull himself atop it. Nope, that just couldn’t happen, all those “experts” say.
According to them, he died not from a hand grenade blowing up against his chest, but, according to the AP, “a gunshot wound to the head and injuries to the head from a grenade.”

Huh! This despite there being witness statements, other forensics reports, bomb fragment analysis, and an autopsy which, the AP reported, “concluded that although Peralta was shot in the head, he made a conscious, heroic decision to cover the grenade and minimize the effects he knew it would have on the rest of his Marine team.”

Now, the MOH isn’t something just anyone can bestow upon another. Nope. The recipient must be nominated by his command, and Sgt. Peralta’s nomination came from none other than Marine Lt. General Richard Natonski, after he received documentation investigating the report of Sgt. Peralta’s actions.

That nomination, again according to the AP story I read, details Sgt. Peralta’s last moments. There were “several witnesses” who told how he lay face down and pulled the grenade to him with his arm. The nomination also contains a forensic analysis of his flak jacket and uniform, which prove the grenade was underneath him at the time it exploded.

I ask you, if he was, in fact, dead or dying when the grenade exploded, how is it he could have deliberately pulled the thing to himself first? Or, were the witnesses lying or simply confused by the noise and smoke of battle? Yeah, yeah, that’s it. Every single witness is deluded or a liar.

Well, then there’s that forensic evidence. Did the investigators also lie? Or were they simply not smart enough to figure it out correctly?

Or, could it be that Sgt. Peralta – a man who, as his dying action, deliberately pulled an armed hand grenade beneath himself to save his buddies – doesn’t deserve this award because he wasn’t an American citizen? Yup, you read that right. Sgt. Peralta was an alien! And from Mexico! He was born in Tijuana and moved to San Diego as a teenager. He was 25 when he died.

Is that the real reason Gates and his minions seek to deny Sgt. Peralta this last honor? Because he was not only not an American, but that he was a Mexican, to boot? Why, just think of the howls he would hear from all those good American bigots who want to put a bloody fence up along the border “to keep us safe from them” if this ever came out. Why, every Tomas, Ricardo, and Jose would come running over here and enlist so they, too, could suck up all our medals and keep them from “real American HEE-roes.”

This makes me sick. And ashamed of this country that I risked my life and watched my friends die for. And sad for Sgt. Peralta’s family (his mother can’t even speak English, which is just another reason he shouldn’t get the medal). And sad for us, for what we’ve become.

Luckily, there are people like California Rep. Duncan Hunter who recently sent a letter to Preznit Bush asking that he intervene and order the MOH be posthumously awarded to Sgt. Peralta. Hunter wasn’t alone, either – the AP reports that five other representatives (of both parties) as well as Senators Dianne Feinstein and Barbara Boxer have countersigned his letter. The report doesn’t say if any private citizens have also contacted Bush, but I think they should. They should.

I’m not urging any of you to any sort of action, except to follow your heart. Do what you think is right; at the very least, remember Sgt. Peralta and his sacrifice for us, for this nation he adopted and which now wants to relegate him to secondary status – to send him to the back of the freakin’ bus.

That’s my story for this time.

The Fuehrer of the Parking Lot

2008-07-21T18:03:00.002-05:00

Last Friday night, Diana and I went to see the Elders’ concert at a Catholic church in Lee’s Summit. Now, I’ll not name said church so that none of their lawyers will be able to come back later and sue me for libel, because this tale is far from complimentary.

It’s also true.

The Elders, if you don’t know, is an Irish-Rock band from Kansas City. That’s all I’ll say about them this time, though, because this tale isn’t about them. It’s about what happened before their concert.

The concert was part of a community festival that the church was having, so its parking lot was filled with booths of one sort or another and a large stage for concerts. This meant, of course, that visitors had to park elsewhere. There were two such areas, both being large, grassy fields nearby. One was the “VIP lot” where, for $5, one could park hiser vehicle and not have to walk all that far to the nearest junk food booth. The other was for the riff-raff and was free. Of course, the price was a considerably longer walk.

Being a good Scot – and a card-carrying member of the riff-raff – I turned right into the free parking rather than left.

It was like any such parking venue: citizen-volunteers in orange vests pointed one to another volunteer in an orange vest, who … I’m sure you get the picture. I followed the pointing fingers until there were no more to be seen. I saw an open slot and began to pull in. But, no, ‘twas not to be. Here’s where I met The Fuehrer.

A teenaged boy came running up to me as I was pulling into the slot and told me I couldn’t park there. I asked why, since it was an open slot and would block nothing. He said he didn’t know, but that “he’d” – pointing to a man some 100 yards or so farther on – said I couldn’t. I had to go to this man to be told where I could park. Neither of these two were visible when I first drove up.

Okay, it was a nuisance, but I did as I was told. I drove up to the older man, who just smiled and asked me how I was.

“Where do you want me to park?” I asked, already a bit irked and not really interested in exchanging pleasantries.

“Anywhere you’d like,” he said, innocence dripping from his voice.

“Wait a minute. I’d already chosen a spot, but you apparently didn’t like that. So, you tell me where to park.”

Again, the smile.

Finally, after a minute or two of silence, he said I could park “right there,” pointing to the end of the row where he was standing. Exasperated, I just parked and walked away.

He never gave me a reason for this display of petty power. I don’t think there was a reason, except a chance for him to feel like a man. The most aggravating thing about it – and the thing that really enraged me is that I saw another vehicle park in the exact spot I’d originally chosen – and the parking lot fuehrer at the end of the row said absolutely nothing about it. Nada. Zip.

I don’t know if this nazi idjit was associated with the church or not, although I suspect he was. Why else would he consent to voluntarily work in the car park? So, he’s probably a fine, upstanding member of the church. Probably goes to mass every week and piously prays for whatever they pray for … and screws people over so he can feel a rush of importance.

Do I blame the church? No. I blame the man. He’s obviously wanting for self-esteem, so feels it necessary to abuse what little authority he actually possesses. Other than that, hey, maybe he’s a good guy. Maybe he prays to his god and loves his family and his nation and may even pay his taxes – most of ‘em, anyway.

Doesn’t matter. He’s a fascist.

A Dog’s Tale

2008-07-17T14:20:00.001-05:00

A Scotsman walks intae a pub in Inverness one fine day, approaches the publican, and orders a pint o’ stout. Noo, accompanyin’ our fine Scot is a large, scruffy ruffian o’ a dog. Och, wiry hair, severe overbite – a right worrisome sight, this dog.

The publican sets the pint doon next tae our Scot. He proceeds tae drink it doon in a gulp or twa, then picks the dog up by its legs, swings it in a circle over his haid, then puts the dog back doon. He then orders a second pint.

Once again, the barman delivers the pint, the Scot drinks it doon, picks the dog up by its legs, swings it aroond, and sets it back doon. And orders yet a third pint.

For the third time, our fine publican places the pint in front o’ our Scot. Said Jock does just as he did both times before: drinks the pint doon, picks the dog up by its legs … ye get the picture.

By this time, the publican is beside himself wi’ curiosity.

“Oy,” he says. “I’ve been noticin’ wha’ ye’re doin’ wi’ tha’ dog. Could ye tell me wha’ tha’s all aboot, lad?”

“Och!” Our hero says. “No’ tae worry. ‘Tis a watchdog, y’see, and I’m just givin’ him a wee look aroond.”

And may yer days be filled wi’ laughter, fun, and a wee dram or pint or twa. By the way, this tale was unapologetically lifted from a wee book o’ Scot’s jokes, an’ nae copyright infringement nor pairsonal gain is asked for or expected.

Slainte!
The Auld Scot

A tale for another time

2008-07-10T13:43:00.001-05:00

In my story about fireworks, I mentioned that I’d had a close encounter with the things and said that would be another story for another time. Well, this is the story and this is the time. Bear with me – I promise the tale will be mercifully short.

Several years ago, I was at a backyard barbecue with some friends. Beer and other beverages of the ethanol species were in plentiful supply, as were willing partakers thereof. That, coupled with really good barbecued ribs, was a recipe for disaster.

We were sitting around the patio table after eating, just chatting and joking, when Tom, one of the guys, hopped up and ran inside the house. I suppose I should mention that the party was at Tom’s house, just for completeness of the saga. Anyway, he came running out a few minutes later carrying a large coffee can that was stuffed to the brim and beyond with 1½” firecrackers.

He sat back down and proceeded to light the things one at a time and toss or flip them out into his yard. I guess he needed to put more bang into the party or something. Apparently so did everyone else, because we all started laughing and making snide comments. You know: partying.

Until.

Tom lit one of the firecrackers and flipped it, ostensibly down-range as he’d been doing. The problem is that this one hit the table’s edge and ricocheted down to the patio, then off Diana’s foot, and came to rest an inch or so away. The fuse, of course, continued merrily smoking away and growing shorter and shorter.

Without thinking, I reached down to grab the thing, intending to scoop it up and toss it into the yard. Yeah, right. It exploded just as my hand closed around it. It felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the inside of my hand, followed by a blow torch. And this person hadn’t bothered being any sort of gentle about it, either. I was initially too stunned to do anything, then sure that I’d find my fingers somewhere out in Tom’s back yard. I took a quick inventory, though, and realized my hand and fingers were still intact, although blackened by the gunpowder.

Everyone, it seemed, was yelling – or laughing, the louts – and asking me if I was okay. Hel, NO, I wasn’t okay – I’d just had an explosive device go off in my hand, ferchrissake! I needed medical attention, dammit! And I needed copious amounts of anesthetic, preferably of the liquid variety. And I needed sympathy – lots of it. Well, since I’m a medic, I managed to get the medical attention – lessee, normally there are five fingers, four of which have three parts and the other two: check. And I made sure I got that anesthetic. Dr. Guinness makes some wonderful and powerful anesthetic medicine, let me tell you.

But did I get the sympathy? Do I even need to ask? Not only were these, my so-called friends and family, unsympathetic (after the initial inquiry into my health, to their credit), they were downright derisive. Hmph! I could have just gone to work if I’d wanted that kind of ‘tude.

Here’s the thing: I was lucky. We’ve all heard of these things blowing hands and fingers off. Instead, my paw was only swollen and painful for about a week or so. The palm also had a mild burn ... but it was still firmly attached to my wrist. Lucky.

You know, I told this to a friend a day or so ago. She asked me if I thought I was the type who would have thrown himself onto a grenade to save his buddies. The sobering truth is that I think I am.

The Auld Scot

A still, small voice in the wilderness

2008-07-07T17:57:00.002-05:00

Last Friday, I did what most Americans did: I participated in our great national orgy of explosions and symbolic destruction (far too much of which was literal as well as symbolic). I say I participated, but I did so by going to an acquaintance's house and watching the aerial displays there. I gave up shooting the things off several years ago when I damned near blew my hand off, but that's another story for another time. Now, I just watch.

And react at a level that surprised me, as much as it sobered me.

Why is it that we Americans take so much joy in blowing things up? Why do we apparently get off on destroying things? Now, before you go ballistic here, I'm not necessarily talking about any one person in particular, but about the American culture as a whole. If you feel that I'm talking to you personally, then perhaps you should give that some very deep thought; otherwise, please just read on.

You see, I was sitting there Friday night, watching the displays. Now, this guy lives in the county, so there were looots of fireworks being blown up, from all around us and at varying distances. And, of course, there were the bozos who just had to shoot off 3" and 5" mortars.

As I sat there, it suddenly occurred to me that this was very much like combat - I remember that, believe me. The small stuff (1-1/2" firecrackers and the like) were rifles being fired, or machineguns when someone lit off a string of the things. They popped and cracked in exchanges of rifle fire. The larger devices were artillery - complete with aerial trails, multi-colored flashes, the whole enchilada. Oh, yeah, there was even debris falling from out the sky - and shrapnel if you were unlucky enough to be too close to one of these things. As I said, there was a battle raging around me. This veteran began to get just a tad hinky, y'know?

What really did it for me, though - what sent me spinning into the surreality of the Twilight Zone - was during one of the inevitable lulls in the battle. The rifles and big guns fell silent ... and I heard the unbridled giggling and joyful shrieks of the children simply being children.

Maybe I read too much into it. Maybe I was thinking or remembering too much. Maybe I'd just had some bad beef or something. It doesn't matter, y'see. I was struck with the ludicry and hypocrisy of it all. We Americans take so many pains to pass ourselves off as peace-loving folk ... but we celebrate the birth of our nation by destroying things. Oh, sure, the destruction is "just fireworks," but it's the symbolism. We worship destruction. Peace? That's positively unAmmurican, by gawd.

There's an old folk song, Where Have All the Flowers Gone. Some of you may remember that song - it was very popular during the folk era in the 1960s/1970s. The chorus asks, "when will they ever learn?" I ask when will WE ever learn?

Sturm und drang und donder und blitzen.

2008-06-05T12:20:00.002-05:00

Once more we here in the woods faced Mother's wrath and survived. Other than a most impressive wall cloud, replete wi' rotation and shafts lowering out of the main cloud mass, we got rain - lots of rain. Tornadoes threatened, but Mom kept dithering and finally decided that a good dosing of lightening, thunder, wind, and rain were enough for us. Och, and 'twas a muckle display o' all o' them we had at the Lair, too! 'Twas a wild and most wondrous nicht, tha' nicht.

We had nae tornadoes, but we did hae lots o' water in low places. A wee toon near the Lair, known as Lake Winnebago suffered quite the floodin'. I suppose I should call it Loch Winnebago tae remain in keepin' wi' me brogue, but I'll call it by its proper name. At any rate, e'en the city hall, which happens tae sit right on the banks of said loch and began life as a boat dealership, was flooded.

Fortunately, the Lair sits atop a hill, so the only damage I had was the loss o' me spouse's peonies. Tha's too bad, too, because the blooms were quite beautiful. Still, 'twas nowt compared tae all those people who lost their homes tae the water.

'Tis quiet here noo, but the weather guessers are callin' for yet more storms this nicht. Said storms are supposed tae be every bit as strong and potentially damagin' as those of which I write. We'll see. I'll turn me computer off, batten me hatches, and face bravely intae the storm, ragin' against the elements and cursin' the gods. Actually, I'll sit quietly on me sofa, eat a bite of dinner, and prepare for the worst.

Or maybe I'll go oot intae the storm, face intae it, and howl. A wolf needs a good howl every noo and then, y'ken.

Slainte!
The Auld Scot

Personal note to a buzzard

2008-06-03T18:50:00.002-05:00

You know, when I first read your comment on this blog, I thought you were just another Christopher. In fact, I was all set to reply to you via email when I read your comment again. I finally picked up on your true identity, Mr. Buzzard. I'm on to you and your tricks now, sir.

And I welcome you to WolfLair. As you can see, you spurred me to at least make one more post. I'm not sure if anyone else will see this, nor is it all that important, but you'll see it, Mr. Buzzard, and that's the important thing. You'll see it and will know how important your opinions are to me.

Will I make more posts? As I've promised before, I'll try. They may not be deathless prose - won't be, probably - but I'll put some blathers here. After the tornadoes that are now attacking our fair metropolitan area go away. Stay tuned.

A Tale of Two Oculae

2007-10-05T17:26:00.000-05:00

Oyez, oyez, oyez! Gather 'roond, good people, and list tae a tale of woe and of joy, of fright and redemption. Why, of very light and dark.

Gather roond, you people, and prepare.

A muckle good friend of mine, one I ken quite intimately, learned one or twa years ago that he had contracted cataracts, gifts from far too much time altogether in the sun in his decadent youth nae doubt.

At any rate, said Scotsman elected tae ignore said cataracts upon the advice of his doctor, as that worthy said the cataracts were small and causing but minor problems. Last year, though, said doctor offered tae remove the cataracts, but Himself was loath tae dae so, fearing the loss of a very dear part of himself, y'see. Oh, he took himself off tae yet another doctor, this an opthalmic chirurgeon, who must have noticed my friend's discomfort, but chose tae defer the slicing awa' of his een. The doctor, Cundiff by name, told my friend that he felt surgery at tha' time wasnae really required and that my friend could probably dae quite well by using fish oil.

My friend tried that, but his een, of course, continued to deteriorate. Himself finally chose tae have the surgery, and here's where the tale turns personal. That friend, if ye've no' figured it oot by noo, was meself, y'see.

I had me right eye taken oot yesterday. Weel, 'twas only a wee part of me eye, but it reads better this way, noo doesn't it? The surgery went quite well, although my vision was really blurry that evening. Part of that is a stupid plastic shield over me right eye that the chirurgeon forced me tae wear. I knew I'd get tae tak' that off today, but 'twas a royal pain in the arse, nevertheless!

The surgery was a surreal experience. All the bright lights! Wooooowwwwww, maaaaaaannnnnnnnn! But it dinna' hurt. Weel, tha's no' exactly true: the initial cut intae me eye stung a bit, but what hurt the worst was when they started the feckin' IV - IN ME HAND, THE BASTARDS!

The oddest part was when the doctor was removing the old lens. The lights (note the plural there) I was supposed tae be staring at throughoot the surgery suddenly coalesced into one BIGGGGG light. Yep, I saw a bright light before me eye and, oh, I wanted tae follow it but I just KNEW that, if I did, some bastard would just yank me back. Sheesh, a man canna' even die in peace anymore. WHERE'S THE RESPECT, DAMMIT?????

That bright light wouldna' release me, either. I wanted tae close me een, find the blessed, peaceful darkness, but wasna' allowed tae. It finally became that the light was all there was. I occasionally felt a cool liquid in me eye - the right one, the left being able tae close - and heard voices - detached and no' real - but the entire world was the light. Finally, though, I heard the doctor say he was ready tae put the lens implant in place. I could see again, albeit mistily at first, but soon clearing. The Light became twa again, and 'twas done.

I was really tired after the surgery, but I think that's because of the Versed they gave me. Disrespectful wankers they were, too: they shot me up with this stuff that made me feel realllll dreamy, BUT WOULDNA' LET ME SLEEP! Does the disrespect NEVER end? Apparently no'.

The nurse led me oot tae the recovery area after the surgery. No problem with tha', or tha' she sat me doon in this really comfortable chair. The problem came when she asked me what I wanted tae drink. I told her Glen Morangie, of carse. She laughed - and here's the truly barbaric part of me tale - and said she'd drunk it all.

Och! Weel, I dinna let that bother me over much, y'see.

"Okay," says I, "I'll have a Guinness instead."

Once more the woman laughed evilly.

"The doctor drank tha' during the surgery," she says.

Weel, at least tha' explained tha' liquid I kept feelin' drippin' into me eye during the ritual. HUNH! The damn' doctor said it was just a solution to keep me eyeball irrigated. Och, aye. Right. 'Twas him spillin' his Guinness is what it was.

And tha', good people, is me sad and tragic tale. Why, 'tis enough tae bring tears of utmost sorrow tae The Bard himself, i'tis. But, 'tis over noo, at least until I get the other eye done in the next month or so. I survived the unholy ritual, and I'm the stronger for it.

Gramercy for readin' me tale. As Wild Billy Wigglesword his ain self once said, "all's well tha' ends well." And, noo, good nicht.

The Auld Scot

Where the hel have I been?

2007-09-30T16:11:00.000-05:00

Life always changes. You know that, so I'll not go into any saccarine listing of examples. That would only insult you, and that I absolutely do not wish to do. Instead, I'll just say that my life changed and I'd like to share that with you. Some of you already know of this change, but you all deserve the news. If nowt else, you can all tsk-tsk and wonder at the putative wisdom of the thing together.

I left the Blood Center about a month after I wrote my "Heroes" piece. Well, that's not exactly correct. You see, the truth is that the Blood Center left me. Oh, they gave their reasons, but those reasons were so blatantly bogus that they're not worth going into. For that matter, the CBC and its management are pretty much bogus, as well, and certainly not worth wasting any more ink on. Let's just say that I left. In retrospect, that was a good thing.

I think I said in my "Heroes" post that I wanted to be a trainer. Well, that, of course, never happened. Except it did, but in a vastly different context and venue. Y'see, I now work as an adjunct professor in the medical assisting department at the North Kansas City campus of Colorado Technical University. One of the things I teach, of course, is phlebotomy. So I got my trainer gig after all ... sort of.

Some of you may say it was predestined and I'll not argue with you. I'm not saying it was, but it might have been. It might have simply been blind luck or happenstance or the cosmological elements aligning just so, too. What I think is that it really doesn't matter one bit why - we humans have a distressing propensity to figuring out or assigning reasons for every bloody thing that happens rather than just accepting that they did, in fact, happen and we can now enjoy the benefits or work to rebuild from the catastrophe as appropriate. Nope. Why doesn't matter, not to the Grandfathers. What does matter is that I must accept this opportunity to pass my knowledge to the next generation of healers. It's my duty to be the best teacher I am able to be. That's how I can show my gratitude to them. I believe that's the only way to truly thank them.

Now, I'm not saying that "why" never matters, because it very often does. It's good to know why a particular disease, for instance, suddenly becomes resistant to previous therapies. It's also good to know why a bridge or building collapsed, so we can build future ones better. There are any number of things that deserve our figuring out the why of them; just not all things. Sometimes we use our quest for the reason as a crutch - politicians are really good at this one - so that we don't have to face the really difficult task of preventing a future occurrence. It's kind of like the ostrich syndrome. It also serves as a really useful way for those politicians to take the people's minds off the real issue - if you're all tied up trying to find out why, then you don't have time to figure out who or when or what can we do about it ... or who's responsible for it.

So, now I teach at a university. Imagine that? Last yeer ah kudn't evin SPEL kilige perfeser n now ah AR wun. Wal, jist butr mah butt n kal me biskit.

In case anyone's wondering, the troubles at CBC did absolutely nothing to alter my opinion of the donors. They're still heroes - that's immutable. What's changed is my opinion of that particular blood bank. And that's intractable.

I thought I'd promised to go into s0mething in greater detail on a later post, but I can't find that anywhere in the Lair. Maybe I said it in one of my comments to one of your blog posts. If you ken what the hel I'm talking about, please drop me an email and remind me, okay? Be kind - you know how a cranky wolf can be.

Be at peace,
The Auld Scot

Heroes

2007-03-04T16:58:00.000-06:00

Some of you already know this, but I feel I should give a bit of background ere beginning this post. You see, I work for the Community Blood Center in Kansas City. I'm a phlebotomist; that is, I draw the blood from donors, blood which ultimately goes to people who are, literally, dying for the lack of it. Now, I shan't go into any diatribe about the value of blood or why people should donate or any of that; gods ken ye've probably heard that often enough. If you're a donor, good on ye. If not, I'm sure your reasons are valid and sufficient. I'm not trying to drum up donors, y'see.

Every day I go to work, though, I am humbled. It is my honor, y'see, to be in the company of true heroes.

Aye, heroes, for that's exactly what my donors are. No, not for permitting me to stick a needle in their arms, though they certainly deserve a special award for bravery for that, but simply because they donate and ask nowt for it.

I believe a true hero isn't some flashy, death-defying, larger-than-life cartoon character, but is just an ordinary person who unselfishly and willingly gives of himerself for the betterment of hiser fellows. And blood donors are and do just that. Think of it, they willingly and with malice aforethought give a significant part of their most private organ, their blood, to total strangers so that those strangers may have another shot at life.

Donors ask nothing in return, not even the tiniest thank you - although, believe me, we thank them to pieces before, during, and after their donations. Oh, sure, we give them cookies and juice, but that's really just protecting our raw materials and making sure we'll be able to tap that particular person again; although there are those donors who swear they only donate to get the Nutter-Butters we give them. And we give them t-shirts and other gew-gaws, but all those are just miniscule tokens.

So, what is it, then, that spurs a person to willingly give such an intimate part of himerself to strangers? 'Tain't the cookies ... or the t-shirts, coffee cups, cheesy pens, clocks shaped like giant blood drops, or what have you. I'm sure that, for some, it's bragging rights or a way of upstaging their neighbors or co-workers. For others, maybe some sort of atonement for wrongs they've committed, whether actual or only in their minds. And I'm sure there are some who do it as an attempt to buy their way into their version of heaven. But, not all donors fit these categories. Not all.

For instance, I was at a high school the other day and a 16-year-old girl came up to me to donate. She was cute - no, she was gorgeous in that mid-teenaged way. She had a smile that made all male creatures, human or not, melt. She had a 4.0 grade average and wanted to be an astronaut when she grew up. In short, she had it all.

And, as you might guess, she was more than a tad frightened. I mean, she'd never even had blood drawn at her doctor's office or anything. Of course, her "friends" had gleefully filled her head full of horror stories about how big the needle is and how excruciating the pain and how she would pass out and all that crap, so she was just a tad, shall we say, intimidated.

I asked her if she wanted to change her mind.

"NOOOoooooooo!!!" Her denial was adamant. Despite her very natural fear and the scare stories of those so-called friends, she was determined to see it through.

Okay, let's go, then. Later I asked her why she chose to donate. She told me she was doing it "just because I want to." She had no conscious idea as to why she wanted to - no pompous proclamation of saving humanity or anything - just that she wanted to.

And, that, my friends, is a hero. Oh, I mean no disrespect to the soldiers, public safety folk, doctors, teachers, et al. - they're every bit as heroic (for the most part) as their press proclaims. But, being a hero isn't flashy. It isn't filled with sturm-und-drang. It's not sirens screaming in the night or artillery booming across the countryside. It's the quiet ones. The lone student quietly and with sheer courage facing down his country's military might. Another student deliberately saying no to an angry policeman.

A hero is a blood donor.

Special for Kate, Tracey, Jude, et al.

2007-02-24T17:44:00.000-06:00

I heard about your problem with posting comments here, and, let me say I was appalled! Yes, appalled, I tell you! Seriously, I am really sorry. I think I found the problem, but I need at least one of you to help me test my theory. What I need you to do is simply try to post a comment to this particular entry. That's all. If your comment goes through, it worked. If not, well, I'll need to try something else, ne?

And, a sincere thank you in advance to you who help me test this.l

The Auld Scot

Meltdown

2007-02-19T15:36:00.000-06:00

I saw the movie Ice Age: The Meltdown last night. Yeah, yeah, I know, 'twas a cartoon and we intellectual folk aren't supposed to like such juvenile things. Hmph! Yeah. Right. And Donald Trump's coiffure is the height of fashion, too.

Anyway, I watched that movie. And I liked it. A lot. Aside from the obvious question as to how these supposedly pre-paleolithic animals (with stress on the "animal" part of that) knew about boats, much less how to start a fire, it was really interesting. A bit maudlin and gooshy (not a guy-flick a'tall a'tall), but cute.

And they used the "g-w" phrase. No, I'm NOT referring to our pathetic excuse for a preznit, but "global warming." Food for thought, that, huh? I mean, there are those of us who see us being like the critters in the movie: happily and ignorantly playing at the foot of a giant glacier, blithely unaware and unconcerned about said glacier's melting behind the wall we see. I'm sure you all can see all the parallels, and I'm equally certain you just know those were deliberate, so I shall spare you that much, at least.

I am one of those who believes that global warming is all too real, and much of it is our fault, we hairless apes. We started it ... and we can stop it, but we have to act. We need to become more active, not just in our own personal actions (such as reducing our expenditures of fossil fuel as much as we can, recycling, etc.). We also need to speak out loudly for all Earth's children, including ourselves. We need to understand that this isn't just a political issue, despite what the Republicans and their ilk say. We need to take all politicians (all the way down to candidates for dog catcher and librarian) to task and demand they put their actions where their empty words have thus far been.

Am I being an alarmist? Perhaps. Certainly, if you're to believe the Bill O'Reillys, Michelle Malkins, Rush Limbaughs, George Bushes, and Dick Cheneys. But, hey, remember all of them have been far wrong before -- remember WMDs in Iraq?

On the other hand, maybe I'm as scared as I should be. Maybe it's all too real and we humans have opened a Pandora's box we won't be able to close in the not too far future.

You decide.

The Auld Scot

2007-02-16T17:47:00.000-06:00

I'm back. Didn't think I'd bother as I only had dial-up and it was just much too time-consuming, but I now have broadband and am rethinking this whole blog thang. We'll see how long the Lair lasts.

You know, my attitude about blogs is apparently a whole lot more laissez-faire than others. For me, it's not all that important whether I post on any regular schedule, or even if I post at all. Now, there are those who would say that that's pretty much my attitude about just about all of Life ... and they'd be right. Y'see, I've been in places and done things (and had things done to me) that have skewed my perspective on all this importance stuff. Food is important. Sleep is important (and gods ken I'm at a constant deficit of that commodity). Warmth in winter is important. Love, mental stimulation, air: all these are important. Hels, even a good bowel movement's important. But, a blog? Nope. Just not that important a'tall a'tall. So, I'm more than a little laid back about all this computer stuff. So, sue me.

At any rate, we'll see how this goes. I'll warn ye now, though, I don't foresee this ever becoming a daily post thing. Life's just too varied and demanding for me. With that said, welcome back.

Oh, about the photo. That's yer favorite auld curmudgeon, moi. Er, not the scaly one - I don't ken what that beautiful thing's name is - but the grizzled auld two-legged. Ye might notice the logo on me t-shirt. It's fitting.

Survival and embarrassment

2006-01-16T18:30:00.000-06:00

Hokay, I survived the EMG today. Actually, 'twasn't nearly as bad as I'd feared.

I got there early, which was a boon as the hapless person who was scheduled before me was late arriving, so I was able to get right in. No waiting and dreading and imagining all manner of torment. The test consisted of the doctor sending a few electrical shocks through some of the muscles in me lower legs. That was uncomfortable, truth be told, but not anywhere near excruciating. It made me legs jump - imagine that, an electrical shock to one's muscles will make the affected muscles contract! - and irritated the associated nerves (hence, the pain), but the pain was fleeting.

After that, he did stick a needle into some muscles, but only in four places. 'Twas a small needle, so really didn't hurt as much as it does when blood is drawn. And that was that. Hel, I didn't even bleed afterwards, dammit! No blood for the wounded Warrior to point to for maidens' sympathy and loving ministrations. Woe is me!

Do I feel like a fool, or what? I feel like a complete idjit, I do. But I do thank you for thinking good thoughts of me.

Methinks I'll crawl back into me hole now.

The Auld Scot

Fear and loathing in the woods

2006-01-15T20:16:00.000-06:00

This is really a personal post, meant mostly for my own comfort, what wee bit I can derive from it. It's probably futile, but maybe it's worth the try. If nowt else, I'll share some of my angst and trepidations with the world - what wee part of the world that reads this, anyway.

I have to go for a medical test tomorrow and it's scaring the bejaysus out of me. It's only an EMG, but I've heard those things can be excruciating. Y'see, if ye dinna ken what the things are, the doc (or mad scientist, if ye prefer) sticks a bunch of needles into your muscles and reads the electrical activity therein. Now, Dr. Frankenstein doesn't just stick the needle in, get his reading, and get the hel out - oh, no, he has to take a reading when your muscle is at rest (huh! as if any muscle with a needle in it can truly be at rest). Then, he leaves the freakin' needle there, makes you move the muscle around, and takes a second reading.

And, he doesn't just test one muscle, either. Nope. He tests all of 'em in the target area - in this case, me legs (both of 'em, of course). Now, I looked this test up on Web-MD and learned that, not only can it be "extremely painful," but, because it's an invasive procedure (medicalese for any medical procedure wherein the patient's skin is penetrated, or invaded), it can bleed at the puncture sites and - and - lead to infection. Oh, the bliss just keeps on comin'.

So, I'm more than a bit frightened. Me. The big, auld former combat medic and paramedic. Y'see, like I've told numerous patients and others over the years, I dinna' like pain, which is one of the reasons I became a medic in the first place - to do what I could to ease pain.

I think I'm gonna' come back home tomorrow when 'tis all over and go right straight on the mother of all pity trips. I'll probably also imbibe some powerful Scot's anesthetic (such as Cú Dhubh), but I have to be at work at 0615 the next morning, so my intake will be perforce limited.

By the way, dinna' think I'm looking for pity or sympathy. Nope. I just wanted to vent a bit. Thanks for reading.

The Auld Scot

And the winner is>>>

2006-01-03T15:53:00.000-06:00

We have a winner!

The correct answer to my quiz was ... *drum roll, please* nothing. That's right, not a damn thing, nada, zilch, nowt, nuttin', nunca, zero, (insert your own synonym). And the winner of the contest is ... *more drum roll, then a breathless hush of anticipation* Alia! Congratulations, m'lady. *and the crowd goes mild!* You win this fabulous prize: bragging rights!!!! Yes, you win uninhibited bragging rights for your correct answer to our contest. You may use these rights wherever and whenever you choose, without penalty or constraint. Some restrictions apply. Void where taxed, restricted, or legally banned. Batteries not included.

Okay. That's the end of that silliness. Time now to be serious. Or, maybe not. Tell me, is Life really supposed to be serious? Or is that just the wish of the humorless?

A very close friend of mine once sent me a photocopy of a headline from her local paper. It read: "Scientists say there is no scientific evidence that life is serious." On the other hand, there are a great many who declare with unbridled authority that Life is, indeed, not only serious, but totally devoid of the merest shred of humor. Why, laughter - even the slightest chuckle - is heresy to these people.

So, who's right? Or, as is the case in much of life, is the answer somewhere in between?

I'd like to see your opinions.

The Auld Scot

Have a Happy

2005-12-24T13:19:00.000-06:00

May you all have a wonderful day tomorrow, one filled with light, love, and laughter. If tomorrow's Christmas for you, merry Christmas; if 'tis but a well-deserved day of rest, rest well.

Now, here's a wee quiz for ye to while away a few minutes: It's a common seven-letter word. Rich people don't have it, the poor have little else but; it's more evil than Satan, more powerful than God (or the gods, if ye're polytheistic), and existed before the gods. What is it? the answer in a few days. If ye think ye ken, please post your guess here.

The Auld Scot

A short trip to the Dark Side

2005-12-22T17:59:00.000-06:00

Forgive me, my friends, for I have sinned. It has been, ohhh, at least a week or twa since my last post. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea freakin' culpa.

I've read a (very) few blogs and understand them to be sort of online journals. Well, I happen to be a journalist - in both the sense of keeping a personal journal and of being a member of the press. I like to write, especially in me journal. I can write anything and be censored only by meself. The problem comes in writing in this electronic journal. Here, y'see, my censors are legion, to steal a phrase.

Time, too, is a problem; at least with the job I have now, although that may soon not be a factor. Yes, I'm in danger of losing my job - right in time for the holidays, thankyouverymuch. I'll get into some details of that sad tale in a bit. For now, I'm on another track, so bear with me.

My journal, y'see, is highly personal -- part diary wherein I lambaste those who dare to anger me or indulge in some of the greatest self-pity mankind has ever seen. I could - and should - win an Oscar for the pity I bestow upon myself. Anyway, I've found it takes a great deal of courage to open this particular onion to public eyes.

I probably will, in time, but it'll be a bit slow in coming.

Okay, the part I'm sure you all have waiting for: my job woes. Well, to those of you who don't know, I work as a phlebotomist for the local blood bank, legally known as the Community Blood Center of Greater Kansas City, Inc.

I've worked there for going on 2-1/2 years now. I've come to realize that this position is all I'll ever be allowed to obtain. For some reason (I have plenty of ideas about those, but no proof), I will never be promoted, but will always be relegated to phlebotomist status.

Well, the other day, I was called into the overseer's (oops, I mean manager's) office. Seems they think I'm just not fast enough in performing my duties. Of course, they've thought this since I began, but never give any specific or precise data to support their acusations. I was asked to sign this document wherein I was informed that I would improve my speed within an idefinite period of time or face further disciplinary action. The last paragraph of the Employee Acknowledgement section said that I understand I am in serious trouble and in jeopardy of losing my job.

Ya know, I find this both threatening and downright offensive. I told the manager so, too. I also, with the utmost respect, told him that I could not, in all good conscience, sign that document. I was offended by the threatening tone of the last paragraph and simply could not legitimize it by signing. Now, he just shrugged and countersigned that I refused to sign and why.

My peril comes from his boss: a man-hating virago whose greatest joy in life is hurting people with her power. She has fired people for looking at her wrong (oh, she has other "reasons," of course). So, she's the one I must now deal with. Guess I'll see in a day or twa, huh?

It's not so bad if I do get fired. For one thing, I was looking for a job when I found that one. For another, I'll simply sit back and collect unemployment. And for yet another, my very first stop afterwards will be to the ACLU.

Ain't life frickin' grand?

The Auld Scot

Thanks and a thought

2005-12-02T18:41:00.000-06:00

First, thank you to all of you for your encouraging comments. I deeply appreciate them.

A most painful thing happened to me today: I had a thought. Oh, I know, you might be thinking, "Oh, it's probably just gas," but I've had gas before and I'm fairly certain this was a thought. One thing I know is that it hurt like hel.

Y'see, I read a followup story in today's paper about Paul Mirecki, a Religious Studies professor at the University of Kansas. Dr. Mirecki had developed a course for the school for the coming semester titled "“Special Topics in Religion: Intelligent Design, Creationism and Other Religious Mythologies.” Well, this course drew the ire of members of Kansas' Religious Reich, who objected to Dr. Mirecki's use of the word "mythologies" to describe a course that would describe its sacred cow, Intelligent Design. Seems that's just trompling on sacred ground there, and must not be allowed.

Oh, yeah, Dr. Mirecki also wrote a few emails -- private emails, at that -- to a web-based discussion board for stuent atheists and other free-thinkers, KU Society of Open-Minded Atheists and Agnostics. Some Reich members saw the emails and went berserk.

Now, Dr Mirecki isn't just your run-of-the-mill koledge teechr. Nope, he's a bona-fide Doctor of Theology and a Harvard graduate. And he's not just any old RS teacher. He's the head of KU's Religious Studies Department, and has been teaching at KU since 1989.

As I said, he pissed off the Religious Reich with the course's title in the first place, and his emailed -- and private -- opinions about Intelligent Design, the latest nonsense foisted on the folk of Kansas by the Christian fundies. They, of course, raised a ruckus that resulted in Dr. Mirecki's apologizing and removing the M word from his course's title.

That not being enough to salve the wounded egos of Reich members, he then pulled the course entirely, no doubt frustrating and disappointing the 25 or so students who had already signed up for the course.

Well, that still wasn't good enough. In the true spirit of the Burning Times, the good folk of the Religious Reich are now demanding that every course offered by the university -- that's right, the entire curriculum -- be investigated so as to root out anything of which they don't approve.

Ya know, I thought the First Amendment was universal, that it applies to all points of view and not just those of which we agree. I mean, the meanest, most bigoted redneck has every bit as much right to voice his opinions as the rest of us, regardless of how repugnant, stupid, evil, or just plain absurd others of us may think. Yes, the rest of us have the right to refute said redneck's ideas, but not -- NEVER -- to prevent him from spouting his vitriole.

I guess I was wrong. It seems the Amendment really means we all have a right to speak our opinions so long as some particular group approves of that opinion. It's not just the religious fundies who seem to think this way either. Just look at our beloved preznit, ol' Dubya his own self -- if you say anything to disagree with him, why you, sir, simply aren't a "real Amurican." Y'see, that's what the Christian fundies and their cohorts really want -- to censor the rest of us and ensure we think just like they. Oh, they'll yammer about only wanting to save our immortal souls and just spread their god's word, but their base agenda is total control, just like their brethren in the Middle East. My soul, at least, doesn't need saving; it's in no trouble at all, thank you very much, and I just don't believe in their god -- I'm perfectly content with my own.

I lost a lot of close friends and brothers in the Vietnamese jungles and I can assure you not a one of them fought and died so these fruitcakes could destroy the most fundamental Amendment to our Constitution. Not a one, and I doubt that any of the over 43,000 young people who died there did either.

Well, folks, that's my rant for today. If the fundies have their way, this will also be my last. My next address will no doubt be Guantanamo Bay, Cuba, or some nameless prison in eastern Europe.

Protect the First!

Welcome to the Lair

2005-11-27T13:56:00.000-06:00

Okay, let's get started with the usual disclaimer: I'm a total newbie at blogs and am learning as I go. Got it? Hey, we all have to be newbies at one time or another, right?

So, why am I now a blogger? Partly at the request of a love of mine, and partly because I have a deep belief in the First Amendent. It seems that our current federal administration and their religious fundamentalist buddies are doing all they can to do away with this most important of our constitutional rights. I want a place where the First lives ... always. Hence, my blog.

So. There it is. Just another Hippie radical trying to restore power to the people. I hope you enjoy this, but please be civil. That is, you are free to say what you will, but please avoid slander, personal attacks, and other devices that only serve to stifle free and open debate. Attack the idea, not the speaker.