One For the Ages

46** West 82nd Place, Chicago, Illinois 60652.

A mid-sized ranch, with three bedrooms, two baths, one the size of a small closet, a living room, an eat-in kitchen. A modest house, that was about to become a legend.

The date was Friday, July 26th, 1974. I was fifteen years old.

My parents were going out of town for a long weekend.

They left me in charge.

They told me "no parties."

The party started ten minutes later. At first there were just a few of us. Bob, Butchie and some of the Mount Greenwood boys, assorted girlfriends, people coming in and out. The music was loud, the joints were fat, and by the end of the evening, most of my old man's liquor was replaced with water since he foolishly thought that drawing pencil lines on the bottles would stop us from sneaking booze.

As the wee hours of the night came and went, the house was hushed. A few of the guys were still up drinking and listening to records, but most of us dozed or were passed out. The girls had gone home hours ago. Dawn became morning. People slept-in, showered, rolled and smoked joints around the dining table. Made breakfast out of what food was in the house.

The day was spent relaxing, people checked in at home, the guys that had summer jobs reported for work. But by late afternoon, Bob, Jack, Butchie and the gang had reassembled. Someone started talking about getting something to eat. Some time ago, Bob and I had managed to slip the spare key for my dad's Rambler out of his top dresser drawer and had a duplicate made. A bunch of the guys headed for the grocery store. The fact that no one had any money, was of little concern.

I had just finished cleaning up the house when I saw the station wagon pull back into the driveway. Butchie came in the kitchen door first, carrying a twenty pound bag of Kingsford charcoal. Bob came in next and pulled ten pounds of T-bone steaks from under his jacket. One by one the guys came in with baking potatoes, corn on the cob, Sara Lee cheesecakes, and more. And as if it had been scripted for a movie, the last guy straggled in, a shit-eating grin on his face, holding up and waggling a bottle of A1 steak sauce.

We fired up the grill and started cooking. Meanwhile, our friend Pat got off the wall phone in the kitchen and said he needed to borrow the car. He got back just as the food was coming off the grill. He went around the car and opened the tailgate. The front passenger door and the two back doors opened. No less than a dozen chicks climbed out.

There was plenty of food for all, and the guys chowed down, but the girls refused to eat, having some kind of unspoken rule, teenage girls being what they are, that eating in front of boys was gross.

After dinner, we went into the front room and were about to smoke a reefer, but Bob and Butchie scooted closer to me, and Butchie took a baggie out of his pocket. He reached into the baggie and pulled out two small, round, purple tablets. Bob said, "Here Stevo, take these." I asked him what they were and he said, "Purple microdot." I had never tried anything but pot up till that time, but I swallowed the pills. Bob and Butchie started laughing. "Hold onto your hat," Bob said.

One of the guys said his older brother was willing to get us a run, so everyone chipped in what they had and Pat took off again in my old man's car. More kids were showing up, but they looked kind of funny to me. Almost like cartoon characters. We had my folks' console hi-fi up pretty loud, and the music reverberated in my head. When I looked around, everything looked sharp and clear, but the perspective seemed off.

Pat and a couple other guys came in carrying cases of Old Style and bags of Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill, followed by another carload of chicks. Everyone started partying down in earnest. I was already higher than I'd ever been in my life, and I just kept getting more stoned. Someone put on the new Foghat "Energized" album and I thought I'd never heard a record so good. I wanted to play it over and over again, and no one seemed to care. Beer and pot were like little gnats up against the bug zapper trip I was on.

Things were really heating up. It was a beautiful midsummer night. All the doors and windows were open, and kids spilled in and out of the house. Cars were parked up and down the block. Every room was jam packed with people laughing, shouting out, carrying on, and raising hell. I was having the time of my life.

Bob's girlfriend Sue was beautiful. Tall, with long, light-brown hair, big doe-like brown eyes, curvy figure in all the right places, high cheekbones, cute nose, heart-shaped lips. I swear to God I told her she looked like Bambi. She wasn't sure how to take that, but I meant it in the nicest way.

In the midst of all the chaos, I heard a voice calling out, "Whose house is this!? I said, whose house is this!?"

A woman shoved her way through the crowd into the bedroom and made straight for me, a stern look on her face.

My first thought was, "Who let somebody's mother in here? I'm too high to deal with this."

She came right up to me, her face mere inches from mine. I saw she was our own age and I wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating crackers. She said, "Hi, my name is Michelle, I just wanted to tell you what a great party this is!"

Later that night, we'd be making out.

But in the meantime, Jack got it in his head that he wanted to climb up on the roof and smoke a joint. It was actually pretty cool up there above the fray. The moon was out, the lights in the neighborhood were on, it was more peaceful away from the music. My brother, Bunce, a year younger than me, called up, "Hey Steve, you better get down here, a bunch of guys are going streaking."

Streaking was en vogue at the time, but it was really the last thing I needed. I got down off the roof and went into the house. Some of the girls were clapping, and some turned away in mock modesty, but Bob, Butchie and a dozen other guys were stripping down to nothing but their shoes, and they burst out the door, buck naked, and tore off down the street.

Ten minutes later, the first ones came running down the block, saying that one of our friends named Jim was hurt. Sure enough, Bob and Bunce were carrying Jim, one under each arm, and when they brought him into the kitchen, his face was a bloody mess.

In the dark, Jim had run smack into a tree, knocking himself out cold. We got him in the bathroom and started cleaning him up when the last guy ran in, yelling that the cops were coming.

If the house had been in chaos before, it was now total bedlam. In seconds a hundred drunk and wasted kids piled out of doors and somersaulted out of windows. In the swirling emptiness that followed, there I was, blazing away on my first acid trip; a naked, bleeding guy in the bathroom; our friend Don passed out in the La-Z-Boy; a house overflowing with empty beer cans and wine bottles; pot and cigarette smoke so thick you could cut it with a knife; and my five-year-old sister, Dee, who my parents had left in my care.

A squad car rolled up the driveway, and two Chicago Police Officers knocked on the door. If they expected to find illegal drugs, underage drinking, and various violations of Fire Department maximum occupancy codes, they could not have been prepared for the three-foot bundle of cuteness, or the wide smile beaming on the cherubic face that greeted them.

"Um, is your mommy or daddy home?"

"They're on vacation. My big brother is watching me."

"Can we talk to him?"

"He's not feeling well. He's sleeping."

From where I was hiding, I saw the cops looking into the house.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yes, everything is fine."

The two cops looked at each other and shook their heads.

"Okay, you better get to bed."

"I will Officer, good-bye."

Slowly, kids came out of the shadows and cars started to return. Everyone wanted to know what happened, and when I told them, Dee was the hero of the hour. People were giving her sips of beer, and even a toke off a joint, till I told them to knock it off. (Before you rush to judgement, times were different then, and Dee is now married with three beautiful daughters, and is loved and respected by family, friends, neighbors, and co-workers alike, none the worse for wear.)

An hour later the party was going even crazier than before.

It was the law in Chicago that cops had to live within the city limits, and the southwest side where we lived had some of the most affordable properties in the city. Our next door neighbor, Mr. Macklin, was a cop (and a mean drunk), and our neighbor across the street, Mr. Clifford, was a Captain. Eventually, they and a few other neighbors came over and told us to break it up. There was some loud arguing, but they threatened to call the cops for real and tell our parents, and we knew when enough was enough.

So now instead of having all the kids in one place, there were a hundred drunk and stoned teenagers walking and driving around the streets.

The few of us who remained - Bob, Butchie, Jack, the chicks we hooked up with for the night, and Don, still dead to the world in the recliner - partied for a while longer, then sought out a bed. Michelle and I climbed into my top bunk, and Bob and Sue took my brother's lower bunk (Bunce had gone out with some of his buddies). Butchie took the back cushions off the couch and there was just enough room for two. Jack and Melinda shacked up in my parent's room.

I got up earlier than the others. I wasn't feeling any ill effects from the night before that a quick joint wouldn't cure. Dee heard me moving around and came into the kitchen. We had bowls of cereal, and she went in her room to play.

My parents were due home by late afternoon. I began to clean. I tossed one beer can after another into a garbage bag, leaving the ones that still had something in them, so I could flush the dregs down the toilet.

Later in the day we planned to take the garbage bags to Bob's house, so my parents wouldn't find any evidence.

As I straightened up the living room, Don started to stretch and slowly open his eyes. "Wow, man. I musta fell asleep. Did anything happen last night?"

Everyone was getting up now. Some headed for the shower, some made coffee, and some looked in the fridge to see if there were any cold beers left.

We needed to get my old man's car back in the garage. Our driveway ran all the way behind the house with the two-car garage perpendicular to the driveway. To get the big Rambler station wagon into its stall, you had to swing partially in, then reverse to straighten out before pulling all the way in. This was a difficult maneuver even for an experienced driver, and my old man had backed into the chain link fence so many times, that it was permanently bent backwards.

A friend of ours named Dave, who was a gearhead and one of the better drivers among the too young to be licensed set, was parking the car. But as he was backing up, he hit the gas too hard and the car rolled completely over the fence. When he pulled forward, the rear bumper got hung up on a metal fence post.

No matter what he did, we couldn't get the car unhooked. "You jackass," I said. I didn't want our next door neighbor to come out, and my parents were due home at any time. One of the older kids on the block saw us standing back there with the car, and he came to check out what was going on.

He got in the car, dropped it into low, and mashed the pedal to the mat. The wagon lurched backwards and popped off the fence post. He hit the brakes, and Bob and I got on the ground and pushed down on the post as he rolled the car forward.

When my parents got home a short time later, they found the car in the garage, the garbage cans empty, the house clean, my sister safe and sound, and all as it should be. That in itself may have made them suspicious, but the only proof they had to back them up was a faint, sweet, smoky aroma covered over with Glade.

A Snowball's Chance in Hell

Peace Officers. That's how the law refers to them - Peace Officers.

Well, a thirteen year old boy has been charged with "felony aggravated battery to a “peace officer.” The weapon - a snowball.

The incident occurred last Wednesday afternoon as a group of boys were walking home from school in Chicago's Austin neighborhood. The CPD officer was sitting in his parked squad car, arm resting on the frame of his open window. Depending on who you talk to, the cop was hit in the arm with a snowball, or according to witnesses, the snowball hit the door near the cop's arm.

Surprisingly, "I didn't do it," claimed the boy.

The eighth grader was singled out of a group of fifteen students by the Leland Elementary School Dean. “He kept trying to tell the officer that he didn’t do it, but they didn’t believe him,” the boy’s mother said. “He was standing on the corner, there was a whole crowd of kids. It’s so  crazy.”

“It made me mad,” the boy told the Chicago Tribune. “The officer said the snowball hit him but it hit the car, not him.”

The Dean told a Tribune reporter, “I have absolutely no comment.”

Chicago police confirmed it was the boy's first arrest. They added that the boy has no known gang affiliation. In addition to the charges, the school issued a five-day  suspension against the boy.

Police refused to respond when asked if they intended to keep the evidence on ice.

His mother lamented, “It’s sad, he’s only 13. I’m so upset, he’s never been in  trouble before. It’s his first case.”

Neighbors and onlookers decried the severity of the charges, citing the boy's age and what a felony arrest or conviction means for his future prospects.

An observer commented, "I hope this doesn't go on his permanent record."

One witness, a construction worker on a nearby job site, remarked, “I think that’s ridiculous – it’s such a big charge. It’s just going overboard. I can see if it were a weapon and harm was done, but it was just a  snowball. This is a case of kids being kids.”

The boy is scheduled to appear in juvenile court on March 12, 2014 according to police.

In a similar case in New York, the city shelled out three hundred thousand dollars to five teens who were arrested for throwing a snowball at a cop in February 2010.

The cop pulled his gun on the boys, who were originally charged with a crime. Those charges were later dropped and the five sued for $10 million - settling for $60,000 each earlier this month.

When I asked my sister, a long-time Cook County defense attorney, for her opinion on the Chicago boy's story, she said, "The Cubs should sign him."

Preparing to return fire!

Kill Crazy

To my mind, there are a lot worse crimes that can be done to a person than murder. Grievous bodily assault that leaves a person crippled. Torture that leaves a person disfigured in an empty shell. Brutal rape that leaves psychic scars that never heal. But all of our laws, religious tenets, and cultural morals, consider murder to be numero uno. Thou Shalt Not Kill.

But why? Even a cursory look at history shows that the thing humans are best at is killing each other. And studies show that when all the BS is stripped away, the one thing that everyone who has ever killed another person agrees on, is that it was fun.

That's the big secret. That's why the government and organized religion are so strident about not slaying your fellow man. Once you get a taste of how fun it is, you're hooked. Psychologists say that killing stimulates the same pleasure centers in the brain as sex and drugs. Killing is a narcotic. Killing is an addiction.

But it is a high that the government reserve unto itself.

Through sending youngsters to war in foreign lands, watching on big screen TV's in real-time as drones blow up neighborhoods, or raffling off tickets to the viewing room at capital punishments, the powers-that-be love the thrill of killing. Oh they'll deny it. Wrap it up in fancy legal rhetoric citing justice and retribution.

Meanwhile, the people eat it up. Salivating. Vicariously mainlining as the 'bad guy' is put to death, either at the end of an M16 carbine or the tip of a needle.

The problem is that now there are so many people with a badge and a gun wanting to get in on the fun. Psychologists also point out that most psychopaths and serial killers start out by killing animals. Run a simple search on the Internet and see the number of articles about cops shooting family pets during home invasions. This being the case, can we be far behind? I support our troops, but not when they come home and join law enforcement with the same attitude and tactics against us as those used in the narrow streets of Baghdad and Kabul.

Wars of empire must stop. Computer game warfare must stop. Capital punishment must stop. Tyranny must stop. The violation of our homes, the oppression in our streets, and the murder of our two-legged and four-legged family members must stop.

Coming soon to a street near you.

So Long Sochi

Some closing thoughts on the 2014 Winter Olympics . . .

Every four years we are presented with the spectacle of the Winter Olympics, that two week amalgamation of sports, politics, and some mind-boggling, mesmerizing, thing I can't get enough of, called curling.

Okay, I take it back. Ice Dancing should be an Olympic sport.

You know, two weeks, every four years, is about right.

NEWS ALERT: I thought the Olympics were over, but apparently there is a U.S. cross-country skier still out on the course.

I think my favorite moments from the Sochi Olympics were of Tara Lipinski.

Dumb and Dumber

You've heard of smart bombs? Well I think they dropped a dumb bomb. That would explain so much.

Starved Rock

I was in my freshman year at Northern Illinois University, and Bob and Jack came out one time to spend the weekend. We decided to head out to Starved Rock State Park for the day and started hitchhiking down Route 23. In those days, if you can believe it, three scruffy teenage boys could still get picked up for a ride, and soon we were on our way.

The early-fall day was bright and warm when we got to Starved Rock Lodge. Sure enough, we couldn't have been there half an hour, and Bob starts talking to three girls, and they agree to go hiking with us. Bob said he knew a great place to smoke a joint, so we headed out along a narrow sandy trail with a bluff on one side and a sheer drop on the other.

We quickly paired off, with Bob in front and Jack and I strung out behind. The girl Bob was with was terrified to cross a spot where part of the trail had eroded away. Bob took her hand and was guiding her while walking backwards. The next thing I knew, Bob was over the side.

The drop was seventy feet onto bare rocks. I started forward and looked down, but Bob was hanging by his left hand onto the trunk of an evergreen sapling growing from the sandstone. That a tree had taken root at just that spot, that it held Bob's weight, that he swung his arms in such a way as he fell that his hand found and grabbed at the right second, confounds Bob to this day. He firmly believes that there was divine intervention. I tell him that it was our wild angels, and besides, even if he fell, he would have gotten up and walked it off.

By the time I reached him, Bob was able to hoist a leg back up on the path, and haul himself up. Bob brushed himself off like this was an everyday occurrence. And, for better or worse, it pretty much was. We made it to a small cave, really just a scoop out of the rock. We smoked the joint and joked around and talked to the girls, and started making out a little. But as the day got later, any hopes we had about going any further, were dashed when the girls said they had to go.

We made it back to the Lodge without mishap, but before they left, the girls said to come to the town they lived in called LaSalle, which was a couple of miles away. We agreed to meet at a park that they described, at ten o'clock that night. They were going to sneak out of their houses.

We'd had nothing to eat since breakfast, and even thoughts of nubile lips, couldn't assuage our hunger. Of course, we didn't have a nickel between us. I had my doubts, and Jack wanted to head back to Northern right from Starved Rock, but Bob was dead certain that the girls would show up. We thumbed our way to LaSalle, and found the park, and sprawled out on stone steps leading up to a tall monument. It was only about 9:00, so we had an hour to wait, but it was getting cold, and we only had light jackets.

When you're a teenager, and the hormones are flowing, and there's even the possibility of illicit sex, you're not thinking with the head that sits on your shoulders. Slowly the appointed time crept around, then fifteen minutes past the time, then thirty, then forty-five. Jack and I wanted to take off, but Bob wanted to wait in case it was taking the girls longer to sneak out, still sure that they would come.

Now I can barely believe it, but we actually waited until midnight before we finally faced the inescapable conclusion that we'd been stood up. Maybe the girls were having a good laugh, maybe they really just couldn't get out of their parents' houses, maybe they chickened out, maybe they never had any intention of meeting us and didn't give it another thought. But there we were, in a strange town, cold, hungry, tired and far from home.

We were cutting through some backyards, and unbeknownst to me and Jack, Bob was rummaging around in the backs of pickups, looking for anything useful. We came out onto the sidewalk and were standing under a streetlight, and Bob was showing us a small axe he'd found. Suddenly a car came peeling around the corner and screeched to a stop right in front of us. The driver's door flew open and a short, tough looking man in his 40's, jumped out and grabbed Jack, who happened to be closest, by the front of his jacket. The guy started yelling about trespassing on his property and stealing his shit. Jack was the smallest and most unassuming of the three of us, and he was too surprised to react.

Bob and I did not have that trouble and immediately stepped in. I knocked the guy's arm off Jack and Bob shoved the guy up against his car. I don't think the guy knew how close he was to having a hatchet embedded in his skull, but he obviously reconsidered the wisdom of taking on three young hoods. He got back in his car, but shouted that he was calling the cops.

We'd been avoiding the cops all day, and we knew that any encounter with the police, with no money, no ID, and a local accusing us of trespass and theft, would not go well. After the guy pulled away, we stuck to the shadows, and quickly made our way out of town, expecting at any minute to be hit with sirens and strobes.

The roads were deserted and we were all freezing. We figured the odds of the three of us, in the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere, getting a ride, to be nil. One of the tricks we used when hitchhiking was to have one person on the shoulder with his thumb out, and when a car stopped, to ask for a ride for him and a couple buddies. Usually the good Samaritan would pull away, but times were different, and there were enough people who would give us a lift, to make hitching a viable means of transportation.

Bob put his thumb out whenever a car went by, but they were few and far between and they went by without slowing down. Finally a car pulled over and stopped and Bob talked for a minute into the passenger window, and after a moment, waved us over. Bob climbed in the front and Jack and I bundled into the back, feeling blessed warmth wash over us. Bob was saying thanks to the driver, and in response, a deep woman's voice, husky from smoking, said, "I don't mind giving you boys a lift. LaSalle's no place to run afoul of. But if you try anything, I'll kick all your asses."

Trying anything was the farthest thing from our minds, and besides, we had no doubt that she could. Unfortunately, we were just getting warmed up when she said she was coming up to her exit. We thanked her, climbed out, and found ourselves in pitch dark in the true dead of night. There were no headlights in either direction as far as we could see, so to stay warm, we started walking. After a while we saw some lights up ahead, and at an interchange, like an oasis in the desert, was a hotel.

I don't remember if it was a Holiday Inn or a Ramada, but it was something like that, and we walked into the lobby as quietly as possible and hunkered down into some easy chairs. A night clerk watched us come in, and after a couple of minutes, he came over to us and told us we couldn't stay there if we weren't checking in. He was a young guy and he said we could get warm for a while, but then we had to go. We sat for about as long as we thought we could get away with, but Bob said he had an idea.

When we left the lobby, we went to the end of one wing of the hotel, and found an unlocked door into the hallway. We climbed to the second floor and went to sleep in the vestibule until we were awoken by the sounds of early morning risers. It was just dawning, and we made our way back to the road. We were actually picked up pretty quickly for a Sunday morning, although I don't remember much of the last leg until arriving back at the dorms.

There must be a lesson there, but God knows what it is.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OaXznfBPbyM&feature=kp

Hire Her Immediately!

This girl is one smart cookie.

I've been in the marketing and advertising game for three times the number of years that this enterprising young girl has even been alive, and this is one of the most 'dead focking brilliant' ideas I've ever come across.

When thirteen-year-old Girl Scout, Danielle Lei, set up her cookie stall outside The Green Cross medical marijuana dispensary in San Francisco, she sold 117 boxes of Tagalongs, Thin Mints, and Samoas in under two hours. Danielle's mother commented that the Dulce de Leches sold out quickly.

The Green Cross was more than supportive of Miss Lei’s initiative, with staff buying several boxes for themselves. "We were happy to have her come - she is extremely business savvy," said a Green Cross spokesperson. In fact, The Green Cross has already invited Miss Lei to come back again.

Miss Lei’s business idea was equally approved by Girl Scouts of Northern California. "Danielle's mom decided this was a place she was comfortable with her daughter being at," Dana Allen, director of marketing and communications for Girl Scouts of Northern California said.

Mrs. Lei added, “I feel like it’s safe. There’s always a security guard and cameras everywhere.”

  

Danielle's parents see it as a way to learn about the difference between using the drug as a medicine compared to recreation.

The proceeds from the sale of cookies benefits the Girl Scouts and other charitable organisations.

Coincidentally, there is already a strain of marijuana in shops called "Girl Scout Cookies," but when queried, Girl Scout representatives said they had no plans to add medical marijuana edibles to their inventory any time soon.

I, for one, commend this entrepreneurial young woman for thinking outside the box.

Online polls have come out overwhelmingly in favor of Danielle's initiative, and when asked, one customer responded, "This is capitalism at its finest. God Bless America."

God's Little Acres

I'm not big on Creationism but I love a good theme park. And if this one gets off the ground, it promises to be a doosey!

Imagine a full-scale, according to biblical dimensions, recreation of Noah's Ark, built from wood, by hand, employing techniques that would have been used in 2200 BC. Three floors of interactive and interpretive exhibits would deal with such topics as "how did Noah fit the animals on the Ark, and how do you feed them, and get rid of waste products, and so on."

So says Ken Ham, president and CEO of Answers in Genesis and The Creation Museum, perhaps best known for the clobbering he recently took, in a debate with Bill Nye, the Science Guy, over Creationism vs. Evolution.

Ken Ham is a 62 year old "Young-Earth" evangelist, who promotes the belief that the initial chapters in Genesis should be taken as literally true and historically accurate. Ham espouses that the Universe was created 6,000 years ago, and that dinosaurs co-existed with modern humans.

[Of course, I would be remiss if I didn't point out that the Bible refers to Ham as one of the sons of Noah, and the father of Cush, Mizraim, Put and Canaan, who populated Africa and parts of Asia.]

Ham is no stranger to taking on controversial projects. His Creation Museum, located in Petersburg, Kentucky, is a 70,000-square-foot museum, opened on May 28, 2007. In addition to the museum, the facility also houses a special effects theater, a planetarium, and a gift shop. The museum proper includes representations of biblical people and events, videos, explanatory signage, and fiberglass and animatronic dinosaurs.

The museum's website (http://creationmuseum.org/) states:

The state-of-the-art museum brings the pages of the Bible to life, casting its characters and animals in dynamic form and placing them in familiar settings. Adam and Eve live in the Garden of Eden. Children play and dinosaurs roam near Eden’s Rivers. The serpent coils cunningly in the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Majestic murals, great masterpieces brimming with pulsating colors and details, provide a backdrop for many of the settings.

Ham's newest project is Ark Encounter (http://arkencounter.com/), a Creationist theme park of, if you'll pardon the expression, biblical proportions. In addition to the showcase Ark, the park will include:

Journey Through Biblical History, where "guests will take a floating journey down the Nile River, winding through scenes from Old Testament history - experiencing special effects thrills to help tell the story. Beginning after Noah’s Flood with Abraham, the journey through time depicts: the formation of Israel; Moses and the ten plagues in Egypt; and the parting of the Red Sea."

The Tower of Babel, a 100+ foot tall structure depicting what the Tower may have looked like. "Guests enter a highly themed interior and weave along a path that shares the story of man’s efforts to elevate himself, and his abandonment of God (Genesis 11). It also introduces exhibits on the origination of languages and people groups. The path leads to a 500-seat special effects theater presentation of “Who is God?”

First-Century Village, "an area providing guests with the opportunity to experience a typical village that would have been found in the North Galilee area of Israel, where Jesus conducted the majority of His ministry. It is complete with period-costumed villagers, houses, a synagogue, a sheepfold, an olive press building, watchtowers, terraced farming, and a first-century dining facility."

The Children’s Area, "a unique setting next to the zoo and aviary. Highly themed with bridge nets, climbing areas, slides, and zip lines, it has an indoor and outdoor discovery center where children can learn about God’s provision for His creation."

The Aviary, "a fascinating walk-through attraction, with several viewing platforms inside three types of bird sanctuaries. Each sanctuary will allow guests to get close to the birds in a natural setting. A nearby butterfly emporium will give visitors additional learning experiences."

Noah’s Animals, "a wonderful attraction that will provide guests the opportunity to learn more about some of the animal kinds that were on the Ark. This area will be similar to a petting zoo, complete with barns, a petting animal area, an open grazing area, a stage for daily live animal and bird shows, and meet-and-greet areas for close-up encounters with unique animals and birds."

The Walled City, "that depicts the pre-Flood lifestyle of the people of Noah’s day. This 14-acre area is the entry point to the facility for all guests and becomes its central gathering point. The Walled City features highly themed shops, restaurants, and venues that bring to life the city and times in which Noah lived."

The Ark attraction itself will feature a “Special Effects Lake” that will “mimic the explosion from the depths of the earth, which triggered a worldwide flood” and promises to be a real “crowd-pleaser,” according to Ham.

Ark Encounter will be located in Williamstown, Kentucky, off Interstate 75, about a 40-mile drive south of downtown Cincinnati, Ohio. The park will be situated on an 800 acre parcel of scenic property amidst rolling hills and ravines.

Although the park will be developed over a period of years, construction of the Ark will begin this year, with a projected Phase One opening date sometime in 2016.

As with Ken Ham's Creation Museum and other Ministry programs, behind the fun of Ark Encounter will be ominous warnings of God's imminent judgement and the rapidly unfolding end times. Considering that Ham plans to fund the park through long-term bond issues, he's going to have a hard time reconciling with investors that profits will accrue in a future that might not exist.

Be that as it may, I for one, already have my bags packed!

Bob

When I was about eleven or twelve years old, I liked to ride my bike up to the Scottsdale Shopping Center. It was an outdoor mall anchored by the Goldblatt's department store at one end, and the Kresge's five and dime at the other. Kresge's went on to become Kmart, but at that time the store sold sundries, cosmetics, notions, candy, and most importantly (to us), cheap toys. The store even had a lunch counter. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of exploring the aisles of Kresge's.

Things were much looser then, and kids riding their bikes around the plaza was a normal part of life. The only problem was that in order to get to the Shopping Center, I had to go down a block where a bunch of kids I didn't know hung out. There was one kid in particular, who seemed to be the leader, and whenever I rode by he would yell at me and tell me to stay off his block.

One day I was quickly going past and this kid ran out and threw a football that hit my tire, and I fell off my bike. I went up to this kid, who was much bigger than me, ready to fight. Apparently, just standing up to him earned his respect, and instead of clobbering me, he asked if I wanted to hang out with him. He said his name was Bob.

Bob became my partner in crime.

In the late 60's and early 70's, boys could still be boys, and the things we did back then, if done today, would be met with "zero tolerance," arrest, court, fines, restitution, criminal records, jail, and almost certainly, psychiatric intervention. My own son, who grew up hearing about my exploits, unfortunately tried to outdo his old man, and now in his 20's, married with children of his own, is still struggling to undo the consequences of his youthful exuberance.

Life itself was an adventure for us, and together we experimented with alcohol (Bob was an Old Style man, I preferred Stroh's), drugs, rock, joyriding, and girls. These were the days of blacklight posters, head shops, and concerts where you could go into the restroom with ten bucks in your pocket and walk out with half a bag of Mexican weed.

I shared a room with my brother, who is a year younger than me, in our house on 82nd Street. One year around this time, my mom let me redecorate our room, and I chose bright orange paint for the walls, and thick orange shag carpeting for the floor. Blacklight posters adorned the walls, and along one side of the room, across from our bunkbeds, was a long, metal shelving unit covered in faux-wood vinyl. The shelves held my collection of plastic models of the Universal monsters (Frankenstein, Dracula, Godzilla, the Wolfman, and the Creature from the Black Lagoon, all with glow in the dark heads and hands), and replicas of the spaceship from the Invaders (a Quinn Martin production), the Flying Sub from Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea, a Star Trek Klingon Battleship, and a record player.

That stupid, old, plastic record player was a warhorse that saw duty all the way through high school, and even on to my college dorm room, until I was able to replace it with a real stereo component system. All things considered, the sound was actually very good, and the volume could be heard half way down the block. We listened to Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin, Uriah Heep, Blue Oyster Cult, Alice Cooper, and too many more to name.

To say it was a party room would be a grave injustice. Try to picture five guys tripping on acid, crawling around the floor, a Mick Box wah-wah-pedal guitar solo blasting out, searching by blacklight, strand by strand through orange shag carpet, for a dropped hit of orange microdot. (We found it!)

We used to roll fat joints of green pot in strawberry, banana, and wheat rolling papers, that we called Magician's Birthday joints, named after the title track of a Uriah Heep album. Not only was my room where we'd get high and listen to music, it was also where we'd go to feel up chicks.

Bob was a chick magnet. I swear to God that he could walk into a church and get the whole choir to come back to the room with him. He had this ability to go up to a group of girls that he'd never met before, hang around with them for a while, and come away with the cutest one of the bunch. Sometimes I was also able to hook up, but sometimes not, and that could get pretty awkward. More than once was the time that Bob would be making out in the bottom bunk of my room while I lay on the top bunk, listening to the music, listening to Bob and his chick du jour, and eating my pubescent heart out.

As far as the stunts we pulled, they are the stuff of legend. It's hard to know even where to begin: getting "runs" at the liquor store, joyriding in stolen cars, shoplifting, running away from home, the out of control parties when my folks were out of town.

Perhaps the best testament to the strength of the bond we shared, Bob and I are still good friends and "talk" several times a week on Facebook. Many of the recollections here were jarred loose by our conversations. In fact, we were just laughing about an episode that still has some mystery about it, even to this day.

For a relatively short period of time, we were into joyriding. Bob knew certain makes of cars that could be started without a key simply by turning the ignition switch. We'd cruise around for a while, then park the car somewhere close by, none the worse for wear. We were just kids and the thought never occurred to us of the inconvenience this must have caused to the car owners.

One time we were riding around (Bob always drove) and he accidentally sideswiped a parked car. There was a lot of noise and a lot of damage. It was common knowledge among the other neighborhood kids that Bob and I were doing this, and we were sure that we'd get caught for this. A family friend was going to college at the University of Illinois. Not a week before, I had been talking to him and he said that if I ever ran away from home, that I should go see him first before deciding what to do.

With this in mind, Bob and I took off for Champaign. But this was late at night, it was bitterly cold outside, and we had only the vaguest notion of how to get there. We holed up at a White Castle at 147th and Cicero. We scraped up the little bit of change we had between us and bought a cup of coffee and a slider to keep from getting kicked out. As it got later and later, Bob would go up to every customer who came in and beg a little money. We kept making small purchases, but the employees were eyeing us closely.

Finally a couple of cops came in and we thought we had had it. We must have looked underage and it was clearly after curfew. We had no money and no ID. We were sure the cops were looking for us, and if nothing else, the night manager would give us away. We were looking down and trying to be inconspicuous, but we were the only other ones in the place. All of a sudden, Bob gets up and goes over to one of the cops and starts shooting the breeze with him. After a couple of minutes, Bob asks the cops if they could lend him a couple of bucks. The cop digs in his wallet and hands Bob two singles. We bought another coffee and a couple of burgers and sat eating at one table while the cops took their break at another. Finally with a nod in our direction, they got back in their cruiser and went on their way.

At daybreak we made our way to the highway and started hitchhiking. I was pretty tired by this time and it was still very cold outside. I don't remember much of the ride down except that as each ride exited the highway, we'd be standing in the middle of nowhere with our thumbs sticking out. We must have made it, because we found our way to my friend's on-campus apartment. All I wanted to do was sleep, and after talking to my friend for a few minutes, I collapsed on the couch. Bob went in to take a shower.

It seemed like I had just closed my eyes when I heard a booming voice say, "Get up! We need to take you in." I rolled over and a large man in a beige uniform was standing over me. Another officer was in the door of the bathroom. We found out later that my friend had called my parents to tell them I was okay, but since my parents had already called the police to tell them I was missing, they called the police to tell them I was safe, but the cops insisted that my parents tell them where I was. A quick call from the Chicago Police Department to the Champaign-Urbana Police Department, and we were in cuffs.

I will say that as we were being led away, my friend looked truly stricken, and neither Bob nor I ever held a grudge.

We were taken in the back of a squad car to a juvenile detention facility on the outskirts of town. With little fanfare, we were separated, and I was placed in solitary confinement. As the hours passed, with no food or water, and just a thin mattress on the floor, I was sure that Bob's dad had come for him, while mine just left me there to rot. Banging on the door and shouting brought no response. Fortunately I was dead tired and spent most of the day sleeping on and off.

Finally, towards evening, a guard opened the door. He told me that if I caused any trouble or tried to run, he'd break my legs. Bob and I were pretty tough, and I immediately started sizing this guy up, but I figured I better play it cool until I saw the lay of the land. I was taken to an interrogation room, and sighed with relief when I saw Bob sitting there.

The facility director came in and explained that this was an experimental juvenile rehabilitation institution for nonviolent offenders called Target. He said that the institute worked on the honor system, and that we could earn points by making our beds, attending classes, and behaving ourselves. The points could be used to buy cigarettes, candy, and snacks.

He told us that our parents had been contacted and that we would be going before a judge in the morning. He led us into the common room, which was filled with boys AND girls all around our age. Dinner was just being served and we got in line with our trays. Surprisingly, the other "residents" were openly friendly and wanted to know all about us. They told us about Target and said that it wasn't a bad place. After dinner we even got to watch TV.

We were assigned bunks (the male and female dorms were segregated) and issued some basic sundries. I didn't smoke, but Bob and the other guys did, and they were scrounging between the window grates for butts until lights out.

The next morning we were transported by van to the courthouse. A prosecutor got up and told the judge we were runaways and asked that we be remanded to Target. The judge ordered that we be held until such time as our parents came to get us. Then that was it. Back we went.

The routine was shower, breakfast, classes, lunch, afternoon class, recreation time before dinner, dinner, free time for watching TV, board games, cards, etc., wash-up, lights out.

Although the guys far outnumbered the girls, everything was co-ed except the dorms. One guy, who seemed to be the unspoken leader of the townies, even had some kind of special dispensation to go off by himself with his girlfriend, obviously for sexual relations. This actually caused a bit of a problem towards the end of our stay, but I'll get to that in a minute.

Even though I attended a Chicago public school, the classwork at Target was remedial. Points could also be earned through good grades, and since I didn't smoke and could only eat so much candy (points were nontransferable), I had points coming out the wazoo. (I figure Champaign County still owes me about a hundred Snickers bars.) When Bob and I realized that we might be there for a while, our first inclination was to not cooperate by refusing to do any classwork. But then we figured what the hell and proceeded to ace every assignment they handed out. The other kids were not amused.

One afternoon the teacher said we were going to watch a movie. It turned out to be "The Andromeda Strain." I had never seen it before, but I loved sci-fi and monster flicks, and this was a real treat. The food at Target was also not standard prison fare, so it really wasn't a bad place, except we didn't know how long we'd have to stay there. We also didn't know what was happening back home about the cars.

A couple of days in, Bob and I decided to have a contest to see who could get thrown in "the box" first. The box was a 3' x 3' closet with a radiator inside it that made the space uncomfortably hot, that was used for time-outs for small infractions. Needless to say, Bob "won" when he got caught trying to steal cigarettes from the commissary.

One evening, after we'd been there about a week, I noticed this head honcho going off with his girlfriend again, and I remarked to some of the guys, how do I get a broad. At least that's how I remember it, but Bob claims that what I said was, how do I get a whore. It's not the first time my big mouth got me into trouble, but in any case, word got back to the guy, and Bob and I got the cold shoulder. I've seen Bob in action, and I'd put my money on him against any guy standing, but there was (of course) this one big hick the size of a mountain that even Bob didn't want to tangle with. I still don't remember saying anything offensive, but I wound up apologizing, and things cooled off after that.

The next Saturday morning, the director summoned Bob and me, and led us out to the lobby where our fathers were standing. From the looks on their faces, I knew we were in for it. Our fathers got into the front seat of Bob's dad's car, and we climbed into the back. Not one word was said the entire ride back. I think we made a couple of attempts at saying something to no avail.

When we got home we were not even grounded, which kind of worried us even more. Was some dire fate awaiting us around the corner? Bob and I were local heroes to our friends for getting locked up. We were still waiting for the other shoe to drop, but we never heard another thing about it. Things went back to normal, and I believe to this day, that money changed hands to pay for the damage we did to the cars, and the adults worked out that they would let it slide with "time served."

Bob believes that we were never connected to the cars and that his father certainly would have said something to Bob. But we were white, blue collar Chicago kids and my father was a well known lawyer. I have since asked my dad more than once if money changed hands back then, but he smiles and refuses to answer.

Very mysterious indeed.

Let's Kick the 'R' Out of Feb'r'uary

For the shortest month of the year, February seems to have the most controversy surrounding it.

First of all, February starts with the Super Bowl, our Nation's unofficial secular holiday, complete with traditions of food, football, and a cavalcade of cute animal commercials. You either love the game or go shopping.

To support my contention that February is one strange mother of a month, I need only say two words: Groundhog Day. This is the day that we come together to receive the weather benediction from the likes of Punxsutawney Phil, who we know is more accurate at predicting the weather than any local newscast meteorologist.

And every four years we are presented with the spectacle of the winter Olympics, that two week amalgamation of sports, politics, and something called curling, that I'll leave to better minds than mine to figure out.

Then there's Valentine's Day, that some consider a purely contrived holiday by an Eastern consortium of card makers, candy makers, and florists. If you have a sweetheart, it can be a day of fun and romance. If you do not have that someone special, the day can be a painful reminder of what you may be missing.

Now we come to that enigma of a holiday called Presidents Day, which falls on the third Monday of February. Which just so happens to be today. But what happened to Honest Abe's birthday? What about the Father of our Country? Does Presidents Day conveniently roll the two into one? There's no precedent to support this. Is the day supposed to include Millard Fillmore, our 13th president?

Then you throw in Black History Month, and that bizarre phenomenon called leap year, and you have all the makings of one clusterf@*k of a month!

For the skinny on Presidents Day go to:
http://www.snopes.com/holidays/presidents/presidentsday.asp

Message In A Bottle

Someone you've never heard of may be responsible for an alien race's concept of humanity.

In November 2012, a silicon disc containing one hundred photographs representing life on Earth was affixed to the EchoStar XVI communications satellite and then launched into space on a Russian Proton-M rocket from Kazakhstan's Baikonur cosmodrome.

Trevor Paglen is the man who selected those photographs. Paglen holds a masters degree from the Art Institute of Chicago and a PhD in geography from Berkeley. He is a believer in "the deep state."

The photographs were culled from a project called "The Last Pictures," and were a response to the Golden Records that Carl Sagan attached to NASA's Voyager probes in 1977. Those discs are a time capsule that Sagan described as a note in a bottle cast into the ocean of space. The phonograph records contain sounds and images selected to portray the diversity of life and culture on Earth.

Sagan's famous message contained no references to the uglier side of humanity, like disease, conflict, and social control. Trevor Paglen's does.

The communications platform carrying "The Last Pictures" in a geostationary orbit 36,000 miles above the Earth could theoretically last for a billion years.

Film director and author, Werner Herzog, who had a chance to preview the pictures prior to their launch, called the photographic choices "a low blow" to human civilization.

The "deep state" that Paglen refers to consists of the security and intelligence apparati of the United States, and the satellites and technology available to such entities as the National Security Agency (NSA), the National Reconnaissance Office (NRO), and the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency (NGA).

Paglen's perspective has a military background. His father is a doctor in the Air Force, and Paglen grew up on military bases all over the world. He has an easy rapport with military personnel, which helps him gain access to various channels of information. Paglen says, "They’re just other people. I actually have a deep empathy for military culture, for how that works."

Motherboard (http://motherboard.vice.com/en_us) sat down with Paglen for an insightful interview.

Motherboard asked Paglen how he got interested in chronicling the secret government. Paglen responds:

I'm always paying attention to politics, and I was doing a lot of work around prisons in the 1990’s and early 2000’s, just trying to understand how prisons work. And very quickly after 9/11 it became obvious that there was a secret global prison system that was being set up. I started thinking about that, and I just saw a lot of the same dynamics that I had seen in the prison system, in terms of how this war on terrorism was being put together. 

Another thing I was looking at around prisons was the question of secrecy. There was kind of a ban on media at prisons. You just couldn’t learn very much about what was going on in there, and I could see the amount of abuse that that secrecy led to.

Motherboard asks Paglen to expound upon his ideas on state secrecy:

Yeah, absolutely. Secrecy has very little to do with what you get to know and what you don’t get to know. Secrecy is very much a set of executive powers. Secrecy for me, it's much more a question about what is the legitimate function of the state. The Obama administration with regards to secrecy is like the Bush administration on steroids. I mean they are much more brutal about how they enforce this stuff. The Obama administration has revived the Espionage Act and has tried to prosecute more people than all previous administrations combined. 

There are many, many facets to how this question of secrecy works. Economic, cultural, political — and the way that I think about it is very much that of two states. There's a state that is, you know, the Department of Agriculture or whatever, Farm Bills and Education Bills, and that sort of thing, where you sort of know what's going on. But there's another state within the state that has it's own rules. I think about it almost like the deep state. The part of the state which is not democratic at all.

How does the state prevent certain programs from having democratic or judicial oversight?

We know that data is being collected, it's being queried. We don’t know what's being done with it, but we know it's there. But to me secrecy is more about those kinds of programs being put in place, and being declared off limits from external oversight. It's about creating a state that is within the state and that is immune from external oversight.

Motherboard then asks about the technology available to previous regimes and those of today:

There simply did not exist the kinds of technologies that we have now in terms of surveillance powers. If you look at the great surveillance state of the Cold War era, the Stasi in East Germany, what the NSA is able to do now, with their data mining and surveillance program, is just orders of magnitude more that you could have ever dreamed up. And so there's a technological aspect to that. Of course, there's a political aspect to that as well.

Paglen recalls the story of a friend who conducted an experiment well before the explosion of social networking:

It's very funny — a friend of mine is an artist named Hassan Elahi, and a long time ago, around 2003, 2004, he built a website where he would upload all his bank account statements, every meal he had, every shit he took, just everything he did, he uploaded on the web, and all in real time. And we all thought, this guy is nuts. We thought this is the craziest project. But now all of us do this all the time. 

Paglen goes on to address his concerns about law enforcement using these technologies to track people and compile digital files on people more comprehensive than the people themselves have.

And it's not just the state. One of the things that I question: okay, so lets say that I have a picture of you on wherever it may be, on Facebook. The question is, in ten years from now, can that change your insurance premiums? The thing is, it's these very refined data that really control our economic interactions with society. There's a question of state surveillance, but in most people's lives in the near to midterm future, that's the sort of thing that's really going to effect a lot of people's lives.

I think that one difference is the marketplace and the state have become much more indistinguishable from one another than at any point in post-war American history. It's not a new thing in kind, but it's definitely a lot hotter, if you want to put it that way.

I think we know exactly what to expect from them. They are going to develop a very elaborate profile of you and that profile is going to be sold to whomever wants it, for cheap. The things that go on inside companies are also a matter of secrecy, and those decisions impact us in a big way. It's related to the question of, at what point does something surpass our ability to comprehend the way it works?

How did you select the pictures that may very well outlive the human race?

I think that was the hardest part from an artistic standpoint, or from a philosophical standpoint. A lot of them emerged out of a long process of interviewing some of the smartest people I could find and kind of asking them these ridiculous questions about what images should be for the future. And so those conversations I had with scientists and philosophers and other artists and anthropologists were kind of just thinking through this question.

On one hand, it’s a deeply ridiculous idea: to create images and then hope that somebody in a billion years is going to find them and it's going to tell them about the people. I mean, it's absurd. But at the same time I knew that if you're going to do it, you have to do it in an ethical way, because what gives you the right to do it? You have an enormous obligation to other people to have really thought through what these things are going to be, even if it's ridiculous. Because I think people care about how they are going to be represented. You can create this weird kind of record, and you have to do it in a way that is empathetic to the fact that people are invested in this thing.

I think about it much more in a poetic way. I didn’t want to create something that was aesthetically like National Geographic. There's a kind of look to that kind of documentary photography that I actually didn’t want in the project.

Motherboard asks, what does the future hold?

We don’t think about the future. Just what does a culture look like when its given up on a future? I think that there was a historical moment where we thought about the future a lot more than we do now. I mean you see that in all kinds of ways in politics all over the place, in terms of what kinds of investments you make in a future. And I think we invest less in the future. And I mean culturally in the US, maybe there is no future. Maybe it's just me, but in terms of denying global warming, for instance, there is a way in which our culture has turned its back on the future. And for me "The Last Pictures" is partly about trying to come to terms with that.

And finally, what will be done with all this data?

Let's pretend everything that you do and everything that you viewed is in a database controlled by the state somewhere. Now, if I have access I can retroactively watch your whole life. Whatever story I want about you I practically have evidence for that. Let's say that I want to pick you up tomorrow. Now in everybody’s life, there's a way of editing any moment you want, and to me that’s very terrifying in terms of these massive data collection and detention programs. And you know on the other side, the flip side of this question of corporate power, that question of, what your insurance premium is going to be. What picture do I want to paint of you to justify what I want?

So in other words, you imagine a more mundane creepiness.

Creepiness yeah, but also, your rights. So what rights do you have, what claims do you have to participate in society?

Creepy, indeed.

[For more information visit: http://creativetime.org/projects/the-last-pictures/the-pictures/]

Nature of the Beast

I just got done reading an article about a lion whisperer.

South African Zoologist, Kevin Richardson, has spent his life studying the native animals of the African plains. In the footsteps of such notables as Dian Fossey and Jane Goodall, Richardson has developed a relationship with the lions of the Savanna that can only be described as love.

He steps from his Land Rover and calls to the 400 pound animals, and as they charge through the bush, instead of taking him down to the ground with a severed jugular, the big cats wrap their paws around his shoulders in an amazing display of affection. Richardson wrestles, cuddles and plays with these creatures that routinely crack water buffalo bones in their massive jaws.

Richardson notes that due to unscrupulous hunting and loss of habitat to human development, the very symbol of African wildlife will be gone within the next 20 years. Richardson uses his unique relationship with the lions to call attention to their plight.

His research also demonstrates that these "beasts" are far more than primal predators ruled purely by instinct, but are in fact, intelligent, curious, trusting individuals with distinct personalities.

You can watch one of Richardson's videos of him interacting with the lions here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GOE0aZDllAk

But this is not the end of the story. Not three hours later, strictly by chance, I ran across another article under a photograph of a woman, proudly displaying a scoped rifle, kneeling by the carcass of a dead male lion.

The woman in the picture is Melissa Bachman, host of television hunting shows. The caption of the photo reads: "An incredible day of hunting in South Africa! Stalked inside 60 yards of this beautiful male lion...what a hunt!"

National Geographic filmmaker, Dereck Joubert, stated, "Hunting a lion is the most cowardly thing you can do." His twenty-five years of documenting animal behavior proves this. Lions will walk right up to a truck and lay down in its shade. Lions do not see humans as food or competitors for territory. Since they have no interest in killing us, it never occurs to them that we are a threat.

It should be noted that both Kevin Richardson and Melissa Bachman are highly controversial figures, whose methods are questioned by their peers. Detractors of Richardson believe that humans should not interact with wild animals at all, and that any attempt to make physical contact with a wild animal is extremely dangerous. Supporters of Bachman point out that lion numbers need to be culled to keep the population healthy, and that the hunting is done legally and under government regulation.

I have a deep, abiding love of animals. I believe that they have certain unalienable rights just as we do. They are worthy of our respect and admiration. But after listening to both sides, I have to say that I come down on the side of those who think that people should have no contact with wildlife except for authorized conservation activities. It's just not a good idea. Getting lions used to people is a recipe for disaster when they accidentally or intentionally hurt someone. Stick to photo safaris.

Surprisingly, considering my love of animals, and cats in particular, I have to agree with advocates of legal hunting. It's easy to vilify the practice, but it has its place.

These issues are complex. We live in a complex world. Don't take my word for it. More information is as close as your fingertips. After all is said and done, it's the nature of the beast.

"If we had more men like them, we'd have less men like them."

I don't mean to laugh. I really don't. The people who died are victims in their own way. But if it had to happen, it couldn't have happened to a nicer bunch of guys.

Iraqi authorities rushed to the source of an explosion, expecting to find yet another in the endless litany of terrorist attacks in that hellish country.

But arriving at the scene, investigators discovered that a master bomb-maker, teaching a class of budding terrorists, accidentally triggered the detonation. The instructor and 21 students were killed, and over 20 others injured. Police captured 22 fleeing suspected terrorists.

Perhaps in the ultimate irony, the students were being taught the fine art of suicide bombing at the time.

The incident occurred earlier this month in the suburbs of Samarra, a town in northern Iraq, approximately 60 miles from Baghdad. Security forces swarmed the terrorist training camp and found seven car bombs, several explosive belts, assembled roadside bombs, and IED making materials.

Adding insult to injury, the would-be terrorists were filming the class as an instructional and propaganda video for uploading on the Internet.

Security forces stated that the instructor was a well-known commander of the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant, an Al Qaeda franchise, that is also involved in the Syrian civil war. When I read this, my first thought was, "Al Qaeda is franchising now? Like Kentucky Fried Chicken?"

I guess it could be said that the entire class failed to get a passing grade, even though the teacher graded on a curve - that was about 200 feet wide.

A U.S. military adviser remarked, "He saved Uncle Sam the cost of twenty-two bullets."

Replica of the suicide vest being demonstrated at

the terrorist training camp

Dearest Daughter

25 is a major milestone. Not only does it mark a quarter century of life on Earth, but it heralds the time in your life where you will leave your mark upon it.

You are entering your most productive time of life. Strive for your dreams, stay strong, stand tall, make a difference.

Give all to your family, and receive all from your family in return. You already know, but will continue to learn that your marriage is the source.

May the next quarter century bring wonder to your mind, love to your heart,  health to your body (and the one within it), and joy to your soul. Love, Pops

My daughter-in-law, Ashly

(Ashly's birthday ecard) www.jacquielawson.com/viewcard.asp?code=4681117508019&source=jlfb&cont=2&utm_medium=referral&utm

"I Think We're Dead"

This incident happened in 2006. I don't know why it's making the Internet rounds now, except that there's currently a lot of talk about marijuana. But this is just too funny to pass up.

I am also not discussing the legal or political aspects of this case. On April 21st, 2006, a call was placed to 911 seeking assistance for a possible drug overdose. The audio transcript of the call was released under a Freedom of Information request.

It turns out that a Dearborn Michigan police officer removed a small amount of marijuana after a drug bust, and he and his wife baked the pot into brownies, that they subsequently consumed.

After an internal investigation, the officer was allowed to resign, and no charges were filed. Many people, including a Dearborn Michigan councilman raised objections to the fact that there was no prosecution.

A report on the incident and portions of the tape can be heard in the following newscast:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d-iBJQFMvgo

[More information and the full five minute 911 call can be found online]