Be Responsible? Why Should I? A Rant.

I voted for President Obama. Heck, I even went to the local Democratic caucus for him, and I still think he is doing as good a job as anyone might do with the mess he inherited, but I'm sick and tired of the government using my tax money to make life easier for irresponsible people! I'm angry that people who have shown no restraint, only greed and more greed, are getting my money.

"Cash for Clunkers." What a clever nickname for a joke of a $3,000,000,000 program. The new cars people are getting up to $4500 for have to get only 22 miles per gallon. What a joke! I've driven my 2005 Pontiac Vibe for three years now, getting an average of 31 miles per gallon. Even if I wanted to buy a new car, my Pontiac doesn't qualify for any sort of rebate. So

Image by England via Flickr

Joe Gashog can exchange his guzzling Suburban or Expedition for something that gets all of 22 mpg and get thousands of dollars of MY TAX MONEY. Irresponsible American automakers, who produced thousands of huge S.U.V.s and pickups and only made cars like my Vibe under pressure from the government and when gas prices hit $4.00 a gallon, are making sales again. Well, maybe. Because foreign automakers can also take part in this program, Japanese and Korean car companies may actually be the ones to benefit the most. Meanwhile, in a government which goes further into debt with every new budget, lawmakers are handing out billions of dollars to people who stubbornly stuck to their gas guzzlers, despite all the economic and environmental reasons to get a new, fuel-efficient vehicle. What do I get for my responsible behavior? Nothing, except what one commentator has called "a good feeling" for having done the right thing without being financially encouraged. That doesn't fill the gas tank, bub. Why not give me a tax break for driving a high-mpg car?

And while I'm at it, what about the multi-billion dollar bailout of homeowners and financial institutions? Countrywide Finance and other companies made ridiculously bad loans to people with ridiculously bad credit. People took out $400,000 house loans on $45,000 salaries. Now they want someone to bail them out for their foolishness. When I moved to Salina, I qualified for an $80,000 house loan, with no money to put down and an annual salary of about $40,000 at the time. I knew that loan would be hard to handle, so I bought a small townhouse for $49,900. I've made every payment--because I didn't get in over my head. But I'm supposed to accept the government's using my tax money to bail out the greedy people whose eyes were bigger than their wallets. Well, screw that.

Image by wstera2 via Flickr

Finally, there are the changes to the health care system. I will be one of the first to say that changes are definitely needed. But why aren't there any incentives for those of us who work hard to stay healthy? How about health club membership price reductions? Tax breaks or lower insurance rates for people who maintain a healthy weight? I know, I know, there are people who are not as lucky as I've been most of my life. I've been fortunate enough to avoid any serious health issues. But I've known people--family and friends--with serious health problems. I think the government should help them with their overwhelming bills. But when my tax money goes to care for Overweight Ollie's high blood pressure medications or Sally Smoker's lung cancer chemotherapy, then I'm getting screwed. Again.

Little Town on the High Plains

I'm no expert on Cawker City, Kansas, but I did stop for about 15 minutes the other day on my way to Nebraska. Having lived in Kansas for 43 of my 47 years, I've heard a lot about "The World's Largest Ball of Twine," Cawker's pride and joy. So when I had the chance to visit, I took it.

The ball of twine is indeed quite impressive. It's impressive because of its size--it weighed 17,886 pounds in 2006 according to a nearby sign--and its age--Frank Stoeber started it 56 years ago--but also because it has given the town something to advertise as uniquely its own. Some of the sidewalks have a "string" painted on them, as if the ball has started to unravel and begun to roll around town. According to a sign next to the twine, Cawker City holds a "Twine-a-thon" on the third weekend in August. Do people bring their pieces of twine, saved since the previous August, to add to the record-holder? Do people show artwork made from twine? Wear twine-woven skirts and vests? It sounds like an intriguing and interesting weekend. Across Highway 24 from the shelter where the ball sits is the Ball of Twine Inn, a cozy-looking little place that I didn't take further time to explore. Maybe some time in the next 47 years I'll make a stop!The part of the town that I saw, running along US 24, has clearly seen better days. Abandoned storefronts dot the blocks, and abandoned pieces of farm equipment seem to be the main decor. Not that old trucks and tractors don't have their own unique appeal--I took several pictures myself--but they are obvious evidence of a town that's struggling to stay alive, like so many small Kansas communities. These wrecks, rusting yet picturesque, show the energy that used to invigorate Cawker City, as family farmers worked the surrounding fields on small tractors, hauling their crops to marker in trucks with no modern amenities like air conditioning, power steering, power brakes, or even radios. They would make a proud parade, if only someone had the knowledge, will, and money to restore them before they deteriorate beyond reclamation. If they haven't already.

I must say, I was impressed with the efforts of an unknown local artist who has painted reproductions of several famous works of art and posted them in windows of buildings both occupied and empty. I saw Van Gogh's Sunflowers and a couple of Impressionist works. The people of Cawker City have no excuses to be unaware of their artstic heritage! I wish I had had more time to see what other paintings I could have spotted, but the road called, so I took one last look at nearly nine tons of sisal twine sitting under its custom-made shelter, then crawled back into my car and followed a farm truck out of town.

Ending the Health Care Crisis Simply and Quickly

As I listen to President Obama talk about his health care plans, I start to think about some possible ways to raise money for it, and possibly even to eliminate the need for government intervention in the first place. I'm not questioning the need for change--we definitely need to do something. Are these ideas perfect? Probably not. The suggestions add to government oversight of our lives and to our tax burden, and I'm not so sure I like that. But I'll put them out here anyway, because Americans can't, won't, or don't take care of their own health. If Americans would take personal responsibility for their own health by exercising, eating right, not smoking, and finding a way to relieve stress, I don't think there would be a need for any sort of huge health care program. Be that as it may, changes apparently must come from outside, because too many Americans are unable or unwilling to make them personally.

First, cigarette smokers bear a huge tax burden because their habit is politically and socially unpopular. I'm not questioning that. Smoking stinks, raises the risk of cancer, and harms those in the vicinity through second-hand smoke. But why only smokers? Right now, obesity is one of the largest (pun intended!) health concerns in the United States. There should be small taxes on fast food (read or watch Supersize Me or Fast Food Nation), candy and other unhealthy snacks, soft drinks, and alcohol. These taxes could be phased in, but if enough items are taxed, then the taxes on the individual items wouldn't have to be very large to raise impressive amounts of money. Anything to encourage people to adopt healthier eating habits (including yours truly!) would help Americans make steps toward better individual health. Taxation of cigarettes has cut the number of smokers dramatically. Perhaps doing the same to the unhealthy items I've listed would do the same for their use.

Second, use that tax money to fund more opportunities for people to live healthy lives. Use it to build bike paths and even sidewalks in neighborhoods that lack them. Use it to buy bikes that can be shared by people in poor neighborhoods. Use it to pay for part of people's memberships to health clubs, but make sure that those people are using that membership wisely. Use it to subsidize healthy foods like fruits and vegetables, not the producers of high fructose corn syrup. Use it to help schools hire enough physical education teachers that all kids from kindergarteners through high school seniors can take classes which may provide their only exercise all day. Use it to fund drug treatment programs. Maybe even use it to give tax refunds to people who succeed in making themselves more healthy by quitting smoking, lowering their cholesterol, losing weight, or making similar improvements in their health. Using the money in people's own neighborhoods, so they can see its impact directly in their lives, as opposed to sending it to large entities like insurance companies and health care providers, will go a long way toward encouraging healthier lifestyles.

People are always saying that they want government out of their lives--until they need a service that government provides, such as public education, good roads, and Medicare or Medicaid. Then they're only too happy to draw on the government's bank account. As I noted earlier, if people would simply take as much responsibility as possible for their own health by eating right, not smoking, and exercising, there would not be any need for government taxation to reach into their pocketbooks and wallets to fund health care. Come right down to it, the answer to our health care problems is incredibly simple--and it's found within each and every one of us!

Cattle Drive on Country Club Road

Image via Wikipedia

That's right, a true cattle drive, right down the middle of the paved road named Country Club Road! And I even played my own very small role.

As I was heading back into Salina on a two-hour bike ride, I noticed a car stopped right in the westbound lane of traffic, blinkers flashing. Cars would slow down, stop for a moment, then proceed slowly. I finally puffed my way up to the car, where a woman said, "Cattle drive coming! You might need to speed up." Still panting after the previous hill, I replied, "I'm afraid speeding up's not an option!" She then recommended that I pull over into the ditch when the cattle came by. I crested the top of the hill, and there they were, coming out of the pasture on the south side of the road, a small herd of black cattle.

Now, before you picture dusty cowboys and cowgirls astride their dun and gray and spotted horses, let me fill you in on the actual details. First, no horses. Instead, there were trucks and a four-wheeler, and a woman wearing a bright orange vest jogging alongside the cattle. Second, no dusty trail. I already told you why--they were driving the cattle along a paved road. Third, no chuck wagon. After all, the drive was only about 1/4 mile, from one pasture to another. Finally, there were probably only 25 cattle or so all told. Small peanuts compared to the drives of the Old West.

The small herd trotted down the hill toward me, completely covering the road. I pulled into the ditch, as recommended, but spectator wasn't to be my role. The driver of the lead truck shouted over the rumble of his diesel pickup, "Will you ride back and block that open gate?" I turned around and pumped downhill about 100 feet, then pulled off into a small drive where, sure enough, the gate was open. But this wasn't the cattle's destination, so I planted myself--bright red shirt, black athletic shorts, silver bike helmet, and sandals--right in the middle of the drive, holding my bike. No cattle were gonna get by me!

And only one even seemed to consider it. He (or maybe she, I didn't notice) turned and eyed me for a couple of moments. No problem, I've been around cattle a bit and wasn't intimidated. Then I remembered my RED shirt. A RED shirt blowing lightly in the southeasterly breeze. Was that what he was contemplating? The story, of course, is that waving a red flag (or a red shirt?) in front of a bull will make him charge, after all! I know that's an old tale, unsupported because of a bull's color-blindness. But I wondered . . . until my brief stare-down ended when the cow simply turned and joined the rest of the herd. So, maybe I looked threatening enough? Maybe this was a particularly non-aggressive bovine? Maybe it was just warm enough that this beast felt more like heading to the water hole than facing me down? Or maybe it was curiosity, pure and simple.

The rest of the cattle had jogged on by during this short encounter. I stayed in the drive until the traffic backed up by the herd was past, watching the 21st century wranglers turn them into a pasture. Then, with the thanks of the driver of the trailing pickup, I renewed my ride into town.

And there you have it. The true story of my brief participation in the '09 cattle drive on Country Club Road.

Runnin' the Rock

Indian Rock, that is. This is a small park in Salina, the site of the last white clash with Native Americans in this area. Although surrounded by houses now, the rugged heights of the park's one hill give a good idea of why the battle took place here. The hill is situated along the Smoky Hill River, where a drop-off into the river bed makes further movement east impossible. In nearly every battle, it is preferable to control the high ground, and Indian Rock is the highest ground on the west side of the river. While hiking along the trails, I find it interesting to consider where Indians might have hidden during that battle. I'll never know for sure, of course, but maybe one of my guesses will be right!

For years, I'd driven and bicycled up the roads, hiked the trails, and even scrambled up the steep sides of the hill where there are no trails, but until Saturday morning, I had never tried running those trails. And it was fun! I found myself running longer than usual before needing to walk. I think that's because the scenery is so much better than that along the river levee where I usually run. I liked going up and down, facing the challenge of watching my footing while keeping my stride where possible. I found myself at the top of the hill considerably sooner than I expected, too, since the trail winds around, runs down by the river, and then meanders its way to the top. As opposed to the road, which takes the most direct route--that is, the steepest route--the trail left me pleasantly winded, not exhausted like the road does. The trail carried me from bluffs overlooking the baseball fields of Bill Burke Park to the high banks of the river, around the small fishing pond at the base of the hill, and finally to the highest point, where the cooling breeze was a delight.

Running through the trees was a nice change of pattern, too. Yes, they do block the breeze, but that only makes coming out into the clearings all the more welcome. Spiderwebs are a definite issue, particularly if you're the first one on the trail, as I was that morning. Fortunately, this time I only ran into two, and they were more like single strands left from a web's weaving than the entire webs themselves. I brushed them away and kept going. Several park benches offer accommodating places to sit, should I need one, and there's even a drinking fountain at the north edge of the park. I didn't need the benches on Saturday, but I was more than grateful for the cool water!

I don't have a strong sense of direction, and though I can't get lost in this small park, I did notice myself looking for clues about which trails I'd taken and which ones I hadn't. Sadly, though, the strongest clues were not unusual trees or picturesque views. They were the various pieces of trash lining the paths. Indian Rock patrons, just like the visitors to so many of Salina's other beautiful parks, apparently don't mind tossing their water bottles, candy wrappers, and cigarette boxes to the ground. "Did I run this path already? Yep, must have. I recognize that faded Evian bottle over there." Maybe next time I'm at Indian Rock, I'll do my running, but then, instead of heading right home, I'll do a bit of litter patrol while I'm catching my breath.

Even though Indian Rock is no rural getaway run, for a few minutes while I was huffing and puffing my way along those paths, I could imagine myself a hundred miles from the hustle and bustle of Salina. And that's why I'll be going back soon.

Yards

Image via Wikipedia

I've noticed an interesting dichotomy about the yards in town as I take a slow bike ride on a summer evening. It seems that the nicer the yard is, the less likelihood there is that anyone will be out enjoying it. The homes in the wealthiest parts of town have lovely flower gardens, fountains, immaculate grass, and, sometimes, play equipment that would put a park to shame. But invariably, there is no one outside. The houses appear deserted, sitting back away from the street in splendid isolation, although I might see the flicker of a TV screen through a window. That's rare, too, though, since the houses are normally shuttered up like a maximum security prison.

But when I enter the less ritzy parts of town, there are people walking and bicycling. Kids are playing in the yards, many of which connect, with no fences to limit the size of the play area. Sometimes music will be playing and a group of adults can be seen sitting on the porch, watching the kids and enjoying the cool air of evening. I can get a real sense of neighborhood, as opposed to the isolation that seems to hover like a fog over the large McMansions sited on their huge, golf course-perfect lawns.

Workin' at the Carwash

From out of nowhere this Wednesday evening, I found a spurt of energy, so I took full advantage of it and vacuumed my car, then took it to the car wash, where I got rid of nearly 3,000 miles' worth of bugs, and finally came home and waxed it.

I remember going with Dad to wash the 1967 Pontiac, the blue one that I sometimes still have odd little dreams of finding in my garage! How times have changed! And not just the price of the wash, though that is certainly different, too. In 1970s Alta Vista, there was one car wash, under a lean-to roof behind the laundry. It was a dirty little spot because of the mud and water endemic to a car wash. I don't remember how much the car wash cost, but I'm thinking probably 25 cents got a car fairly clean. Then Dad took a couple of paper towels and wiped it off. The wash had two settings: wash (soapy) and rinse. Only one car at a time, thank you very much!

Later, when I was old enough to have my own vehicle, I had a 1973 Ford F-100 pickup, also blue, but with a white top. Odd now to think of how enjoyable washing that truck was! I'd spend an afternoon in the backyard with the hose from the house and a bucket of soapy water. It was probably dish soap, I'd guess. The pride of first ownership does wonders for car care!

I continued to enjoy cleaning my cars, from the brand new 1980 Chevy LUV pickup I got for high school graduation (Mom paid for it, and I paid her back--slowly--over the next few years) to the 1990 Dodge Daytona I bought after my divorce, and the 1954 Chevy I bought from a friend, but never could get to run very reliably. I owed the last two at the same time, and liked the look of the two clean vehicles, the red Dodge and the light blue Chevy, sitting in the driveway.

Now, though, car washing seems just a chore, a drudgery. I know it's good for the finish, and I still like looking at a clean car. The car wash has changed dramatically. There are several here in Salina, all with multiple self-service bays, and one drive-through bay. I don't use the drive through very often, since I think it's expensive and doesn't do a very good job. It certainly didn't get those Utah trip bugs off my car as well as the self-service wash did tonight. The settings are presoak, soap, clearcoat, foaming brush, rinse, and spot-free rinse. (This is a misnomer if ever I've seen one. Just try driving off without drying the car and see how "spot free" it is.) A token costs $1.00 just to get the water and soap flowing. If you're fast, and your car isn't very dirty, you might be able to give it a decent rinsing for that $1.00, but I used $3.00 tonight.

When did washing my car become a chore, something to dread? I think part of the change started with my living in apartments, because of the lack of access to a hose like we had in the backyard in Alta Vista. Now I have to drive somewhere and pay for the wash. Also, my current car, a little 2005 Pontiac Vibe, just seems more like transportation than a car! I enjoy driving it, but the thrill of just getting in a vehicle and driving for the fun of it is as long gone as $1.00 per gallon gas. I like my Vibe for the 30-31 miles per gallon it gets, but I have sacrificed the zip I had in the Dodge, for instance.

And maybe it's age, too . . . I think my back's going to be aching tomorrow, thanks to all the bending I did tonight! The thrill is gone, but the obligation to keep a possession protected remains.

"Sounding" Off

When I walk in the morning, I usually have my cheap little MP3 player plugged into my ears. I haven't yet figured out how to get any of my music on it (haven't really tried very hard), so I listen to National Public Radio's Morning Edition. Except for the other morning, when I was partway along my merry way and the battery gave up the ghost. Instead of returning home, I just pocketed the player and tried to concentrate on what I heard. Most of these sounds I hear despite the earphones, but there were some subtle ones that surprised me.

On this particular Saturday, emergency sirens were in full voice, over somewhere on the west side of town. I heard the deeper tones of firetrucks and the higher, more insistent wailing of police vehicles. I'm sure the people in that neighborhood appreciated the early wake up call, but I haven't yet heard what precipitated the cacophony of horns and sirens.

The emergency sirens were my aural accompaniment on the outward leg of my trip. On the way back, as I hiked along the river dike, I heard the thud-thud-thud of a helicopter coming in from the east. It was a smaller chopper, maybe a hospital craft, but I couldn't tell for sure. I've never flown in a helicopter, and the way their rotors batter the air into submission makes me wonder if I ever really want to! It just doesn't seem like a very efficient way of moving through space, though it has worked well for decades. The chopper's sound soon faded out as it moved further west, toward downtown, maybe, or the airport.

The birds are always up, greeting the sunrise with their varied songs. Cardinals' songs are among my favorite--maybe because they are one of about three birds' songs I can reliably recognize! And these treetop singers are often easy to spot, with their penchant for sitting where their distinctive wedge shape is outlined against the sky. Robins also contribute their springy trills from the ground, from trees, and from convenient fence posts. This morning, there was a pair of meadowlarks exchanging their up-and-down songs from the edge of the unharvested wheatfield down along the river. Of course, the LBJs (Little Brown Jobs, the sparrows and wrens that even experts have trouble distinguishing) are always singing, too, though they blend in so well with the trees and grass that the songs seem to be coming from small, feathered ghosts.

Since I walk where others run, sometimes I will hear the thwup-thwup of running shoes on the compacted trail surface, coming up behind me. This is usually accompanied by the huffing and puffing breath of the person wearing the shoes as he or she plods past me. Or there might be the whirr of bicycle tires, which approach much more quickly, sometimes startling me if I'm caught up in listening to the news. When I ride along the trail, I've made it a habit to call out, "Passing on your left," so as not to startle walkers. I've had dogs jump in front of my wheels because they didn't realize someone was behind them, so we might call my warning an accident avoidance tactic.

I'm not all silence and stealth personally, either. My shoes add their own rhythm to the sounds of the morning, a sort of scrunch-scrunch on the graveled portions of the trail, and that same thwup-thwup on the short concrete section, or on the sidewalks at the start of my walk. And even though I'm not running, I work at walking fast enough to get a good huffing and puffing going myself, though quieter than most runners.

The sidewalks take me past the most annoying sound--barking dogs. Oddly enough, very few of the dogs that are being walked by their owners ever bark. They look at me curiously, make sure I'm no threat, then resume whatever it is dogs do--usually sniffing for signs of other dogs, I think! But those dogs hidden behind the tall wooden fences at two houses in particular are always ready to bark out a warning that there's a stranger near. I don't care if their yapping wakes up their owners, because that's a price dog owners accept when they keep dogs in their yards. But I'm always silently apologetic to any neighbors who may also toss and turn restlessly in their last minutes of rest, cursing whoever or whatever caused those dogs to sound off yet again.

Walking along the dike, I pass under the Crawford Street bridge, which is always busy with traffic, even early on Saturday morning. The cars zip over my head with a heavy whoosh, accompanied by a little thump as they cross the expansion joints at either end of the bridge. It's a little unsettling to think of thousands of pounds of automobile zooming just 15 feet or so above me. And maybe a bit exhilirating, too, as I enjoy the fact that I have time for a walk, while the drivers up there may be headed for a hectic day of chauffering kids around, braving shopping crowds, or even Saturday work. There are definite advantages to a teacher's summer schedule!

"Sin Nombre" (Without a Name)

Image by Getty Images via Daylife

OK, so if you know me very well, you're used to my habit of seeing a good, thought-provoking movie, then immediately trying to recommend it to everyone. I did it with Slumdog Millionaire, I did it with The World's Fastest Indian, and now I'm doing it with the most politically and socially relevant piece of fiction on film I've seen in ages, Sin Nombre. Yes, it's in Spanish, with English subtitles, but don't let that scare you off. This is one important and powerful movie.

Let's get the basic information out of the way first. The director is Cary Fukunaga, and the two young stars are Edgar Flores as Willy/Casper and Paulina Gaitan as Sayra. Willy is called Casper by his fellow gang members, but it's clear from the first that his heart is not with the gang, but with his hot girlfriend. When he sneaks away from an assignment to be with her, the trouble starts. She wants to know more about his gang activities, and her unexpected arrival at a meeting leads to tragedy. Willy is unable to defend her, but when he is expected to watch the gang leader rape another girl, Sayra, who is an innocent Honduran immigrant traveling with her uncle and father, Willy finds the courage to do what he couldn't do before. His precipitate action leads to the gang issuing a "green light," meaning that any gang member, anywhere, is expected to kill him.

Willy doesn't want Sayra's thanks or attention, but she insists on sticking to him, despite his warnings about his past--and his likely future--and despite her father's orders that Willy is nothing but trouble. Being a headstrong girl, Sayra unwisely deserts her father and uncle for Willy, which leads to a tragic ending on the banks of the Rio Grande, as the couple tries to cross into the United States.

So there is the brief plot summary. But there's more to this movie. Watching Sayra's family, along with hundreds of others, camp in the railyard in southern Mexico until they can hop a train rolling slowly for the promised land of America, then riding with them for two or three weeks along atop boxcars through rain, hostility, and the ever-present danger of being robbed--or worse--by a gang like Willy's made me realize that the simple wall proposed and started by the Bush administration is likely to do very little to stop illegal immigration. These people are desperate enough to leave their loved ones, risk everything they have to travel to a country where they don't even speak the native language, and persist in trying again and again. What use will a wall be? Somewhere, somehow, someone will find a way through, over or under that wall. Or the immigrants will fall prey to unscrupulous coyotes, who promise to help them cross safely, only to frequently abandon them in the deadly southwestern US deserts.

These are human beings, folks! Instead of spending untold millions of dollars trying to keep them out, why isn't our government helping their countries develop economies healthy enough to provide for their needs at home? The US sends about $3,000,000,000 to Israel each year, and what do we have to show for it? Trouble with the entire Arab world. Why don't we keep some of that money in our own backyard, helping out our nearest neighbors? I'll tell you why. It's because Spanish-speaking immigrants have nowhere near the political clout and money of those who support Israel. This is not an anti-Semitic rant, just a recognition that an incredible amount of foreign aid that might help closer to home flows across the Atlantic and through the Mediterranean every year, and how are we any safer as a nation for that?

Another issue is the gangs themselves, like the one into which Willy has been beaten (13 seconds of punching and kicking by the entire gang are part of the initiation rites). Too many young people, like Willy's protege "Smiley", fall prey to these gangs because of too little guidance at home. Smiley's grandmother protests mightily against his association with Willy, but to no avail. Willy can flash money and goodies enough to dazzle young Smiley, thanks to his gang association. In one of the more chilling scenes in a movie full of them, Smiley brandishes his new pistol to even younger friends, bragging that he has enough bullets to kill every one of them.

And where do these gangs get most of their money to buy the guns with which they arm themselves? From drugs, the price for which is driven up by the self-indulgence and selfishness of US citizens who create the demand for them, and the ridiculous drug war waged by the US government, which simply drives the profits underground. Our government, in its eagerness to legislate morality as defined by certain powerful lobbies, refuses to recognize the failure of the drug war and its terrible consequences for the people of Mexico, Central and South America. So we build walls, both physical and virtual, and we try to hunker down in our homes, hoping that the violence remains south of the border. But it's too late--the violence is here. Recently, in Salina, two people were gunned down, alledgedly because one of them was planning to go to the police to report the drug dealing activities of her eventual killer.

So go see Sin Nombre in the theater, or rent it. If I could have my way, every politician at both the state and national levels would be required to see it, then talk with director Fukunaga, who spent much time riding the same trains as the immigrants, and even interviewing real gang members, so that he could present the most accurate portrayal possible through a fictional medium. Without a doubt, Sin Nombre is one of the most memorable films you'll ever experience.

Smells of the Sunrise

Let's call this a compilation from a week of 6:00 AM walks. A compilation of odors, of scents, of smells. They may not all be pleasant, but they do help you come along with me on my four-mile "power stroll" around the neighborhood, so lace up your walking shoes and come along.

First, there's the musty, old shoe smell of my stairwell when I open the door in the morning. If I leave it open at night to the rest of the townhouse, then all the cool air flows right down by the front door and I'm left hot and miserable upstairs. (Cursed physics, making hot air rise and cool air flee my second-floor home!) And since my walking shoes are sitting right there by that front door, they contribute their own staleness to the heated atmosphere that develops when the high humidity and high heat combine within a small space. I open the front door for a touch of fresher air while I sit on the bottom step and pull the shoes on.

Now we'll step outside. Most days, the lawn sprinklers have just finished their morning duties--except for Wednesday, when I got a squirt across the back which actually felt quite good! The grass smells fresh, newly-cut if it's Friday, as it was this morning. After the mustiness of the stairwell, the smells of my porch are an added inducement to move on into the day. I stride out down the driveway, into the neighborhood streets.

Tuesdays and Wednesdays are trash days in the areas through which I walk. Early-bird dumpsters are already out along the curb, and some of them are rank enough to make me want to look in them to see just what kinds of trash can produce such odors. Alm

Image via Wikipedia

ost enough to make me. What do these people throw away, week-dead skunks??

My walk carries me down next to the Smoky Hill, a brown, slow-flowing sludge of a river. Occasionally, the odoriferous offerings of a dead fish contribute to the morning ambiance, but I'm usually past that fairly quickly. The odor of death reminds me in part of why I walk, in order to put off my own passing by keeping myself healthy. It also spurs me to stretch out my strides so I pass that particular spot more quickly! The river has its own smell, composed of the fish, yes, but also of the water itself. It's not the refreshing smell you might think of with a river, but it's not unpleasant. Wet, damp and dank, nature's smell.

Speaking of skunks--just look back one paragraph if you've forgotten already--I've only encountered that strangely alluring sweet smell one time this week. It wasn't strong, so either the skunk was some distance away, or the dog it squirted ran home right away. In fact, the odor was just light enough to be almost pleasant. I've never minded the smell of a skunk, even when it was strong, as long as I was in a car and not bathing a pet in tomato juice! The weaker odor, I rather like for some reason which I can't quite explain, so I won't even try. . .

After I've completed about three of my four miles, my shirt is nicely soaked with sweat, and I'm starting to smell myself. It's not a pleasant smell, though this morning, it was mingled with a hint of chlorine from last evening's short swim, which made it somewhat more bearable. Of course, I don't take my daily shower until after the walk, so this natural, human scent accompanies me every day. Oh, it's not too strong--none of the dogs I've ever passed have run off howling, at least! Plus, it's a sign of exertion, of honest exercise. And if the breeze ever comes back to the state named after the People of the South Wind, that smell is wafted away quickly and pleasantly by a cooling draft of morning air.

Back at home, the stairwell is cooler now, and fresher, since I've left the upper door open while I was out, allowing the air conditioning to work its wonders. I take off my shoes and socks, pull my drenched shirt over my head, and make for the shower, where I'll enjoy the knowledge that I've walked off a few calories in the past hour.

Various Lives

Michael Jackson via last.fm

I'm not rich. I'm not famous. Few people know my name, outside of family and friends. I've been on television exactly twice: once in the crowd at a Kansas State basketball game, and once as a featured teacher in Dayton, OH. But the deaths of Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson today have me thinking that my life, while mundane and pedestrian compared to these two incredibly talented people, is perhaps happier than either of theirs.

Maybe a lif

Image by Dallas1200am via Flickr

e in the public's eye is what they wanted. If so, then I'm probably wrong about our comparative levels of happiness. But to have my every move photographed by get-a-life paparazzi would be my last wish, so I'll sit here in my small home, listening to the stories of Farrah and Michael, and mourn their loss without envying their lives.