Douglas V. Gibbs, Defender of the blahs!

Super Bowl of Salsa. . . oh, and the Big Game in Indy between New England and New York

2012-02-05T13:06:00.000-08:00

As a Raiders fan, I am supposed to despise the Patriots. Problem is, because I am an Angels fan, my dislike for the Yankees is so horrendous that I can't stand the New York Giants more than my dislike for New England.

Besides, my son-in-law was born and raised in the Bronx, and of course he's a Yankees fan and a Giants fan. It just wouldn't be right for me to pull for the same team as him.

So, I am pulling for Tom Terrific and his Patriots in this game.

But I am still buying my grandchildren Raiders stuff.

And while I am watching the game with my friends, we will be eating my famous salsa (a recipe dad gave me and I tweaked a little)

Doug's Salsa Recipe

Ingredients:

1 can of RO-TEL ORIGINAL Diced Tomatoes and Green Chiles
2-3 Medium Tomatoes (DO NOT REFRIGERATE TOMATOES - refrigeration causes tomatoes to lose their taste a little)
1 large lime
1 Clove of Garlic
3-6 Green Onions
Cilantro (recommended)
1/2 of a Carrot (optional)
jalepeno pepper (optional)
Salt

Double the ingredients for a larger batch.

Pour can of diced tomatoes and green chiles into bowl.

Cut fresh tomatoes by hand into small pieces, the smaller the better. Do not use food processor or similar device because it makes the salsa taste watered down. I often use Roma Tomatoes - if you do, add one more tomato because they are smaller.

Add Tomatoes to bowl.

Cut lime in half and squeeze juice into bowl. I often have another lime or two available in case I get a lime that does not produce much juice. If it has seeds, hold the cut side up when you squeeze so that seeds don't fall into mixture. Some folks like less lime and only use a half a lime for this size of a batch.

Cut clove of garlic into small pieces and then crush with a fork until it is like a paste. Then add garlic paste that you made into mixture.

Cut up onions into small pieces. Once again, like the tomatoes, it is better to cut by hand with a knife. Appliances tend to tear onions rather than cut them and some of the onion flavor becomes lost. I put 3-6 for number of onions to use because it is a matter of taste. I use 6 onions, my dad uses 3.

Add onions to mixture.

Chop cilantro in similar fashion. Cilantro gives the salsa that true Mexican taste, and I like cilantro a lot. I tend to only cut up and use the leaves because the stems tend to give the salsa a bitter flavor. Remember, cilantro can be strong, so use discretion. I use about four stems worth (remember, use only the leaves for best results).

If you decide to add the carrot, chop pieces as small as you can get them. Amount varies based on your taste.

Jalepeno can overtake the flavor if not used sparingly, but if you want a little more heat in your salsa, feel free to use the pepper. Note, keep seeds for more heat, eliminate them for less. If I use jalepeno I tend to use a quarter chile per can of ROTEL. I don't use them often, however, because the flavor of the salsa is so good without them.

Salt to taste.

Added notes: pick your ingredients carefully. The quality of the tomatoes play a large part in the flavor of the salsa. And once again, do not refrigerate the tomatoes. They lose flavor when refrigerated.

Okay, now stir it, let it sit twenty minutes, stirring every 5 minutes - then enjoy!

In my opinion, tortilla chips made from white corn are better, but once again, that is up to your discretion.

The People, The Constitution, and Abraham Lincoln

2009-09-20T10:59:00.000-07:00

Quote: "The people of the United States are the rightful masters of both Congress and the Courts, not to overthrow the Constitution, but to overthrow the men who pervert the Constitution." - Abraham Lincoln, September 17, 1859, Cincinnati, Ohio

Old Glory

2009-09-14T16:49:00.001-07:00

Communicating With Your Wife

2009-09-06T23:17:00.001-07:00

I laughed so hard . . . because this one hits home:

Thomas Jefferson Quote about Tyranny and Liberty

2009-08-25T16:49:00.001-07:00

"When the people fear their government, there is tyranny; when the government fears the people, there is liberty" - - Thomas Jefferson

Hot Air Steamers Troopathon 2009 Award

2009-08-09T09:40:00.000-07:00

four flags

2009-07-06T19:10:00.000-07:00

great background

Pictures of Walid Shoebat At UCLA

2009-05-28T14:03:00.001-07:00

Above are myself posing with Walid Shoebat, Kamal Saleem, and General Paul Vallely.

Memorial Day, Honoring A Debt We Cannot Repay

2009-05-25T05:05:00.001-07:00

More Than A Day Off, or a Day for Picnics and Bar-B-Ques

When I entered the cemetery I removed my hat out of respect and honor. The flags were waving in the slight breeze, each one placed on the edge of the plaque of the grave of each fallen hero. The resting place of my grandfather is at the Riverside National Cemetery in Southern California, a location of many graves of brave men and women who gave voluntarily for liberty, and the American Way. Line after line of simple grave makers mark the final resting places of the brave. The graves are alone, yet among their brothers and sisters in arms.

Standing over his grave marker, it brought back the memories of my visit to the Arlington National Cemetery in Virginia near Washington DC, my visit to the tomb of the unknown soldier, and the rows and rows of crosses and grave markers I observed there.

My memories also harkened back to the first time I stepped into the USS Arizona Memorial at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. As with Riverside National, I removed my cap as I stepped upon that sacred ground. I read the names in silence, tears welling up in my eyes. The dead called to me, asking me not to weep, for they gave their lives willingly, so that others might live, and live with the promise of freedom.

There were those at the USS Arizona Memorial that were less respectful, leaving their caps on, talking loudly, letting their children run around the solemn place. It made me desire to shout out, "Hey, show some respect!" But I didn't. Perhaps they didn't understand. Maybe they didn't know the price for freedom that veterans like myself have experienced. Perhaps they didn't view the fallen as brothers and sisters, and as heroes that gave the ultimate sacrifice so that our liberty might live.

My grandfather fought in World War II, and though he survived the war to live a long life, many of his fellow soldiers did not. Many of his friends and fellow troops lie in foreign lands. Many lie in graves, much like my grandfather's, in National Cemeteries across America. All of these heroes are owed a debt of unspeakable gratitude by Americans, and Memorial Day is that opportunity to do so.

With the recent war against the Islamic Jihad, and the continuing service of our fine military personnel, yet another generation of those who have proudly served and died in the service of our country is owed our thank you, and deserves our prayers.

Some ask how we can repay this debt, and show our gratitude.

One way to thank these fallen is to pause on Memorial Day to remember their sacrifice, and to thank them with our prayers for paying the cost of our freedoms. After all, our liberty has been bought and paid for with the blood of these brave heroes.

1.2 Million Americans have given their lives for our freedoms across more than two centuries and in more than a dozen wars and armed conflicts.

At the cemetery a small American flag is planted in the ground next to each grave's plaque. May they stand tall, and wave reverently.

Never forget. Keep the faith. Remember those fallen in service to the country, and to preserve the liberty of you and I.

-- Political Pistachio Conservative News and Commentary

Liberty and Tyranny

2009-05-20T18:30:00.001-07:00

When people fear the government, that is tyranny. When the government fears the people, that is liberty.

Thomas Jefferson

Thanking Mom on Mother's Day

2009-05-10T21:03:00.001-07:00

Today is Mother's Day, 2009. I am the eldest of 3. I married my high school sweetheart 25 years ago, and despite the rough twenty years that began our marriage, in the last five years we have reached a level of happiness as a couple that cannot be explained in a simple blog post.

As the father of two, and the grandfather of two, hindsight is twenty-twenty. I now look at my parents with a set of eyes I did not possess when I was younger. Mom, after a very short marriage to my biological father, married a man that had just finished a tour in Vietnam as a United States Marine. He is technically my step-dad, but he will forever be "Dad."

Mom was an only child, and he was the fourth of eight kids. She grew up in a nearly typical suburban setting without brothers or sisters to fight with, while he spent a lot of time as a child on a dairy farm in Arkansas, and part of his life bouncing around suburban areas in California, nearly as if he was chasing mom during his childhood, meanwhile fighting daily with his siblings. They seemed like an unlikely couple, and sometimes they were. It was mom, though, that always held things together.

Dad worked hard, showing his love through his dedication to provide for the family. Often, that is how men show their love. Mom stayed at home, and though at the time I considered her limited (since my eyes were not as wise and understanding as they are now), I never realized she was more of a mother than I could ever realize.

Dad often worked long hours, sometimes more than one job, and his day always ended with his head slumped back (mouth open) while he slept in the recliner chair in front of the television. His daily labor provided food on the table, and the slow progression from apartment living in rough neighborhoods to a modest home in an outlying suburban area just south of Corona.

Mom was always there for homework, baseball games (practically the team mom every time, even if she wasn't technically the team mom), cross-country meets, and prayer. Every Sunday she ensured we were in church, even if dad preferred to stay home and dicker around the house, or watch the NFL. She bought us Bibles, took us to school, and hosted slumber parties full of rowdy friends from school. She was a referee when us kids began to fight, a detective when nobody owned up to bad behavior, and a chef when we were all hungry. He disciplined us, and she warned us she'd tell him of our misbehavior if we didn't straighten up. Dad rarely had a chance to sit and relax, until he hit the recliner at night, and mom rarely stopped cleaning, mixing Kool-aid, telling us kids to clean our rooms, and cooking to keep the home his castle.

As I grew up in that household, I watched mom with untrained and immature eyes. Not realizing the error of my understanding, I always wondered why mom didn't get a job to help dad pay for things. Most of my friends had moms that worked, and it seemed strange that my mom expected my dad to pay for everything. I saw how much he sacrificed to take care of his family, and mom not only didn't work, but sometimes it seemed like her emotions were always getting the best of her. He provided a great example for me to emulate, but I sometimes wished mom had a little more on the ball when it came to being a part of the big wide world. Her lack of willingness to participate in an ever-changing world that included working moms concerned me. I almost began to resent her, a little, for making the poor man work so hard, while contributing so little to the financial well-being of the family. Sure, she was dependable at home, there for us at all times, and she was the main reason we went to church, but from an economic point of view, I foolishly sometimes saw her more as a hindrance, than anything.

I married at 18, and my wife was a working girl, even if it was a job at a fast food restaurant. I appreciated the help as we began our lives together relatively poor, living in a difficult neighborhood, and struggling just to put food on the table. Because of our schedules we often saw each other rarely, and as a Navy man, when sea-time came, sometimes I would not see her for months at a time. But, we were both working, both contributing, and both happy with our careers of the moment.

My wife was not necessarily a feminist, but I suppose she was about as close as you could get to becoming one without actually being one. However, as she realized our son was needing her more and more, and it broke her heart having him babysat all the time, even if the folks watching him were trusted family and friends, she eventually asked me if she could stop working. At first I was bothered by the request. Was she trying to be more like my mom? Did she not wish to contribute to the economic stability of our family anymore?

I agreed to allow her to quit working, and immediately the changes in our lives became apparent. Our son was happier, now that mom was home, and I began to enjoy a cleaner home and the occasional meal on the table when I got home from a long day at work. Eventually, she got to the point where she was up with me in the early morning hours, making me breakfast and packing me a lunch. It was difficult becoming the sole bread winner, but her contribution to making my life easier as I worked my fingers to the bone to provide, was greatly appreciated.

It wasn't until many years of marriage passed when I finally stopped and began to analyze my childhood. I looked back at my mom, viewing her in a different light than I had before. Dad wasn't sacrificing as I assumed, because he actually wanted to provide for his family, and he did it by putting his best foot forward in every job he held. Mom, happy to do for him, made sure that none of us kids had to sacrifice anything. She made breakfast, packed lunches, and had dinner hot on the table when dad walked in the door. And her emotions were not as debilitating as I thought. After all, her tears she sometimes shed were not of anger, but of love, and sometimes frustration, as life changed, and her babies were babies no longer. It must have been difficult watching the children she had poured so much love and time into grow up, replace her with a spouse, and leave without really giving her a proper goodbye.

Mom provided us with faith-based foundations that included lessons in values, standards, and love. Her strength made childhood easy, and looking back I realize she was a much stronger person than I ever was willing to admit. In fact, to my surprise, I realized that she was the rock of the family. Mom was the one that could always be depended on. Her love and support was like clockwork. Her faith and love a solid foundation for a family that needed her dearly.

My folks are still married, and now for all those years of being there for him, Dad is doing more for her in the form of adding to the house, and buying her the nice things she could never have while kids were running wildly around through the house.

Now, as I watch my wife, and her growth as a wife and a mother, I realize that she has given me the same gift my mom gave Dad. She is always there for me, providing a home, rather than simply a house, and doing for me in ways that I never dreamed she would. We have become friends, cherished lovers, and dependable servants to each other - and it has made our marriage stronger. I no longer expect her to do anything, and in response, she does everything - just as mom did for dad. In response, it makes me want to provide all I can for her, to be a better man, to make her life as enjoyable as I can.

And I think I appreciate my wife more, as I look back at my childhood, because of mom. It was because mom provided an example of what a mom and a wife ought to be, that I recognize how wonderful of a mother and wife my wife has become. And it is because of mom instilling morals, values, and the love of God in me that I am able to truly appreciate all that my wife has become.

Thanks mom, for your courage, caring, and love. Thanks for being a cook, nurse, referee, detective, and cleaning lady. Thanks for scolding me, loving me, cheering me on, and telling dad when I went too far with my mischief. And thanks to my lovely wife, too, for continuing the example of what a mom ought to be. My love for these two women in my life is boundless, and I cannot thank either of them enough, other than to say it is because of them that my life is truly blessed.

Thank you, and Happy Mother's Day.

"She watches over the ways of her household,
And does not eat the bread of idleness.
Her children rise up and call her blessed;
Her husband also, and he praises her:
"Many daughters have done well,
But you excel them all."
Charm is deceitful and beauty is passing,
But a woman who fears the LORD, she shall be praised.
Give her of the fruit of her hands,
And let her own works praise her in the gates."

(Proverbs 31:27-31)

Famous Quotes, President Calvin Coolidge

2009-04-06T13:31:00.000-07:00

Our government rests upon religion. It is from that source that we derive our reverence for truth and justice, for equality and liberty, and for the rights of mankind. Unless the people believe in these principles, they cannot believe in our government. There are only two main theories of government in the world. One rests on righteousness, and the other rests on force. One appeals to reason, the other appeals to the sword. One is exemplified in a republic, the other is represented by despotism. The government of a country never gets ahead of the religion of a country. There is no way by which we can substitute the authority of law for the virtue of man. Of course we can help to restrain the vicious and furnish a fair degree of security and protection by legislation and police control, but the real reforms which society in these days is seeking will come as a result of our religious convictions, or they will not come at all. Peace, justice, humanity, charity - these cannot be legislated into being. They are the result of Divine Grace. - - Calvin Coolidge

When Grandchildren Grow

2009-03-28T04:53:00.000-07:00

My wife and I are fairly young to be grandparents, yet we have two of them. We had our son fresh out of high school, and though it was not the wisest thing to get married so young, we have managed to fall deeper in love over the years, and will celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary this year. Our children, as did we (and our own parents), decided to start families at a fairly young age. My son's son was born when Christopher was a mere 23 years old. My daughter had her son at 18. Yesterday, after living together for a year or so (not thrilled about them "living in sin," but accepted it because it was necessary to hold the emerging family together until they determined marriage was the right thing to do) my son and his girlfriend became Husband and Wife. I am thrilled for them. Little Ezekiel, my precious one year old grandson, will be better off in the long run.

Our daughter and her boyfriend are still trying to find their way. Her son, Cortez, is five weeks old (pictured above) and is a joy to have around the house, though his newborn demands means we all get a little less sleep.

Watching my grandchildren grow, however, brings a joy that I can't explain. It is different than the love you have for your children. Not a deeper love, or a love not as intense, just different. One thing I can say is that being grandpa is a lot of fun. Nothing brings a tear of joy to your eye faster than coming home from a long day at work and being greeted by your visiting grandson, arms out, excited to see his grandpa.

Yeah, my children may have gotten the order of events mixed up a little, having kids young and prior to marriage, but I believe that all children are blessings, and I am reminded of that every time I look deep into the eyes of my blessed grandchildren.

Sarah Palin Thinks Africa Is A Country Hoax

2009-03-17T19:42:00.000-07:00

Sarah Palin Africa Story a Hoax
The story that Governor Sarah Palin did not know that Africa is a continent appears to have been a hoax. What's more, the alleged source of the hoax, a "senior McCain advisor" named Martin Eisenstadt does not exist.
Read About It HERE

Winning War Quote

2009-03-16T10:55:00.000-07:00

How do you win a war when you are not willing to admit who the enemy is?

-- Political Pistachio

Rapid Growing Big Government

2009-02-27T19:24:00.001-08:00

'A government big enough to give you everything you want, is strong enough to take everything you have.' Thomas Jefferson

Merry Christmas

2008-12-25T08:30:00.001-08:00

For unto us a child is born,
unto us a son is given:
and the government shall
be upon his shoulder:
and his name shall be called
Wonderful, Counselor,
The mighty God,
The everlasting Father,
The Prince of Peace.

Isaiah 9:6

Quitting Smoking Cigarettes

2008-12-02T21:21:00.000-08:00

A friend of mine e-mailed me recently and said that she had started smoking again, and couldn't seem to quit. I responded to her with this e-mail:

After years and years of trying to quit, and smoking for 21 years, in late October of 2005 I decided it was finally time. I finished my last pack of cigarettes and simply refused to smoke again. Two weeks afterward I bummed a cigarette from a friend, and smoked it. It neither tasted good or bad - and I haven't had a cigarette since.

It can be done (and without the aid of nicotine replacements like Nicorette). Everyone is different, sometimes it is simply the motivating factors that make us quit. Mine was an upcoming surgery, and I knew being a smoker was bad when it came to anesthesia. . . so, for fear of on the operating table, I quit smoking for good.

A quick death, I guess, was much more frightening to me than a slow death by cigarette.

Been a While

2008-11-13T20:46:00.000-08:00

Yes, it has been a while since I have written here. In fact, aside from Political Pistachio, all of my blogs have been suffering. My work schedule the last couple months has me gone an average of 14-16 hours per day, and it has made it difficult to find time to write. However, I desire to return to full blogging. . . so, recipes and personal retrospection coming soon.

Blessings,

Doug

A New Life

2008-09-14T07:21:00.000-07:00

I began my adult life as a recruit in the United States Navy in 1984. Boot Camp challenged me, shook me up, and trained me to be a shining example of military bearing and training. For the next four years I would be pushed to my limits, and somehow succeed.

I came out of the Navy a better man, and prepared for anything life could throw at me.

The following eight years found me in offices as a banker, secretary, and customer service technician for a city. During those eight years I received mediocre wages and less than appealing opportunities.

Not happy to be someone to just take what is given to me, I changed careers and entered the construction industry. For the next twelve years I made good money through hard work and smart decisions . . . only for it to end when the housing industry collapsed, and prices plummeted. The trenching machines have been silenced, and I have left them behind. After over a year of putting out more than is coming in economically, it was time for a change.

Which brings me to a new life. A little over a week ago I began driving big rigs for a sand and gravel company. I have a million little things to learn, and find myself more challenged than I ever have been before. But that is what being an American is all about. We search out opportunities, and through our hard work and good decisions we obtain and maintain the American Dream.

The hours are long, and the work is hard, but my continued success as a working American remains intact.

Ideas for Networking

2008-08-24T22:23:00.000-07:00

Is it to my advantage to join networks? Working on it now.

God Gave Us Liberty

2008-08-10T11:05:00.000-07:00

“God who gave us life gave us liberty. And can the liberties of a nation be thought secure when we have removed their only firm basis, a conviction in the minds of the people that these liberties are of the Gift of God?” Thomas Jefferson 1781

Christopher Laurie, Son of Pastor Greg Laurie, dies in Automobile Accident

2008-07-24T21:43:00.000-07:00

Christopher Laurie, the Son of Pastor Greg Laurie of the church I attend, Harvest Christian Fellowship in Riverside, California, died this morning in an automobile accident.

The elder of two sons, Christopher Laurie was 33 years of age and leaves behind a wife and daughter. Recent news, provided by the family during the Church trip to Israel, also reveals that Christopher's wife is pregnant with the couple's second child.

Christopher's vehicle struck a Caltrans Truck from behind on the eastbound lanes of the 91 Freeway in Corona. The accident occurred this morning, but was not completely cleared until 3:00 pm.

Our prayers go out to the Laurie family.

A Day At The Zoo With Ezekiel

2008-07-21T10:51:00.000-07:00

My grandson, Ezekiel, went to the San Diego Zoo for the first time last Saturday. He is eight and a half months old, and most enjoyed the flamingos, llamas, and children. A few of the monkeys caught is attention for a moment, and some of the more colorful birds made him smile, but the llamas and flamingos caught his attention, and it was difficult to break him away.

The day was pleasant, low seventies, and except near the end of the day, Ezekiel was a perfect little gentleman.

I can't wait until next year when we take him back. He will understand what he is looking at more, and will be in awe. It will be fun.

What Would Reagan Do?

2008-07-16T05:35:00.000-07:00

The transcript to Ronald Reagan's famous 1964 speech in support of Goldwater:

_________________

Thank you. Thank you very much. Thank you and good evening. The sponsor has been identified, but unlike most television programs, the performer hasn't been provided with a script. As a matter of fact, I have been permitted to choose my own words and discuss my own ideas regarding the choice that we face in the next few weeks.

I have spent most of my life as a Democrat. I recently have seen fit to follow another course. I believe that the issues confronting us cross party lines. Now, one side in this campaign has been telling us that the issues of this election are the maintenance of peace and prosperity. The line has been used, "We've never had it so good."

But I have an uncomfortable feeling that this prosperity isn't something on which we can base our hopes for the future. No nation in history has ever survived a tax burden that reached a third of its national income. Today, 37 cents out of every dollar earned in this country is the tax collector's share, and yet our government continues to spend 17 million dollars a day more than the government takes in. We haven't balanced our budget 28 out of the last 34 years. We've raised our debt limit three times in the last twelve months, and now our national debt is one and a half times bigger than all the combined debts of all the nations of the world. We have 15 billion dollars in gold in our treasury; we don't own an ounce. Foreign dollar claims are 27.3 billion dollars. And we've just had announced that the dollar of 1939 will now purchase 45 cents in its total value.

As for the peace that we would preserve, I wonder who among us would like to approach the wife or mother whose husband or son has died in South Vietnam and ask them if they think this is a peace that should be maintained indefinitely. Do they mean peace, or do they mean we just want to be left in peace? There can be no real peace while one American is dying some place in the world for the rest of us. We're at war with the most dangerous enemy that has ever faced mankind in his long climb from the swamp to the stars, and it's been said if we lose that war, and in so doing lose this way of freedom of ours, history will record with the greatest astonishment that those who had the most to lose did the least to prevent its happening. Well I think it's time we ask ourselves if we still know the freedoms that were intended for us by the Founding Fathers.

Not too long ago, two friends of mine were talking to a Cuban refugee, a businessman who had escaped from Castro, and in the midst of his story one of my friends turned to the other and said, "We don't know how lucky we are." And the Cuban stopped and said, "How lucky you are? I had someplace to escape to." And in that sentence he told us the entire story. If we lose freedom here, there's no place to escape to. This is the last stand on earth.

And this idea that government is beholden to the people, that it has no other source of power except the sovereign people, is still the newest and the most unique idea in all the long history of man's relation to man.

This is the issue of this election: whether we believe in our capacity for self-government or whether we abandon the American revolution and confess that a little intellectual elite in a far-distant capitol can plan our lives for us better than we can plan them ourselves.

You and I are told increasingly we have to choose between a left or right. Well I'd like to suggest there is no such thing as a left or right. There's only an up or down: [up] man's old -- old-aged dream, the ultimate in individual freedom consistent with law and order, or down to the ant heap of totalitarianism. And regardless of their sincerity, their humanitarian motives, those who would trade our freedom for security have embarked on this downward course.

In this vote-harvesting time, they use terms like the "Great Society," or as we were told a few days ago by the President, we must accept a greater government activity in the affairs of the people. But they've been a little more explicit in the past and among themselves; and all of the things I now will quote have appeared in print. These are not Republican accusations. For example, they have voices that say, "The cold war will end through our acceptance of a not undemocratic socialism." Another voice says, "The profit motive has become outmoded. It must be replaced by the incentives of the welfare state." Or, "Our traditional system of individual freedom is incapable of solving the complex problems of the 20th century." Senator Fulbright has said at Stanford University that the Constitution is outmoded. He referred to the President as "our moral teacher and our leader," and he says he is "hobbled in his task by the restrictions of power imposed on him by this antiquated document." He must "be freed," so that he "can do for us" what he knows "is best." And Senator Clark of Pennsylvania, another articulate spokesman, defines liberalism as "meeting the material needs of the masses through the full power of centralized government."

Well, I, for one, resent it when a representative of the people refers to you and me, the free men and women of this country, as "the masses." This is a term we haven't applied to ourselves in America. But beyond that, "the full power of centralized government" -- this was the very thing the Founding Fathers sought to minimize. They knew that governments don't control things. A government can't control the economy without controlling people. And they know when a government sets out to do that, it must use force and coercion to achieve its purpose. They also knew, those Founding Fathers, that outside of its legitimate functions, government does nothing as well or as economically as the private sector of the economy.

Now, we have no better example of this than government's involvement in the farm economy over the last 30 years. Since 1955, the cost of this program has nearly doubled. One-fourth of farming in America is responsible for 85% of the farm surplus. Three-fourths of farming is out on the free market and has known a 21% increase in the per capita consumption of all its produce. You see, that one-fourth of farming -- that's regulated and controlled by the federal government. In the last three years we've spent 43 dollars in the feed grain program for every dollar bushel of corn we don't grow.

Senator Humphrey last week charged that Barry Goldwater, as President, would seek to eliminate farmers. He should do his homework a little better, because he'll find out that we've had a decline of 5 million in the farm population under these government programs. He'll also find that the Democratic administration has sought to get from Congress [an] extension of the farm program to include that three-fourths that is now free. He'll find that they've also asked for the right to imprison farmers who wouldn't keep books as prescribed by the federal government. The Secretary of Agriculture asked for the right to seize farms through condemnation and resell them to other individuals. And contained in that same program was a provision that would have allowed the federal government to remove 2 million farmers from the soil.

At the same time, there's been an increase in the Department of Agriculture employees. There's now one for every 30 farms in the United States, and still they can't tell us how 66 shiploads of grain headed for Austria disappeared without a trace and Billie Sol Estes never left shore.

Every responsible farmer and farm organization has repeatedly asked the government to free the farm economy, but how -- who are farmers to know what's best for them? The wheat farmers voted against a wheat program. The government passed it anyway. Now the price of bread goes up; the price of wheat to the farmer goes down.

Meanwhile, back in the city, under urban renewal the assault on freedom carries on. Private property rights [are] so diluted that public interest is almost anything a few government planners decide it should be. In a program that takes from the needy and gives to the greedy, we see such spectacles as in Cleveland, Ohio, a million-and-a-half-dollar building completed only three years ago must be destroyed to make way for what government officials call a "more compatible use of the land." The President tells us he's now going to start building public housing units in the thousands, where heretofore we've only built them in the hundreds. But FHA [Federal Housing Authority] and the Veterans Administration tell us they have 120,000 housing units they've taken back through mortgage foreclosure. For three decades, we've sought to solve the problems of unemployment through government planning, and the more the plans fail, the more the planners plan. The latest is the Area Redevelopment Agency.

They've just declared Rice County, Kansas, a depressed area. Rice County, Kansas, has two hundred oil wells, and the 14,000 people there have over 30 million dollars on deposit in personal savings in their banks. And when the government tells you you're depressed, lie down and be depressed.

We have so many people who can't see a fat man standing beside a thin one without coming to the conclusion the fat man got that way by taking advantage of the thin one. So they're going to solve all the problems of human misery through government and government planning. Well, now, if government planning and welfare had the answer -- and they've had almost 30 years of it -- shouldn't we expect government to read the score to us once in a while? Shouldn't they be telling us about the decline each year in the number of people needing help? The reduction in the need for public housing?

But the reverse is true. Each year the need grows greater; the program grows greater. We were told four years ago that 17 million people went to bed hungry each night. Well that was probably true. They were all on a diet. But now we're told that 9.3 million families in this country are poverty-stricken on the basis of earning less than 3,000 dollars a year. Welfare spending [is] 10 times greater than in the dark depths of the Depression. We're spending 45 billion dollars on welfare. Now do a little arithmetic, and you'll find that if we divided the 45 billion dollars up equally among those 9 million poor families, we'd be able to give each family 4,600 dollars a year. And this added to their present income should eliminate poverty. Direct aid to the poor, however, is only running only about 600 dollars per family. It would seem that someplace there must be some overhead.

Now -- so now we declare "war on poverty," or "You, too, can be a Bobby Baker." Now do they honestly expect us to believe that if we add 1 billion dollars to the 45 billion we're spending, one more program to the 30-odd we have -- and remember, this new program doesn't replace any, it just duplicates existing programs -- do they believe that poverty is suddenly going to disappear by magic? Well, in all fairness I should explain there is one part of the new program that isn't duplicated. This is the youth feature. We're now going to solve the dropout problem, juvenile delinquency, by reinstituting something like the old CCC camps [Civilian Conservation Corps], and we're going to put our young people in these camps. But again we do some arithmetic, and we find that we're going to spend each year just on room and board for each young person we help 4,700 dollars a year. We can send them to Harvard for 2,700! Course, don't get me wrong. I'm not suggesting Harvard is the answer to juvenile delinquency.

But seriously, what are we doing to those we seek to help? Not too long ago, a judge called me here in Los Angeles. He told me of a young woman who'd come before him for a divorce. She had six children, was pregnant with her seventh. Under his questioning, she revealed her husband was a laborer earning 250 dollars a month. She wanted a divorce to get an 80 dollar raise. She's eligible for 330 dollars a month in the Aid to Dependent Children Program. She got the idea from two women in her neighborhood who'd already done that very thing.

Yet anytime you and I question the schemes of the do-gooders, we're denounced as being against their humanitarian goals. They say we're always "against" things -- we're never "for" anything.

Well, the trouble with our liberal friends is not that they're ignorant; it's just that they know so much that isn't so.

Now -- we're for a provision that destitution should not follow unemployment by reason of old age, and to that end we've accepted Social Security as a step toward meeting the problem.

But we're against those entrusted with this program when they practice deception regarding its fiscal shortcomings, when they charge that any criticism of the program means that we want to end payments to those people who depend on them for a livelihood. They've called it "insurance" to us in a hundred million pieces of literature. But then they appeared before the Supreme Court and they testified it was a welfare program. They only use the term "insurance" to sell it to the people. And they said Social Security dues are a tax for the general use of the government, and the government has used that tax. There is no fund, because Robert Byers, the actuarial head, appeared before a congressional committee and admitted that Social Security as of this moment is 298 billion dollars in the hole. But he said there should be no cause for worry because as long as they have the power to tax, they could always take away from the people whatever they needed to bail them out of trouble. And they're doing just that.

A young man, 21 years of age, working at an average salary -- his Social Security contribution would, in the open market, buy him an insurance policy that would guarantee 220 dollars a month at age 65. The government promises 127. He could live it up until he's 31 and then take out a policy that would pay more than Social Security. Now are we so lacking in business sense that we can't put this program on a sound basis, so that people who do require those payments will find they can get them when they're due -- that the cupboard isn't bare?

Barry Goldwater thinks we can.

At the same time, can't we introduce voluntary features that would permit a citizen who can do better on his own to be excused upon presentation of evidence that he had made provision for the non-earning years? Should we not allow a widow with children to work, and not lose the benefits supposedly paid for by her deceased husband? Shouldn't you and I be allowed to declare who our beneficiaries will be under this program, which we cannot do? I think we're for telling our senior citizens that no one in this country should be denied medical care because of a lack of funds. But I think we're against forcing all citizens, regardless of need, into a compulsory government program, especially when we have such examples, as was announced last week, when France admitted that their Medicare program is now bankrupt. They've come to the end of the road.

In addition, was Barry Goldwater so irresponsible when he suggested that our government give up its program of deliberate, planned inflation, so that when you do get your Social Security pension, a dollar will buy a dollar's worth, and not 45 cents worth?

I think we're for an international organization, where the nations of the world can seek peace. But I think we're against subordinating American interests to an organization that has become so structurally unsound that today you can muster a two-thirds vote on the floor of the General Assembly among nations that represent less than 10 percent of the world's population. I think we're against the hypocrisy of assailing our allies because here and there they cling to a colony, while we engage in a conspiracy of silence and never open our mouths about the millions of people enslaved in the Soviet colonies in the satellite nations.

I think we're for aiding our allies by sharing of our material blessings with those nations which share in our fundamental beliefs, but we're against doling out money government to government, creating bureaucracy, if not socialism, all over the world. We set out to help 19 countries. We're helping 107. We've spent 146 billion dollars. With that money, we bought a 2 million dollar yacht for Haile Selassie. We bought dress suits for Greek undertakers, extra wives for Kenya[n] government officials. We bought a thousand TV sets for a place where they have no electricity. In the last six years, 52 nations have bought 7 billion dollars worth of our gold, and all 52 are receiving foreign aid from this country.

No government ever voluntarily reduces itself in size. So, governments' programs, once launched, never disappear.

Actually, a government bureau is the nearest thing to eternal life we'll ever see on this earth.

Federal employees -- federal employees number two and a half million; and federal, state, and local, one out of six of the nation's work force employed by government. These proliferating bureaus with their thousands of regulations have cost us many of our constitutional safeguards. How many of us realize that today federal agents can invade a man's property without a warrant? They can impose a fine without a formal hearing, let alone a trial by jury? And they can seize and sell his property at auction to enforce the payment of that fine. In Chico County, Arkansas, James Wier over-planted his rice allotment. The government obtained a 17,000 dollar judgment. And a U.S. marshal sold his 960-acre farm at auction. The government said it was necessary as a warning to others to make the system work.

Last February 19th at the University of Minnesota, Norman Thomas, six-times candidate for President on the Socialist Party ticket, said, "If Barry Goldwater became President, he would stop the advance of socialism in the United States." I think that's exactly what he will do.

But as a former Democrat, I can tell you Norman Thomas isn't the only man who has drawn this parallel to socialism with the present administration, because back in 1936, Mr. Democrat himself, Al Smith, the great American, came before the American people and charged that the leadership of his Party was taking the Party of Jefferson, Jackson, and Cleveland down the road under the banners of Marx, Lenin, and Stalin. And he walked away from his Party, and he never returned til the day he died -- because to this day, the leadership of that Party has been taking that Party, that honorable Party, down the road in the image of the labor Socialist Party of England.

Now it doesn't require expropriation or confiscation of private property or business to impose socialism on a people. What does it mean whether you hold the deed to the -- or the title to your business or property if the government holds the power of life and death over that business or property? And such machinery already exists. The government can find some charge to bring against any concern it chooses to prosecute. Every businessman has his own tale of harassment. Somewhere a perversion has taken place. Our natural, unalienable rights are now considered to be a dispensation of government, and freedom has never been so fragile, so close to slipping from our grasp as it is at this moment.

Our Democratic opponents seem unwilling to debate these issues. They want to make you and I believe that this is a contest between two men -- that we're to choose just between two personalities.

Well what of this man that they would destroy -- and in destroying, they would destroy that which he represents, the ideas that you and I hold dear? Is he the brash and shallow and trigger-happy man they say he is? Well I've been privileged to know him "when." I knew him long before he ever dreamed of trying for high office, and I can tell you personally I've never known a man in my life I believed so incapable of doing a dishonest or dishonorable thing.

This is a man who, in his own business before he entered politics, instituted a profit-sharing plan before unions had ever thought of it. He put in health and medical insurance for all his employees. He took 50 percent of the profits before taxes and set up a retirement program, a pension plan for all his employees. He sent monthly checks for life to an employee who was ill and couldn't work. He provides nursing care for the children of mothers who work in the stores. When Mexico was ravaged by the floods in the Rio Grande, he climbed in his airplane and flew medicine and supplies down there.

An ex-GI told me how he met him. It was the week before Christmas during the Korean War, and he was at the Los Angeles airport trying to get a ride home to Arizona for Christmas. And he said that [there were] a lot of servicemen there and no seats available on the planes. And then a voice came over the loudspeaker and said, "Any men in uniform wanting a ride to Arizona, go to runway such-and-such," and they went down there, and there was a fellow named Barry Goldwater sitting in his plane. Every day in those weeks before Christmas, all day long, he'd load up the plane, fly it to Arizona, fly them to their homes, fly back over to get another load.

During the hectic split-second timing of a campaign, this is a man who took time out to sit beside an old friend who was dying of cancer. His campaign managers were understandably impatient, but he said, "There aren't many left who care what happens to her. I'd like her to know I care." This is a man who said to his 19-year-old son, "There is no foundation like the rock of honesty and fairness, and when you begin to build your life on that rock, with the cement of the faith in God that you have, then you have a real start." This is not a man who could carelessly send other people's sons to war. And that is the issue of this campaign that makes all the other problems I've discussed academic, unless we realize we're in a war that must be won.

Those who would trade our freedom for the soup kitchen of the welfare state have told us they have a utopian solution of peace without victory. They call their policy "accommodation." And they say if we'll only avoid any direct confrontation with the enemy, he'll forget his evil ways and learn to love us. All who oppose them are indicted as warmongers. They say we offer simple answers to complex problems. Well, perhaps there is a simple answer -- not an easy answer -- but simple: If you and I have the courage to tell our elected officials that we want our national policy based on what we know in our hearts is morally right.

We cannot buy our security, our freedom from the threat of the bomb by committing an immorality so great as saying to a billion human beings now enslaved behind the Iron Curtain, "Give up your dreams of freedom because to save our own skins, we're willing to make a deal with your slave masters." Alexander Hamilton said, "A nation which can prefer disgrace to danger is prepared for a master, and deserves one." Now let's set the record straight. There's no argument over the choice between peace and war, but there's only one guaranteed way you can have peace -- and you can have it in the next second -- surrender.

Admittedly, there's a risk in any course we follow other than this, but every lesson of history tells us that the greater risk lies in appeasement, and this is the specter our well-meaning liberal friends refuse to face -- that their policy of accommodation is appeasement, and it gives no choice between peace and war, only between fight or surrender. If we continue to accommodate, continue to back and retreat, eventually we have to face the final demand -- the ultimatum. And what then -- when Nikita Khrushchev has told his people he knows what our answer will be? He has told them that we're retreating under the pressure of the Cold War, and someday when the time comes to deliver the final ultimatum, our surrender will be voluntary, because by that time we will have been weakened from within spiritually, morally, and economically. He believes this because from our side he's heard voices pleading for "peace at any price" or "better Red than dead," or as one commentator put it, he'd rather "live on his knees than die on his feet." And therein lies the road to war, because those voices don't speak for the rest of us.

You and I know and do not believe that life is so dear and peace so sweet as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery. If nothing in life is worth dying for, when did this begin -- just in the face of this enemy? Or should Moses have told the children of Israel to live in slavery under the pharaohs? Should Christ have refused the cross? Should the patriots at Concord Bridge have thrown down their guns and refused to fire the shot heard 'round the world? The martyrs of history were not fools, and our honored dead who gave their lives to stop the advance of the Nazis didn't die in vain. Where, then, is the road to peace? Well it's a simple answer after all.

You and I have the courage to say to our enemies, "There is a price we will not pay." "There is a point beyond which they must not advance." And this -- this is the meaning in the phrase of Barry Goldwater's "peace through strength." Winston Churchill said, "The destiny of man is not measured by material computations. When great forces are on the move in the world, we learn we're spirits -- not animals." And he said, "There's something going on in time and space, and beyond time and space, which, whether we like it or not, spells duty."

You and I have a rendezvous with destiny.

We'll preserve for our children this, the last best hope of man on earth, or we'll sentence them to take the last step into a thousand years of darkness.

We will keep in mind and remember that Barry Goldwater has faith in us. He has faith that you and I have the ability and the dignity and the right to make our own decisions and determine our own destiny.

Thank you very much.

Loss of Freedom is Liberty Lost Forever

2008-07-06T23:19:00.001-07:00

"But a Constitution of Government once changed from Freedom, can never be restored. Liberty, once lost, is lost forever." -- John Adams, letter to Abigail Adams, July 17, 1775

Wisdom of Thomas Jefferson

2008-06-28T22:44:00.000-07:00

I predict future happiness for Americans if they can prevent the government from wasting the labors of the people under the pretense of taking care of them.

Thomas Jefferson
3rd President of the United States (1743-1826)

Playing With The Enemy Movie

2008-05-04T09:43:00.001-07:00

Gary W. Moore is a humble man, calm and friendly, happy to discuss the life of his father. After all, the tale of his father is larger than life, and a story we can learn from - because it is a tale about second chances, but second chances in a direction that we don't always expect.

Gary's father, Gene Moore, began his journey to the pages of Playing With The Enemy as a 15 year old baseball prodigy that was drafted by the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1940. The outbreak of World War II, however, demanded that the young phenom join the military. Gene Moore joined the United States Navy, and his tour began in North Africa where he played for the Navy baseball team to entertain the troops. The duty was not always easy, or away from danger, evidenced by the death of the center fielder when an explosion on the field took the young ballplayer's life. Later, as the war effort concentrated more on the theater in Europe, Gene Moore was sent on a secret mission to guard German POWs in Louisiana. These prisoners were very special, however, and their capture was a secret to the outside world for a tremendous reason. The submarine these German sailors were the crew of was the U-505 (now on display in Chicago, Illinois at the Museum of Science and Industry), inside which the United States procured the Enigma Machine and all of the code books that went with it, enabling us to stay on top of the changes in the code, and therefore assisting us in winning the war against Germany. During this time that Gene Moore guarded these prisoners, primarily out of his desire to play baseball (and perhaps a little boredom), Gene Moore and his fellow military baseball players taught the enemy soldiers how to play America's pastime.

The story does not end there, however. Tragedy, and the storms of life that can crush dreams, and enable the birth of new ones, came to Gene Moore's life. It was then that he learned about second chances, and the importance of the unexpected things in life.

This inspirational true story is being made into a film by Producer Gerald R. Molen via his WhiteLight Entertainment production company. Molen's and White Light Entertainment's credits include Schindler's List, Minority Report, Jurassic Park, The Lost World: Jurassic Park, Twister, Casper, Rain Man and The Flintstones. White Light Entertainment has to its credit 33 Academy Award nominations, 19 Academy Awards, including two for the best picture and a total box office collection of $4 billion from the 14 movies it has produced so far. The screenplay was written by WhiteLight director of development David Ranes and the author's son, Toby Moore, who's also set to portray his grandfather. The film is in production now and is slated to be released during the first quarter of 2009.

I first met Gary W. Moore, the author of Playing With The Enemy, at a book signing in San Diego on October 1, 2006. A month later we got together in Pasadena, California after another book signing, and it was then that I realized I had made a wonderful friend. Since then, Gary W. Moore has appeared on my Political Pistachio Radio Show a number of times (April 7, 2007; June 16, 2007 with his publisher: Ted Savas; and January 26, 2008).

And honestly, Playing With The Enemy is a great read, and a book that is not about World War II and Baseball as much as it is about the human spirit.

As for the movie? Well, I hear there is going to be some great acting talents in the film, but the producer has not released the names, yet. However, when we know who those actors are that are in the film, you will find out about it on Political Pistachio, and of course at that time we will have Gary W. Moore return to Political Pistachio Radio to discuss the latest news regarding this blockbuster film.

Also see Gary interviewed by CNN here, and the Fox affiliate in Milwaukee here.

Getting it all done. . .

2008-04-04T10:16:00.000-07:00

I last wrote on this blog with the enthusiastic intention of paying more attention to this ever-important site. Well, so much for that.

Now that I have spent a lot of time on my political blogs and my radio show, I realized it was time to return to this blog again, and of course work on my books.

Time has a funny way of slipping through one's fingers.

This morning I also decided to create a new blog (like I have enough time for all of my sites as it is) called Liberal Troll Haven. Liberal Trolls, you see, fascinate me. Well, that, and I don't have the ability to leave well enough alone, I guess. Anyhow, rather than inundate Political Pistachio with posts that battle the trolls, I thought I would create a site specifically for battling these harbingers of idiocy. And, I have left the comment section wide open for their responses. May be interesting.

As for the book, The Way of Deception has changed drastically. Viewpoint is still in its infancy.

Okay, enough of this blogging stuff, back to the books.

The Journey So Far

2008-02-04T13:36:00.001-08:00

As I continue to build my market through blogs and my Blog Talk Radio Show (Political Pistachio Radio)
I am discovering relationships with authors (and a few other people I feel greatly humbled to know) that are inspiring me to move forward, and continue my journey to wherever the Lord wants me to be.

The first author I got to know, and one that inspired me to continue on with my goal of becoming a published writer, is J.A. Konrath. Joe is one of those people that I can relate to. An average guy with an above average ability to write. Like me, he endured a lot of rejections in the industry, until suddenly he landed a big deal. Konrath secured a six-digit deal for his Jack Daniels Detective series, and wrote about his journey along the way. It was the June, 2004 issue, page 32, "After the BIG SALE" by J.A. Konrath, that first caught my attention. The article outlines in a journal style the road to becoming published for Joe Konrath, and how a regular guy suddenly found himself joining the club of published writers. . . and with a six figure deal to boot. That journal about his excitement, and how it all happened for him, was inspiring, as was a later article in the September 2005 issue of Writer's Digest. The title of that article was "After the Book Comes Out," and the lessons I learned from the article inspired me, and made me remember that although the publishing game seems to be primarily about those with name recognition getting published, unknowns can still pull it off. I later had the opportunity to meat with Konrath, and Mario Acevedo, in San Diego at the Mysterious Galaxy bookstore. . . and had dinner with them afterward. It was about six months after that meeting that I began to blog.

In July of 2006, while on a trip to the Oregon Coast I met another writer, and an up and coming publisher, by the name of Dan Bessie. Meeting him and his wonderful wife was the highlight of that trip, and the relationship continues to this day, although now Dan and his wife live in France. Well, if ever I visit France, I have a friend to visit too. Anyway, getting to know Dan added to what I had already learned from Konrath, "Don't stop trying, and enjoy the journey."

On October 2, 2006 I attended a booksigning in San Diego that changed my path as a writer drastically. I had found out about a book called "Playing With The Enemy" by Gary W. Moore while browsing through the internet - and, being the history and baseball enthusiast that I am, I just had to attend that book signing. Along with Gary at that booksigning was Jeff Edwards, author of "Torpedo." Well, as a Navy veteran, I thought to myself, "What a great opportunity to meet two fantastic writers, one with a book about my beloved Navy, and the other about World War II and baseball." The friendships with them both have been fantastic and inspiring. And out of those friendships also came my acceptance into the Military Writers Society of America (through which I met Jim Stewart, author of The Ghosts of Vietnam/Angel of Vietnam), and eventually the American Authors Association as well.

Shortly after that, I attended my first Writers Conference. The conference I attended was The La Jolla Writers Conference in San Diego, California. After the first day of the conference, and please don't think me horrible for saying this, I didn't feel like I was told anything that I didn't know. Little did I know, the next two days would knock that cocky little attitude right out of my thick skull. In short, I learned a lot.

In November of 2006 I completed reading Playing With The Enemy and at that time realized that Gary W. Moore's book was hands down the best book I had ever read. I had to meet him again and tell him so. Shortly afterward I drove to meet with Gary W. Moore in Pasadena, and the man touched me in more ways than just the inspiration of becoming a writer. As a Christian, he helped me realize that the writing isn't just about me, or my book, it is about God's plan for my life. Life is about chances, and second chances, and paths the Lord takes us that we don't even expect. From that day onward, a wonderful friendship has developed, and I feel blessed to know Gary W. Moore.

Shortly after that, on November 13th, 2006 I was a guest on a show called "My Point Radio." The hosts, Dave and Jenn, asked me about my work in progress, and about my blogging. Apparently, Jenn was (and is) a fan of my blog, Political Pistachio, and had mentioned me on a prior occasion on the show. Night Rider, better known now to me as Phil, took it upon himself to learn more about me, and ever since then a friendship with Dave, Jenn and Phil has ensued. That was my first introduction to Blog Talk Radio, and little did I know, it would be only a matter of time before I was a host myself.

In early December of 2006 I had another opportunity to meet an author at the Mysterious Galaxy Bookstore in San Diego, California. This time I got to meet Howard V. Hendrix, a very intelligent mind, and a fantastic person to have the opportunity to speak to. Though I am not in constant touch with him, the meeting with him in that bookstore that night was definitely an experience that broadened my knowledge, and inspired me as a writer. The following day I went out to Imperial east of San Diego to meet with Jim Stewart at an event where the proceeds of the sales of his book went to the Wounded Warriors charity, an organization created to support the families of our wounded warriors.

On January 7th, 2007 my computer crashed, and many of my files were not backed up. The setback regarding my writing projects was severe, and the work on The Way Of Deception in regards to the latest rewrite was completely lost. The devastation affected my writing and my life. But, like any good writer, I got back on the horse and continued on with my writing, trying to recapture in my book what I had lost.

After toying with Wide Awakes Radio, and then their stream going down, on February 24, 2007 my Political Pistachio radio show premiered on Blog Talk Radio, and with it the opportunity to further market myself, and help market my fellow writers. In the beginning the show wasn't that great, but as time passed I grew, the show got better, and so did the guests.

But you know, I think I will talk about all of that on another post sometime.

Well, Gary W. Moore has been a guest three times, and numerous other writers have joined the show too. Bloggers and politicians so far have also graced my little show with their presence. But like I said, that will have to be on another post. This one is long enough already. God Bless, and we'll talk to you soon.

James Houston Turner

2008-01-28T19:08:00.000-08:00

A while back I wanted to post on this, but our friends at Blogger decided for a while that my blog was a Spam Blog - sorry, fellas, it's not.

Anyway, on Saturday, January 19th, I drove out to Los Angeles to meet with James Houston Turner, the author of The Identity Factor. He had flown out here from Australia to see his son, who is a United States Marine, and to conduct a book signing at The Mystery Bookstore in L.A.

Before flying out to the United States, he sent invitations to all of his MySpace friends, and I am one of those people. I responded saying that I was unable to attend because the book signing interfered with my radio show. I later changed my showtime, and yes, that is me and Mrs. Pistachio in the picture above talking to James Houston Turner.

When we met, we hit it off. James had also set aside a book for me and personalized the autograph. I decided to also buy an extra one, and came home with two of his books.

Last Saturday we met again, deciding to have a little coffee at a McDonalds in San Diego County. Well, the coffee meeting grew to beyond two hours, and the meeting was fantastic. And in the end, he gave me three books to give away on Saturday when he is a guest on Political Pistachio Radio, and I gave him a bunch of Political Pistachio bumper stickers.

I feel fortunate to have met this writer, and I am reading his book right now. I will give you a report when I am finished.

Salsa Recipe for all of those upcoming Football Games!!!

2008-01-01T08:23:00.001-08:00

. . .or just for munching on during New Years Day.

Have some Tortilla Chips you are in the desperate need to dip into something?

Well, Salsa is always a nice treat.

Doug's Salsa Recipe

Ingredients:

1 can of RO-TEL ORIGINAL Diced Tomatoes and Green Chiles
2-3 Medium Tomatoes (DO NOT REFRIGERATE TOMATOES - refrigeration causes tomatoes to lose their taste a little)
1 large lime
1 Clove of Garlic
3-6 Green Onions
Cilantro (optional)
1/2 of a Carrot (optional)
jalepeno pepper (optional)
Salt

Double the ingredients for a larger batch.

Pour can of diced tomatoes and green chiles into bowl.

Cut fresh tomatoes by hand into small pieces, the smaller the better. Do not use food processor or similar device because it makes the salsa taste watered down. I often use Roma Tomatoes - if you do, add one more tomato because they are smaller.

Add Tomatoes to bowl.

Cut lime in half and squeeze juice into bowl. I often have another lime or two available in case I get a lime that does not produce much juice. If it has seeds, hold the cut side up when you squeeze so that seeds don't fall into mixture. Some folks like less lime and only use a half a lime for this size of a batch.

Cut clove of garlic into small pieces and then crush with a fork until it is like a paste. Then add garlic paste that you made into mixture.

Cut up onions into small pieces. Once again, like the tomatoes, it is better to cut by hand with a knife. Appliances tend to tear onions rather than cut them and some of the onion flavor becomes lost. I put 3-6 for number of onions to use because it is a matter of taste. I use 6 onions, my dad uses 3.

Add onions to mixture.

Chop cilantro in similar fashion. Cilantro gives the salsa that true Mexican taste, and I like cilantro a lot. I tend to only cut up and use the leaves because the stems tend to give the salsa a parsley flavor. Remember, cilantro can be strong, so use discretion. I use about four stems worth (remember, use only the leaves for best results).

If you decide to add the carrot, chop pieces as small as you can get them. Amount varies based on your taste.

Jalepeno can overtake the flavor if not used sparingly, but if you want a little more heat in your salsa, feel free to use the pepper. Note, keep seeds for more heat, eliminate them for less. If I use jalepeno I tend to use a quarter chile per can of ROTEL. I don't use them often, however, because the flavor of the salsa is so good without them.

Salt to taste.

Added notes: pick your ingredients carefully. The quality of the tomatoes play a large part in the flavor of the salsa. And once again, do not refrigerate the tomatoes. They lose flavor when refrigerated.

Okay, now stir it, let it sit twenty minutes, stirring every 5 minutes - then enjoy!

Albondigas recipe for the New Year!

2007-12-30T19:45:00.000-08:00

Doug's Albondigas Soup Recipe (also known as Mexican Meatball Soup)

Overall Preparation Time: about 2 hours

Ingredients:

Group 1 - -

2 Tablespoons olive oil
1 large garlic clove (chopped, minced, mashed)
1 large brown onion (quartered/chopped)

Group 2 - -

6 carrots, sliced
1/2 pound french cut green beans, chopped (canned/drained is fine, fresh is better)
1 stalk of celery, sliced
1 green onion, sliced
1 pinch of chili powder
1 lime, cut (you will squeeze all of the juices into pot when the time comes to add this item, then discard the rest)
1 green bell pepper, gutted and cut into pieces about same size as carrot slices
1 can of tomato sauce, 8 oz.
1 can of diced tomatoes, 14 oz.
6 cans of chicken broth, 14 oz.
56 oz. of water (fill four of the chicken broth cans)

*** optional: pinch of crumbled oregano leaves, pinch of basil leaves. Fresh preferred. Soup is good without these spices, but it has a nice flavor with them as well. Try it both ways, see which you prefer.

Group 3:

(1) 1/2 pound of fresh ground beef
(2) 8 oz. packages of Farmer John Original premium pork links
1/2 cup of white rice/uncooked
2 large pinches of parsley flakes (fresh, chopped as fine as possible; or dried flakes are fine, but once again, fresh provides a better taste)
2 uncooked eggs

Group 4:

Salt
Fresh Ground Pepper
Cilantro (leaves only - remove stems)

Preparation:

Group 1 - Heat oil in over medium heat. Add onion and garlic. Saute' until tender, about 5 minutes. Place all items in Group 2 into large pot, high heat. Add Onions and Garlic to pot. Bring to boil, then lower heat to low/medium and simmer for about 30 minutes.

While the soup is simmering, combine all items in Group 3 in a large mixing bowl, adding about 1 1/2 teaspoon of salt and a reasonable amount of fresh ground pepper. It is best to mix it by hand. Be aware, if the items just came out of the refrigerator, it will be very cold on the hands. I tend to mix it for about ten minutes, or at least until it is obvious that the meat, rice, eggs, and parsley are thoroughly mixed.

After the soup has been simmering for 30 minutes, make walnut size meatballs out of the meat and drop them into the soup.

Cover, and bring the soup to a boil. Then, lower the soup to a low heat and let it simmer for about an hour, stirring occasionally.

Season and garnish with the items (to your preferred taste) in Group 4 after the soup has simmered for an hour.

Be aware, Cilantro is strong, and some prefer it to be used sparingly. The soup is fine without it if you are unable to locate cilantro, but cilantro has a uniquely Mexican flavor that really adds to the soup.

Added note: I have made the soup with a chopped up potato, and sliced Italian squash before, and it was good, but I prefer to use these two items in my tortilla soup - a recipe I will have on this site someday in the future. There are many ways to make Albondigas, and some even use Chipotle Sauce. After years of experimentation, I have only come across one restaurant that I think makes better Albondigas than me. But hey, that's just my opinion.

Enjoy the soup.

Tomorrow night I plan to post my salsa recipe.

My recent introduction to a Yahoo Group I recently joined

2007-12-07T22:16:00.000-08:00

This is to properly introduce myself, my history, and my convictions.

I was born in 1966, which makes me younger than some, and older than
a many or a few. Such a year of birth enabled me to graduate from
high school in 1984, the same year I turned 18, and the first year I
could vote (making me what some call a Reagan Baby - and of course I
voted for Reagan that year). 1984 was also the year I planned to
begin going to college, which was an easy choice since I had both
athletic and academic scholarships at a number of Universities
(baseball and long distance runner), and so my wise choice at that
time was to instead make my girlfriend pregnant, get married, and
enlist in the U.S. Navy.

OOPS.

Then, a little less than a year later, on July 1, 1985, I died.
(link to my radio show titled: The Day I Died)
On that date my newborn son was three months old, my marriage was
eleven months old, I had been on board my first sea-going command
seven months, and none of that mattered. Death had reached me and
it was all over.

Or was it?

After an estimated two hours of lying on the roadway bleeding
profusely (1:30 AM on a lonely highway), and not breathing for the
final twenty minutes (ah ha, impossible, you say - that's why it is
called a miracle) before I was found, my lifeless body was flown to
Palomar Memorial Hospital by Life Flight. They got my heart beating
again on the way there, and three days later they retired the
respirator that I had needed in order to breath up to that point. A
week and a half deep coma kept me in intensive care, and then when I
opened my feeble eyes, two more months of non-cognizant life as a
vegetable followed, none of which I remember. Suddenly, one day,
strapped to my bed because I had been tugging on the tubes in me and
taking swings at the doctors and corpsmen, I woke up and
said, "Where am I?" It took two years to rehabilitate to a point
that I could return to duty, during which time I learned how to walk
again, suffered on average 80 epileptic seizures per day, struggled
through brain damage that reminds me to this day that I am not the
person I once was since the high intellect center and memory center
was damaged, endured (and still endure) a constant ringing in my
left ear (an ear that is now deaf), and a variety of other things.
My left knee limps sometimes, reminding me of the damage to that
joint. The scars each have their own tales, from the one on my face
that reminds me how horrible I looked when my family saw me in
intensive care for the first time with my cheekbone exposed, to the
scars on my legs and back the told doctors my ability to function
physically was going to be severely hampered. After trying me out
on another sea command, the Navy realized I was not fit to continue
my service as a U.S. Naval Sailor, and put me out with a medical
discharge.

When I was intensive care the doctors told my mother and wife that
they gave me no chance to make it, so start making funeral
arrangements. And, if for some unbelieveable chance I somehow
pulled through, be aware that I would be severely mentally retarted.

The doctors were wrong.

When they discharged me from the Navy the doctors told my wife that
I would need to be closely monitored, and that because of certain
traumatic injuries, it did not look like I would live past the age
of thirty.

And after hearing the story people tell me, "Wow, man, you were one
lucky son of a gun."

Luck, my friends, had nothing to do with it. As I like to tell
people, "Please be patient, God is not finished with me yet."

Yes, that's right, I give God the glory for my survival.

But my struggles were not over. My wife, though devoted to me, also
battled me daily over my archaic belief in a God that allowed me to
die, go through all of that pain that eventually led to my
rehabilitation, and left me a partial human being. How could He be
a God of love? Why didn't he just mercilessly allow me to die? My
response was, "No, it is because of that accident I have been given
the chance to live."

Thing is, later she admitted that all along she knew I would
survive. Something told her so long ago that my life would not end
so easily or abruptly. So, she took care of me, assisted me, and
remained with me during those difficult years.

Then, three years ago she asked me if she could go to church with
me, after twenty years of calling me a self-righteous hypocrite.
And then, during the alter call, she went forward, and accepted
Jesus as her God and Savior. Now, with our marriage in His hands,
our relationship has become the vessel of faith I have always
dreamed it would become.

So the story about me is a story of miracles. I survived when I
should have died. I rejoiced when I should have crumbled and cursed
Him. I am a functional adult when I should be a vegetable. I have
a happy marriage to a wonderful Christian woman when I should be, by
societal standards, divorced. I had my last seizure in 1993 after
my brain decided to re-route its electrical signals. I walk when I
should be in a wheel chair. And I an an independent, self-reliant
Conservative, when after all that I've been through you would think
I'd want to be a dependent slave to the system that paid for my
hospitalization when I was in the military.

I began blogging at Political Pistachio (www.politicalpistachio.com)
in March of 1996. My site went from a two or three hits a day site,
to a now 4,000-5,000 hits per month site. I own over 50 pages,
blogs and sites, a dozen of which I am active on either daily, or at
least a few times per week. My Blog Talk Radio show began in
February of 2007 and now is in the top ten most listened to shows
among over 1,500 Conservative shows.

Not bad for a vegetable, huh? And guess what? I give credit where
credit is due. I give all the credit and glory to my Lord and
Savior, my God, Jesus Christ.

Well, how's that for an introduction?

And thank you for the warm welcome. Thank you for making me feel at home.

Oh, and one more thing, remember early on in this post where I
said "OOPS" after indicating that I took a sharp turn away from
college and into a young marriage that only led me into the clutches
of despair and tragedy? I know that had I have gone to college, and
done the things that my faith would have led me to do, I would have
avoided going through all of that pain and suffering. Had I have
listened to the Lord originally I would have taken a different
path. But that does not mean that the path I took is the wrong
path. Through the storms and trials and tribulations of my life I
have grown strong in the Lord, He has built within me character that
I would not have if I had taken another path. Because of that path
I took my wife and I have a strong Christian marriage forged from
the fires of trials and tribulation, and we have two wonderful
children as well. No, I don't recommend people take the hard road,
but for me, that is where my life took me based on the choices I
made as an individual. I am highly educated, educated by the
highest professor in the Universe, and He decided to train me
specifically in the school of hard knocks. And through that
education of storms and trials and tribulations I have become who I
am - and I thank God for that. Yep, there is no OOPS about it. I
am the man He meant me to be, and I am still growing and learning to
be the servant He desires me to be. No regrets. He has taken the
tragic events of my life and used them for His glory, and I am
humbled that He would use a lowly servant such as I for such a
calling. Glory to Him in the highest.

Amen.

God Bless.

Danger of turning our back on God

2007-11-25T20:28:00.000-08:00

In this age of moral relativity and the constant attack on Christianity I am reminded of the importance of this verse from the Holy Bible:

Psalm 33:12

Blessed is the nation whose God is the LORD; and the people whom he hath chosen for his own inheritance.

Now I understand that at the time the reference was to Israel, but it is true that any nation that turns its back on God will lose the Lord's blessing, and I fear that the United States is dangerously heading down such a path.

Why Eating Turkey Makes You Sleepy

2007-11-22T09:54:00.000-08:00

Early during my marriage to my lovely wife, the one most folks call Mrs. Pistachio, she asked me a question that I am sure many of you have always wondered the answer to. Honestly, I don't know the answer, but on the day that Mrs. Pistachio asked me "Why does eating turkey make you want to take a nap afterwards?" Being the joker I sometimes can be, I mustered my best poker face and told her my made up on the spot answer with confidence that she would be convinced that I was well educated regarding the workings of the chemicals residing in Turkey meat.

I told her, "Eating Turkey makes you sleepy because turkeys have a special chemical in their body that induces one to sleep. This chemical is a defensive mechanism necessary for a turkey's survival in the wild because when a pack of wolves attack a herd of turkeys, after eating the first turkey, the chemical causes the wolves to fall asleep, allowing the remaining turkeys the opportunity to flee to safety."

She smiled, happy to be privy to this wonderfully insightful new information of which she had determined to be correct based on my strong delivery, and because she trusted my knowledge on the subject of turkeys.

I laughed inside, and later forgot all about it, never telling her that what I had told her, in short, was a load of bull.

Years later, while at a Thanksgiving feast at the in-laws, one of her sisters, with a mouth full of turkey and gravy, asked, "I wonder why eating turkey makes you sleepy."

Mrs. Pistachio, feeling informed and confident proudly declared, "So that in the wild, when they are attacked by wolves, the wolves will fall asleep and allow the rest of the little turkeys to get away."

The room fell silent. A few members of the family actually nodded their heads as if in full agreement with Mrs. Pistachio's explanation, while the remainder of diners either dropped their heads as they fought back laughs, or gazed at her with a look of horror and confusion.

She says, "Right, Doug?"

I didn't answer. I was laughing too hard to get a word out.

The Joys of Grandparenthood

2007-11-16T23:25:00.000-08:00

My 9 day old grandson, the first one so far, is precious. Ezekiel is a quiet baby, with a lovely face. He brightens my life. Still waiting for the photos to come it - when they do, I will post them quickly.

When Love Takes You In

2007-11-08T09:46:00.001-08:00

Dedicated to the miracle born yesterday, my first grandbaby, Ezekiel Christopher Gibbs.

Coma

2007-11-01T11:44:00.000-07:00

by Douglas V. Gibbs

Where has my body landed?

Shadows mocked the white brilliance, leaning their grayness over my upturned face. Familiar forms, yet unknown. A face molded together. The face belonged to someone I remembered, but forgot.An orifice in the face opened, spitting ghosts of words.

My damaged brain sputtered. Cranial fog cleared momentarily. Chaos organized for a moment. Only a short moment.

Concentration relinquished a momentary solution. The voice was familiar because it belonged to my mother.Chaos returned. My disembodied limbs reached to embrace her. Tingling spiders marching down my arms held my arms captive. I remained still. Mother’s tears rolled down my cheeks.

An epileptic seizure captured my body. Darkness came. Life faded. Death twisted my insides, rolling through my body like the roar of an angry lion. Helicopter blades thumped. Sirens screamed. People placed their hands all over my naked body, holding me with needles and masks.

White. The ivory ceiling with ebony dots loomed overhead. Virgin sheets on my snowy bed contained my languid, quivering body. White walls with bright lights shining on a milky tile floor thundered around my personal prison of tubes and machines. Frosty garments on anti-septic attendants marched, shouting orders to each other as a needle plunged into my purple wrist.

The place radiated purity, but the bleeding heart of mother’s red blouse served as a focal point.

My eyes opened. Tears ran down her face. I stared curiously, unable to understand why she, or myself, resided in this white place of beeping machines.Numbness filled me. Another episode returned. My lips exploded. Ice cream lips tingled in unison. Eyes wandering backward, my vision became obstructed by fluttering needle-points. Everything was spinning. I closed my eyes. The spin increased.

Tumbling. Rolling. My body died in my dreams. I recalled pain invading my body. Skin peeled from my face like the rind of a rotten orange. Rolling along the highway. Pounding with each crash of crumbling metal. Crimson fluids fled from my being.I can’t catch my breath!

The white sanctity of the hospital returned. The nightmares abated.

I opened my mouth to ask questions slamming mercilessly against my skull. My tongue rolled around in my mouth untrained. My swollen lips forgot how to speak.

I managed a primitive grunt.

A man in a white coat ran to my side as mother screamed hysterically. He stabbed a needle of light into my eyes, prattling nonsensical verbiage all the while. Pure gibberish. He spoke only noise.

The terror of darkness returned. My eyes closed. Rolling nightmares of chaos imprisoned me. I jerked awake in my dreams. Numb pain.Memories rolling. Pounding. Cries of pain. The faces of men looking down at me while tossing around noise with their tongues.

The seizure passed. A new face stood over me. A familiar face. The loving gaze of my uncle.“He’s coming out of it,” said my uncle.Words. Wonderful words. The eloquent poetry of speech from my uncle’s lips embraced me like an old friend.

I murmured the first thing that came to mind. “Where am I?”

“In the hospital, son.”

Son?

“You’re not my dad.”

“No, I am not,” replied my uncle with a slight grin on his weathered face.

How absurd. Of course he is not my father.

“How did I get into the hospital?”

“Car accident,” said Uncle. “Doozie, too. You rolled that little car eight times down the highway. Got thrown down a slope, or something like that. They didn’t give you much of a chance, from what I hear. Ten minutes or so, says your dad. Ten minutes later and you’d be in a coffin right now, I reckon. Not too good. You were comatose, you know. Month and a half, or so. This is the first time you’ve acted sensible in months.”

Months?

“Is there anything that you want?” he asked out of common courtesy.

“Yes,” I said. “I want a hamburger.”

“You can’t eat food like that in this ward. They’ll take it away.”

“I don’t care. That’s what I want.”

Uncle grinned, hurried off, leaving me with my Auntie. I glared at her suspiciously.

She smiled, sort of halfway. Her hands, drying from age, lay peacefully on her lap. Tired eyes of deep blue studied me, moving slightly behind the time-ridden slits that housed them.

“Can I be unstrapped?” I asked.

She arose and vanished for a moment along the corridor, returning moments later with one of those men in the white coats. He grinned like he knew me, and unstrapped my bonds.

“No funny business,” he said. “You were taking swings at people when you were out of it.”

“I was?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Just remember, one swing, and the straps go back on. Don’t be pulling on any of the tubes, either.”

“No problem,” I responded.

Auntie sat back down and asked, “How do you feel?”

“Well,” I replied honestly, “I can’t feel half of my face or my legs. Pain is racking just about every other point in my body that isn’t numb. Despite being unstrapped, I feel like I can’t move a muscle, and I am starving for a hamburger.

”She nodded.

Uncle Bill returned, leaning over me with a box in his hand. A finger of his other hand stood vertically across his lips as he whispered conspiratorially, “Sshh, here’s that burger. Eat it under the sheet.”

My hands responded painfully, reaching eagerly for the box. Under the sheet I devoured the contraband.

I pulled my head out for air. A retired respirator loomed nearby.

“Uncle Bill?” I garbled with a mouthful of food.

“Yes?” he replied.

“Thanks. This is the best burger I’ve ever had!”

Where my thoughts dream

2007-10-11T10:37:00.000-07:00

Those moments in time when my dreams and thoughts are the same I see the world more sharply. My senses recognize vibrant details, wonderous and fearsome. The world comes alive in my mind, and the thoughts that I assemble become the same as the material that dreams are made of.

In this place I may sit on the bank of a bubbling creak, or run through a stabbing thicket. Pools as deep as my mind may harbor fantastic creatures, and lives as delicate as a flower may crumble beneath the tears of a child.

The time when my thoughts become dreams is when I find my life merge with the lives of the characters that live within my soul, darting and playing and waiting for the story they must appear in to become a reality in the ink on my pages.

Opportunities

2007-09-25T21:48:00.000-07:00

One never knows where the paths in life will take us. Sometimes a storm in life will open up opportunities that may never have been pursued otherwise.

Today I put in a lot of job applications. I work in the construction industry, but the slowdown has made it so that I can no longer support my family doing that kind of work. So, after eleven years doing the kind of work that Americans aren't supposed to be willing to do, I must move on.

One of the opportunities that has arisen is working for a newspaper.

Perhaps this slowdown is not so bad after all. As a writer, working for the paper would be just what the doctor ordered.

Remembering Their Sacrifice

2007-09-21T07:54:00.001-07:00

Thank you to MDConservative for reminding me that today is National POW/MIA Recognition Day.

La Jolla Writers Conference is coming up!

2007-09-15T12:36:00.000-07:00

This Year's upcoming LA JOLLA WRITERS CONFERENCE is NOVEMBER 2-4, 2007, at the Paradise Point Resort & Spa. This intimate conference, set in San Diego, California, and overlooking the Pacific, has been named by Writer's Digest Ultimate Resource Guide as "One of the 84 conferences worth your money."
REGISTRATION IS LIMITED TO 200 PARTICIPANTS. Click HERE for information on how to reserve your spot at this year's upcoming La Jolla Writers Conference!

The La Jolla Writers Conference was founded to reflect the generosity of spirit and dedication to craft associated with successful writers; and to provide aspiring writers with a conference at which they are truly mentored.

In Memory of those lost on 9/11

2007-09-11T10:05:00.000-07:00

A Moment of Silence.

The Way of Deception

2007-09-02T20:27:00.000-07:00

Shortstories and poetry and novels, oh my.

okay, latest re-write of Chapter One!

Chapter 1

Jarrod's parents died before his feet hit the meadow.
The man holding the gun adjusted his black tie. The man who murdered Jarrod's parents in cold blood turned and caught Jarrod's eyes. He grinned. Large teeth inhabited that smile. Jarrod leaped over the railing of the deck and left the man with the horse-grin behind standing over his victims as the killer brought up his weapon and swung it to bead down on the fleeing man. Two gunshots echoed through the surrounding trees. A limb splintered and fell to the wild grass below as Jarrod rolled on the meadow and changed direction toward the tree line. Three other men in black suits leaped over the edge of the wooden deck behind Jarrod, guns drawn.
Jarrod staggered through the biting brush, forcing away slender green branches. Thorns embedded into his flesh, tearing away the outer layer of skin. He continued through the growth with his bloody fingers dripping along the way. In the distance water trickled along a stream in the early morning darkness. A mist from the creek rose to meet his face as he approached. The ground beneath his feet was moist, spongy.
The pain in his battered hands matched the agony in his head. Blood dotted his hairline. The imprint of a whipping branch reddened and began bleeding on his forehead. The salty red liquid dribbled into his eyes, blurring his vision. He rubbed his burning eyes with the back of his hands until his eyesight cleared. He staggered, falling against a tree trunk.
A stone dropped through his fingers, rolling along the bank and into the moving waters of the creek. He picked up the stone during his escape, wondering if it may assist him in the absence of a weapon.
He collected another handful of oval, smooth stones. As a child he collected similar stones. Skipping stones. Smooth, flat, and available in a variety of colors and sizes. His father once stood over him, so long ago, hands in his pockets, watching his son collect the rocks.
Now, the birthing rays of sunlight spilled color along the horizon. In the newborn light he studied the stones in his hands. Wet, dark, and smooth.
"He who is without sin, cast the first stone," his mother often joked whenever Jarrod and his father skipped stones on the lake.
He who is without sin, indeed.
Jarrod reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He slammed a stone into his cell phone, breaking it into pieces. He pulled out and snapped in half the memory card, tossing the two halves into the waters of the creek.
Now their ability to track him electronically was disabled.
Up the creek, maybe a stone's throw away, Jarrod's pursuers crossed the water. He heard them helping each other up the bank. Grunting, falling, shouting.
Jarrod grinned, crossing back to the other side of the water's edge.
He trudged along the shore of the creek. It was an exquisite morning on the Oregon Coast, save for the life and death struggle Jarrod sound himself unwittingly a part of. The wooded area he found himself in, with the thick canopy, reminded Jarrod of a jungle. He couldn't place if the jungle it reminded him of was in South America or southeast Asia, but the terrain definitely reminded him of a jungle.
Stepping out from under the shade of the canopy Jarrod inhaled crisp air under a blue sky. The new path ahead of him was mottled with moist evergreen needles and yellowing deciduous leaves. He stuffed the stones in his hand into his pocket.
Hopping over a steep, perpendicular ravine, Jarrod put more distance between him and his pursuers. Upon landing on the other side of the leap, the pocketful of stones bounced inside his pockets. He imagined them ripping holes in the underbelly of their prison, sliding down his pant's legs, and dropping into the water of the creek he left behind, gliding back and forth until finally settling on the sandy bed.
The path ended and he found himself pushing through heavy plant growth again. The creek doubled back and met Jarrod again. The flow of water was no more than a couple dozen inches deep, and four or five feet wide. The stream ran around another turn, raging like a miniature roaring rapids. White bubbles foamed around the sharp angles of the creek. Finger length fish swam along the current.
Jarrod dropped down into the water, scrambling up the opposing crumbling ridge away from the water, stepping into more thick undergrowth. Warmth boiled inside as his skin chilled in the darker shadows under the forest canopy. Droplets of perspiration fell from the tip of his nose. The salty liquid drenched his eyebrows, less red with blood than before. He unzipped his jacket and removed it from his body. A mild breeze brushed across his sweating torso and bleeding fingertips. His cotton shirt clung to his chest. Going back home was no longer a viable option. The cabin on the hill where his parents lay dead, by now, surely swarmed with more of those men in black suits.
A breeze rustled through the leaves of the myrtlewoods. Some of the trees stood larger than others, possibly beginning as seedlings even before the European discovery of the North American continent.
Alert wildlife behind the trees stared at him with shiny black eyes as he dropped the flimsy jacket to the ground. He did not rationalize in his exhaustion that the fallen clothing may serve as a marker for his pursuers. More evidence as to why he was no longer a United States Navy SEAL.
Deer and elk watched him as he moved along a bear trail, swishing their white-striped tails back and forth. The males lowered their racks of antlers while the females stomped around to warn their young ones to keep away from the dangerous human. Cougars in the distance sniffed the air, picking up the scent of blood betrayed by Jarrod's raw fingertips.
His training at the National Security Agency never prepared him for this. His experiences in the United States Special Forces prior to being hired on by the NSA did. On his new job he spent his time studying cryptologic history for any government agency that demanded his assistance. Shuffling through manuscripts, memoranda, studies, interviews, and any other material pertinent to the cryptologic history of the United States of America served simply as a side-step from reality. Nothing more than a distant dream. Life ends, and nothing he ever accomplished mattered. Like a lifeless automaton he performed his work by cell phone, fax, proxy, flipping through paper files and historical documents, and the occasional working vacation away from Fort Meade, Maryland. Only the true life experience of engaging an enemy and being pursued by said enemy teaches a person how to find the way out of a tangled forest like this one. Only the hardcore training Jarrod once endured enabled him to stay alive and escape from the clutches of the ruthless enemy now in search of him. In reality, nobody really cared if he stumbled and fell to his doom in this forest, just as long as they never heard his body striking the undergrowth.
A rough, overgrown trail led up a hill, climbing away from the creek toward a main road. Fifty yards up the trail the path widened, exposing two tire-worn trails with wild, wide bladed grass growing between the tracks. Amidst the myrtlewood trees the rising sun shortened the shadows.
At the top of the hill Jarrod reached the main road. Potholes littered the graveled thoroughfare. Wheel-marks lined worn paths through the chips of granite. Stones much smaller and more jagged than the ones lying dormant in the bottom of his pant's pocket lay along the way scattered as if shrapnel from an earlier explosion. Looking left Jarrod realized the road curved up another hill and then doglegged to the right. In the distance, beyond the sharp turn, Jarrod heard the whine of a lone vehicle approaching.
He catalogued in his mind the possible types of vehicles that may be steaming along around the corner. Considering his current dilemma Jarrod entertained the possibility of a military Jeep of some kind carrying camouflaged adorned troops hanging over the sides with rifles slung over their shoulders and live grenades in their hands rolling down the hill. He imagined it may even be a crazed group of Islamic terrorists with bloodshot, spiral eyes driving an armored tank down the winding, myrtlewood lined roadway toward him and his grass-ridden path. Dark, maniacal faces bent on death peered through a small, rectangular slit below the loaded turret mounted atop the dark instrument of destruction. Red and black flags with green stars and sickles waving madly behind the cannon. Inside the metal coffin the madmen keeping their hands on the triggers, ready to mow down the notorious failed Navy SEAL turned historian before he mounted a daring escape, shouting obscenities in their tongue-wagging language.
The scenarios he entertained in his mind proved much less strange than the budding truth. Reality was, this chase through the forest began in the early morning hours with the arrival of black suited members of the United States National Security. For reasons unknown they killed his parents, and chased Jarrod into the forest. Somehow, he now found himself smack-dab in the middle of some kind of huge conspiracy.
His familiarity of the local terrain, only because of spending a large part of his life in this part of the country before reaching adulthood and being transplanted to the east coast, allowed for the ease of his escape.
Jarrod slipped behind a small, flowering bush in hopes that the wild-eyed terror in the tank-like vehicle up the road cruised on by without even noticing his presence.
The vehicle came into view, clanging over the potholes. He waited until he saw their faces. Their darting eyes searched for movement in the brush. The passenger's hair was twisted wildly, all set in plastic, covered with pink curlers.
The enemy offering turned out not to be a green military Jeep, or the menacing tank Jarrod had subconsciously expected, nor a two-seater scout machine built to navigate such treacherous landscape. A bug-splattered metal grill frowned between two yellowing headlights. The faded yellow Chevy Nova with a cracked windshield assembled some time in the early nineteen-seventies bounced down the road violently. A visually sweet, diminutive, gray-haired lady, with her locks wrapped in plastic rollers, rolled down the passenger-side window and stuck her head through the dusty opening. She brought her eyes directly upon Jarrod.
He stopped breathing, reminding himself not to make the slightest movement.
She furrowed her brow.
Dust filled the cab of the old Nova and the old man began slinging profanity at her. The old woman rolled up her window, and the car continued down the gravel coated dirt path to another main road where it turned left and headed westbound toward the marina. Jarrod stepped out of the bush that had served as camouflage and hiked across the road into a new mesh of brush and trees.
Were they friend of foe? He didn't recognize the pair in the car as being residents of this neighborhood, if a clump of seven properties of at least forty acres each could be considered as such. He could not trust them. Right now, nobody could be trusted. Nobody accept the ol' cantankerous retired Mister Harburnocker.
Up on the hill ahead of him, dark and alone, stood Mister Harburnocker's house.
His pursuers had regrouped. The scattered sounds of the fragmented shuffles of their movements through the landscape informed Jarrod they were on his side of the creek. He needed to pick up the pace.
Jarrod crossed the main road and entered another area of thick growth. He emerged from the woods on a short road below Harburnocker's house. He kicked up rocks and dust as he feebly ran, tearing the fabric on the tips of this sneakers. The sound of the trickling creek became faint in the distance whence he came. Evergreen douglas fir trees, and deciduous alders, surrounded the small house on the hill. A river of fog flowed along the nearby alignment of hills.
He stepped up on a wooden deck along the house and relieved his bladder on a tree trunk at the far end of the deck. He admired the Stars and Stripes waving on a wooden pole at the corner of the terrace as carpenter ants zigzagged around his feet. A blue jay stood on the railing at the other end near a rotted, mosquito infested hot tub. Near the top of the homemade flagpole hovered a hummingbird. The bird levitated over the top of the pole with blurred wings and miniature legs. It had a pointed bill, and colorful plumage. The hum from the beating wings was vibrant. Marvelous. No longer interested with the flag pole, the bird zipped over to a feeder full of reddish sugar water hanging near one of the windows of the house.
At the foot of one of the piers supporting the elevated wooden deck slithered a fat and juicy banana slug.
Jarrod never noticed the slug below the deck. His priorities focused upon gaining Mister Harburnocker's assistance.
He knocked furiously on the door. No answer came. He tried forcing open the stubborn door. The door was locked.
Running around the house he peeked in each of the windows. A glance through the window of the garage revealed that Mister Harburnocker's car was gone. Nobody was home, the house was locked up, and inside lay the weapons and a telephone that Jarrod needed to defend himself and call for help.
The stones in his pocket gave him an idea.
He pulled out the first small stone, clutching it like a major league pitcher wrapping his fingers around a baseball. Jarrod feared that the sound of the shattering glass may alert his pursuers, but he needed to get inside the house and to the telephone as soon as possible.
Jarrod threw the first stone at one of the smaller panes of glass in the main door. The smooth rock bounced off the glass, landing harmlessly to the deck.
He threw another, and it bounced off the glass as well.
Jarrod pulled the outer screen off one of the living room windows, and commenced throwing the remaining two rocks at the window. As with the glass in the door, the stones bounced off, and fell innocently to the ground.
Shaking his head, Jarrod mumbled, "What did Mr. Harburnocker do? Fortify his house with bullet-proof glass?"
Such installments wouldn't have surprised anybody, considering the old man's distrust of everyone in existence.
Jarrod decided to take a run at the doorway and slam his body into it. He mustered as much speed and power as he could and ran full throttle at the entrance. The door reflected him as the glass did to the stones, bouncing him back to the deck.
Running to the rear of Mr. Harburnocker's house, Jarrod located a gasoline driven tractor not unlike the one his father owned.
Reaching down behind the differential, he pulled out a metal pin and kicked the sway-bar aside. After disconnecting the rear blade, Jarrod hot-wired the old tractor, maneuvered it around the house, pointed it at the doorway, threw the machine into high gear, and drove the tractor into the side of the house. The door crushed under the force of the tractor. The piece of farming equipment took a part of the wall out as well, drove across the living room, and slammed into the bar area separating the living room from the kitchen.
Jarrod pulled the kill switch, allowing the old grading tractor to sputter and die. He hopped off and began rifling through the debris of the collapsed bar area in search for the phone. He located the telephonic device broken up into pieces, shattered by the tractor's run-in with the tiled countertop.
Any phone would have worked, and he destroyed the only one available. Surely, the men pursuing him heard the tractor slam into the house and were on their way up the hill to investigate. And he had no phone to call the authorities so that they may stop the men in black suits from killing him.
Now Jarrod's last hope was to find a gun.
He knew from past discussions with Mister Harburnocker that the old man owned enough weapons to hold off a small army. It was just a matter of finding them.
Jarrod rifled through the bedroom, opening drawers, pulling clothes from shelves in the closet. No gun was located.
A distance ring sounded. A jarring tune dancing on a cell phone somewhere in the vicinity.
Glancing around the corner at the gaping hole where the tractor entered the house, Jarrod hoped the chiming phone did not reside deep inside the pocket of an approaching black suited rogue agent.
The song played from the opposite direction, somewhere in the master bedroom he was currently searching. Apparently, Mr. Harburnocker left behind his cellular phone, and now someone was calling it.
The device ceased its melody before Jarrod located it, but then the device began to vibrate. He followed the hum of the buzzing vibration, and pulled the phone from its hiding place under the mattress to see that a text message had been sent to it.
He brought up the text message on the screen of the phone, flashing a quick glance at the windows, hoping that his pursuers had not figured out his location. At the top, right corner of the center window he saw the hummingbird hovering around the feeder, dipping its funnel-like beak into the red sugar water.
Lucky bastard.
The bird had the perfect life. Look good, fly around, drink free sugar water, and mate with as many females as it could find. What a life.
The text message appeared on the screen. It read, "Jarrod, answer the next call."
A sickening feeling, not unlike the stomach flu, squeezed Jarrod's interior. Panic set in. The escape from his apparently well trained pursuers became secondary. The reality of what he found himself unwittingly a part of finally sank in.
How could anyone possibly know that he currently stood in Mister Harburnocker's house clutching the old man's cell phone in his hand?
What kind of conspiracy was unfolding around him?
He carried the phone into the living room, expecting it to begin playing its song, as it did earlier, at any moment.
The cell phone began to play its ring-tone.
His fists clenched, tightening with each ring.
"Everything is fine," he said to himself in a low voice. "You're on vacation. The men out there may simply be pursuing the wrong guy. You haven't done anything wrong. Well, not recently, anyway. Besides, how could anyone have predicted that you would be standing in Mister Harburnocker's house at this precise moment with his cell phone in your hand? It's mathematically impossible. Not even the offices of the President of the United States could have pinpointed your exact location at this very moment and known to call a cell phone other than yours. Especially as fast as this."
Besides, he considered, since when did anyone, let alone the Commander in Chief, give a rat's behind enough about some lowly NSA historian's assistant to an assistant of an assistant to do anything for him? Jarrod manned the bottom of the food chain as far as government work goes. He was the least of the White House's concern, much less anyone's in the intelligence community. The one time someone from high up even considered contacting him it was to ask him to fetch a fresh roll of toilet paper. And honestly, Jarrod was pleasantly surprised that they didn't expect him to transport the butt-paper discreetly through some proper, military channels. The only reasons that anyone even cared about Jarrod in the offices at Fort Meade was because whenever the staff found itself searching for a misplaced file that he may, or may not, have had his paws on during the period of the last year or so, more often than not he had the foggiest idea where in the damn office it may possibly be. Well, that, and the fact that he was a war hero.
Jarrod pushed the send button on the vibrating and singing device in his hand.
"Hello?"
The person on the other end of the line remained silent.
"Hello? Is anybody there?"
Nothing.
"This better be some kind of joke. My parent's cabin has been shot up, and they have been killed, by a bunch of mystery men running around in black suits. Now, those same frickin' men are crawling around looking for me in the forest! Whoever is on the other side of this line better have some answers for me!"
A female voice began speaking on the other end of the line. She said, "Please hold for the President of the United States."
Jarrod turned his head out of habit to make sure nobody without proper clearance was around to listen in on the upcoming, probably top secret, conversation. No one was around to listen. He stood alone in Mister Harburnocker's house with a cell phone that did not belong to him in his hand. Thundering reality shook a wave of unexpected anxiety through him.
He said the words slowly. Deliberately. "The Commander in Chief of the United States is contacting me while I stand here hiding from a butt-load of rogue agents on the Oregon Coast."
Pausing his conversation with himself, Jarrod took a quick peek out of one of the windows.
"Vacation is over," he mumbled.
Jarrod's muscles failed to relax as a slight grin spread across his face.

Poetry abound

2007-08-23T09:09:00.000-07:00

My wife picked out a couple of old pieces of poetry for me to post, and they've been sitting on my desk for a few days now. I wrote them years ago (a dozen or so, or more) and though at the time the poetry was endearing or funny or whatever, they do not reflect who I am now. So, rather than continue to post all of the old poetry (I will still on occasion) I wish to instead offer something new, written at this moment, just for the heck of it.

Face to face
Top to bottom
End of time
Life is short

Pain to sorrow
Battle to bear
Hope for freedom
Carry the spear

Time is timeless
Liberty rings
Fought for freedom
America sings

The King On The Cross

2007-08-16T21:50:00.001-07:00

Written April 25, 1993.

Over the blowing wind,
The rain patters from the sky.
A solider with a message to send,
The King shall surely die.

Up on a shallow hill,
The three crosses stand so tall.
A solider will surely kneel,
And the King shall bless them all.

Then death did come,
The mist fell from the sky.
A soldier with the news to come,
The King did surely die.

The Christians wept,
And darkness filled the day.
The King only slept,
A debt He had to pay.

The body brought down,
The three crosses performed well.
A soldier fell to the ground,
He wept for the King that fell.

A fisher of men,
By men was He crucified.
For a soldier in his sin,
For the sin of all had He died.

He slept for three days,
And arose again in His might.
For sins of the world He payed,
So that glory can be in sight.

Cross

2007-08-11T21:49:00.000-07:00

Nailed
wrists
to the
wooden
cross.
What have we done to cause this loss?
None is righteous, no not one, so he
gave his only begotten son. Eternal
life. . .
is the
gift...
Believe
in Him
and to
you He
will lift
His Son
He gave
so we
shall be
saved

Harvest Crusades Anaheim 2007

2007-08-05T18:35:00.000-07:00

Watch Here

South Koreans show awesome skill - this is amazing!

2007-08-02T16:21:00.000-07:00

Unevenly Yoked

2007-07-31T21:39:00.001-07:00

When my wife and I met it was love at first sight. We became high school sweethearts, and were thoroughly convinced that our love was stronger than anything the world could throw at us.

However, the first years of our marriage were rough, and it came to the point that I wondered if we would make it.

We grew up in different cultures, and different religions. It got to the point that in 1996 we separated for a year.

During that time my dad said to me, "You know, even if she wasn't the right woman for you when you got married, by becoming married she became the right woman in the eyes of God. Rather than battle her, give the marriage to the Lord, and just love her."

Just Love Her.

The separation reached the point of Divorce Court. There we were, battling over the kids in court. I gave my side of why I deserved custody to the moderator with venom. Despite my faith, I was angry that the woman I loved was allowing our marriage to dissolve. I foolishly allowed my anger to control my words.

Then the moderator asked for her argument regarding why she should have custody of the children. My wife stood up there, ready to battle with me, and said, "All I know is I want my husband back."

My heart fell into my knees. We talked after our day in court, and then got back together. From then on we placed our marriage in the hands of the Lord, and now have a marriage I once only dreamed of having.

They say the Lord works in mysterious ways. Well, I don't know about that, but in my case, it took a storm to make us realize how much we love each other.

also posted at Ox. . . After Dark

The Simple Man

2007-07-21T22:41:00.001-07:00

A simple man,
The eve of life.
A simple man,
With a simple wife.

A simple man,
With humble fruits to bear.
The simple man,
with Life to share.

A simple man,
Love abound within.
The simple man,
Repenter from sin.

The simple man,
Saved by the Son.
The simple man,
The forgiven one.

My Lovely Susan Ann

2007-07-14T23:17:00.000-07:00

When I was in the Navy a friend of mine wished to propose to his girl, Susan Ann, and felt that the best way was to present her with a poem. He asked me to write one for him. This is the result of that request:

There is a woman I love,
And her name is Susan Ann.
A day never passes,
Without thoughts of my Susan Ann.

A day without her,
Is a day of loneliness.
But a minute with her,
Is a minute of love and happiness.

A day without thoughts,
Of my beautiful Susan Ann
Are days non-existent,
For I love my Susan Ann.

She is my love and companion,
She's why I hope for a lengthy life;
For I love my lovely lady,
As I will for all my life.

Medical Difficulties

2007-07-12T22:18:00.000-07:00

Most folks don't know this about me, and I tend not to talk about it because I don't wish for folks to think of me differently, but I have medical conditions that sometimes make it difficult to function or perform simple tasks.

For the last two days the pain has been intense, hence my blogging activity has been near zero. My real frustration, however, is that those around me don't understand what I am going through and even, sometimes, ridicule me over it.

I guess from what I understand some of those around me also think that I have been more reactionary and mean over the last two years. If that is true, then I truly apologize. It is difficult to be truly easy to get along with when you feel like your body is in the aftermath of going 15 rounds with Mike Tyson everyday.

Anyway, my heart is truly in the right place. Sometimes my demeanor isn't.

More growth for me is needed, I suppose. Luckily, I have a wonderful wife helping me through all of it.

Poem about Childhood I wrote when I was in High School (a long long long time ago)

2007-07-09T22:12:00.000-07:00

Wagon's red and rose's thorn,
Early to bed and nightmare's scorn.

Puppie's fur and jaws that bite,
Kitten's purr and blown out light.

Flying swings and broken bones,
Crying slings and flying stones.

Running tag and slipping falls,
Magic bag and nipping halls.

School bell's ring and bully's sting,
These are things that childhood brings.

Coma

2007-07-07T22:10:00.000-07:00

White. Shining arrogance pranced like ivory keys on a piano. Ebony dots paced the ceiling, gazing wonderingly at my spinning madness. Mocking my mental hurricane of fog and mist. I could not see them through my stormy eyes. Still, they watched me. Watching me on my back, strapped to four steel posts.

Where has my body landed?

Shadows mocked the white brilliance, leaning their grayness over my upturned face. Familiar forms, yet unknown. A face molded together. The face belonged to someone I remembered, but forgot.

An orifice in the face opened, spitting ghosts of words.My damaged brain sputtered. Cranial fog cleared momentarily. Chaos organized for a moment. Only a short moment.Concentration relinquished a momentary solution. The voice was familiar because it belonged to my mother.

Chaos returned. My disembodied limbs reached to embrace her. Tingling spiders marching down my arms held my arms captive. I remained still. Mother’s tears rolled down my cheeks.An epileptic seizure captured my body. Darkness came. Life faded. Death twisted my insides, rolling through my body like the roar of an angry lion. Helicopter blades thumped. Sirens screamed. People placed their hands all over my naked body, holding me with needles and masks.

White. The ivory ceiling with ebony dots loomed overhead. Virgin sheets on my snowy bed contained my languid, quivering body. White walls with bright lights shining on a milky tile floor thundered around my personal prison of tubes and machines. Frosty garments on anti-septic attendants marched, shouting orders to each other as a needle plunged into my purple wrist.

The place radiated purity, but the bleeding heart of mother’s red blouse served as a focal point.

My eyes opened. Tears ran down her face. I stared curiously, unable to understand why she, or myself, resided in this white place of beeping machines.

Numbness filled me. Another episode returned. My lips exploded. Ice cream lips tingled in unison. Eyes wandering backward, my vision became obstructed by fluttering needle-points. Everything was spinning. I closed my eyes. The spin increased.Tumbling. Rolling. My body died in my dreams. I recalled pain invading my body. Skin peeled from my face like the rind of a rotten orange. Rolling along the highway. Pounding with each crash of crumbling metal. Crimson fluids fled from my being.

I can’t catch my breath!

The white sanctity of the hospital returned. The nightmares abated.

I opened my mouth to ask questions slamming mercilessly against my skull. My tongue rolled around in my mouth untrained. My swollen lips forgot how to speak.

I managed a primitive grunt.

A man in a white coat ran to my side as mother screamed hysterically. He stabbed a needle of light into my eyes, prattling nonsensical verbiage all the while. Pure gibberish. He spoke only noise.

The terror of darkness returned. My eyes closed. Rolling nightmares of chaos imprisoned me. I jerked awake in my dreams. Numb pain.Memories rolling. Pounding. Cries of pain. The faces of men looking down at me while tossing around noise with their tongues.

The seizure passed. A new face stood over me. A familiar face. The loving gaze of my uncle.

“He’s coming out of it,” said my uncle.

Words. Wonderful words. The eloquent poetry of speech from my uncle’s lips embraced me like an old friend.

I murmured the first thing that came to mind. “Where am I?”

“In the hospital, son.”

Son? “You’re not my dad.”

“No, I am not,” replied my uncle with a slight grin on his weathered face.

How absurd. Of course he is not my father.

“How did I get into the hospital?”

“Car accident,” said Uncle. “Doozie, too. You rolled that little car eight times down the highway. Got thrown down a slope, or something like that. They didn’t give you much of a chance, from what I hear. Ten minutes or so, says your dad. Ten minutes later and you’d be in a coffin right now, I reckon. Not too good. You were comatose, you know. Month and a half, or so. This is the first time you’ve acted sensible in months.

”Months?“

Is there anything that you want?” he asked out of common courtesy.

“Yes,” I said. “I want a hamburger.”

“You can’t eat food like that in this ward. They’ll take it away.”

“I don’t care. That’s what I want.”

Uncle grinned, hurried off, leaving me with my Auntie. I glared at her suspiciously.

She smiled, sort of halfway. Her hands, drying from age, lay peacefully on her lap. Tired eyes of deep blue studied me, moving slightly behind the time-ridden slits that housed them.

“Can I be unstrapped?” I asked.

She arose and vanished for a moment along the corridor, returning moments later with one of those men in the white coats. He grinned like he knew me, and unstrapped my bonds.

“No funny business,” he said. “You were taking swings at people when you were out of it.”

“I was?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Just remember, one swing, and the straps go back on. Don’t be pulling on any of the tubes, either.”

“No problem,” I responded.

Auntie sat back down and asked, “How do you feel?”

“Well,” I replied honestly, “I can’t feel half of my face or my legs. Pain is racking just about every other point in my body that isn’t numb. Despite being unstrapped, I feel like I can’t move a muscle, and I am starving for a hamburger.”

She nodded.

Uncle returned, leaning over me with a box in his hand. A finger of his other hand stood vertically across his lips as he whispered conspiratorially, “Sshh, here’s that burger. Eat it under the sheet.”

My hands responded painfully, reaching eagerly for the box. Under the sheet I devoured the contraband.

I pulled my head out for air. A retired respirator loomed nearby.

“Uncle Bill?” I garbled with a mouthful of food.

“Yes?” he replied.

“Thanks. This is the best burger I’ve ever had!”

Peaceful Advice

2007-07-06T22:35:00.000-07:00

This poem was published in an anthology called "A Break In The Clouds." I wrote it June 20, 1992.

Peaceful Advice

Go peacefully among the chaos and noise of life,
And remember silence may bring you peace.
The humble may pass through life unknown to many,
But God shall remember their guardship of peace.

Truth shall come with silence and observation,
But words of others can shadow the truth.
The truth may lead to fulfillment in life,
But keep your memory of humility and truth.

Strive for the upper reaches in life,
But keep integrity within your sight.
The Lord will reward the keeper of peace,
But success may escape the one who fights.

Even in loss the spirit will guide you,
Allow the Lord to lovingly carry you,
Strength often builds through our lowest times,
He never leaves us but sets us anew.

Whether you can see his plans for your life,
Or if you are stumbling searching his will;
The Lord God will guide you safely through life,
And reward you in thanks and a life that fulfills.

Time to stop neglecting the site!

2007-07-05T21:30:00.000-07:00

This blog is my oldest and original blog. I love it dearly, but it has low numbers, and I only seem to write in it on rare occasion. Time to change that. So, when I have nothing to say about my burgeoning writing career, I'll post pieces of some of my older writings here - sounds like fun, huh? Okay, first piece:

I wrote this way back in 1981 when I was in High School. I had recently discovered that I could write poetry (though my style and meter and such wasn't real good just yet), and this is one of my first offerings as a poet. If you look at it from the point of view of a poetry connoisseur, you will be sadly disappointed, but if you remember it was written by a kid just discovering poetry, it is magically entertaining, and wonderfully insightful. Well, anyway, I suppose it is safe to say this is a poem about my slight teenage paranoia at the time, and I suppose that would be typical considering I was 15.

WRONG DAY

I'm headed to the football field for the final game,
but somehow the field doesn't seem quite the same.
The lines on the field aren't straight and bright,
Instead they're crooked and faint and hardly white.
The grass is long when it should be short,
And a look around shows no one of the sort.
The crowd is missing to cheer the team on,
And the cheerleaders and teams are also gone.
the parking lot's empty and void of cars,
And the sky is darkening so I can watch the stars.
I see the mountainous horizon as the sun drops under,
And the loneliness makes me seriously wonder.
I came down to see the final game,
Shouldn't others come to do the same?
I remember being told the game was Friday,
Or am I wrong? What did the man say?
Or is it tomorrow? Yes, that sounds better,
Now I feel my face grow redder and redder!
It seems I've committed a memory crime,
For I've come down at the wrong time!
The day was long as was the night. . .
And don't you worry, tomorrow I'll get it right!

Notice that I erroneously state that a Varsity High School Game could actually be played on Saturday - perhaps I am wrong, but I don't recall that ever happening. The High School I went to was a three year high school so as a sophmore, it was my first year there, and I suppose I wasn't aware of the games always being Friday Night.

Hoped you found the poem fascinating, at least, and I'll offer a more recent sample of my writing tomorrow right here at Defender of the Blahs.

I made it home

2007-06-30T00:25:00.000-07:00

The Oregon Coast was a blast, and terrific therapy. While there I had an opportunity to dabble with my book, and spend some time with the wife and daughter. Hiking was the primary activity, though a little shooting of my guns and tooling around on a "quad" was fun as well. Pictures are forthcoming.

Oregon Coast

2007-06-25T10:45:00.000-07:00

For a week I am vacationing on the Oregon Coast at a second home I own. It is peaceful here, to say the least. And without the interruptions of my word-a-day job, I am working heavily on my book. It feels great to be hammering away on my novel, The Way of Deception, again.

Going to Oregon!

2007-06-23T07:18:00.000-07:00

My wife and I have a little place up on the Oregon Coast where we plan to retire in a couple years - but until then we pay the place a visit once or twice per year. Next week is that week. Here's a pic for you:We feel blessed to even have the place - and for us it is a little slice of heaven. My blogging will be minimal during the week, but will still exist. Time to forget about the job and get some serious work done on my book!

Blessings.

By the way, posted more pics at Political Pistachio today!

College Grad

2007-06-22T00:27:00.000-07:00

My wife pulled it off. She earned a C+ in her final class and has earned her bachelor's degree. Congrats, baby. I am proud of you.

Playing With The Enemy on Political Pistachio Radio

2007-06-18T21:05:00.001-07:00

The day before Father's Day Gary W. Moore was my guest on Political Pistachio Radio. And as expected, the show was wonderful. He is a class act, and a great guest. His book, Playing With The Enemy, is a wonderful story about how even though our dreams may not come into being, the journey of life is what is important. Blessings sometimes grow from unexpected branches.

Ted Savas, Gary's publisher, was also on the show, and relayed the fascinating story on how he reluctantly discovered Gary W. Moore.Listen to the episode HERE

Cancer

2007-06-13T22:56:00.000-07:00

Three kinds of cancer was in my son, but it has been removed. His latest CT Scan was normal. As far as the tests are concerned, the cancer is gone, but to be sure, for the next five years, Chris must continue to see doctors and be tested.

Also:

The most intelligent bloggers on this planet, specifically the readers and friends of Political Pistachio, have an opportunity to win an autographed copy of Playing With The Enemy: Soon to be a major motion picture! If you love heartwarming stories about baseball, World War II, destiny, character, family, and second chances, Playing With The Enemy is a book for you.

To win your free, autographed copy, send a question you would like me to ask Gary on this Saturday's Political Pistachio Radio Show at douglasvgibbs@yahoo.com or politicalpistachio@yahoo.com (please put "Playing With The Enemy Contest" in the subject line) and on Saturday's show the two best interview questions from Political Pistachio readers will be chosen, and those will be the winners of the free autographed books. Enter Today!

The big appointments

2007-06-11T23:30:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I go in for a few tests and more medication, and my son goes in to find out more about his cancer. Honestly, I'm nervous. Not for me, but for my son, who at this young age, is facing something that could become more than what he's already gone through. I pray that this is the good cancer that Rob Ballister referred to on Political Pistachio Radio. Time will tell.

A Light At The End Of The Tunnel

2007-06-06T21:49:00.000-07:00

My wife, after tonight, has one more day of school remaining. If she gains her degree, she will begin employment (which is fine now that our children have grown up). This, my friends, will take a lot of pressure off me, and enable me to have more time to write.

More blogging, more work on my book.

Now that is what I call a light at the end of the tunnel!

After the surgery

2007-06-03T21:44:00.000-07:00

The tumor has been removed from my son, but on Wednesday he will have a CT Scan to ensure all of the cancer has been eliminated from his body. Thank you for your prayers.

Surgery to Remove the Cancer

2007-06-01T01:36:00.000-07:00

Today, at noontime, my son Christopher is going under the knife to remove a testicular tumor. The very fear brought on by the word "cancer" has been taxing. It doesn't seem like very long ago that I was bouncing Chris on my knee. It's difficult when your child faces something this scary.

My mom will be with us at the hospital. Her support, and presence, is huge. My mother is a humble woman, and a big impact on our lives through her own prayer for us.

Prayer from bloggers, family and friends around the world has been tremendous.

Memorial Day

2007-05-27T21:11:00.000-07:00

Memorial Day holds special meaning for me. The military has a special place in my family. Read about my tribute to our fallen heroes, and those who continue to fight, on Political Pistachio.

Cancer Battle Commences

2007-05-25T21:44:00.000-07:00

Tuesday I take my son to the urologist that will perform the surgery to remove his cancer. The cancer may have gone up into his abdomin from the testicular area, so the removal will be a major surgery. The plan is to remove all material touched by the cancer, and to check if it has gone into the lymphatic system. Keep your prayers coming. We appreciate each and every one of them.

God Bless.

What happens when you hit a brick wall?

2007-05-21T21:50:00.000-07:00

I have always bragged that I don't suffer from writer's block, but today, it all finally caught up to me.

Perhaps stress over my son's cancer is doing it. Maybe it's work.

Whatever it is, I can't write in my book right now, so I placed it in a drawer, and will pull it back out in a couple weekends. Then it will be fresh, and the writing will flow again.

When a Soldier has Something to say. . .

2007-05-19T07:29:00.001-07:00

Are You Ready For The Truth?

So there I am, in my office trying to explain something to somebody, and I am contacted by a Soldier that is Politically Incorrect, and proud of it!

Paul Couturier received the call to go to Iraq in 2003 to be a part of Operation Iraqi Freedom. I am sure he didn't know what truly to expect. Or perhaps he did. After all, Paul had already been in the Army National Guard for over 20 years at that point.

In my past correspondence with him it became immediately clear that Paul has a lot to say. He lives in Massachusetts, so you can just imagine what he thinks of his two senators (more or less his words - BTW, those Senators are: John Kerry and Teddy Kennedy), and one of his biggest gripes is about the anti-military extremists in general, especially (his words again) "those hypocrites who say they support the troops, but not their mission!"

Well, tonight on Political Pistachio Radio, Paul will be able to say what he desires about the war, and about the libtards that seek to undermine the effort. The show airs live at 4pm Pacific Time/7pm Eastern Time. Listen live if you'd like, or access the archive later. You are also free to call in to talk to Paul at (646) 652-2940. I will field questions when I can from Yahoo Instant Messenger if that is how you want to participate - my ID is douglasvgibbs.

All that Paul asks is that we all remember that he is still serving in the Guard, and though he wishes to be honest about the war, he will not say anything that may place the troops currently serving overseas at a disadvantage in any way.

Looking forward to hearing from you tonight. Until then, Blessings from Political Pistachio.

P.S. I will also update you on my son's situation with cancer - we spent a long time at the hospital with him this morning.

When Cancer Strikes

2007-05-18T22:44:00.000-07:00

The coldness of
a crying heart
The sadness of
a dying start.

A man can see
beyond the fight
When cancer dies
and sees the light.

My son has been diagnosed with cancer. Prayer and determination will beat this thing. We shall never give up, nor give in.

God Bless.

Talking with a publisher

2007-05-16T21:27:00.000-07:00

Okay, it isn't my publisher, but the publisher of a writing friend of mine, but when a publisher says "That's a good idea" when I mention my radio show and blogs are designed to create an audience, you know it's a good thing.

Today I had a Revelation!

2007-05-13T18:34:00.000-07:00

My book, The Way Of Deception, was completed a year ago, at which time I attempted to get it published, and after 163 rejections by literary agents I decided to rewrite and fix it. I received advice from one such literary agent that I bounced around points of view and needed to change that.

A year later I am almost complete, but something is still missing. It's too basic of a story.

Then a revelation struck me! Why not add a trippy suspenseful twist that is totally believable, but would freak people out? And I have just the antidote.

uh, uh, uh, don't ask, you'll have to wait until I finish the book (again) and then you can know the secrets of the phone call from the President of the United States to Jarrod.

Creative Jabber

2007-05-10T22:04:00.000-07:00

I imagined, this morning, a character in the line of danger, but frozen by the inevitibility of the situation. I wrote:

Like when you're in the shower and you turn that knob for warmer water, but after you turn it you know it was too far. The hot water races through the pipes. There is still time to turn it back, move the spray away from your body, get out of the shower, or turn it off, but you stand there, waiting for the hot water, even though you know how bad it is going to hurt. You remain because you want to know how hot it will truly be. You are curious if it will only hurt, or tingle along the surface of your skin. The pain is secondary.

I wonder what it is like

2007-05-04T21:27:00.000-07:00

I always wondered how I will feel when I finally hold a book with my name on it as the author in my hands. Is it like the feeling I had when I saw my first born, and held him in my arms? Perhaps it's like that first fly ball you catch when in Little League. I wonder.

I ask writers about this, and all of their answers vary slightly, but one thing they agree upon is it is a humbling experience.

Humbling.

I suppose that is what is most important. To remain humble, and give credit where credit is due.

God Bless.

Networking in the Industry

2007-04-28T12:16:00.000-07:00

I am a new member of the American Author's Association, The Military Writers Society of America, friends with a number of writers (like Jeff Edwards, Jim Stewart, J.A. Konrath, Dan Bessie, and Gary W. Moore). I am an aquaintance of a couple small publishers, one agent, the writer Howard V. Hendrix, and in contact with a number of people in the entertainment industry from radio talent to magazine journalists to newspaper executives and journalists.

Relationships as a writer are forged by being talkative, friendly, and accessible. This is what it takes to network. Making as many friends as I can in the industry, I have created a network of writers, publishers, marketing strategists, and high ranking personnel in both the Military Writers Society of America and American Authors Association. And now, my site, Political Pistachio, has received national opinion, appearing on page 35 of the May 7, 2007 issue of the National Enquirer. Okay, it's a tabloid, but I've gotta start somewhere.

My network is growing, as is my audience. How's yours doing?

Tears of Joy

2007-04-26T21:53:00.000-07:00

Writing brings me joy. My wife brings me tears of joy. She is dedicated, loving, caring and devoted. And now, she is an American citizen. She took the oath today.

And in two months she will be a college graduate.

Once, long ago, we both worked at jobs daily. I worked hard so that I could bring her home to be with the kids. The kids have grown and now she has worked hard in school so that she can get a job and bring me home so that I may write full-time. Then I will work hard as a writer so that I make enough money to bring her home again.

Oh, and by the way, after taking the oath to naturalize as an American citizen, her first words were, "I can vote."

Ah, to be American. Tears of Joy.

Uppity

2007-04-21T21:08:00.000-07:00

Uppity is when one is cheerful and with the program, according to my wife. She has said that I haven't been real uppity on my radio shows or with my writing lately, until the last couple shows. Uppity, she says, can't be achieved until one learns to relax.

Same goes for writing, I think. If you stress yourself, and try to force it, the writing you find yourself trying to do will not cooperate. Relax, close the door, turn off the television, and write.

Write when your mind searches the deepest recesses of our thoughts.

Write when your fingers tap dance in a way that it doesn't even seem like you are the one in control.

Write what lurks deep inside your imagination.

And don't try to make it perfect the first time. Just let it flow. Worry about fixing it later.

Let your creativity flow.

Out to sea

2007-04-18T21:21:00.000-07:00

I remember when I was in the United States Navy aboard the USS Chandler (DDG-996) during 1985 one of my favorite things to do during my free time (what little I got) while out to sea was to write. I was working on my third or fourth manuscript, handwriting it into spiral binders. The rocking of the ship as I sat in my rack inspired me. The sea was my friend.

I filled three spiral binders on that ship, fifteen hundred pages. Never typed it up. The story wasn't good enough. But the memories of those days, writing away in those notebooks, stay with me still.

Deadliest shooting in American History

2007-04-17T00:53:00.000-07:00

I offer prayer for those in the crossfire.

I spent most of my day yesterday behind the wheel of a big rig transporting equipment between Orange County, San Bernardino County, and Riverside County in Southern California. When days like this come up where I spend most of my day driving, it enables me to spend a lot of time listening to the radio. I was shocked at the events developing at Virginia Tech in Blacksburg, Virginia.

A gunman went on a rampage, reportedly killing 32 plus himself, and injuring twenty plus, in the most horrific and worst mass killing in the history of the United States. This campus shooting began, authorities believe, with a killing of two in a dormatory, and then two hours later, equipped with a 9mm and .22 caliber weapon, and a jacket of clips, the gunman went from class to class at Norris Hall killing at will.

On Michelle Malkin's site, an e-mail from a student at Virginia Tech that had been trapped in one of the classrooms, baracaded as the shooter fires shots through the door they blocked only seconds before, gives a chilling first-hand account of the events.

I have no opinion on yesterday's events other than that they are chilling, and that thoughts of my wife who goes to a local university in pursuit of her bachelors degree, and my children who are roughly the same age as the students at Virginia Tech, came to mind. My prayers go out to those slain, to the parents of those gunned down, and to the students who survived, but will be affected by this for the rest of their lives.

Pray with me for their healing.

this post has been cross-posted at all of my sites.

Facing Surgery, again

2007-04-11T21:01:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow I will go through my fifth surgical procedure in six months. It's a minor procedure (unlike the pain of the one that placed a mesh over a 9cm X 14cm hole in the muscle of my abdomen - which was quite painful), and I will be blogging again tomorrow night, but the frequency I seem to be finding myself in doctor's offices is beginning to take its toll on me.

In short, I am sick and tired of it.

But, considering what I've been going through, I am relatively healthy, and I do have an advantage that many folks in my position don't have. My wife is devoted, caring, and will be by my side when I awaken from the anesthesia.

I'm a blessed man.

Writing in the dark

2007-04-09T21:20:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, and have an urge to write. The words come to me after repeating over and over in my head while I was asleep. It flows for hours, then suddenly stops, as if a faucet was closed. My eyes then grow heavy, and I hunker back down for the second half of my night's sleep.

I go to work in the morning with more words in my head, repeating them over and over as I labor so as not to forget the gems. When I get home I run to the computer and jot down my thoughts; then I nap, knowing that I will once again be up during the darkest hours, unable to sleep, writing like a madman.

Should I laugh or cry?

2007-04-07T22:25:00.000-07:00

On Political Pistachio Radio I interviewed Gary W. Moore (author of Playing With The Enemy) on April 7, 2007. The show was a rousing success. Gary was a fantastic guest, Tisha from Brussels called in revealing the show's international appeal, and Phil called in near the end which turned out to be good since I was at rope's end with my questions.

What could go wrong?

Growing up in a household run by a United States Marine war veteran, and myself serving in the United States Navy, taught me to pay special attention to detail. Sometimes I drive Mrs. Pistachio nuts with my nearly obsessive attention to the little things in life. And when people around me don't worry about little things that I find important, it drives me up the wall.

I don't squeeze the toothpaste in the middle, I roll it from the bottom up. I fold my towels and shirts with two folds. I don't leave the refrigerator open for any length of time. And I hang up the phone when I am finished speaking on it.

So, after the fantastic episode of Political Pistachio today with Gary Moore as my guest, I was enthusiastic. Excited. Vocal about my feelings.

And Mrs. Pistachio had set down her phone and walked out of the room as the show concluded, without pushing the button on it which would disconnect it from the line.

Little did I know, when I hung up mine, that her line was still active.

And I said, "That went soooo freakin' well."

Now, to my surprise, my reaction is forever archived at BlogTalk Radio, because Mrs. Pistachio's phone picked up my exhuberance.

What kind of person finishes a phone call, sets down their phone without hanging it up, and walks away?

And when I twisted in confusion regarding how to react to this revelation, my wonderful wife looked me in the eye, and began to laugh.

Perhaps my belt's too tight.

By the way, there are still plenty of Political Pistachio bumper stickers available. E-mail me if you want one, and I will send it out immediately, at no charge to you.

Playing With The Enemy

2007-03-29T18:31:00.001-07:00

Guantanamo Detainees to Play American Baseball

President Bush believes baseball brings people together and helps explain Western values. Games will pit traveling American naval team against willing Muslim inmates.

El Dorado Hills, CA, March 29, 2007 -- A source inside the Pentagon confirmed today that some of the prisoners held at Guantanamo have been offered the opportunity to participate in America’s favorite pastime: baseball. Their opponents will be American servicemen. The decision is part of an extensive new outreach effort to create better relations between the United States and the Muslim world.

According to independent publishing house Savas Beatie, LLC, the idea originated with Pete Merrick, a guard at Guantanamo and former high school baseball standout. Merrick got the idea from Gary W. Moore’s recently released book Playing with the Enemy: A Baseball Prodigy, a World at War, and a Field of Broken Dreams (2006). “If the Americans can teach captured Nazis how to play baseball and break through the ice, then why can’t we teach some of these detainees the same thing?”

Merrick raised the sensitive issue with his superior, “who was initially very cool to the idea,” explained the former shortstop. “But he eventually came around and kicked the suggestion upstairs.”

According to the Pentagon source, who spoke off the record, the journey “upstairs” made it all the way to President George Bush’s desk. The President quickly warmed to the prospects of improving relations (and the world’s view of Guantanamo) through baseball. The former owner of the Texas Rangers and Commander-in-Chief is an avid baseball fan and sometimes referred to in the White House as “the nation’s First Baseball Fan.”

President Bush often does things to honor his father, President George H. W. Bush, a former Navy pilot who played first base for the Yale Baseball Team. In an ironic twist, author Gary Moore’s father Gene was a baseball-playing sailor with major league aspirations. Playing with the Enemy explains how Gene, who was recruited by the Brooklyn Dodgers at the age of 15, overcame the stiff opposition of his superiors to teach the game of baseball to captured Nazis he and his teammates were guarding in Louisiana. The Germans fell into American hands when their submarine U-505 (currently on display at the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry) was captured in 1944. Moore’s saga was sold to an academy award-winning Hollywood producer. The movie is scheduled to shoot this summer.

According to the Pentagon source, officials in both the White House and inside the Pentagon “vigorously protested” the President’s decision, but have since thawed to the idea, especially since some of the detainees themselves have expressed interest in the idea. “The President feels strongly about both the game and the prospects for improving relations. Is there a better way to do that than with a game of baseball?”

Author Gary Moore was dumbfounded when he “got the call.” As Moore told a local reporter, he was “honored the President is following in my father’s footsteps and using the greatest game ever invented to craft a public relations solution to Guantanamo. I wish the President luck in this endeavor, and would love to throw out the first pitch in the first game ever played between American Naval ballplayers and Islamic extremists.”

Training is set to coincide with the April 1 opening of the 2007 Major League Baseball season.

For additional information on the Guantanamo baseball training, contact Sarah Keeney or visit http://playingwiththeenemy.com/index.htm

About Savas Beatie LLC:

Savas Beatie LLC is a leading military and general history publishing company.

About Playing with the Enemy author Gary Moore:

Gary W. Moore is the president and managing partner of Covenant Air & Water, LLC, a motivational speaker, and an accomplished musician. Gene Moore was his father. Gary lives in Bourbonnais, Illinois, south of Chicago.

Contact:

Sarah Keeney, Marketing Director
Savas Beatie LLC
Email: sarahs@savasbeatie.com
Phone: 408-892-1316
Fax: 916-941-6895
http://www.savasbeatie.com/

###

And don't forget that Gary Moore is my guest on Political Pistachio Radio on April 7, 2007 (day before Easter). If you don't catch the show live, remember you can listen to the archive later. If you catch the show live, feel free to call in and ask him a few questions.

And coming up on this coming Saturday, March 31st @ 4pm Pacific/7pm Eastern, our special guest will be Bushwack from American and Proud, to tell us about his participation in The Gathering of Eagles March just recently in Washington D.C.

Tune in to Political Pistachio Radio to catch all the fun.

Blessings,

Doug

Giving Credit Where Credit Is Due

2007-03-25T13:51:00.000-07:00

My past life is winding down, and what is on the horizon is revving up. Today I am going to follow-up my application to write as a part-time sports reporter with a local newspaper with an e-mail that includes samples of my writing. My radio show has improved greatly, and the next two episodes will include very special guests, Bushwack of American and Proud, and Gary W. Moore, author of Playing With The Enemy.

I am back to working on the novel I decided to re-write last summer when I have time as well, but honestly, my plate has been full, and I couldn't be happier. Now, as my wife approaches graduation from the university, the amount of time allotted to me for writing will increase.

Greatness is on the horizon, and I give God the credit, where credit is due.

Inspiration

2007-03-24T21:48:00.000-07:00

Inspiration comes from many sources, to a writer. Many of the stories in my head, and down on paper take inspiration from real life. Even the simplest story can be dramatic enough to be a story if written properly. Dig into that well of experience. A best seller is lurking somewhere within.

End of a quarter

2007-03-20T20:37:00.000-07:00

My wife is studying to become a psychologist. She is one class, after the one that ended today, away from receiving her bachelors degree. She is one of the most tenacious people I know, aside from me, but her writing skills are not as good as mine. As a result, she depends heavily on me for help with her homework, especially term papers.

I am glad school is over.

By the way, I submitted a resume to a local newspaper, and I am currently awaiting response. It's for a part-time sports reporter.

Now that would be cool.

As for my book, it's struggling, only because I have little time to work on it. Now that my wife is between quarters, I may have a little more time for my book.

Lex Luthor

2007-03-16T22:52:00.000-07:00

Tonight Lex Luthor invited me as a guest on his radio show at blog talk radio. He asked me about my book, The Way of Deception, and I explained its premise. Then we moved on to politics. It was not only an enjoyable time, but also another opportunity to create a buz about me and my writing. Listen to the show. The archive is available.

Today

2007-03-15T14:22:00.000-07:00

My writing has reached a new level. My book has changed, somehow, into something more than it was before. My blogs have become communities, and I find myself, sometimes, performing damage control more so than writing. I am not in the mood to babysit, but to retain many of my readers, I may have to.

And today I am mailing off a résumé to a local newspaper for an opening for a reporter.

I'm a little nervous, but the chances I take more often than not pay off. Besides, what's the worse they can say? No? I'd rather try and fail, then not try at all. Eventually, one will stick, and I will be better off for it.

Juggling Manuscripts

2007-03-10T14:25:00.000-08:00

The Way of Deception is a difficult puppy to re-write. But I am chomping at the bit to send something out to agents since I have so much more to offer in a query letter. I think I have a better chance with landing a literary agent now that I am a member of the Military Writers Society of America, have a number of successful blogs, a burgeoning free-lance activity with local papers, and an internet radio show. Wait, I have an idea, why don't I do a proofread of my last book (the one that landed an agent in 2005, but never got published) and blanket the market with it until my newest manuscript is complete! Hmmmm, it just might work.

It's not just what you say. . .

2007-03-08T21:35:00.000-08:00

The end of that sentence completes a lesson I think we all learned when we were younger. It's not just what you say, it's how you say it. This is primarily a reference to tone and body language, but what about word choice?

That is what it comes down to when writing. Sometimes, if word choice is poor, the idea a writer is trying to put across can be lost. Enthusiasm must come across on the page. Terror must come across on the page. Whatever emotion you are trying to evoke, it needs to come across on the page.

Literary Agents and Publishers expect no less, as with your readers.

When life gives you lemons, find an orange juice stand

2007-03-04T07:07:00.000-08:00

My posting to this page is becoming more intermittant as life keeps grabbing me by the throat. My hours at work has increased, but the company has removed a policy that results in less pay because they no longer compensate us for long travel to far away job sites. I am gone from home an average of 14 hours per day because of my day-job, often more. As my daughter used to say, "Daddy, you go to work when it's night-night, and you come home when it's night-night."

"Yes, please, I'll take a little cheese with my whine."

I found time for my radio show. The second installment aired yesterday at blogtalk radio.

But through the struggles, the lowered amounts of sleep, and the frustration, I realize that it will all end eventually. Through it all I still pound away on my keyboard, when I can, working on my blogs, and the manuscript of my latest book. The dream remains alive, and a contract with a literary agent, and publishing company, is on the horizon.

All I have to do is believe, and act upon those beliefs.

Good things come to those who are patient, and put out the work to achieve their goals.

Her name was not in the news

2007-02-27T08:53:00.001-08:00

This post was originally posted on A Word To The Wise, by a Townhall blogger friend of mine.

She was 39. She was a beautiful blonde. She died on Tuesday morning, February 20th. Her name and life story were not splashed all over the news.

She married her high school sweetheart. They spent the first years of their marriage traveling and enjoying the good life together. She had her own business and he worked hard as a salesman in the chemical industry. When it was time to start a family, it was a challenge at first with many trips to the doctor, but finally after a romantic trip to Mexico, nine months later a precious daughter was born. Then in two years another blessing arrived with the birth of a son.

With their family now complete, they were in love and living their idyllic life. About 3 months later came the diagnosis of breast cancer. She fought the disease with all her strength for nearly 3 years. Her husband was by her side every step of the way. She never complained and everyone around her drew strength from her incredible dignity and courage. She also had a great sense of humor. Her husband told the story of when she had yet another surgery to remove tumors that had spread into her brain. As she was coming to, he was explaining to her that they had gotten all of the cancer and that her memory would not be affected. She opened one eye, looked at him and said: “And who are you?”

The last months of her life were spent making tapes with messages to her two children who would have to grow up without their mother. Also, she wrote Christmas cards and Birthday cards to each them all the way through their 21st birthdays.

During the 3 year battle, she and her many high school girl friends participated each year in the “Susan G Komen Race for the Cure.” She was concerned about the cause of breast cancer awareness. Everyone loved her because she was as beautiful on the inside as on the outside.
She passed away peacefully in her sleep around 3 a.m. last Tuesday with her husband by her side, while on a romantic “get away” which was his Valentine’s gift to her.

Hundreds of mourners came to the Church ceremony to honor Kimberly Millan Dabboussi. She was laid to rest yesterday. Kim’s mother, Cindy, has been my best friend for 34 years.

Sandra Lea Wise

Radio Show, Friends, and Fellow Writers

2007-02-27T05:20:00.000-08:00

Last Saturday marked the premiere of Political Pistachio Radio. Many folks have remarked how much they enjoyed the show. I am not so positive about it. I thought that I sounded like a mumbling shadow in the background as my callers overtook the show. The political theme was lost as the show wound down because it became more like a big, conference call. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't all that upset that we wound up talking about Cajun Cooking, but the show did not go as I expected.

Dave from My Point Radio would say, "No kidding. Rarely does it go as planned. But plan anyway."

I do consider each of the callers my friends, and aside from Dr. Blogstein, only because I have not gotten to know him yet, I consider them dear friends. I had a good crowd listening as well. I may not have the biggest site in the blogosphere, but my readers are very loyal.

A couple of fellow writers sent my e-mails telling me the show went well as well. Hmmm, say that five times fast. I appreciate their comments. Perhaps as people sometimes tend to do, I am being hard on myself primarily because that's what people do.

One of those writers is Gary Moore. Gary wrote a book titled Playing with the Enemy. Let me tell you, this is one of the best books I have ever read. Period. It is going to be made into a motion picture, and from what I understand, he has recieved a paperback offer that will ensure its place among the top books out there. And here's where it gets good. Gary Moore has accepted my offer for him to be a guest on my radio show sometime soon. This is great. I can't wait to share him with my friends, because Gary is truly a wonderful person.

Until then, I'm gonna have to sharpen my radio skills, and make that show good enough so that even I am willing to like the final results.

Premiere of Political Pistachio Radio

2007-02-22T20:55:00.001-08:00

This Saturday on the premiere of my internet radio show at BlogTalk Radio I will be discussing "Where the Liberal Left Misses the Whole Point," and the letter I had to write because the local school district believes that they are a better parent than myself and have more of a right to teach my child about "morality" than I do. Tune in at 4pm Pacific/7pm Eastern at www.blogtalkradio.com/politicalpistachio - or listen later by accessing the archive.

Style of Writing

2007-02-19T22:06:00.000-08:00

I had a commenter leave a quick message on my main site's Guestbook, today, indicating that they liked my blog, and my style of writing.

You know, I have never really thought about my style. I just write what comes to mind, and try to keep it organized in a way that it remains interesting for the reader, and organized in a way that it is in keeping with the rules of English. I'm not perfect, but I think I do a fairly good job.

Here's the point. Style is you. Some folks try to write their fiction like Stephen King, or Sidney Sheldon, and they forget that they are not those people. Write like you write, and somewhere along the way your style will improve, and your writing will become more professional. The only way to reach that point, however, is to keep writing.

So, keep writing. Never give up. Persevere.

Blessings.

Opportunities

2007-02-14T20:33:00.000-08:00

It's amazing how sometimes, when we least expect it, good things happen.

Reminds me of the saying, "The Lord Works in Mysterious Ways."

I got home early from work, but when I got home, though my wife wanted to leave immediately for a Valentine's Day dinner, I needed the time to shower and shave.

And after we parked our truck in the parking lot and approached our favorite Italian Food restaurant in Temecula, California, a woman with a video camera approached me, and asked me my opinion about some issues that have risen regarding the mall in Temecula.

It turned out that she is a writer for one of the local newspapers, and is doing a story about the mall. After she received my full name (I'm figuring I am going to be mentioned in the newspaper), I had a convesation with her about writing, of which I began by saying, "I wish I wrote for the paper."

I have always hoped to try my hand at journalism, but always reasoned that without a bachelor's degree, I would not have a chance. Besides, with the need to work to take care of my family, I haven't had the time. This woman from the paper said she doesn't have a degree. She began as a free lancer, and now has asked me to e-mail her with my questions.

My wife, on verge of gaining her own degree, has the goal of bringing me home so that I have the time to write full-time. That should happen in the next few months.

Is this an opportunity for me to take advantage of?

Yes, if it is in the Lord's will.

The Cycle of Rejection by Literary Agents

2007-02-10T05:35:00.000-08:00

A commenter recently asked about the time line on the rejections I have received regarding my manuscript. Mary indicated that she has a few short stories published, and that she is currently working on a novel.

I appreciate that she recognized my upbeat tone and perseverance.

My attitude, aside from the mantras listed above, is never say die!

I have been writing all my life. When I was younger I used to write a weekly magazine and then sell it to my sister for a penny. Since she was younger than I, and had no money, I gave her the penny, so that she could give it back to me.

I began writing novels when I was seventeen, but never gathered enough guts to send a manuscript in to a publisher until July 13, 1993. I had written a Christian allegory, inspired to write it after reading Hinds' Feet on High Places by Hannah Hurnard, and sent off a query letter (2 pages which is a no-no, but I didn't know that back then), along with a synopsis that was far from being a synopsis. It was more like an outline. Anyhow, can you guess how that ended up? Of course, it was rejected. Took them a few weeks, so I thought that was a good thing. To be honest, acceptance letters usually come back quickly.

One rejection and I was devastated. No thick skin for me back then. Then in the mid-nineties I decided to hit the short story market, and crashed and burned for four years. Finally, I sent the best of my short stories off to an editor for a paid look at its credibility - and it came back with the most red marks I had ever seen in my life.

Devastation number two. I cried, in fact. And, I quit trying to publish for a few years. I returned to the old days, writing poetry, short stories, and novels just for the fun of it.

For those of you reading this to find out about my rejections on my novels, and the turnaround timetable, realize this - I take a while to get to the point. Perhaps that is a normal attribute for being a writer, or perhaps I am just eclectic that way, but regardless, you have two choices. Keep reading, or flash forward to the end to read the whole point of this.

Anyhow, back to my childish devastation of not being able to handle a little criticism, my last short story attempt at publication in the nineties was June 8, 1999. My next attempt was for a book I wrote called A Light in the Shadow, a nice piece of writing if you ask me. I did a lot of homework, and learned that I did it all wrong a decade before with my Christian allegory. You are supposed to get an agent, first. So I sent seven queries with about a one week turnaround for the rejections, and one of the agents accepted me on March 29, 2005 (after two months of back and forth correspondence via snail mail). For a year I walked on cloud nine, until I learned another valuable lesson. . . there are many agents out there that aren't agents. They are either scam artists, or think they're agents but the rest of the industry doesn't agree. I had landed one of the latter. Another writer friend of mine turned me on to Predators and Editors and Writer Beware. These are web-sites that can help you research the validity of an agent.

During the time with that bad agent I also tried to get three short stories published, but to no avail.

Then I met J.A. Konrath. I discovered this writer in an article in my newly subscribed to Writer's Digest Magazine. My acquaintance with him taught me to be a writer I need to surround myself in all things about writing. It is a business, so treat it that way.

I created my original website (through my now fleeting ISP) and went to as many book signings as possible to pick the brains of writers that made it. I joined a writer's forum at Absolute Write, and began writing like crazy. 2006 became a very busy year. Three complete novels, and query letters out the ying-yang. The learning process kicked into high gear, and then in March I created this blog. Now, armed with all this knowledge, I know exactly what not to do, and I have formed a rather large readership with my numerous blogs. It is fun and all, but the prize of publication has continue to allude me. And now, I have realized that everything I write isn't gold, and it has enabled me to write my novels with more care (and lengthy proof-reading sessions).

Oh, yeah, and about that time line on the rejections? Over one hundred have gone out on A Light in the Shadow since its originally foray, Somatic has a couple dozen, and 87 queries were sent out for The Way of Deception when it was still entitled The Leonardo Conspiracy. The Way of Deception is currently being re-modeled and overhauled, and man has it gotten good. I am pretty excited about it, and hope to have the final draft completed by my birthday in April, at which time the queries will go out again. So far, with all those queries the responses range from a week, to a few weeks, to a few months, to never. I keep a running log, and do a lot of research regarding who is best suited to take a look at my writing. I don't send my thrillers to sci-fi agents or romance specialists. I am sure they appreciate that. The rule is, there is no rules, but there is certain standards. Keep the query letter to one page. If you can describe the book in a paragraph or less, you are on the right track. Have reasons that will make the publisher feel that they can make some money on the book, like credentials. I have joined The Military Writers Society of America, and have attended bookfests and writers conferences to show that I am serious about this business to the agents. And don't send out that novel until it is the best it can be.

And thanks, Mary, for finding my blog, and commenting. It has given this blog new life, and me a reason to realize that despite the rejections, I am no quitter.

Keep writing, persevere, and get published.