Love the Game--A short story about baseball by R.L. Pace

I've been busy reading, then writing reviews for other books and occasionally opining on dining and politics.  It occurs to me that it has been some time since I posted any short stories from my own collection for my readers.  In celebrating my attendance at Safeco Field to watch the Mariners vs the Yankees today, I thought I would share this story.  Remember, of course, that I reserve all rights, so don't be reposting this without attribution please.

So this is where it ends, he thought:  In a hotel room.  No valedictory last season touring all the parks.  No streets named after me or statues in front of stadiums, just a sore back in a cookie-cutter bedroom.

Jim Freedson stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, then, reluctantly swung his legs around to get to a sitting position at the edge of the bed.  He surveyed his surroundings; beige walls with a couple of boring landscape paintings screwed into place, medium gray institutional carpeting with a thread of red and blue running throughout.  In one corner sat an all-purpose table with a lamp, a cardboard tent touting ‘free wi-fi’, and a phone.  The red light in the lower left hand blinked rhythmically indicated messages waiting.  With a groan, he heaved himself to a standing position, wincing as he walked over to pick up the receiver and called the front desk.

“Good morning, Mr. Freedson.  I hope you slept well.  We have some messages for you.”  The disembodied voice at the other end was altogether too damn chipper.

“What city am I in?”  Freedson asked, trying to stretch out the persistent pain in his lower back.

“Uh, Kansas City, sir,” the voice responded uncertainly.  A pregnant pause ensued, then finally the desk clerk said, “would you care for your messages?”

“Sure,” Freedson grunted.  Gawd, he thought, a hotel room in Kansas City, can it get any more prosaic than that?  He stared at the room while absently listening to the usual collection of messages.  Requests for interviews with the media came as he inspected the fake mahogany TV cabinet; adoring fans were wishing him well while he sat on a chair with a tiny table next to it, gushy girls that would sleep with him just to say they had seemed to holographically appear on the spare bed in the room.  All the usual suspects no matter where he went.

“Thanks, connect me to room service, will you?”

“Certainly, sir:  Hit ‘em where they ain’t.”

“I’ll try,” he replied, trying to muster some enthusiasm.  He ordered a rare steak, two eggs over easy on hash browns, whole wheat toast, orange juice and milk.  Coffee made him jittery and threw off his timing.  He never drank it.  It was the same breakfast he had ordered a thousand times before.  Call it habit; call it superstition or maybe just tradition.

Little Jimmy could not remember a time when baseball wasn’t a passion.  His father had been a promising prospect, but a lost limb in Vietnam had dashed his dream, but not his passion.  When his son was born, Frank Freedson had poured all his own ambitions and goals into his child.  By the time he was six Jimmy knew most of the rules of baseball, could spot a curve ball or a slider on TV and by ten had the fundamentals about fielding in a good position to return the ball from the outfield with blazing speed and accuracy.  He adored his father, enjoyed the game and was good at it.  He was a natural.  

In Little League his batting average was .566.  In high school it was .431, in college .392.  He was drafted as a sophomore in the first round, spent half a season in AA ball, where he hit .388 and had sixteen home runs and forty two RBIs in only nineteen games.  In his first major league at bat at age twenty, he hit a ringing double into right-center field off a Bud Black curveball, plating his first two RBIs against the Cleveland Indians.  He was the real deal.  Mickey Tettleton, the starting catcher, immediately dubbed him the Freak and it had stuck ever since.

He spent most of that year riding the pine for the Baltimore Orioles, pinch hitting and giving the starting outfielders days off.  By his third year he was starting, and when free agency came he signed a huge contract, got a big bonus, and settled into an All-Star career.

“Hey, Freak!”  Eddie was pounding on his hotel room door.  “Let’s get a move-on.  Bus leaves in half an hour!”

“I’m coming, earwax.  Don’t get a hard-on.”  Freedson looked at the room service cart.  He didn’t remember it arriving and didn’t remember eating, but there it was, steak fat hardening, egg yolks congealing in the remains of his breakfast.  He was dressed, had his tie on, his blazer waiting on a hangar.

“Hey Eddie,” he yelled at the door.  “How many more games we got here in KC?”

“Just this one, Freak, then its three sweet days off for the All Star break.  Hey, you okay all by your lonesome in there?”

“What makes you think I’m alone?  I could have dancing girls in here.”

“Nah, you got too much of a jones for your wife for that.  You’re one of the good guys.”

“Fat lot you know,” was the only rejoinder Jim could come up with.  “Meet you in the lobby in ten.”  He had had his agent put a private room clause in his last contract.  He had earned the right to a little privacy for his aches and pains.

The All Star break:  Freak had been an All Star seven times in his career, won the Home Run Derby one year.  He also had three Silver Slugger awards, four Gold Gloves, an MVP in a Division Playoff series, a .296 career batting average, three hundred forty two home runs, twelve hundred sixty six RBIs, one hundred ninety five stolen bases and not once had he appeared in a World Series.  It was the blemish on his career that would keep him out of the Hall.

I’m tired of hearing the word ‘still’ when sportscasters talk about me as a ‘feared’ hitter.  Left field wasn’t so bad from center, but I’m spending more time as a DH now.  I won’t go to first base.  Who am I kidding?  I can barely bend over to pick up a towel.  What in the hell am I gonna do with myself?

In the lobby he signed a few autographs, shook a few hands and posed with some fat conventioneers for a photo, then made his way to the team bus.  This was the major leagues; someone else would handle his luggage.  All he carried with him was his wallet, his cell phone and his sunglasses.  He took his customary seat and studied the scene around him.  Young bucks were playing tunes or games on their electronics.  Journeymen were hoping to catch on with this team, to find a spark in their career that had waned in the last city.  Veterans, like him, just settled in for the ride.  Hitters were imagining their at-bats against today’s opposing pitcher.  The starting pitcher was left alone with his thoughts.  It was all so familiar, so comfortable it ached.

Managers used to walk me with one on and nobody out.  I could see the fear in pitcher’s eyes.  Now they whistle a fastball right down the middle.  Here you go Pops, see if you can still find the ball.  No?  Too bad, you had your turn.  Runners used to stop at first when the ball came my way.  Now they challenge my arm all the time.  This isn’t fun anymore.

That was the first time he had allowed himself to actually put that thought in his head.  He wasn’t having fun.  It’s a kid’s game, and he wasn’t a kid any more.

Clichés, everything is clichés.  I’ve lost a step, I can’t reach the curveball, can’t catch up to the fastball, can’t track down the deep fly ball.

“Come on, Freak, you’re holdin’ up the parade.”  Eddie was punching him in the arm.  He looked around and realized the bus had stopped inside the perimeter of the stadium.  The door was open and the Manager had already stepped off.  Everyone was waiting for the senior veteran to get a move-on.

“Sorry, you guys lousy music musta lulled me to sleep.  No wonder you’re only hitting a buck seventy five.”

Jim Freedson stepped off the bus.  The usual gaggle of home town hecklers, ex-pat fans and wide-eyed kids lined the perimeter fence.  Again, he went over to the fence and signed autographs.  He could afford the time today, and besides, even cheap seats could set a family of four back a couple of hundred bucks by the time they had dogs and drinks.  It seemed like the least he could do for the people that had made him a multi-millionaire.  He never forgot it was the fans, not his agent or the teams that had made him rich.  No fans, no dough, no question.  He had always been as loyal to them as they had been to him.  

He took a baseball, scuffed and covered with grass stains held with outstretched arms by a kid that looked to be about ten.  He was wearing a Tee shirt with the name of a local hardware store emblazoned across the front, and a cap with the KC logo on it.  There was a faded marking on the ball indicating it was of Official Little League origin.  He wrote on the surface, ‘love the game, play by the rules’, the date and his name, handed it back to the kid and headed down the runway to the locker room.

As he walked past his locker, he could see his uniform, road gray with a number seven prominently displayed, hanging there.  Clean, in good repair, ready for another day in the majors.  It was the Mick’s number, Mickey Mantle.  The best switch-hitter to ever play the game and Freedson’s idol, even though Mantle had retired before he was born, because it had been his father Frank’s favorite player as a child.  He breathed in the talcum and sweat and steamy aroma of the locker room as he knocked on the Manager’s office and let himself in.

Fans were just beginning to pour into the stadium to watch batting practice as his taxi pulled away and swam upstream against the flow.  It was about thirty minutes to the airport where his Gulfstream 5 was waiting in the hangar.  He didn’t remember the cab ride, or the flight.  His agent would issue a statement, the team would have a press conference, eventually he would do a few interviews, but not today.

“Hi, Honey.  I’m back.”

His wife, her eyes brimming, held her husband tightly for many minutes until finally he gently broke her hold and wiped away her tears with his thumbs.

“No tears.  It was time.  Everybody knew it but me.  Ted Williams was right.”

“Ted Williams?”

“It’s time for me to go fishing, he said; time for me too.”

“If we leave now, we can just make it,” his wife said.  “Let’s go.”

They drove in silence through the exclusive neighborhood where they lived, past an older development of homes needing paint and new roofs.  Beyond a few weed-covered, boarded up factories until finally they reached the miniature fields where local baseball teams played.  The dugouts were wooden benches behind a screen and there were a few creaky old bleachers behind the backstop and about halfway down each baseline.  There was no grass in the infield, no chalk lines to mark batter’s boxes or foul lines, no luxury boxes or mezzanines and no toilets except two Porta-Pottys, one marked for boys, the other for girls.

“Frank doesn’t know you’re coming.  He thinks you won’t be home till tomorrow.”

“It’s okay; I’d like to surprise him.  Let’s just sit in the bleachers for a while”

Freedson acknowledged a few parents he knew, choosing not to notice the surprise registering on several faces when he took his seat.  It took about twenty minutes, but finally Frank found his mom as he expected and a big grin split his face when he spotted his dad next to her.

“Hey, Dad, come here!”  His son motioned to him vigorously and the Freak made his way down to the bench.

“You’re early, didja get an earlier flight?”

“You might say that, son.  I retired.”

His son studied his father’s face for a few moments.  Freedson could see the wheels turning behind his son’s eyes, then his son's face lit up again with another broad smile.

“That’s great, Dad!” he enthused.  “Billy Carter’s father got transferred, again.  C’mere guys, my dad is gonna be home now, whaddya say?”

The youngsters gathered around the All Star, their dirty faces smiling up at him, anxious, full of energy, full of life and anticipation.  Finally one of the kids tugged at his jacket sleeve.

“Come on, Coach.  We gotta game to play.  You gonna help or not?”

“Yeah,” Freedson managed to choke out.  “I am.  I surely am.”

Murder One-Robert Dugoni Book Review

"Time may heal all wounds--but it leaves deep scars.  Just ask David Sloane, the doesn't lose lawyer in Robert Dugoni's latest legal thriller, Murder One, set for wide release June 7th.  (Yes, I actually have a review done in advance of a book's release!)

More than a year after the murder of his wife, Sloane is finally, reluctantly, re-emerging into the land of the living.  Tragedy hangs heavy in his heart, but he manages a good effort at a black-tie dinner as a featured speaker, where he unexpectedly runs into the opposing counsel in the case which brought so much grief  to his life.  Barclay Reid has also suffered; the cruel loss of her only child to a drug overdose.  As a result, she has become a crusader against the Russian drug-trafficker she holds responsible.

Despite being adversaries in the past, Sloane is attracted to Reid and her zeal for justice.  When the Russian drug dealer is found murdered, Sloane is inexorably drawn into defending his first criminally accused client:  Barclay Reid.

Dugoni is at his screw-tightening best here, weaving a plot that is intricate and as tightly wound as a tiger about to pounce. It is also fair to the readers.  All the evidence is in play and we gets to try to figure things out right along with David Sloane.  It's an E-ticket roller-coaster ride sure to keep you turning the pages.  I read it in a single sitting, I just couldn't wait to match wits with the famous lawyer and see if I was right.  I wasn't, completely, but it made the journey all the more enjoyable.

Murder One treads a path between Presumed Innocent and Basic Instinct with shocking twists and armchair gripping tension right to the stunning climax that, for me, make this an overall better read.  With his attention to detail, and keen sense of mood, timing and language, there is no question Dugoni is the new king of legal thrillers, and one day soon I can well imagine a banner across one of his books that says:  Soon to be a Major Motion Picture.

I can dream, can't I?



 Murder One by Robert Dugoni

Touchstone

ISBN: 978-1-4516-0669-0


I threw in the E-ticket ride for the benefit of us snow-capped readers that can actually remember what that meant. 

For Blood or Money and Law of Attraction, Book Reviews

The landscape is littered with new literary voices waiting to find an audience, mine among them.  The industry is in the throes of reinvention and the distinction between being 'published' and being a truly bright talent has become blurred.

While access to being published has grown exponentially, there has not been a correspondingly satisfactory increase in material worth reading.  The gatekeepers of the old dominion of traditional publishing, and their editing and proofreading expertise has been swamped by a boatload of self-published manure, some of which would make a fourth-grader cringe.  Finding a good read by an unknown self-published author has become akin to reading tea leaves in a flood.  Having said that, there are definitely pearls amongst the swine and Nathan Everett is worth a read.

Everett deserves a shout-out.  His quirky private detective yarn For Blood or Money deftly combines the hard-boiled gumshoe prototypes like Sam Spade and Nero Wolfe with a cutting edge cyber-tech sleuth.

Dag Hamar is a detective with a problem, and while I won't spoil the fun with a recitation of the plot points, this book has everything a mystery-thriller needs.  Plot twists, trusty sidekicks, beautiful dames, unexpected complications and a nice mix of old-school P.I. melded with high-tech gadgets, dead bodies and a race to the finish line make this very readable and highly recommended.

He honors language and ends with a graceful poignancy that has me thinking about it weeks later.  Given how many books I read, one that lingers as his does is a rare and special treat.

Self-published under his brand Long Tail Press, it is available in print and as an ebook.
eBook
ISBN: 978-0-9817249-6-6
Book
ISBN: 978-0-9817249-9-7


Another new author--published through traditional means--is Alison Leotta, whose real-life job is as a federal prosecutor in Washington D.C. specializing in felony sex crimes and domestic violence.  Leotta has found a compelling niche in the crime thriller category, and she doesn't stray far from her roots by introducing us to Assistant U.S. Attorney, Anna Curtis in her debut novel Means of Attraction.  Curtis is a wide-eyed rookie serving to find justice for what society often ignores as just another battered woman.  Something about one of her clients resonates with her own past though, and complications follow when our heroine's boyfriend--an attorney himself--defends the assailant who now stands accused of murder, just days following his release based on recanted testimony by the victim.  Sadly, fiction here reflects real-life all to often.

Torn between her legal duties and her personal life, Anna makes career threatening choices that jeopardizes everything--including her life.  She uncovers the shocking truth behind the crime in a compelling and dramatic conclusion.

It is an excellent debut novel in a crowded field.  It twists through the gritty alleys, both real and metaphorical of our nations Capitol to the polished glass and steel enclaves of Washington's most elite Ivy League lawyers.  Pick it up and read it, highly recommended.


Touchstone
ISBN: 978-1-4391-9384-6

Sixteen Tons and Whaddya Get?

A battle is being waged here in Whatcom County featuring that classic match-up of Business vs Enviromentalist, with a supporting Greek chorus of one-issue kibitzers.  While a thoroughly local topic, it speaks to a larger debate ongoing world wide.

'Business' wants to develop a deep-water cargo shipping facility in what is literally the last space available on the continental west coast of the U.S. where such a port can be built.  While it's capability would include handling containerized cargo, developers have their eye on, with the enthusiastic support of the Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railroad, building a bulk coal shipping site--destination China.  Currently, soft coal mined in the western United States generally goes to a similar port about forty miles north, in Canada.

'Business' accurately points out such an effort would create hundreds of high-paying construction jobs early, then hundreds more permanent high-wages jobs when the area becomes operational.  Tax revenues would remain local, as well as port fees.  Many local business would see increased income by providing support materials and services.  New businesses would likely spring up for similar reasons.  All this sorely-needed cash would buoy the economy of the entire region.  A textbook example of trickle-down economics.

'Environmentalists' correctly notes that the proposed site is prime real estate for breeding an already diminishing stock of herring, which are among the principal prey of the Pacific salmon runs, some of which are now on the threatened list.  Those salmon, in turn, are the meal of choice for the local population of orcas (killer whales), recently showing signs of malnutrition themselves.  A textbook example of a hiccup in the food chain.

At its peak, anywhere from ten to sixteen additional mile-long coal car trains would whistle their way along the tracks overlooking the waterfront each day.  Anyone living, working nearby or even strolling through a bay side park has spent time counting the trains of one hundred plus cars already plying the rails as they rumble slowly by, or worse, grind to a halt across rights-of-way to allow another train to pass or to switch out cars headed elsewhere.

Also of concern is the dust that is sure to accumulate incrementally across the region from all that coal traveling through our parks, adjacent to and across our waterways, and past our homes and schools.  Tourism related business could be devastated.

'Business' counters by touting a promise to cover the cars to mitigate dust, 'Environmentalists' are suspicious and see such a covenant as the camel merely trying to get his nose in the tent.

To be sure, the Amtrak Cascade is a novelty--picturesque even--as it's dozen or so car breeze through, but all those heavy, ponderous coal cars would be coming back empty too.  That could mean as many as thirty or more added transits daily.  Almost certainly not an hour of the day or night would pass without bellowing whistles and the clacking, groaning, grinding and squealing that attaches.

The sheen of that shiny new revenue could tarnish quickly under such an onslaught.  Diminished home values, reduced desirability as a tourist destination and the certainty of increased death and injury tolls on motorists and pedestrians weigh heavily as well.

These are the central tenants of the argument from both sides--the nuts and bolts of the negotiation process--but at some point it begs a larger question:  Is a short-term gain in jobs and money worth trading for an accelerating catastrophe looming over the horizon?

While important, for me, it isn't really the means of transportation that lies at the core of this controversy.  It's the cargo.

On a fragile planet where destructive and disruptive effects of climate change are pushing entire ecosystems toward the chasm of collapse, and all but the most knuckle-headed deniers and apologists see the danger at hand, do we really want to be shipping millions of tons of this stuff to a country with lax environmental rules and virtually non-existent enforcement, only to see it returned to us as airborne soot, acid rain and cheap goods?

Do we seriously wish to fuel the power plants of the largest economic juggernaut threatening America's ability to compete for the future?

Even more fundamentally, do we want to ship this toxicity anywhere?  Or even dig it up in the first place, knowing what we know-despite the oxymoronic commercials touting 'clean coal'?  It seems like selling something like 'harmless smallpox'.

Bellingham and Whatcom County are routinely listed among the best areas to live, recreate and retire in the nation and it seems unlikely that having millions of tons of coal arriving via an endless parade of coal trains would enhance our reputation or improve our quality of life.  Let's think locally and act globally by rejecting this clinker of a proposal.

Fino and The Fork, Restaurant Reviews

Fino and The Fork At Agate Bay are miles apart, in distance and style, but in their hearts it is all about the food.  Fortunate for diners, to be sure.  Fino, perches over Bellingham Bay nestled inside the Chrysalis Spa near Fairhaven boasting stunning views and an opportunity to indulge in a glass of fine wine while watching one of our best kept summer secrets, a spectacular sunset, fade away in a blaze of color.  Unlike so many restaurants with fab views, Fino resists the temptation to trade looks for substance.  With an eclectic Continental/Mediterranean menu and options allowing for varying appetites Fino is a delight, and a serious wine bar with a large and well chosen cellar.

In my case I began with french salad: heart of tomato, warm chevre cake, baby greens & champagne vinaigrette.  It was perfectly prepared and set the stage for what was to come.  I was charmed and amazed with my charcuterie sampler featuring chicken liver pate', country pork terrine, duck rillettes, pickled vegetables and an olive medley.  Often I shy away from such offerings, since producing a truly fine pate' has seemed beyond the scope of Whatcom County restaraunts (Tivoli duly noted as an exception), and because the olives commonly selected are too briny for my taste.  I screwed up my courage, though, and was well rewarded with a plate carefully selected and executed with true mastery.  This sampler and a glass of red was nothing short of a culinary miracle for me and I enjoyed every morsel.

My dining companion enjoyed the seafood risotto featuring salmon, halibut, crab & citrus gremolata.  I was so engaged by my plate I neglected to snitch a sample, but was assured it was expertly prepared and more than generous.  Trusting her judgement is good enough for me and you can count on it yourself.  

The varied and changing menu and excellent wine and beer selection will have me coming back regularly for a touch of luxury close to home.  I recommend you do the same, often.

The Fork At Agate Bay, by contrast, is tucked away far along the north shore of Lake Whatcom overlooking a gravel parking lot at the fork in the road--literally.  The Fork instead, charms from the inside, having created an intimate, comfortable space away from the distractions of life where a limited, but carefully chosen, wine list and beer selection and a spectacular menu allow the cares of the day to melt away.  Having risen from the metaphorical ashes of a burgers & brewskies/general store that just couldn't find sufficient traction with locals to stay alive, it has transformed into a dining destination that merits serious attention, (you can check out the menu by clicking on their name highlighted above).  The first, best, way to discover if any restaurant knows what they are doing is to try an entree featuring game.  Venison, duck or most other game tends to be extremely lean (all the fat in a duck is in the skin) and it takes real skill to avoid the 'rubber ball' experience of overcooking.  I should also note that it takes a patron with an educated palate and an understanding that 'well-done' are words that should be banished from every dining facility in America.

Having said that, The Forks presented me with a perfectly prepared Muscovy duck breast with a traditional and amazingly flavorful serving of lentils.  They cheerfully substituted a brilliant Brussels sprout hash for broccolini (which I just plain don't like) finished with a port current gastrique, the latter being a perfect counterpoint while deftly avoiding the predictable syrupy sweet sauce commonly sloshed over a duck breast.  Kudos duly awarded.

My dining companion enjoyed another notoriously difficult dish to prepare--seared fresh halibut.  Oh, I know, halibut is served damn near everywhere in the Pacific N.W., but rarely is it done correctly, again mostly suffering from overcooking, over saucing (frequently the disguise of choice for unskilled chefs), or often both.  This generous serving was perfectly seasoned (which means minimally), seared very hot and very quickly and accompanied by a Meyer lemon & marscapone risotto and some yummy seasonal vegetables.

This experience vaulted The Forks to the top 5 list of places I will go when I want a great meal, and I didn't even get to the fabulous preparation of the steamer clams appetizer or not-to-sweet but ever so luscious bread pudding dessert.  Take a drive along the North Shore, you can ooh and ahh over the pricey houses along the lakefront along the way, but the real treat is waiting for you at the fork in the road!

We've Been Here Before

As inexorable as the tides, as relentless as wolves chasing a wounded elk and as predictable as sunrise, another silly season is about to get under way in the form of Elections 2012.

Already declared is Barack Obama, seeking a second term as President.  On the right, jockeying to see who can be the farthest right, are such luminaries and lunkheads as Michelle Bachmann, Newt Gingrich, Haley Barbour and pizza king Herman Cain.  Lurking in the shadows are Sarah Palin, Mitt Romney, Mike Huckabee, Tim Pawlenty and--unbelievably--the Donald (Trump, that is).  Rest assured, there are others waiting to wax and wane in the coming months as ambition trumps common sense in the hinterlands.

The Republicans have been playing a game of chicken with the government again, the actual shutdown of government, which played out so well for them the last go round, in the hope that no one will notice how willfully stupid is such a game.  Worse yet is that this isn't even an effort to save taxpayer dollars.  Repubs have already extracted the entire amount they wanted in this round of negotiations with regard to money.

This transparent political ploy leaves one breathless.  Not satisfied with the economic concessions, hard-liners on the right in the House of Representatives are holding out (and threatening to shut down the government) on issues as far-ranging as defunding Planned Parenthood and NPR to taking the enforcement teeth out of the EPA.  The hope here is that the Dems will either blink first and cave, which would be catastrophic to the party principles, or that by holding firm the liberals will somehow end up taking the bullet in public perception.  Don't fall for it.  

First, at some point a compromise will be reached that will not achieve all their stated goals.  If this occurs without significant support from Republican House membership then Boehner will find himself presiding over a fractured party and his Speakership will have failed.  Bad news for Republicans with an election on the horizon.  Second, unbudgeted money will have to be spent to re-start what was shut down, not to mention pay additional interest for debts deferred during the dispute.  The notion of savings are purely an illusion, exactly the sort of smoke-and-mirrors showpiece conservatives hope will turn the tide for them come election day next year.

Don't be afraid to look behind the curtain.  You will discover the Great and Powerful Oz is really just the same tired old men, bemoaning how badly done to the business community is and how overpaid and under worked are union members and the middle-class.  Alongside are the same social demands that the radical right has been pushing unsuccessfully for three decades.  Lift the lid and uncover the machinery hidden behind and you will see the same culprits.  Look for huge donations from corporations, the Koch brothers, the National Chamber of Commerce (with a much different agenda than the friendly folks pitching for your local hardware store) and Big Oil.  Made much more convenient when the Supreme Court concluded that corporations were 'people'.  At some point in the future another court will revisit the ruling and conclude that this ranks right up there with Dred Scott as one of the worst decisions in court history.

These are watershed times for the United States.  We can fall back to the fear that has led us down the path of intolerance, suspicion and hate.  There are plenty of examples to use as guideposts.  Recall your history, remember McCarthyism?  How about the incarceration of Japanese Americans during WWII?  Go back a little further to Father Coughlin, or the Chinese Exclusion Act, or even as far back as when we were still a freshly minted country with the Alien & Sedition Act.  Or, we can buck up and do the right thing.  Lincoln freed the slaves, Teddy Roosevelt busted the Trusts (we call them cartels these days, or in some cases Too Big To Fail), FDR created a program to stem the tide of retirement poverty, LBJ forced the Voting Rights Act, and, ironically enough, Richard Nixon created the EPA.

We can do the right thing when we need to.  And we really need to now.

New Tricks for an Old Dog

After due consideration it seemed appropriate that I make a few cosmetic changes to my blog to more accurately represent what I do on these pages.  It also serves to modernize (I hope) the mechanisms by which you may follow my ruminations.  I have added the option to follow this blog via email subscription, and I'm pretty sure I've enabled an rss feed via Atom or possibly Google--maybe both.  Not being a full-on techno guy, and more of a do-it-yourself-er, the results remain untested for the moment.

In the meantime, you may anticipate upcoming blogs with teasers like, We've Been Here Before, my take on some of the political histrionics in the run-up to the 2012 election.  (Sigh heavily, yes, it is already that time again.).  Also on the horizon, reviews of three books:  the debut books, How Faithful A Heart, by Lynette Erwin, Law of Attraction by Allison Leotta and the latest thriller by Robert Dugoni, Murder One.

Somewhere in the midst of all this I will carve out some time to promote my own novel, due for release soon entitled Island Dawn.  Plus I may even write a short story or two to post on these pages.  Something I haven't done in some time and is quite overdue.

Take heart, readers.  There is more coming soon, I promise!

'Bodily Harm' Book Review

A government official has a horrifying and murderous encounter with a mysterious assassin in China--and gets an assignment he dares not defy.

David Sloane, dubbed by the media as 'The Lawyer Who Never Loses', is in a hurry.  He's overdue in court--where he is about to win again--but doesn't feel at ease about the likely outcome.  A grubby young man, smelling of alcohol, accosts Sloane on the streets of Seattle, forcing a slim file on him, which he contends explains why the Doctor, whose career is about to end with the verdict, isn't responsible for the death of the child of Sloane's clients.

"The doctor did not kill that boy."

Sloane stopped.  Pedestrians maneuvered to avoid him.  Walking back to the curb, Sloane saw that the man held a photocopy of an article from The Seattle Times reporting on the medical malpractice case.

"How would you know that?"  Sloane asked.

"Because I did."

With that, Robert Dugoni has set the hook deeply with his novel Bodily Harm.

The action moves with breakneck speed as the attorney that has everything go his way professionally, soon finds his personal life in wreckage as this high-octane story of desperation in lofty corporate offices becomes interwoven with money, politics, murder and government agencies.  As with previous novels by Dugoni, this work really reaches beyond the conventional thriller as he stretches his literary lead over the work of Turow and Grisham.

It's not often I feel engaged by the literary merits of a thriller.  Too often they are paint-by-the-numbers formula pieces.  Bodily Harm though, like Wrongful Death, Damage Control and The Jury Master preceding it ( and previously mentioned on the pages of this blog), have that intangible quality of plausibility to them.  While you are irresistibly turning each page to see what's next, you can well imagine how these things could actually happen.

The characters are finely drawn.  The relationships are deeply felt by this reader, and the tragedies and triumphs resonate with real emotion.  In the end as the dust is settling and David Sloane emerges victorious yet anything but unscathed, he is left with one question:  "When does it stop hurting?"

You'll have to read the book to get the answer, but you better hurry--his next, 'Murder One' is set for release in early June, and I, for one, can't wait.

Forget being the 'heir apparent' to Scott Turow or John Grisham.  Robert Dugoni has re-defined the legal thriller and is in a class by himself.  Long live the new King!

Nothing In Moderation-How To Kill the Republican Party

From time to time in these posts I comment on the state of politics as I see them.  Long-time readers know I consider myself a conservative and a Republican.  I have, however, been increasingly alarmed by a lack of common sense by the far right, and have expressed my dismay that leadership has become an oxymoronic term within the party.  Having said that, I stood by my party (though not necessarily it's candidates) until now.

It has become clear since the mid-term elections that the agenda of the conservative right-wing is to form a cabal of business titans, ambitious office seekers and ultra-conservative Christian groups to systematically disassemble most of the economic and social gains for the middle and lower class populations of the U.S. in the twentieth century.  Preying on the susceptability of one-issue, or poorly informed voters and ginning up fear tactics--while blithely ignoring their own culpability in the current economic hardships--the Republican party has begun an assault on moderation that is sure to kill it in the long run.  Given their 'druthers, many of these people would eliminate unions, pensions, Social Security, Medicare, funding for the arts and abortion anywhere, anytime, for any reason.  This is the to-do list right now, having accomplished that they will move on to reducing or eliminating taxes on business, with an emphasis on big businesses.  Bigger the business-lower the taxes.  Don't think so?  Follow this link:  Tax Holiday for Big Business?

These are not moderate, or even conservative views, really.  There is no inherent conflict between fiscal conservatism and union bargaining.  Have we forgotten the lesson of the Good Samaritan?  We can, and should do what we are able to do as individuals, but not forsake those of lesser fortune simply because they are financially inconvenient to society just now.  Issues of human rights belong in the public discourse to the extent that all humans living in the U.S. should enjoy the freedoms and protections of the Constitution, not just those that subscribe to my particular point of view.  People of good faith and conscience can agree to disagree.  That is vital to the free flow of ideas and critical to finding constructive ways forward without disenfranchising opposition.

The assault has been under way for some time.  Thirty years ago, if you intended to run as a Republican for high office you had to be vetted by the Christian right.  What was your stance on abortion?  What about gays and lesbians?  School prayer?  You better drink the Kool-Aid and sign on or you had no active chance of advancing your candidacy.  Since then the requirements have tightened into a noose.  I stand in amazement that there is no sense of irony that the only unforgivable sin is to differ in opinion.

If you were nominated to a U.S. Federal judgeship the chances were similarly bleak for advancement if you had ever ruled on, commented in public or written a term paper in school on any or all of these and other issues.  As I write this thousands of position remain unfilled, the nominees blocked without even a committee review by some Senator acting as a 'watchdog' (read:  lapdog)  for the Christian Coalition or some other lobbying group.  If it is one thing a conservative pol knows, it's which side of the bread is buttered with campaign money.

Perhaps the most distressing aspect of this onslaught has been the dogged determination not to be deterred by facts.  I have seen, read and heard more mischaracterizations, misdirections, disinformation campaigns, whispered innuendos and downright damnable lies in the last three years then in the forty or so previous years I have been watching and thinking about politics.  And that includes, Bush, Clinton and Nixon.

Right now we have a President hobbled by the notion that there is compromise out there, just waiting to be hammered out with reasonable, moderate Republicans.  Respectfully, Mr. President, you are wrong.  From the grass-roots to the Capitol Dome the offensive against reasonableness is being pushed forward by a cynical and increasingly delusional conservative party.  Consensus building and bi-partisanship are given lip service, but in truth are seen as signs of weakness to be exploited.  It is time, Sir, in the words of a famous Republican, to just say no.

So here is what I say to my former Republican brethren:  Kill the party if you must, I shall not come along.  You have thrown down the gauntlet of extremism, I shall not pick it up.  You seek to crush moderation, I shall, starting today, resist.

Things Presidential, and otherwise

It has been some time since I posted anything, Lord knows it's not for lack of topics.  The elections, the shootings, the books read, meals consumed, family visited, the working vacation to research sites in Oregon, Idaho, Wyoming and Montana, and life and the living thereof have all presented ample opportunity for blog posts.  The lack of same amounts to a mea culpa: 

1.     I've been busy.

2.     I've been lazy.

Take your pick--both apply.  But during this hiatus some thoughts have been banging around inside my skull that have finally taken adequate form to merit a posting.

It occurred to me recently, while reflecting on recent U.S. Presidents, that there has not been a Vietnam-era military general elected to the office, and further, there will not be one.  Their opportunity has passed.  The last General Officer elected to the presidency was Eisenhower.  Before that we have to go back to Benjamin Harrison and the election of 1888 to find a general-to-president election.  In all, we've had nine Chief Executives with General Officer standing prior to their political elevation.  

That notwithstanding, there have been very few presidents with no military experience at all.  Most of those were Founding Fathers, and they were a little busy with other things during the Revolutionary War.  Some, while not in the at-war military, were Secretaries of War, state Governors acting as Commander-in-Chief for state militias (later the National Guard) or served during peacetime eras.  Our current president and Andrew Johnson (a tailor by trade before becoming Vice-President to Lincoln)  have no military background or service at all.  Among presidents most have been General Officers, Governors and attorneys.  Only one had a Phd; Woodrow Wilson.  

Our military generals became presidents mostly in the 19th century.  War veterans from 1812 and the Civil War filled 7 of the 15 presidential spots between 1829 and 1893.  There were no presidents from the U.S. military general ranks from the Spanish-American war (Teddy Roosevelt barely made Colonel, but was the Under Secretary of the Navy before the war, was briefly Governor of New York, and as VP, ascended to the White House upon the assassination of McKinley.  Incidentally, it was TR that had the West Wing added to the People's House.)  There were also none from the first World War.  Blackjack Pershing was pushed to run in the 1920 election, but he demurred active campaigning with the cryptic pronouncement that he "wouldn't decline to serve" if the people wanted him.  The party opted for a more active candidate, selecting Warren G. Harding, now regarded as one of the worst presidents in U.S. history.

So what has this little presidential history lesson suggested to me?  We like to reward our war heroes (even if they weren't generals) with high political office.  In fact, until recently, it was unthinkable that a viable candidate could arise from the ranks of those with no military experience .  I think Korea started the trend away from military commanders and Vietnam essentially codified that trend.  

What do those conflicts have in common.  We didn't win.  Voters like winners.  Voters reward winners.  The Baby Boomers were the first generation to see war relatively unfiltered, and they didn't like what they saw.  Gen X was the first to see war in real-time via satellite from Iraq in Desert Storm.  They didn't like what they saw, but were careful to separate the soldier doing his duty, from the CINC sending them off to war.  Gen Next is seeing Iraq and Afghanistan the same way, but with the addition of internet feeds and blogs from active duty soldiers under fire.  Even in the face of provocation as extreme as 9-11, we don't much like what we see, but are a bit befuddled about what to do about it.  It seems to have a surreal 'we broke it, so we have to fix it' adhesive quality to it.

We won't 'win' in Iraq.  At best we will leave behind a shaky, fractured government riven with sectarian violence and likely unable-in the long term-to survive as a democracy.  We won't win in Afghanistan.  No one ever has historically.  About the best we can hope for is to do less damage when we leave than we did when we abandoned Vietnam.  The result will likely be similar.  We will pack up, declare victory, and ship out, leaving the Afghani people to their own devices.

Since the end of WWII no military conflict of significance has ended with a clear victory for the U.S.  Even Desert Storm, while a rout to be sure, seemed to be unfinished business.  Short of an all-out-conflict, which is less and less likely in this internet interconnected world, large land mass armies will become increasingly obsolete and fewer military heroes will emerge from the ranks of generals. 

The elections of Bill Clinton, George W. Bush and Barack Obama have demonstrated to me that the era of rewarding military veterans-high ranking or otherwise-has ceased to be an important yardstick in selecting our political leader.  Clinton, a little-known southern governor faced down a WWII hero from the Senate leadership and defeated Bob Dole.  John Kerry, though intellectually better prepared to be president lost to another southern governor.  Kerry, a decorated Vietnam vet was defeated as much because he was a Vietnam vet as anything else.  George jockeyed a fighter plane in the Air National Guard under the watchful eye of his highly placed father.  John McCain, a bonafide POW hero of the southeast Asian conflict had his campaign run off the rails by erratic decision making and a mortal self-inflicted wound as a running mate.  Barack Obama never served in the military and was outspoken against the war in Iraq.

In my estimation, it seems likely that a century or more may have passed before we elect another war general as President of the United States.  For now, at least, Eisenhower was the last of that breed.  New skills are needed in a new century.  But I'll leave you with some hopeful tidbits from two presidents past; one of great note who was a general officer and hero of the War of 1812, and one from perhaps the least significant presidency in our history.

“Any man worth his salt will stick up for what he believes right, but it takes a slightly better man to acknowledge instantly and without reservation that he is in error.” Andrew Jackson, 7th POTUS

“Nothing brings out the lower traits of human nature like office-seeking. Men of good character and impulses are betrayed by it into all sorts of meanness.” Millard Fillmore 12th POTUS