Golden Chevrons, The Supreme Art and the Stinkin' Socks

The thing you have to understand about the Chief Quarters on the U.S.S. Lockwood is that all of us were well versed in the Supreme Art, the art of bullshitting. In a larger world where one would think that we odd eighteen or twenty chiefs were relatively insignificant, the irony is that all of us had egos of enormous sizes, way beyond our abilities and impact on things that mattered. We were a Proud bunch, with a capital "P." We were the Prima Donnas on board the Lockwood. And, the higher we were on the totem pole of rank, the bigger our ego, the more proud we were and the better we were at the Supreme Art. And, if on top of that we wore Golden Chevrons... well, there was just no describing how much our shit didn't stink. But, we who wore them would have obliged you with a description had you asked. We ran the ship. Period.

When I came aboard in 1975, I was a junior Chief Petty Officer and only thirty-one years old with eleven years in the Navy. And, to top it off, I had already passed my E-8 advancement exam and was scheduled for advancement to Senior Chief. That was nearly unheard of! The word was already out that I would be the youngest Senior Chief in the Pacific Fleet when the date arrived. I was on a fast-track of advancement. Unfortunately, that fact put me at a disadvantage in the Chief Quarters. With all of those egos, none of them wanted to hear that someone younger with less time in the Navy would be senior to them and living among them. The image of the crusty old Chief was something they aspired to, not a baby-faced, cherry-boy Senior Chief. My reputation and nicknames preceded me.

The fact was that my quick advancement was due to lucky assignments. The minutia and technical details of the exams up to the Senior Chief exam would have been my failure had I not actually worked in the Supply and Logistics areas where I learned the minute details by heart. Those specifics in the world of Naval Supply that I had not worked in took hours and hours of reading and study to memorize, boredom without end. I hated it. The fact was that I am not good at minutia. I'm much better at ideas, concepts and analysis. As it turned out, and lucky for me, the exams to higher ranks, like the Senior Chief exam, wasn't about the minute detail of my chosen rating, Storekeeper or about general Navy Logistics. It was about vague abstract ideas and concepts like leadership, problem solving, logic, reasoning, analysis, tactics and strategy. While there were books and study guides available, they gave no clue to what might be actual exam answers. The exam required thought and I used every minute of my allotted three hours to finish the test, but luck, opportunity and some innate ability came together and I passed it. And, so I reported aboard the Lockwood, with high expectations, into a coven of inflated egos.

Atop the totem, where typically an eagle is carved, symbolizing an ultimate power, sat Senior Chief Robert "Bob" Bolin, a Sonar Tech and a brainy guy who would have been called a geek in today's world. He was "the" top Dawg enlisted in the world of Anti-Submarine and Electronic Warfare on board. He knew the sounds of whales, Russian submarines and Lockwood's torpedoes and he could pin-point their position and direction, longitude and latitude, under the water. I have to admit that indeed he was good at all of that, exceptionally good at it. And I admit that he was exceptionally good at electronic equipment and how they worked, whether the equipment was related to sonar or not. But, on top of that he was a philosopher, at least I guess he was because he read a lot of books about Greek and Asian philosophy and history. He devoured logic problems and was intense in strategy games or any game where the object was to out-think and out-wit an opponent and, of course, win. Losing was not his thing and he didn't take losing well, especially if the winner gloated. Competition was his thing, and hardly a week went by when he didn't make a philosophical comment about the benefit to mankind of the concept of competition and winning. "Man is a competitor," is a typical statement he'd make, or "survival of the strong and fittest," is another thing he'd say, or "our job is to teach leadership and overcoming adversity." One of his favorite movies was "The Enemy Below" a 1957 movie that pitted a German U-Boat against a U.S. Destroyer in a battle of wits. I knew the movie. I'd seen the same movie in the naval leadership training course just as he had.

In some respects, Bolin and I were similar. Both of us worked hard at being the best we could be. Neither of us wanted to be singled out as a slouch. We knew the drill. You would have been hard pressed to find a wrinkle in our uniform or a spot on our white uniform. Both of us expected the same spotless performance of the divisions and departments we were assigned to. We took passing inspections personal, and failing an inspection as a personal insult. Both of us understood that challenges were overcome through better understanding of the challenge and good preparation. If an inspection was imminent, we held pre-inspections hours or days ahead of the official inspection, whether it was a personnel or functional inspection, and we corrected any discrepancies. There could be no doubt that we were good at passing inspections. And, perhaps finally, both of us had a knack for passing the new type of advancement exam that we encountered when we vied for advancement to Senior Chief. It was a different exam than we had experienced until then. While that list may not be all inclusive, it is basically where our similarities ended.

At the time, I was interested in Asian philosophy, Confucius and Sharihotsu (Japanese for Sariputta, the wisest disciple of Siddhartha Gautama, the original Buddha) you could say that I too was into Greek philosophy, but perhaps from a different perspective. I was interested in mythology and how and why mythical creatures and gods came about. My interest started for me with a personal desire to learn the what and why behind J. R. R. Tolken's "The Hobbit" and "The Lord of the Rings," obviously fantasy using historical mythology and mimicking great characters of history with tentacles into religion and morality. Bolin and I had a number of good discussions and we found any number of ways to preach our philosophy even when we discussed mundane shipboard matters. If I was getting the upper hand in the discussion, perhaps with logic that he could not deny, he would laughingly call me "Frodo," a Hobbit character in The Lord of the Rings, which would infuriate me. He's say something like, "okay, Frodo. You got me." He knew it would get to me, and that's why he did it. He would change the discussion into a joke. And, with all of the other chiefs around listening, and frequently siding with Bolin, of course, everyone had a good laugh at my expense, and when everyone laughed, they always laughed with the Top Dawg, i.e., Bolin.

After I pinned on my Senior Chief collar devices and some time passed, and everyone was getting accustomed to my rank and the fact that I hadn't made any gross mistake, I had improved my department, and passed a major Supply inspection that put us into competition for the Battle "E" for the first time in several  years, the other chiefs finally began to accept me and I began to be included in the "Command" decision making process. Usually, that meant that policy changes affecting crew morale would pass through my in-basket for my opinion. The XO made sure of that, unless Bolin originated the idea. If he proposed the change, however, he would get my opinion before he submitted it to the XO. Everyone was happy with the process as far as I knew. The conflict came when Bolin left me out of the process, he leap-frogged over me. That occurred on two occasions.

Troublemakers were always a subject of conversations in the Chief Quarters, and all of us had one or two in our departments and none of them were better or worse than the others, so no Chief had any reason to crow about their own leadership ability when their own troublemaker(s) didn't seem to improve their behavior. My troublemaker was Emmanuel "Manny" Rodriguez (my poor memory tells me that name after an hour or two of thinking). Manny just didn't get it. He was a ready and willing hard worker at menial labor; such as cleaning the crew compartment; lifting, carrying and storing boxes and parts; and scraping and painting. Manny instinctively knew about line rigging and underway replenishment assignments and where best to take on supplies. But, when it came to passing advancement exams or working with Supply manuals, forms and records, he simply couldn't cut the mustard, and I doubted that he ever would. At the time he was in his second enlistment, perhaps twenty-five or six years old and around his sixth year in the Navy, a third-class petty officer and not likely to go higher any time soon. Manny's problems always happened when we made port and the crew had a chance to go ashore for rest and relaxation. He usually had too much fun, drank too much, caroused too much and, in many cases, fought too much. Manny was the subject of a number of Chief Quarters discussions. What to do with him? He wouldn't last much longer in the Navy. He was especially one of Senior Chief Bolin's topics of conversation; the top of his list, and Bolin was especially critical of me for not finding a way to motivate Manny. Bolin took it upon himself to tread into my area of jurisdiction, the Supply Department.

As I recall, on that day when shit hit the fan over Manny, I arrived at the Supply Office early. We were meeting the USS Mars, a supply ship, the next day and we had only a few hours to get our orders transmitted. Chief Brinkley, the chief cook, brought his food orders, and Chief Nault, another storekeeper chief, brought the general stores and ship's parts orders, and soon we had a stack of a thousand or so requisitions to be filled by the Mars. It was a busy and somewhat chaotic morning. I called Manny to the office and he, Brinkley, Nault and I sat down to go over the unrep (underway replenishment) assignments; Manny would be on the flight deck receiving stores in charge of eight or nine seamen who would break down the pallets of supplies, Nault would be in the storerooms directing traffic and stores to the proper storage locations, Brinkley would be on the mess decks, in charge of the gang pulling food supplies from the transfer line (a line of seaman stretching from the storerooms to the flight deck handing boxes down from above) and redirecting the supplies to food storage compartments. Each had their list of sailors assigned to them and each would notify their crew today of their assignments. We knew that for a few hours things would get chaotic, boxes and stores would be everywhere, passageways and ladders would be jammed with trip hazards, taught lines could break and recoil at neck-breaking speed, rough seas could topple pallets and break legs, arms or crush a sailor. It was a dangerous evolution. Each knew how to brief their team on safety. Each knew that safety was of the utmost importance and each knew how to safely conduct an unrep.

It was in the middle of all of that that I was handed a one-page, typed document from the XO, duly approved with the XO's signature. Manny, it directed, was hereby immediately assigned to the Supply Office for three months of familiarization with supply manuals and documents for the purpose of preparing for his second-class advancement exam. He was removed from all other assignments, it said. Senior Chief Clark, the letter said, would be held directly responsible for Manny's preparation. Additionally, the letter said, Manny would be restricted to ship during the upcoming Singapore port call to preclude Manny from creating or getting involved in any incident that might embarrass the Navy. Copy To: Senior Chief Bolin. Approved: Lieutenant Commander Magnusson.

As I recall, I got the gist of the letter at a glance and folded it and slipped into my pocket, mumbling something like, "I'll read it later," for the benefit of Chiefs Brinkley and Nault and the XO's messenger. But, had you been a fly on the wall, you would have seen the blood rise in my face, steam coming from my ears, laser beams from my eyes and smoke from my nostrils. I was pissed. I was furious. The fact was that I was already tutoring a number of storekeepers, including the ever present Manny, for their next exams, including various supply manual, forms and records from appropriate study guides, depending on the exam everyone would be taking. Manny had already spent several months in the Supply Office to familiarize himself with office operations to a point that he pleaded with me to be assigned back to the storerooms. He simply didn't get it. Nearly all of the work he did had to be redone usually under my direct supervision. We spent hours and hours redoing his work. He knew his shortcomings, and it was I who was taking his preparation to the point of browbeating and torture. I finally realized the both he and I needed to trust his future to fate. I liked him as a person and, in good conscience, I could not torture him anymore. Senior Chief Bolin had overstepped his bounds into my territory. The war was on.

The next day, as we came along side the Mars, Manny was in his usual place, on the flight deck ready for the shot-line from the Mars to haul in the heavier ropes that would transfer the pallets of supplies. The unrep was in progress. I got a verbal message from the XO; "What is Manny doing on the flight deck? He's supposed to be below decks." "First I heard about it. I'll come see you after the unrep." I sent back. All of us were busy. I had a good excuse. I waited until all of the stores were in the appropriate storeroom before going to the XO's cabin. It gave me more time to think of a better lie to cover my ass, the Supreme Art, to convince the XO that I hadn't read the letter until after the unrep. Meanwhile, I claimed, I finally read the letter and feigned surprise at its contents for the benefit of the Supply Officer Lieutenant close by. He knew Manny's history and he agreed with me; some, like Manny, are destined to be who they are, nothing more. But, he wasn't going to help explain the situation to the XO. I was on my own.

I was determined to tell the XO that I hadn't read the letter before the unrep, but at the last moment decided to tell him the truth. It went something like this, "XO, I read the letter and I thought about it. The letter is a mistake. I've already browbeat Manny to prepare him until it has become torture. He just doesn't get it, and maybe he never will. He's good at what he does, but he will never be more than what he is and he may never pass the second-class exam. He's happy doing what he does. He may be happier working with equipment or in the Deck Division, but he doesn't have the aptitude for paperwork or manuals. You have to give up on that just like I have."

"As for Singapore," I said, "how can you restrict him to ship when he hasn't yet done anything to deserve that punishment?" The XO took the letter, scratched though the "approved" and wrote "disapproved." I left his cabin a happy man.

A few days later we pulled into Singapore and everyone got the message about Singapore: Behave Yourself, with capital letters. Malaysia has the most tyrannical laws of any country in Asia and maybe the world. The least little thing could land you in prison or earn you a lashing with a bamboo club, such as littering a chewing gum wrapper or cigarette butt on the street, or spitting. Rumor had it that every US Ship Commander dreaded and prayed for sailors on their ships to visit Singapore without incident. The rumor was that the slightest incident was elevated to the Governor of Singapore, for his personal review and judgment. No ship commander wanted that! Singapore was one of the cleanest cities in the world, and its laws made sure it stayed that way. Sailors watched their P's and Q's in Singapore. Sailors were also told to stay away from Bugis Street, pronounced Boogie Street, and Boogie Boys. Boogie Street was notorious and unlike anyplace else in the world. Subic Bay was probably the raunchiest city in the world, with prostitutes and bar girls in every bar, and the city was nothing else but bars. The Hong Kong Wan Chai district was filled with bars and bar girls. But, in both of those places, sailors could expect women, often very beautiful women. But, that wasn't true on Boogie Street. Boogie Street had just as many transvestites, men dressed as women, or worse, as there were women. And, they could not, in most cases, be distinguished from the most beautiful women and were just as likely to rob a sailor as look at him. So, unless you wanted trouble, it was best to stay away from Boogie Street.

So, when we pulled into Singapore, especially after I stood up for him and knowing his inclination for trouble, I asked Manny to stick with me over the five days we would be there. I planned on a few afternoons and evenings in Singapore sightseeing and perhaps a couple of nights of dinners and drinks at a couple of nightclubs with friends, and souvenir shopping; a nice, safe agenda. He declined my offer. On the morning of our fourth day, the Singapore police brought Manny to the ship. He had dried scabs of blood on his eyebrows and chin and a black eye; he had lost his uniform shirt and hat as well as his wallet and I.D. card. The police informed our Captain to leave Singapore a day early to prevent "anymore trouble." Ouch! For a ship to be asked to leave a port was bad news. It would be reported to the Squadron Commodore and on up the chain to the Commander of the Pacific Fleet. It was a bad mark on our skipper's record. Manny had gone to Boogie Street. "Senior Chief!" he complained, "They looked like women!" "You were warned about that, Manny." was all I said. I was pissed, and very disappointed. Later, I stood silent with Manny at his Captain's Mast, the Navy's non-judicial punishment venue. He was reduced in rank to Seaman and restricted to ship for the next fourteen days of port visits, which meant he would miss going ashore in Australia and Iran. It would be at least two more years before he could take the third-class exam, again, to regain his rank.

Senior Chief Bolin felt vindicated, "I told you so," he said, but those who knew Manny, and what he could and could not do, knew Bolin was wrong. Manny continued to be the best at what he could do on ship, and the worst at controlling himself in the ports the ship visited. As for Bolin and I, it was on to Bolin's next brain fart.

From: Command Senior Chief
To: Executive Officer and all Departmental Chiefs
Subject: Departmental/Divisional Competition Program
Executive Summary: This proposes a competition between departments and divisions that maintain crew quarters with the overall objective to improve cleanliness and maintenance standards in crew quarters and to determine the best maintained quarters each month. Inspections will be held weekly, graded for cleanliness, neatness and comfort and the monthly winning department or division will receive extra time off and other awards as available... blah, blah, blah.
Signed//Senior Chief Bolin//


What a bunch of bullshit! It was a twenty-page, hand written document that ended up in my in-basket from the XO with a note "to type it up for his approval." More bullshit! As if we in Supply didn't already have enough to do! Besides, Bolin had people in his department who could have typed it. And, Bolin had it all perfectly mapped out; down to the number of demerits for dirty or unpolished decks, rumpled bunks, stains, clutter, mislaid uniform items, and on and on, minutia ad nausea. Included was that Chiefs would be restricted on how much "time-off" they could dole out to their own departments because the losers were not allowed more time-off than the winners. Bullshit! There were dozens of other good reasons for giving a guy a half-day off here and there that a Chief should be allowed to do; from personal necessity to jobs well done that had nothing to do with cleaning a crew's quarter to passing important major inspections that showed excellence and mission achievement. And then, to top it all off during a time when the Navy's policy was to reduce the number of inane inspections, Bolin proposed that crew quarter inspections be increased to once per week instead of once per month. Bullshit! As I read it, I was keenly aware of Bolin's skill at the Supreme Art throughout the document; the logic was undeniable, the reasoning and explanation perfect. It was something that any propagandist or car salesman would love, and the XO bought it hook, line and sinker. I set about to fight the proposal with all of the Supreme Art skills I could muster.

From: Senior Chief Clark
To: Executive Officer
Subject: Departmental/Divisional Cooperation Program
Executive Summary: This proposes a cooperation among the departments and divisions with the primary aim to improve the cleanliness and maintenance of crew quarters and to eventually reduce the need for frequent inspections, following current Navy policy. Inspections will be held monthly by a lead inspector and the lead crew quarter's cleaner from each crew compartment and each compartment will be graded for cleanliness, comfort, clutter, etc., with the objective to encourage that each lead cleaner implement lessons learned on the best practices for crew quarter maintenance. Graded results over time will show areas of improvement and areas needing more emphasis, thereby enabling planned and focused maintenance.
Signed//Senior Chief Clark//


It was a fifteen-page, typed document for the XO's approval, using the grading scheme Bolin proposed. It was beautifully written, with my best Supreme Art skills, and it elevated the argument to heights even Bolin did not anticipate. Beautiful!! The XO immediately saw that "cooperation," even though it was bullshit, since it would not change the habits of anyone on board, and neither would Bolin's plan, was a thousand times more aesthetically pleasing to the ear than "competition." It was a master piece. The XO approved mine, and returned Bolin's to Bolin. He was infuriated. He threw my plan across the Chief Quarters, cursing it as rubbish. It, nevertheless, prevailed and we followed it until we fell back into our old habits and forgot about it. The truth was that each Chief knew perfectly well how to maintain a crew compartment and were willing and able to do it without a command-approved plan that was, in fact, nonsense.

It was around this time that Bolin began to notice the peculiar smell in the Chief Quarters. I guess we had gradually grown accustomed to it, but we noticed it too when he brought it up. The guy who cleaned our quarters for us (we, of course, would not stoop so low as to clean our own quarters), mentioned that he had noticed it on his first day. "Nearly knocked me over," he said. So, we began searching out the smell. All of us hung our dirty laundry on our lockers, in a netted laundry bag outside of the locker, hanging in the isles between the lockers where we walked. Bolin made the rounds, sniffing at each bag. He stopped at mine, "this one smells the worst," he announced, "and Chief Boman's is a close second." Soon, all of us were sniffing laundry bags and it seemed to me that the overall democratic opinion was that no bag smelled better or worse than any other bag. They all stank! We were soon looking into what might cause all of our bags to stink and we finally discovered that it was our socks; black, nylon navy issue socks, the worst socks in the world as far as I was concerned. Taking our investigation a step farther, we concluded that our feet sweat too much because of our shoes. Most of us wore florsheim shoes, a plastic-like shoe that saved us a lot of time spit-shinning and polishing, but that were so air-tight they did not allow the feet to breath. Our feet stank, except for the two or three Chiefs who paid more for the popular Tom McCann boots.

The problem was solved. All of us promised to buy the boots and better socks and to wash our feet. Bolin's feet smelled just as bad as mine did, he finally admitted. We moved on to other things. I don't recall anymore contests with Bolin. I think we made our peace.

As I recall five of us among the eighteen or twenty chiefs on the Lockwood wore Golden Chevrons. Gold signified a clean, unblemished record, one chevron for four years of good conduct. It meant that we had never been charged or convicted in either NJP (non-judicial punishment) or a courts martial. We had the highest performance evaluations and we generally were thought to out-perform our peers. All of the other chiefs wore red chevrons, which meant that they had experienced some problem or another during their navy careers and their performance was only better than average. In other words, they weren't perfect and some could have been worse than Manny. The truth was, however, that we who wore gold were just lucky. I'd bet my last dollar that every one of them was just like me, lucky. I had talked my way out of a number of bad circumstances when I was a younger sailor, circumstances that could have led to red chevrons and I had managed to convince my bosses that I was good when in fact I was probably no better than average. The truth was that I was adept at the Supreme Art, and there is no better place to learn it than in the Navy. So was Bolin. I never asked, but I'm convinced that he bullshitted his way out of predicaments in his career too.

One of my last acts on the Lockwood was a letter that I had the XO sign, approving:

From: Executive Officer
To: Senior Chief Bolin
Order: Wash your feet daily.
Signed//Executive Officer//


I still laugh about that. I wonder if I should have received the trophy for the best Supreme Artist?

Dave

The Tragedy of Johannes Mehserle and Oscar Grant - A Shot Heard Around the Bay

Today, Johannes Mehserle is released on parole from prison after less than a year of imprisonment. He shot Oscar Grant, a black twenty-two year old unarmed train passenger, in the back, killing him, on News Years Day, 2009, in a Bay Area Rapid Transit (B.A.R.T) train car. Mehserle was a B.A.R.T. policeman. Even with a number of cellphone videos of the event, there are arguments about what really happened. This video-news report by Channel 2 T. V. is one of the better reports on the event. Watch closely and you can see Mehserle stand up, remove his pistol and shoot, and the other B.A.R.T. police standing up, appearing to be surprised. Mehserle later claimed that he thought he was grabbing his Taser, but it appears that even a Taser wasn't really needed. Grant was down, laying flat on the floor, his hands behind his back and under the control of at least four policemen. Grant's two friends were watching, not interfering. So, how and why did this happen?

The claims, shouted from all directions, range from racist cops and police brutality to uncontrolled and excessive use of force to lack of training. Street demonstrations in Oakland's streets turned into destructive riots. There is another demonstration planned today on Mehserle's release, after serving only eleven months of a two-year sentence. I understand the frustration and belief that justice was not served when a guy who shoots and kills another person receives only a two-year sentence for the deed and then gets out after serving only eleven months. I see that point of view, but I can't say that justice was not served in regards to Mehserle in this case, or that Mehserle was the real culprit in the shooting. After all is said and done, after two years of reading investigative reports about the case and watching news reports of investigations, I think Mehserle may have been just as much a victim as Grant was. He was caught in the center of mismanagement and bad policy, procedure and training. Here's why I say that.

One aspect of the case included an investigation into B.A.R.T., its management and its police. Its management is accomplished by a nine-member board of directors elected by the citizens living in the Bay Area. These nine approve and set policy, establish procedures and budgets, including police manpower and training budgets. B.A.R.T. is consistently in debt. Watching the public hearings and director meetings, it doesn't take long to notice that the qualifications of people elected to positions of management are dubious at best. Voters simply don't know the qualifications of the people they vote for and it was glaringly obvious in B.A.R.T.'s case. For example, the board listened to, and agreed with, the B.A.R.T.'s Police Chief's claim "that his police were trained and qualified higher than California standards...." That seemed to satisfy the board. Really? Later testimony didn't satisfy me. Maybe I'm just a hard-headed skeptic.

According to reports, Mehserle had six hours of Taser training, including how not to confuse his Taser with his gun. I need to emphasize the length - six hours. One of the best police training regimens in California is the Highway Patrol Academy - 27 weeks of intense, 24/7 training including days and days of use of deadly force. Deadly force includes the use of guns and Tasers. That simple comparison is alarming to me. Six hours of training doesn't give me a rosy feeling about his qualifications to use a Taser, or even a gun for that matter, or to be able to tell them apart in a high-stress situation.

A lot of people scoff at the idea that training, or the lack of it, actually causes tragedies like Grant's, but I don't. If police training is anything like military training, then police training will save both police and civilian lives. The only other qualification Mehserle needed to become a B.A.R.T. police was 36 hours of accredited college. As I understand, all other training he received was specific to his assignment, such as pistol qualifications, jurisdiction laws, extent of authority, etc. That really doesn't tell me how many hours, days or weeks he drilled, practiced and tested his abilities or even passed exams that qualified him to be a police officer. Training for high-stress situations involves a lot of drilling and practice. The intent of training for conflict that police might face is to develop an automatic reaction and response that overrides human instinct, the instinct of survival. Instinct isn't a reliable survival technique. In fact, instinct is more likely to be an instinct to run rather than stay the course. It could also be instinct that causes some to rush into dangerous situations when more evaluation is called for. Both cases could be disastrous for the greater good.

So, I'm not impressed with Mehserle's training. I don't think he was trained to handle a high-stress situation. Mehserle said that he had "a feeling of being out numbered, overwhelmed by Grant and his friends," yet there were four policemen and only three suspects, including Grant, and Grant voluntarily lay on the floor when asked to and the other two were simply watching events unfold and not interfering. Mehserle's comment is a clear sign to me that Mehserle was panicking; his emotions were out of control and his imagination was too active. His animal instinct was paramount and in control. He was on the verge of either running or rushing in. Adrenaline had taken over. He rushed in. He wasn't thinking or evaluating. He was not seeing what was actually happening nor did he have the developed automatic responses necessary for the task.

All of that said, there was a glaring omission in all of the reports and investigations into this case, a question I didn't hear: Just how, in God's name, did the B.A.R.T. come to have a police force in the first place? Did not a single reporter or investigator think to ask that question? B.A.R.T. is a transit company. It is not a city, a county, a state or federal government, yet the B.A.R.T. police have state-wide authority to arrest, detain and act with the authority of police anywhere and anytime. Its claimed jurisdiction is limited to the trains, yet it has police cars that cruise the local communities and, from what I understand, respond to local city and county police calls. A B.A.R.T. policeman transits through the cities and counties in the Bay area without limits. Their authority appears to be limitless while their training is limited. Then, to top it all, B.A.R.T. has been running a consistent debt for years, relying on sales tax bailout year after year. It has accumulated nearly $40 million in debt and half of SamTrans sales tax revenue, around $80 million, goes to servicing the B.A.R.T. debt, paying the interest. I simply don't get the idea that B.A.R.T. needs its own police force. Nor can it afford a police force. Oakland and Alameda County can respond to incidents on B.A.R.T. trains in their areas. So can any other city or county in the area.

Maybe more answers will come out of the $24 million lawsuit filed by Grant's family. I hope it does. Personally, the lawsuit is where I think justice lies. I don't think imprisoning Mehserle will bring justice, for Grant's family or Mehserle. He will have to live with his own conscience. I think that will devastate him, probably for a lifetime.

Dave

Okay, Let's Take Her Down

This kind of Republican political bullshit ticks me off. I happen to believe that the Republicans are so far removed from reality that they are preposterous. They've blocked every plan for the recovery of America. They've spent an inordinate amount of time on the most trivial pursuits in Congress after they gained the majority in the House. They have done and are doing everything they can to make sure Obama fails and they appear to be winning. They do everything they can to cause undeserved criticism of the Obama administration, and they're winning at that too. They constantly extort their philosophy by deceptive methods, twist or misrepresent the truth and any other means to delude the people. And so it seems that we are headed for a time of severe austerity when we should be stimulating the economy, investing in America, and gradually working into the plan of more austere debt reducing policies. They remain unconvinced of their own misguided ideas and are more than willing to sink their own country for their own selfish reasons. So, go ahead with Walker, Daniels, Christie, Perry, Bachmann, Palin, Romney, Huckabee and your other heroes who are more than willing to have other, usually poorer, people pay to benefit themselves. Let's see what happens.

The people, it seems, are like drug addicts and they are ignoring the doctor's warnings, such as the warning against short-term extreme Republican austerity policies that Ben Bernanke gave in his speech on June 7th.

Okay. Since an addict will not learn or change their ways until they hit absolute bottom, let's do it. Go ahead and vote your guys in and let's test their theories to the bottom. Perhaps that will be the end of them and the nonsense when, I hope, everyone wakes up, finally, once and for all, and learns that we cannot put a self-regulated economic system above human needs, desires and rights. Perhaps, I hope, people will actually learn that not investing in their own country is actually a bullet in the head. Let's do it. It's the only way to the truth.

Personally, I can do a third-rate developing country. I can hack being poorer, no healthcare, no military pension (even though YOU promised) and begging on the street. So can my kids, although I wish they didn't have to go there. I'll live through the worst of times, God willing. It will be heart breaking, but I can watch my brother, sister, nieces and nephews and their families go through bad times when I'm unable to help. The pain inflicted will last fifty years or more, but I can hack it during my short stay here.

But, while I'm here, KNOW that I'll know WHO did it and I'll be in your face and I won't be your friend and I won't be quiet.

Dave

Expectation - The Dawn Ritual

It was a solicitor who knocked on our door yesterday that got me to thinking. She wanted a donation for a charity to clean up a huge area of the ocean where currents have brought together tons of trash stretching for miles, floating on the surface. Plastic bags and bottles, fishing lines and hooks and fishing nets for as far as the eyes can see. As far as I'm concerned, cleaning up the mess should not depend on charity. It should depend on taxes and nations should be responsible and pay the bill and to come together and send fleets of ships to clean it up. I have reason to say that...

There was always a day at sea that occurred occasionally that I considered perfect. And, had I thought about it, I might have been able to keep a record to figure out if those days came at scheduled intervals, just in time to sooth the soul. Maybe they did. But, I didn't notice. I did, however, notice that those were special days.

On those days I awoke early, like I always did, around four-thirty, showered and dressed by four-forty-five, and made my way to the galley for coffee. On those days I could walk down the passageway without bracing for the side-to-side rolling motion. I could hardly feel the ship moving at all. It felt like walking on solid, unmoving ground. There was a slight vibration from the ship's engines. Sometimes I could feel the power of the propeller pushing against the water without the slightest hesitation or interruption or shudder, unlike other days. Just a solid, continuous, harmonious push. On those days I felt a small serge of anticipation about what I would see from the main deck. I anticipated a perfect day.

Sometimes by the time I started my walk to the mess hall, I could hear others rising for the day. They, like I, knew from an inner feeling and the absence of swaying motion that the day was special. Someone would yell out, "rise and shine!" or "What are you doing? Sleeping your life away?" The few early risers gave no quarter to those night-owls who stayed up late and wanted to sleep in for just one more hour. The reply was usually, "shut the fuck up!" I heard the curse word and would think, "not today. That word is inappropriate today."

I would arrive at the galley as the coffee was in its last few perks, the color in the sight-glass perfectly dark brown to suggest better-than-usual cup coffee. It was always good coffee, but on those days it was great coffee. The cooks were already up and preparing for breakfast. The mess hall floor was littered with empty cardboard boxes just unpacked for the morning meal. Chute would be placing food on the serving counter or stirring the shit-on-the-shingle, a creamy gravy with either chipped beef or sausage, one of my favorites, or stacking the cartons of eggs beside the grill. The grill was getting hot. Someone stacked the bread next to the toaster. I picked up a few slices as I passed by. Someone else was gathering up the cardboard boxes, folding and bundling them up for trash storage for disposal at the next port. We didn't toss them overboard.

As soon as I entered the galley I'd hear Chute yell out to another cook or some guy on mess duty, "Check the milk dispenser. Set it to thirty-six degrees. I don't want to hear Clark bitch about warm milk!" He said that every morning after we became friends, and we may have became friends because of warm milk. I can't drink warm milk. In fact, I won't drink milk unless it nearly freezes my throat as it goes down and there was a time when I told Chute every chance I got that he didn't know shit about keeping milk cold. I'm sure he got tired of hearing it. "We keep it at forty degrees," he'd say. "Shit," I'd say, "that's warm." He finally turned the thermostat down and the entire crew started drinking more milk.

Those days were the reason I used a small thermos instead of using an even smaller galley cup. I didn't want to run out of coffee. I didn't want to miss the morning by having to return to refill my cup every fifteen minutes. I filled the thermos and made my way to the main deck and to a spot about one-quarter of the way down the rail from the bow, port or starboard, whichever was facing East, if at all possible. Robby, a Gunner's Mate friend, may already be there or he may be a few minutes behind me. He knew the spot too. It could have been that I learned the spot from him or perhaps he learned it from me, but we both knew where to stand. It was quieter at that spot than anyplace else. It was a point we studied and thought about. We leaned against the rail and waited, drinking our coffee and saying nothing.

Usually it was totally dark when we got there. There was just a slight shimmer, a bright thin line, on the perfect eastern horizon that told us that the Sun was coming. There was not a single sign of phosphorous light from an ocean wave, except sometimes something shot out of the water alongside the ship and quickly dove back in, causing a phosphorescent splash. Dolphins, we knew, were tracking beside us, out-pacing the ship, playing a game with us, but we couldn't see them yet. They were perfectly camouflaged in the dark, black water. Our engines were cruising nearly noiselessly. We could hear the splash of the Dolphins. We could, on some days, hear a flutter of wings, a different kind of wings than those of feather, and we saw the white phosphorous spot where something else popped out of the water. We couldn't see where it dove back into the water. These were flying fish, we knew, that rose out of the water and flew a hundred yards ahead of us, but we couldn't see them either. At least not yet. Even our ship cutting through the water caused so little disturbance in the water as to make a sound, nor could we see any sign of phosphorescent disturbance at the waterline. In spite riding on a machine that should have been making a noise, it was eerily quiet. We almost heard the Sun rising and the ocean waiting. Usually, as we drank our coffee and waited, we wondered at the power of nature that could muffle all sound as it waited for the day.

Finally the Sun would make its appearance, the dawn began to make things visible. We could see the Dolphins playing, rising to the surface, jumping and diving, and seemingly pausing to look at us standing against the rail. The flying fish breached the surface and flew farther than they did on other days. Sometimes we saw pods of killer whales farther away jumping and diving like the Dolphins. Perhaps they were following the Dolphins. Perhaps the Dolphins were close to us because the killer whales would not come closer. We sometimes saw whales breach the water and they too seemed to look at us. Once we saw a water spout and Robby and I were surprised at that sight. "How could that happen?" one of us asked, I don't recall which, on a day when there were no clouds in the sky and no apparent wind blowing and not the slightest wave on the ocean? As far as I know, it takes the same weather disturbance to create a water spout as it does a tornado, yet they appeared on the calmest day at sea. Perhaps sometimes for reasons that are beyond my understanding water can behave like dust in a dust-devil and rise and swirl around in gusts of invisible and isolated pockets of wind. Some people prefer sunrises that reflect on clouds in radiant reds, but there is no denying the beauty of a blazing sunrise in a cloudless sky over the calmest sea. In fact, the sense of power one gets from the ocean on its quietest day is greater than when it is most turbulent.

On those days the ocean was so smooth that we couldn't see even a hint of a swell. The questions in our minds was always the same, "How can the ocean be so large and this smooth? This glassy? Not a single ripple on the surface?" The Sun's reflection off the water was just as bright and blazing as the Sun itself and we couldn't look directly at either the Sun or the reflection. We watched the Dolphins or flying fish instead. Soon, a few gulls would come to fly a few feet away, intentionally picking the spot where we stood, nearly flying in formation and keeping post with us. We broke off pieces of the bread we brought from the galley and tossed them into the air and they, with perfect precision, like a jet fighter peeling off for a dive, dove and caught the pieces in mid-air. One of us usually ask, "What are these seagulls doing way out here?" or "Where do you think they sleep?" We were frequently several thousand miles from land, yet those gulls would be there. The simpleness of our questions masked a deeper feeling of awe.

Chute, on a break, would join us at around five, also carrying a cup of coffee and a few slices of bread for the gulls. He said the same thing every time on those days, "what a nice day! This is what I wait for." It was better than nice. It was perfect. Then, the three of us would toss bread to the gulls and watch the Dolphins in silence for thirty more minutes before going below to the galley for breakfast. For unexplainable reasons, we were hungrier and the eggs tasted better and the bacon crisper and Chute was a better cook than usual on those days. Robby wondered out loud if he could find some reason, an excuse, to work outside. Maybe a gun needed painting or lubricating or perhaps brass needed shining; things that Robby didn't usually do at his rank. Chute and I, who worked below decks, would find more excuses to go outside today. In fact, I noticed that on those days, there seemed to be more of the crew outside than on other days and, if you were observant, you could catch them gazing out over the ocean in a kind of daze or dream.

Robby, Chute and I were not always on the same ship together, but I believe we always attended the dawn ritual together. They, like me, wouldn't have missed those for the world. They were enchanting and addictive.

If I thought that I could see a sunrise like that, an ocean that calm and toss bread to gulls and watch dolphins play on a day during a five-day cruise to Mexico, I would book the cruise today. Earth can put on unimaginable displays of power, beauty and mystery and sometimes we should simply stand in silent reverence. Maybe the rest of the time we should do what it expects of us - take care of it.

Dave

The Prescription - I should have asked

I don't know why this stuff only happens to me. Why me, Lord? I've asked that question at one time or another my entire life. But, there you go, it happened again, this time by means of an unsightly growth, a nice word for a wart, in a most inconvenient place. If it had been in any other out-of-sight place, I wouldn't have bothered with it at all. But, it wasn't and that is my lot in life. I'm different. Things happen to me that are just barely slightly different than the same thing happening to other people. If another person had acquired an unsightly growth similar to mine, it would have been in a place just slightly off of center, perhaps only an eighth of an inch, so as not to be an irritant or noticeable at all.

Take splinters, for example. Other people get splinters just like I do, but I firmly believe that their splinters are different than mine. Mine always happen in the most inconvenient places. If I get a splinter in my thumb, I get it at the very exact spot that I continue to irritate until I take the time to dig it out, and even when I gather up the tools, the tweezers and magnifying glass to dig it out, I need help holding the glass, the tweezers and my thumb, all at the same time, at the right angle to perform the operation. And you would be surprised at how those people who happen to be available to help suddenly become so uncoordinated that they can't hold a magnifying glass at the angle needed! These things don't happen to other people. I'm convinced of that.

I went to the doctor several years ago to have the unsightly growth, okay - wart, removed. I was referred to a dermatologist who said, "Oh no! We can't remove that! That will bleed!" First off, I have to ask who in hell "we" are? Maybe he had a mouse in his pocket. It was only him and I in the room. In hindsight, I now believe that he was an overly excitable kind of person who couldn't stand the sight of blood, but I didn't insist on it being removed at the time. Also in hindsight, I have to ask myself why a person who can't stand the sight of blood became a dermatologist? But, you see? That's my lot. Out of all of the dermatologist in the world, I get the only one who faints at the sight of blood! That's what I'm talking about. If any other person had been there, they would have walked out of the hospital that day minus one unsightly growth! Whatever. So, after several years of sitting on it, I finally irritated the spot enough to inflame the area to the point of slight bleeding, and to bother the hell out of me, that I once again made an appointment to have it removed. This time, I was going to insist that I be treated just like all other patients. I was not going to be discriminated against!

I went to the appointment in somewhat of a grumpy mood, already prepared in my mind to be obstinate. My doctor said, "oh yeah. That's inflamed. Let me call a dermatologist." Five minutes later a very good looking dermatologist entered the room with her very good looking medical assistant. What? I thought. This too can only happen to me. Not only do I have to remove my drawers for a doctor, I have to remove them for a crowd! Two of which are good looking women! "Bend over," my doctor said, "they've seen behinds before."

"Oh yeah," the good looking dermatologist said, "I'll biopsy that." Notice that she didn't say "remove" it? That's just one more example of discrimination as far as I'm concerned, using a language or terminology that is vague or not understood by normal people. Just what did she mean by "biopsy?" So, I dressed and made my way to her clinic and then to an exam room where I once again removed my pants. According to her assistant, who came in to prepare me, a biopsy would remove "just a small slice" of the growth. "No," I told her, "I want the whole thing removed." "Well," she said, "we'll have to wait to see what the doctor says." Well, that statement, and all of my past discriminatory experience, sort of welled up inside of me to the point that I decided that I was going to be downright rude about the whole thing if I needed to be. At that point, I didn't give a damn what the doctor would say and I was going to say so.

But, I needn't have worried. The doctor said, after I asked her specifically what she meant, that the whole thing, the entire growth, was the biopsy. She was slicing it off at the skin level. And she did. I guess I was mollified by that fact that things, something, was finally going my way, the way I imagined that other people experienced; a happy ending. I really didn't notice or question the prescription she wrote out. "It's for a rash," she said, "around the area of the wound." "Okay," I said, a docile sheep following instructions from the most trusted profession in the world. Who do we trust the most? A doctor, of course.

It really didn't dawn on me what I felt about rashes. Frankly, I don't give them much thought. If I do anything at all, I'll get some over-the-counter cream or ointment and try to take care of it myself, such as Hydrocortisone 0.05% for dry skin. I've used that stuff frequently in the winter. So, I'll take care of it much like I take care of other ailments; if it gets to the point where it seems serious, I'll go to the doctor. Otherwise, I'll handle it. But, I trust doctors, so I accepted the prescription for Desonide Ointment 0.05% without question. I should have been alerted to a problem when this particular ointment required me to get advice from a pharmacist. How many ointments require a pharmacist's advice? "Don't put it on your eyelids," she said, "or your mouth or nose. It's intended to be used on other areas of your face." "Well," I said, "this is intended for the opposite end," in a smart-ass, joking sort of way. I should have noticed the shocked look on her face, but I didn't. Her look should have been a clue that I didn't need this particular ointment. My self-medicating history with minor ailments such as rashes should have come to mind, but it didn't. "Oh," she said, and she didn't say anything else, seemingly cutting her normal advice short.

So, I paid my share, $15 as I recall, and walked away with the tube of ointment. I put it on the counter when I got home and it's lain there since, unopened and unused. What really got me, though, was that I noticed on the receipt that I had only $232 balance left, after this prescription, on my Medicare Part D plan. What!? That lead me to ask myself just how much did this stuff cost, anyway? Well, if I paid 20%, then the whole thing cost $75. That's outrageous! That shock lead me to researching it further. The next thing I noticed was where it was made. We in the U. S. make a big deal, in fact it is illegal thanks to the Republican Congress and the Bush Administration, about getting cheap drugs from Canadian pharmacies. So, where is it made? Brampton, Ontario, Canada! And, it is distributed by the same company from Hawthorne, NY. I found a Canadian pharmacy that charges $8.79 for it! Well, sensing a conspiracy of some magnitude, and further evidence of the outright discrimination directed entirely at me, I set out to find what it is used for, and an even a bigger shock! It's used for DANDRUFF! DRY SKIN! The exact same thing that I use Hydrocortisone 0.05% at one-twentieth the cost. For crying out loud! By that time I had figured out that I had been scammed. I needed this stuff like I needed another hole in the head! Nevertheless, I had accepted it in total faith. I immediately went into a depression of that "I never learn" kind.

You know? I already use a dandruff shampoo, and it works pretty good. I don't have a single flake of dandruff on my shoulders. In fact, my barber, who I'm beginning to think knows more than my doctor, has told me that my shampoo is pretty strong and that I shouldn't use it more than once every two days. That statement meant to me that something that strong should be as good as Desonide Ointment 0.05%. And, so two weeks have passed and I've concluded that, had I been a touch more quick witted, I would have deduced relatively quickly that all you need to treat an inconvenient area of dandruff rash after a growth is removed is Selsun Blue shampoo. And, applying shampoo is a hell of a lot easier than the contortions needed to apply an ointment in that particular location, especially when trying to judge left from right through a mirror from a bent-over position that makes everything upside down. In fact, my contortionist days are long past. I can no longer turn myself into a pretzel. I'm taking the ointment back. I have other more important prescriptions to charge against my Medicare Part D plan.

Dave

This Book Explains It

In my quest for the answer to my primary question, "Why?", David Brooks' book, "The Social Animal: The Hidden Sources of Love, Character and Achievement" says a lot. In fact, it explains the "why" to a lot of questions. Why do people believe what they believe? Why do people make the choices they make? Why do people follow an obviously faulty ideology? Why do people repeat failure? Why do they choose against their own best interests? Why are people easily led by blatant propaganda? Why isn't it obvious to everyone without exception? Brooks provides an answer, and it makes sense.

When I opened the book to the first page, I immediately formed a big question in my mind: How did Brooks get on this wagon? How did he come to write "this" book? The subject of the book is about as far from his central endeavor as you can get! He is a commentator and writer about politics and policy, not a writer about psychology, neurology and physiology or how the brain works. He's a conservative writer and commentator, but with his book, he is saying that he is not blindly following conservative ideology. He's saying that he's more than willing to find a middle ground that works for all. He's interested in the same question I have: Why? That's an important distinction.

The book is about how the brain works, how we learn, how we love, why we choose what we choose and what makes us who we are. It's about the unconscious and conscious minds and what each do. And, it makes perfect sense. Contrary to what we've been taught for at least my lifetime, the unconscious mind is not a repository of repressed sexual desires where we live Freudian dreams and hate our mother. It is instead a center of innovation, of knowledge and miraculous invention and automatic learned reaction to the outside world. Contrary to what we've been taught, the conscious mind is not in control or the center of our knowledge as we all like to think. In fact, if we rely on conscious thought, we are more likely to not know what we do and why we do it. Wow! I repeat, it makes perfect sense.

One evening about fifteen or twenty years ago we were invited to dinner at Monica's and George's, two good friends, with two other "cousins" of the family. George, Russ and I were sort of extended family, attending only through our relations to the four women cousins. One of the cousins was a teacher, and the subject came up of the so-called "new" thought at the time on teaching kids. The idea being passed around by educators was to reinvent education, and thereby improve or enhance our children's ability to enter the world of adulthood, by somehow teaching them "how to think for themselves." It was all very vague to me, but the teacher cousin seemed to understand the teaching method being sold. But, one thing bothered me, and it started an argument at the dinner table.

"Learning by rote is out," she said. "Oh no!" I said, and the argument was on. At the time I was around forty-five and it had been my experience that how good I was at all of the jobs I had had up to that point solely depended on how well I learned those jobs by rote, by constantly repeating aspects of the job. As a career Navy person, I don't recall a single duty that I did well except through repeated drills and practice until my own performance was automatic. Repeated drills and practice was our gospel. And, there was nothing more satisfying than being on a well organized and functioning battle ship fine tuned through repeated drills. When we hit our targets at ninety-five percent or better, we were happy. When we steamed into hostile situations knowing we would win, we were happy. When we earned that Battle "E" for Battle Efficiency, we were happy and proud, and we sailed into harbors with that Battle "E" painted on our stack and we lined the deck in our dress uniforms! We looked good! We WERE good! And we knew it! We knew we could take on any situation and win. We worked hard and we played hard and we won. There was nothing better. The same was true of jobs I held after the Navy. I don't care where you work, you won't learn your job through theory. You learn it by doing it over and over again. So, she was wrong, and I knew it, but I didn't know why she was wrong and why I was right. Nevertheless, the new method was the one propagated and schools began to use it to teach their students.

Looking around now days, I don't see much improvement in our education system. In fact, the new method appears to have been a disaster and if any of those students who learned under the new methods achieved anything at all, it does not appear to because of the education system. We are on our way, again, of thinking up something new to teach children; this time with charter schools that are no different, in essence, than our public schools. We're off on another tangent, and should I mention the Republican gospel, "privatization?" Yep, charter schools is simply another way of privatizing public schools - the same old mantra.

Brooks presents a different idea and brings back an old idea. He cites studies and tests performed by neurologists, psychologists and physiologists over the past forty or fifty years. Usually, a book that cites scientific studies bores me to death, but Brooks weaves those findings into a story about a family and their children as they grow and go through life. He makes it interesting, very interesting. And, on page 86, about 20% of the way into the book, sort of hidden and obscure, not highlighted in bold print, he makes a profound statement about the brain: "The human brain is built to take conscious knowledge and turn it into unconscious knowledge." Wow! That ought to be in big bold letters! He goes on, "The first time you drive a car," he says, "you have to think about every move. But after a few months or years, driving is done almost automatically. Learning consists of taking things that are strange and unnatural, such as reading and algebra, and absorbing them so steadily that they become automatic. That frees up the conscious mind to work on new things. Alfred North Whitehead saw this learning process as a principle of progress: 'Civilization advances by extending the number of operations which we can perform without thinking about them.'" Well, he's right. He's talking about "repetitive" learning, learning things by rote. He's talking about learning until it becomes automatic so we can move on to new things.

I know why Brooks took the path that eventually became this book. He was curious. He wanted to know why the political divide in this country and why so many people have been convinced to follow people like Sarah Palin, who he calls a "cancer" and a "joke" in the Republican Party, or Glenn Beck, who is absolutely bonkers. The book was an accident, and he says as much in the first few pages of the book. He didn't start out to write the book.

The book explains a lot. Why do people get so infatuated with Fox News and Bill O'Rielly or Glenn Beck or Rush Limbaugh to the point that they close their minds to any other idea or source of information that prove them wrong? Even to the point of denying facts that prove O'Rielly, Beck and Limbaugh to be outrageous liars and rumor mongers in many cases? Why are they so convinced that Obama was not born in the United States, even in the face of a legitimate birth certificate? Why do they call him a socialist when the facts and his own behavior show that he's an ardent capitalist? Why do they get on the band wagon of hating a Muslim Mosque, an absolute anti-Constitutional stance, when there is absolutely no evidence supporting their hatred? In fact, the hatred stemmed from the rumor-mongering-spreading, mostly over Fox Cable, of a loony conspiracy theory. How does that happen? And, by the way, why don't people know what is REALLY in the Constitution? People who repeatedly misquote and misinterpret it? Where in hell did Michele Bachmann go to school? Or, did she? She's crazy and ignorant in nearly 100% of what she says!

And then there is another question. How or why did we come to believe that capitalism is the God send to our salvation? That laissez-faire is our end-all, best for all of us, the greatest thing since apple pie for our society? The answer to all of these questions is "repetitive" learning. Propaganda, repeated over and over, through the media until we are unable to see better solutions or even the truth for ourselves. We begin to believe in myth. The fact is that capitalism is a very vicious and ruthless endeavor when it is left to its own development and unregulated. Companies do not have a conscience. In fact, psychoanalysts have analyzed company behavior to be very similar to psychotic sociopath behavior. They have no pity, empathy or sympathy. They don't care if their presence destroys a community, town or city. There is only one thing that's important to a company: profit. And, to make the profit, a company will buy and close another company, costing millions of jobs. It will exploit land and externalize costs for taxpayers to pay, such as environmental cleanup costs. They will seek out cheap labor overseas, and destroy the community they are located in. In San Francisco, Twitter blackmailed the city to accept a condition for it staying in the city only if it didn't have to pay city taxes. The San Francisco Council caved in, so Twitter is staying, working, growing, making money without having to support the community it is in by paying taxes. What a bunch of nonsense! Someone else has to pay for the streets and sidewalks, public parking, traffic control, water system, sewage system and all of the rest of the infrastructure that Twitter uses to make its executives filthy rich.

The fact is that capitalism, just like any other economic system, needs to be controlled or it will destroy the social fabric we live in. But, we learn by repetition, and we've been convinced, over and over again, and despite historical fact, that there is no other way. So, we vote for it, just like we vote for the demise of Planned Parenthood, which is nothing like the lies about it that are repeated again and again until we believe it. We vote for budget cuts, but not for Defense cuts, because we are repeatedly told to fear for our security. We vote for privatizing Medicare with vouchers, which will be paid for by the government, when in fact privatizing it will make it more costly and in the end be nothing more than handing over Medicare to a private company. We vote for tax cuts for the rich because we are repeatedly told they "make the jobs," which is not true. We vote for corporate tax cuts while the corporations send jobs out of country, because, we're told repeatedly, that "we," the "United States," must "compete with the world," when the facts show that our standard of living is going down BECAUSE we continue to believe what we are repeatedly told. In fact, taxes that support maintaining and growing our country's infrastructure insures our competitiveness in the world, not our corporate tax rates. Like anything else, including investments by companies themselves; when we invest in ourselves, we grow and prosper.

We need to relearn a few things. It's time we rebelled against the bill of goods we're being fed. Brooks is brilliant in this book and it is so well written, at least for the first 86 pages, that anyone can read and understand it. I'll even go one better. If my family and friends sign up for a free Amazon Kindle account, and download and install the free Kindle Reader on their PC or Mac, I'll loan the book to them for free! I think there is a thirty-day limit for book loans, though, so they'll have to read it fast. And I don't know if I can lend it to more than one person at a time. But, that's my offer, limited as it is, and I can do that all the way from California! What a deal!

Every parent raising a child should read this book. Every teacher should read it. Every grandparent babysitting their grandchildren should read it. Every adult contemplating a family should read it. Read it!

One more thing. Repetitive learning IS brainwashing. So, the choice is which brainwashing do we want, the good kind that teaches us facts, truths, how to make intelligent decisions and how to live well? Or, do we want nonsense? And, I have another question, now. Why didn't I already know this? Well, dammit, I was brainwashed! Isn't it obvious?

Dave

The Financial Metldown

Reference: Permanent Subcommittee for Investigations Report: “Wall Street And The Financial Crisis: Anatomy of a Financial Collapse”

The Financial Crisis Timeline:

December 2006: Ownit Mortgage Solutions bankruptcy

February 27, 2007: Freddie Mac announces it will no longer buy the most risky subprime mortgages

March 7, 2007: FDIC issues cease & desist order against Fremont for unsafe and unsound banking

April 2, 2007: New Century bankruptcy

June 17, 2007: Two Bear Stearns subprime hedge funds collapse

July 10 and 12, 2007: Credit rating agencies issue first mass downgrades of hundreds of RMBS and CDO securities

August 6, 2007: American Home Mortgage bankruptcy

August 17, 2007: Federal Reserve: “[M]arket conditions have deteriorated…. downside risks to growth have increased appreciably.”

August 31, 2007: Ameriquest Mortgage ceases operations

December 12, 2007: Federal Reserve establishes Term Auction Facility to provide bank funding secured by collateral

January 2008: ABX Index stops issuing new subprime indices

January 11, 2008: Countrywide announces sale to Bank of America

January 30, 2008: S&P downgrades or places on credit watch over 8,000 RMBS/CDO securities

March 24, 2008: Federal Reserve Bank of New York forms Maiden Lane I to help JPMorgan Chase acquire Bear Stearns

May 29, 2008: Bear Stearns shareholders approve sale

July 11, 2008: IndyMac Bank fails and is seized by FDIC

July 15, 2008: SEC restricts naked short selling of some financial stocks

September 7, 2008: U.S. takes control of Fannie Mae & Freddie Mac

September 15, 2008: Lehman Brothers bankruptcy

September 15, 2008: Merrill Lynch announces sale to Bank of America

September 16, 2008: Federal Reserve offers $85 billion credit line to AIG; Reserve Primary Money Fund NAV falls below $1

September 21, 2008: Goldman Sachs and Morgan Stanley convert to bank holding companies

September 25, 2008: WaMu fails, seized by FDIC, sold to JPMorgan Chase

October 3, 2008: Congress and President Bush establish TARP

October 12, 2008: Wachovia sold to Wells Fargo

October 28, 2008: U.S. uses TARP to buy $125 billion in preferred stock at 9 banks

November 25, 2008: Federal Reserve buys Fannie and Freddie assets

Dave