Obama-scare

You don't have to be too much into the whole reading thing to know that many conservatives are looking forward to the midterm elections. While political forecasters may disagree about the size and scope of the revolt, they all agree that Republicans should see their numbers in Congress increase significantly as a result.

Fine. But something about the hypocrisy in the air is making my soul feel ache-y and feverish.

Moments ago I watched a commercial that featured Roy Blunt saying he wanted to fix Medicare. You know, that government-run health care program for seniors. Blunt, apparently, is not ideologically opposed to Medicare. For if he were, it seems he would want to repeal it. He would say that the government can't run anything and shouldn't be providing socialist entitlement programs when the private sector is perfectly capable of insuring seniors.

Libertarians are often clear and consistent about what they feel the role of government should be. In short, military, cops, and that's about it. Libertarians believe a free market can better provide for many of the things we socialize (education, health care, etc.) and the government's primary role should be to protect individual freedoms (in other words, it shouldn't legislate morality).

I've often romanticized Libertarian philosophy. But ultimately, I believe a government run by elected officials can oversee effective educational and health care systems. Most people, like good ole' Roy, aren't ready to get rid of public schools or Medicare.

And, by the way, fixing Medicare is a good aim. Fixing Social Security is a good aim, too.

With the Obama administration in place since January '09, I've sat back and watched a number of conservatives demonize our president's liberal "agenda." At times, it's been funny to me because I remember well the calls of "Impeach Bush" that seemed so loud just two and three years ago.

Now, as I watch political commercials rail against "Obamacare," and the left's "extreme" vision for America, I can't help but feel sickened.

If you count yourself among the conservatives anxious to vote on Nov. 2, I'd like you to first consider a couple of things. Then, by all means, vote away.

1. A stimulus was needed.

When the economy began to tank in 2008, and the fed cut interest rates next to zero with little effect, pressure for the government to do something became a reality for people of both parties. It's easy for people to forget, but Sen. John McCain's own economic stimulus plan (proposed in Feb. 2009) was $421 billion. Neither political party was suggesting that deficit spending was irresponsible when we were still on the brink of Depression.

By late 2009, many felt Obama's $787 billion stimulus had had at least a stabilizing effect on the economy. Some others felt the stimulus wasn't aggressive enough.

2. Obamacare does not exist.

Democrats in Congress under the guidance of their president had hoped to create a "public option" as part of their plan to insure more Americans and reduce medical expenses in the summer of '09. But, amid talk of death panels and town hall forums gone crazy, Dems abandoned the idea in favor of reforms deemed acceptable by the more conservative members of their party. The result was legislation that featured an expansion of Medicaid and mirrored a conservative alternative to Clinton's universal coverage attempt of the 90s: individual mandates.

The truth is that health care costs in this country have been out of control for years. Clearly, industry reform was a priority for Obama. Was this a bad goal? No way.

3. Bailouts were bipartisan.

I was lucky enough to interview Roy Blunt in 2008 moments after he addressed local citizens' concerns about the TARP legislation (a.k.a. Wall-Street bailout) for which he helped secure votes. In a recent Columbia-Missourian article, Blunt states that the $700 billion measure designed to save troubled banks and financial institutions "may have prevented real economic disaster."

The article points out that while Robin Carnahan supported the stimulus, she opposed the bailout. Blunt, perhaps obviously, hated the stimulus but thought TARP was necessary. Neither have been very popular with voters, and are often listed as reasons for the emergence of the Tea Party.

On Nov. 2, doors to polling places across the nation will open. People will file in, mark this box or that, and collectively, their voices will be heard. It is my hope that they think before they speak.

Album videos

Today I was looking up a video on YouTube when I got another amazing idea that I I can't really profit from in any way...wait a minute...prepare yourselves...okay, you're ready: Album videos. That's right, a video that goes from one song to another in one continuous visual vision.

Ask yourself, how often have I yearned to see a video of a favorite song on a kick-ass album for which no video has been made? Answer: too many times. Well, not anymore thanks to album videos!

For too long thick-headed and cold-hearted record execs have pushed singles and one-song videos. Boo, I say! But now, with album videos, everyone will be happy forever.

But, you point out, there may be a problem if the songs on your favorite artist's album are just too different. And, you add, what if no distributor wants to fund what amounts to an hour-long movie for what's likely to amount to no greater return on investment? To you, I respond as follows: Get off my back! I just wanted to see a video for Kid Cudi's Heart of a Lion. Is that so wrong? "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, Yeah, No, Yeah, Yeah!"

Happy 8th Birthday!

Today, my son Mason turns 8-years-old. He is, without a doubt, the entertainer of our family. If you stick a camera in his face, you'll never know what kind of face you'll get for a shot. Serious, sad, goofy, he seems to have a million poses. While we have never favored him, it always seems that if we are taking pictures at a family outing, we'll end up with more of Mason than anyone else.

One thing that people tend to find out quickly is that Mason loves to have a good time. He has a huge laugh, and quite often, the worse the joke the bigger it is. And like his father, when you catch him in the mood to tell a joke, he has a determination to his delivery that is usually more funny than his material. Mason is the only child of mine known to regularly make up his own jokes.

I've said it before, but Mason is also quite an artist. While he does great work at school, he is also known for many of his off-the-clock pieces. One of the things our family loves are Mason's pictures of Chase drawn in scenes of great peril. We're not sure how this started, but Mason has compiled at least 20 or so drawings of his older brother facing an impressive variety of life-threatening situations. Chase, to his credit, has been a good sport about seeing his likeness falling off a cliff into shark-infested waters or resting on a plate near a hungry lion. Were it another kid, we might be concerned about a violent imagination. But Mason is just a goofball; he cracks up at our reactions.

Over the last couple of years I've also been very happy to see a sensitive and kind Mason emerging. He appears to want to be a good teammate, student, friend, son, and grandson. He is also not afraid of work, and he really seems to be self-motivated. He has what all parents hope to find in their children, a good heart.

Mason loves playing basketball, riding his bike, running fast, watching T.V. and playing with friends. He routinely tells us more about the events of his daily life than we would ever think to ask. And the stories are always very entertaining. We love you, buddy! Happy Birthday!

Reggie, the "Tank"

Alright, so I'm a sucker for a good story. While I normally pride myself as someone who lets e-mail forwards die with me, I recently received one that I thought could make my momma cry, and therefore, deserved to be passed along. Who knows if this is true, and it will take a few minutes, but this one is worth reading. Enjoy.

###
They told me the big black Lab's name was Reggie,
as I looked at him lying in his pen.. The shelter was
clean, no-kill, and the people really friendly.
I'd only been in the area for six months, but everywhere
I went in the small college town, people were welcoming and open.
Everyone waves when you pass them on the street.

But something was still missing as I attempted to
settle in to my new life here, and I thought a dog
couldn't hurt. Give me someone to talk to.
And I had just seen Reggie's advertisement on the local
news. The shelter said they had received numerous
calls right after, but they said the people who had come
down to see him just didn't look like "Lab
people," whatever that meant. They must've thought I did.

But at first, I thought the shelter had misjudged me in giving me Reggie and his things,
which consisted of a dog pad, bag of toys almost all of which were brand new tennis
balls, his dishes, and a sealed letter from his previous owner. See, Reggie and I didn't really hit it off when we got home. We struggled for two weeks (which is how long the shelter told me to give him to adjust to his new home). Maybe it was the fact that I was trying to adjust, too.
Maybe we were too much alike.

For some reason, his stuff (except for the tennis balls --- he wouldn't go anywhere without two stuffed in his mouth) got tossed in with all of my other unpacked boxes.
I guess I didn't really think he'd need all his old stuff, that I'd get him new things once he
settled in. But it became pretty clear pretty soon that he wasn't going to.

I tried the normal commands the shelter told me he knew, ones like "sit" and "stay" and
"come" and "heel," and he'd follow them - when he felt like it.
He never really seemed to listen when I called his name --- sure, he'd look in my
direction after the fourth or fifth time I said it, but then he'd just go back to doing whatever.
When I'd ask again, you could almost see him sigh and then grudgingly obey.

This just wasn't going to work. He chewed a couple shoes and some unpacked boxes.
I was a little too stern with him and he resented it, I could tell.
The friction got so bad that I couldn't wait for the two
weeks to be up, and when it was, I was in full-on search
mode for my cell phone amid all of my unpacked stuff. I
remembered leaving it on the stack of boxes for the guest
room, but I also mumbled, rather cynically, that the
"damn dog probably hid it on me."

Finally I found it, but before I could punch up the
shelter's number, I also found his pad and other toys
from the shelter...I tossed the pad in Reggie's
direction and he snuffed it and wagged, some of the most
enthusiasm I'd seen since bringing him home. But
then I called, "Hey, Reggie, you like that? Come
here and I'll give you a treat." Instead, he sort of glanced
in my direction --- maybe "glared" is more accurate --- and
then gave a discontented sigh and flopped down .... with his back to me.

Well, that's not going to do it either, I thought. And I punched the shelter phone number.

But I hung up when I saw the sealed envelope.
I had completely forgotten about that, too.
"Okay, Reggie," I said out loud,
"let's see if your previous owner has any advice."

____________ _________ _________ _________


To
Whoever Gets My Dog:
Well, I can't say that I'm happy you're reading this, a letter I told the shelter
could only be opened by Reggie's new owner.
I'm not even happy writing it. If you're reading this,
it means I just got back from my last car ride with my Lab
after dropping him off at the shelter.
He knew something was different.
I have packed up his pad and toys before and set them by the back door before a trip,
but this time... it's like he knew something was wrong.
And something is wrong...which is why I have
to go to try to make it right.

So let me tell you about my Lab in the hopes that it
will help you bond with him and he with you.

First, he loves tennis balls.
The more the merrier. Sometimes I think he's part
squirrel, the way he hordes them. He usually always
has two in his mouth, and he tries to get a third in
there. Hasn't done it yet. Doesn't
matter where you throw them, he'll bound after it, so be
careful - really don't do it by any roads. I made
that mistake once, and it almost cost him dearly.

Next, commands. Maybe the shelter staff
already told you, but I'll go over them
again: Reggie knows the obvious ones ---
"sit," "stay," "come," "heel."
He knows hand signals:
"back" to turn around and go back when you put
your hand straight up; and "over" if you put your
hand out right or left. "Shake" for shaking
water off, and "paw" for a high-five. He
does "down" when he feels like lying down --- I bet
you could work on that with him some more. He knows
"ball" and "food" and "bone"
and "treat" like nobody's business.

I trained Reggie with small food treats.
Nothing opens his ears like little pieces of hot dog.

Feeding schedule: twice a day,
once about seven in the morning, and again at six in
the evening. Regular store-bought stuff; the shelter
has the brand.

He's up on his shots.
Call the clinic on 9th Street and update his info with
yours; they'll make sure to send you reminders for when
he's due. Be forewarned: Reggie hates the vet.
Good luck getting him in the car.
I don't know how he knows when it's time to go to the vet, but he knows.

Finally, give him some time.
I've never been married, so it's only been Reggie
and me for his whole life He's gone everywhere
with me, so please include him on your daily car rides if
you can. He sits well in the backseat, and he
doesn't bark or complain. He just loves to be
around people, and me most especially.

Which means that this transition is
going to be hard, with him going to live with someone new.

And that's why I need to share
one more bit of info with you....

His name's not Reggie.

I don't know what made me do it, but
when I dropped him off at the shelter, I told them
his name was Reggie.
He's a smart dog, he'll get used to it
and will respond to it, of that I have no
doubt. But I just couldn't bear to give them his
real name. For me to do that, it seemed so final, that
handing him over to the shelter was as good as me admitting
that I'd never see him again. And if I end up
coming back, getting him, and tearing up this letter, it
me and everything's fine. But if someone else is
reading it, well ... well it means that his new owner should
know his real name. It'll help you bond with
him. Who knows, maybe you'll even notice a change
in his demeanor if he's been giving you problems.

His real name is "Tank".

Because that is what I drive.

Again, if you're reading this
and you're from the area, maybe my name has been on the
news. I told the shelter that they couldn't make
"Reggie" available for adoption until they
received word from my company commander. See, my
parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I could've
left Tank with ... and it was my only real request of the
Army upon my deployment to Iraq , that they make one phone
call.. the shelter ... in the "event" ... to tell
them that Tank could be put up for adoption. Luckily,
my colonel is a dog guy, too, and he knew where my platoon
was headed. He said he'd do it
personally. And if you're reading this, then
he made good on his word.

Well, this letter is getting downright depressing,
even though, frankly, I'm just
writing it for my dog. I couldn't imagine if I was
writing it for a wife and kids and family ... but still,
Tank has been my family for the last six years, almost as
long as the Army has been my family.

And now I hope and pray that you
make him part of your family and that he will adjust and
come to love you the same way he loved me.

That unconditional love from a dog
is what I take with me to Iraq as an inspiration to do
something selfless, to protect innocent people from those
who would do terrible things ... and to keep those terrible
people from coming over here. If I have to give up Tank
in order to do it, I am glad to have done so. He is
my example of service and of love. I hope I honored
him by my service to my country and comrades.

All right, that's enough.
I deploy this evening and have to drop this letter off at
the shelter. I don't think I'll say another
good-bye to Tank, though. I cried too much the first
time. Maybe I'll peek in on him and see if he
finally got that third tennis ball in his mouth.

Good luck with Tank. Give him a good home,
and give him an extra kiss goodnight - every night - from me.

Thank you,
Paul Mallory

____________ _________ _________ _______


I folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope.
Sure I had heard of Paul Mallory, everyone in town knew him, even
new people like me. Local kid, killed in Iraq a few months ago and
posthumously earning the Silver Star
when he gave his life to save three buddies.
Flags had been at half-mast all summer.

I leaned forward in my chair and rested my elbows on my knees, staring at the dog.

"Hey, Tank," I said quietly.

The dog's head whipped up, his ears cocked and his eyes bright.

"C'mere boy."

He was instantly on his feet, his nails clicking on
the hardwood floor. He sat in front of me, his head
tilted, searching for the name he hadn't heard in months.

"Tank," I whispered.

His tail swished.

I kept whispering his name, over and over, and each
time, his ears lowered, his eyes softened, and his posture
relaxed as a wave of contentment just seemed to flood
him. I stroked his ears, rubbed his shoulders, buried
my face into his scruff and hugged him.

"It's me now, Tank, just you and me.
Your old pal gave you to me." Tank reached up and
licked my cheek. "So whatdaya say we play some ball?"
His ears perked again..
"Yeah? Ball? You like that? Ball?"
Tank tore from my hands and disappeared in the next room.

And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.
###