Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Call Yourself a Fan?

Pour yourself a drink and sit back on the couch. Or on the porch. Or the car, hell. Crank up your favorite band. A top two as you're probably being indecisive. Here's the lowdown. You are told by some mystical force that it's time to choose. Some sort of musical faery with a wicked grin says that never for the rest of your natural life can you listen to either of those bands again.

The TV starts pumping out an all-time favorite arena rock anthem during a commercial hawking Cadillacs? Change the channel or it will change for you. Old school rock ballad that gives you chills remembering late nights in the park as a teen? Switch off the car radio. Overhear that #1 hit that seemed to camp out near the top of the charts a whole summer? Please put on these soundproof headphones. Stones or Beatles? Debate might about to become moot for you.

OR offers this obviously warped being, you can have a finger lopped off and listen to your heart's content. Just because it's feeling generous that day, you'll be allowed to choose which digit. He knows we all choose pinky anyhow. You have to imagine the proposer of this deal possesses omnipresent enforcement skills, so no cheating. Why doesn't matter, maybe you ate the wrong apple, or crossed the wrong rickety bridge, or committed some other imagined trespass to find yourself indebted to him.

I posed this question to a friend and was surprised at the immediacy of his reply, indicating he'd soon be in the market for some new favorites. Either he had no heart and soul, or possibly I had too much.

Now the method of finger removal might have an effect on your math. I'm hard pressed to say I'd likely vote finger if it was more a surgical procedure than a “Very well mortal, place your pinky into this rusty meat grinder..” I'd still be leaning finger, but I'd be damn sure to tell this sombitch where to stick it once it was his. You don't need to be polite to vindictive magical folk. As the tales all say, they know they've already put you through the wringer.

As a reward to yourself (if reward it could be called, as you were already able to listen all you liked before this damned faery came along), you immediately dig (with your good hand) into your collection, playing all your favorites ad infinitum. Probably until you were sick of them, knowing you. Or one night you push your way backstage at their final reunion tour, babbling some teary-eyed story of why you deserve to have dinner with the band. “I dunno Mick, something about he chopped off his finger because of you. Sounds like a drug-addled freak if you ask me, I'll get him an 8x10 glossy and boot him back to General Admission.”

You get by just fine without the finger, though it makes handshakes squeamish for new acquaintances. Plus you got to use the partial disability check from the insurance to buy a thunderous new stereo for the living room. But you're reminded of your loss every time you tie your laces, or notice the pathetic floppy finger on your winter gloves. Before you know it time passes and you find you can't stand the sound of either of those damned bands any more. Somewhere your poor pinky resides as a leathery, shrunken prize on some cruel deity's mantelpiece. He dusts it every Sunday with a chuckle.

Monday, April 13, 2009

Victory at Sea

In a fitting Easter Sunday surprise, U.S. pride was reborn on the high seas off the African coast. In a world of shades and nuance, there is no wavering on this one- the good guys won.

We Yanks have had a tough run lately. Stinging difficulties in war. An economy last reported beaten and raped in a back alley by a roving band of Gucci-clad greedheads. Bad news is our norm, a growing hiss of white noise that no one can seem to find the volume knob for. So it was with a sense of warmth and joy that I was greeted by the news our boys in Navy blue scored one for the civilized world. Three pirates dead, one wishing he were, and their once captive Captain safely sipping coffee and posing for cameras on the deck of an American warship somewhere in the Indian Ocean. Such tales of bravery and righteous bloodshed are in serious want these days, I for one am going to soak this one in.

The Hollywood climax served as a perfect capstone on what proved to be a truly humiliating series of boners pulled by the hapless bandits. Strong-armed by an unarmed crew, sent scurrying into an oversized dinghy that promptly ran out of fuel, and left bobbing like the burglars from Home Alone. In a maritime blog I read about the details of the lifeboat they spent their final days in. One theory is that the captain himself may have sabotaged the vessel, rendering the fuel tank as useful as a second belly button. The facts will come out on this one as 60 Minutes gets their claws into our latest hero Captain. Sorry Captain Sully your turn is over, though we'll always love how you handled that jet in the Hudson.

While the dirty work came at the hands of Navy Seals, some credit must also be given to the President. This was a political win for the man. His first high drama albeit small-scale crisis goes off without a hitch, just as fervent wing nuts were already online dismissing the “age of Obama appeasement”. Let those who would denounce an ask questions first, shoot second approach to American diplomacy take note. The man is smart, patient and knows when the time finally comes to separate a few heads from their respective shoulders.

As far as the public record shows, he merely said to shoot if the Captain appeared in peril. But it was a moment that could very well have been Obama's Iranian-hostage rescue debacle. Fate decided he wasn't to share the same poor fortunes Jimmy Carter did in the Persian desert 30 years ago. In a brazen response, a pirate named Abdullahi Lami announced “every country will be treated the way it treats us,” warning of bad things to come for American ships in the future. It was so patronizing he may well have demanded a pre-ransom for the next ship they planned on taking. Although it will never happen, Mr. Obama would be excused for muttering a “Bring It On”.

Such hubris can only come from those not used to failed missions. The pirates' attitude that “this is war” in a perverse way almost seems to suggest safer waters for those flying the Stars and Stripes. These are not warriors, or even suicide bombers. These are businessmen. And this little business operation gone sour throws into question their entire modus operandi: that being to grab slow-moving, defenseless hulks then patiently await an almost guaranteed payday. If another American ship is taken, we will be forced to take them at their word, that they will kill the unlucky souls on board. But that of course destroys their very profitable business model. No hostages equals no payday, no fun times counting your booty on the forlorn shoals of Somalia wishing there were something more to spend it on other than the same HIV-laden harbor tarts and bails of khat. Just what Somali pirates spend all those millions on is a question that gives pause to the greatest of economic minds. The micro-climate of inflation that brews up every time a haul comes in must be hell on the local economy.

Offing a handful of punks that may well have been the pirate version of Larry, Moe, and Curly isn't a legendary accomplishment, but it was a needed one for our bruised psyche. In the new world order, big mouthed, small-time dictators mock us with impunity, well aware of the limitations modern day political correctness places on a super-power. It has become slowly, painfully clear that America or even the West cannot do everything, good intentions aside. There are some unfortunate situations where sitting back and fuming to ourselves that something ought to (but won't) be done is the only viable option. Lord knows there have been times we strayed from the narrow perch of moral high ground when we refused to do so. This is certainly not one of those times.

So as they paint three skull-and-crossbones on our bow, give three cheers for those who made the operation a success. Lets hope the next one goes even half as well.

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

Beer and Rowing in the Florida Bayou

It recently dawned on me that one of the few genres not dabbled into at the Bunker is that of the wonderful world of travel writing. Can't say I've published any recipes either, but I'll spare my dear readers that experiment. Last weekend I had the good fortune to enjoy a cruise on the Chaz. If you're not a local, the place is called the Chassahowitzka River. For all you spell-checkers out there, I got it right the first time. I know this place, and this river.

We go way back, to the days after high school and mischief-laden excursions deep into the heart of the Florida bayou. Back then a typical outing wouldn't have felt proper without a canoe laden with a 5 gallon jug of homemade sangria (if you can call Everclear mixed with Kool-Aid such) and enough firepower to outfit a ragtag army. These were not your sounds-of-nature brand jaunts. The backbreaking time spent rowing deep into the middle of nowhere served our purpose of getting far enough from the scorning earshot of the civilized world to raise our own special brand of hell. One that had been known to climax in the apocalyptic fireball of a propane bomb, as a dozen tanked knuckleheads danced through the flaming aftermath like mad Indians suffering the effects of too much of the white man's medicine. But that is a story for another day. And as I would now a generation later likely categorize my behavior as an environmentalist, one told under a pseudonym.

This story is about the quieter side of the Chaz, of its springs, flora and fauna.

The family and I had the infamous pop-up camper out for the weekend, giving me a chance to test out the newly refurbished A/C unit. Friday was spend setting up, cooking up a skillet full of burgers, and dodging the most common fauna: no-see-ums. The air was heavy with them, but when I biked up to the only convenience store in a many mile radius for more beer and hopefully the modern equivalent of DDT, the little fellow behind the counter offered me a squirt of baby oil from a jar he kept for himself. This didn't really keep the buggers away, but it kept them from getting through. They became hopelessly slicked in a bath of oil and wriggled around like a ducks in an tanker slick. Back at camp, from then on the game became to see how many no-see-ums our ankles could harvest.

It is said that the Indians named Chassahowitzka the “place of the hanging pumpkin”, but a glance around the dock come quitting time might suggest the translation had been fudged years back, with the proper moniker being “place of the discount six-pack”. It's a very rural venue, as a quick stop in the bar and grill a few stones throws up the road will attest. Ken Burns himself might be hard pressed to prove the South had lost, after stopping inside the smoky den, then losing his will and instead deciding he just needed to use the john.

But I'm a man of the world, and can usually slide right in with the locals with maybe a tweak of the accent here or avoiding talk of God or Washington. For those not as adept at ignoring culture shock, understand this is the Deep South, not Tampa or Disney World. We met all kinds there that at first glance fit perfect characters from the Simpsons. As to which ones I'll leave you guessing. But I never had anything but good experiences and conversations. Retirees, young families, hippies, freaks, rednecks, hunters, rowdy teens, scouts, they were all there. I did see a woman whose flapping arms were tattooed with no fewer than three swastikas, but soon got the feeling from the locals that even there she was an outlier.

On Saturday we arrived at the dock early to stake our claim on a pair of canoes, one for us and the other for the wife's parents, John and Marge, who were making their way out that day to join us. I had to laugh when I saw among the supplies in the canoe next to ours, a 20 pound propane tank. Had we boys begun a tradition so many years back? As a sober scoutmaster was climbing in to pilot the stern, I doubted such hijinks were on their menu.

An eerie sight in the melting mist across from the dock was the Vulture tree, where dozens of the huge beasts were warming themselves in the morning sun, ready for another day of carcass spotting from the warm coastal breezes.

One of the few activities shared between my trips of yore and this was a refreshing dip in the springs, which was our convoy's first stop. The natural springs make for some chilly swimming at first, but on a sunny day there is nothing more welcome. A remarkable thing about the place is the series of interconnected spring-fed caves interspersed in the limestone. You're walking along in waist deep water when BOOM, a gaping hole swallows the creek bottom beneath your feet and the clear view of soft sand and limestone disappears into an azure abyss.

The holes range in width from something that could swallow a VW Beetle down to ones you can pull yourself into with your hands clinging to both sides of the rock. If you've got a mask, a deep breath, and a bold nature you can swim them. Each pops straight down about 10 feet or so, meanders horizontal a bit, then pops right back up out another hole. When you reach the bottom, you can pull yourself along the walls and see the sun shining straight down to the target exit before you. It's common to bump your head as you instinctively want to raise it to look around. My lungs and nature weren't feeling up to that task anymore, but I blamed the lack of a mask. Still, my son and I enjoyed bobbing feet first to the bottom of the widest and worrying the missus.

John floated the idea that we should visit another spot called the Crack. I had a hard time not laughing every time I heard the name. It became a struggle against my own nature not to use it in as many double entendres as possible. The approach to the Crack led us up narrower and narrower passages as we made our way to the headwaters. It made for interesting scenery, with the channel squeezing down as narrow as a paddle's length in places. It was in a small pool that opened up midway there that I saw the only turtle of the whole day on the river. Besides the ever present vultures, we also saw ducks and other water fowl. Also a porpoise and a manatee in the main channel. I was concerned by the lack of other mainstays like turtles and gators, of which we strangely had not seen a single one sunning on such a glorious day. If I hear Chinese importers have been paying local yokels to trap every hard shell out there for their soup pots, I'll be mighty sore.

Eventually the channel became a trickle that wouldn't wet your knees, and we had to abandon our rented craft. As the others went on to finish the trek by foot, I tied down beneath an overhanging branch with a length of old cotton rope I had found tangled in a mangrove root on the way in. I followed carrying our sandwiches and a ziploc holding the camera and my son's Swiss army. Soon the waterway opened up again, revealing a hidden lagoon barely thirty feet across, centered around a large spring shaped like a deep crack across the bottom. Along one side of it a huge palm had fallen, now serving as a perfect diving board, or test of skill. On another bank was a strategically placed rope swing hung from a tree above the gaping black void.

As we were testing the swing and probing the Crack (told you I couldn't resist), a pair of locals made their way up, canoe in tow. As we became acquainted, I learned his name was Smitty. Truthfully it was Matt, but he had some story about a close relative having the same name. He took the bullet by letting the cousin have it, ever after to be known as Smitty. Personally I think he got the long end of the wishbone on that one. You never forget a name like that, and it has a ring like someone you couldn't help but get along with. Old Smitty fed me a smoke and some of the coldest beers I'd had in a long while. And some Arizona iced tea that tasted strangely like straight Bacardi. I take my hat off to the man and his wife Lisa for their hospitality. And hope I can find where they bought that tea.

Not long after their arrival we heard some hooting and hollering making way up the water. Out of the tiny channel popped a pair of teenage boys floating a cooler behind them. Close behind were their chickies, clad in what could only be described as nano-bikinis. Chants of “Spring Break 09”! The boys wore the glazed eyes of seniors recently set sail on their first voyage with Captain Morgan.

Smitty and I enjoyed talking the boys into various dangerous feats, giving each other grins as we dared the two to impress their nubile, barely clad mates. Climb higher on the tree swing! Try for a double flip this time! Ah besotted, corruptible youth.

Smitty and I made sure the boys cleaned up after themselves. I learned that he too, sought penitence from the land he once violated in his youth. And so we both carried on to enforce our eventually gained wisdom, picking up after, and maybe dissuading the next generation of hellions. Sure have a good time, but at the very least try to pick up your beer cans. I felt like a local again, at least for the day, and found myself slithering through muddy mangrove roots to collect the odd lost soda can for the trek out.

A few more folks made their way into the festive watering hole, which I began to suspect was the worst kept secret on the river, despite the unassuming backwater path to gain entry. One guy covered in piercings and crowned with a Mohawk impressed us with his trust in fate, by balancing both his packs of smokes atop a tiny rock poking just above the water's surface in the center of a pool. John tempted fate in his own fashion by walking the log, likely falling to the peer pressure of our 8 year old.

I must had done something to tick off karma myself though. When someone yelled they were going to try something likely silly on the swing, I muffed going for the camera and dropped it from its ziploc and into the drink by mistake. It was a fraction of a second, I tossed it back to shore like a fisherman wrestling a trout to the bank. But it was too late. It looked back at me, the zoom lens perpetually frozen in its extended position, like a bug-eyed stare that would never blink. I relished the thought that I'd gone the cheap route when picking out the wife's camera this Christmas.

Not five minutes later I caught a sharp hunk of root just right, and it tore into my foot like a punji stick into a tiger's ass. There was nothing to be done but call it a day by then anyhow, as I could plainly see all the places I had missed sunscreen. We made our goodbyes to all our new friends and ducked back down the creek. I noticed more tide had made its way in. As we made our way back out we passed all the others' john boats and rafts, beached in various weeded alcoves along the route. I let Marge doze in the front of my canoe as I whisked us dockside in no time with the wind at our backs.

After a quick regroup at the camper we piled into the family truckster, weary and dinner-bound. After driving us north past the ubiquitous billboards hawking cheap retirement enclaves we were soon within sight of the massive Crystal River cooling towers, so I turned us in toward the coast. The drive out to Ozello is like something out of a luxury car commercial. The fields of grass and pockets of marsh trees stretch out to the distant horizon. Pure nature as far as the eye can see torn only by a thin, snake of asphalt. The tide was ridiculously high, with the wind in some places sloshing the brine up to the curb. On a slightly stormier day, I can imagine the only means of escape is with an Evinrude.

We told our waitress about the wet state of the road on the way in, and she shrugged with the same sense of non-concern locals reserve for tourists the world over. By our description she judged she'd make it home that night without needing to call her man to fire up the air boat, that was all that mattered. Dinner was friendly, adequate and overpriced, the common province of restaurants with no competition in a 10 mile radius. On the way back we noticed the water had crept even higher, now covering the road in spots and lapping at my radials. The quaint homes I saw for sale on the way in now merely looked like the first would-be victims of a melting Greenland. I put the pedal down as we wound our way back through the splendid scenery, the last of the setting sun touching the tops of the cypresses in the distance. I had no intention on waiting for the water to climb any higher. I've had a car fished out of floodwaters once before and hadn't enjoyed it enough for a reprise.

After a quick game of cards back at the camp, it was lights out. My foot was throbbing, I could still feel the sun on my reddening legs, but the trip was a success. Fortunately the memory card survived the ordeal, you're looking at a photo of the approach to the Crack now, or were a couple pages up. And the camper? A pounding rain woke me some time past midnight but we were dry and comfy, the patter of rain on canvas like a hypnotic lullaby. At such times there is nothing better than knowing you've kept up on your maintenance. Most of its leaks had been banished and the thing now blew colder than a cheap motel. Ready for her next task this June at Bonnaroo.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Rescued Child to be Held as Evidence

Milwaukee, WI- According to the Milwaukee District Attorney’s office, an abducted child recently rescued from her captor must be held as evidence until trial.

Few in the Milwaukee area haven’t heard the saga of little Katie Ramirez, the six year old that disappeared from her Whitefish Bay home in February. Her family was overjoyed to hear of her recovery Friday.
Unfortunately despite Katie’s safe recovery, the saga has not yet ended.

The investigation had initially focused on the parents of the missing girl, Matthew and Melinda Ramirez, when inconsistencies in the kidnapping story began to emerge. But all suspicions were dropped after a tip led to the rescue of Ms.
Ramirez from her captor’s residence in nearby Franklin Heights, home of a laborer named Kevin LaRouge. Mr. LaRouge (33) had been hired by the family to perform odd jobs, but was dismissed after it was discovered he had a violent criminal record.

After a SWAT team found the girl tied to a bedpost, she was placed in protective custody at the Milwaukee Police station. Shortly afterward, her parents learned she would need to be kept as evidence until Mr. LaRouge’s trial.

Her outraged father decried the decision. “This is (expletive deleted) insane! What gives them the right to keep her?” he fumed to reporters.

According to prosecutors, Wisconsin law does. “To bolster the state’s case against the suspect, we are following every procedure by the book” said assistant D.A. Roger Juella. “I don’t want to let Mr. LaRouge escape justice because of a technicality.” That technicality refers to a little-known state statute dating to the 1890’s that allows for “perfons (sic) recovered from the hands of ne’er-do-wells be kept safe from harm as ward of the state and presented as an object of evidence until their tormentor(s) be remanded to a house of detention or be hereby found not to be of guilt.

Protests from the family, the ACLU, and local residents are gaining in volume, but the Wisconsin Department of Justice insists that Ms.
Ramirez is being “given the best of care and is quite comfortable”. Her family is permitted daily visits until trial begins, which the D.A.’s office insists will come as soon as possible, perhaps as early as this summer. In the meantime donations of toys, as well as letters of outrage, continue to pour into the office where Katie’s small living space is located.

In a rare statement from Katie herself, she appeared to have mixed feelings about her situation.“I miss my mommy and daddy,” she initially lamented. “But Miss Terry (her court-appointed caregiver) lets me watch Dora whenever I want, and I have lots of things to play with here. And today we get Taco's!”

LaRouge was denied bail at his arraignment Monday. He is being held in the Milwaukee County Jail awaiting trial, just 3 blocks from the protective services building where little Katie waits and does the same.