The Sociable Critic

You're not to be so blind with patriotism that you can't face reality. Wrong is wrong, no matter who does it or says it.
Malcolm X

At my age, I’m old enough to realize that everything just sort of recycles. This includes everything from ugly clothes to bad ideas, to politicians. Right about now, Hubert Humphrey looks like he’d be a shoo-in for President. (At least he wasn’t a blatant liar like the current crowd of contenders.)

So, I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised to see a Chevy pickup with the bumper sticker that read, “My Country, Love It Or Leave It.”

It gave me pause. Was this guy some sort of uptight right-winger who was just thawed out from a cryogenic sleep from 1968? Or is he the antithesis of the 60’s hippie holdover, the guy who just never got over the fact that the world moved on from the Summer of Love? Either way, it didn’t matter. I liked that bumper sticker. It spoke to something long overdue.

Yes, dear friends, it’s time we spoke in one voice. I’m tired of those who claim to love this country, but do not act in accordance with their declarations. If you don’t love America, it’s time you left.

As we near another Presidential election, I ask, have you even bothered to register to vote? Yes? No? If no, get the hell out of my country.

If you’re registered, who do you support, and why? What’s the platform being offered by the candidate of your choice? Can you list even ONE point of consequence, and how it will affect the nation? If not, get out. You’re wasting space, time, and energy.

Can you tell anyone what you candidate believes in regards to Constitutional Law? Are they out to take your guns, your liberties, your rights, away from you? Are they for the reintroduction of the Fairness Doctrine for the media? Can they tell you how that will impact the Internet, television, radio, newspapers? And why would they support it, especially when the First Amendment specifically contradicts the very idea? If you think the Fairness Doctrine ought to be law, leave. You have no concept of what it means to be an American.

Think Alberto Gonzales was right in his actions regarding the Internet, and threats to prosecute people who didn’t post an advisory on what might be deemed “adult” sites? I don’t. I think it was more Federal interference in our basic liberties. Care to dispute it? Show me how it stacks up against the Constitution, (which, by the way, you can download from the web with a couple of keystrokes), then tell me Gonzales had any regard for Constitutional Law. If you think he was a friend of the Citizen, you need to rethink it. Goodbye.

Think the Kelo Decision was a good one? Show me how. Look at the Fifth Amendment, and how it’s supposed to protect your private property rights. Tell me again how this Supreme Court showed any regard for the Constitution, then show me how the Presidents who nominated them honored the Constitution with their nomination. Don’t feed me this line about how the Constitution is supposed to be a “living, breathing, document.” The only people who go along with that are the ones who want to manipulate you, who want to deny you your rights. The door is THAT way.

How about the Fourth Amendment? Are warrant-less searches valid? If we’re now going to allow the Feds to waltz into your home and go on fishing expeditions, looking for violations of the law, without any evidence of wrongdoing, do you really have any liberties at all, any security in your person? Do you want that? If you think that’s a good idea, pack up and beat it.

What of the Second Amendment? You have a declared right to bear arms. You are, whether you like it or not, permitted to own a gun. Don’t want one? Don’t buy one. There are members of Congress who want to see you lose that right. Personally, I think that’s all the reason I need to purchase one. I’d rather have it, than not. Without that, my others rights in what’s becoming a more and more restrictive society may not matter. Think we’d be better off without them? Reread your history. And if you won’t do that, and learn from it, SEE YA.

In fact, you probably would do well to read through the Constitution, and read the Tenth Amendment. Then, take a look at what this nation has done to your liberties. If you think this is what the Founding Fathers had in mind, I strongly suggest you reconsider.

In the next year, we’re going to be facing some serious questions about where this nation is headed. If you think a more restrictive nation is a good thing, I’d ask you to reread the Constitution, and then the Bill of Rights. And while you’re at it, a long hard look at the Declaration of Independence is also in order. Read through The Federalist Papers, and Thomas Paine’s Common Sense. Then ask, where do you think we should be headed.

If you want greater liberty, you have to accept the responsibility that goes along with that.

More to come on this.

Sites to See:

Read the Constitution for yourself.

Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside.
Mark Twain

Sometimes, for all the planning you, for all the effort you put into preparation for something, it just doesn't go right.

I'm thankful for the help I've gotten here, but the realities remain: I got burnt in the sub-prime market. I'm trying to fix what I can, but there's little I can do at this point in time. You do what you can, you talk to the lenders, and you prepare as well as possible. But you realize that there comes a time when there is little else you can do but try, and recognize that if you have failed... Well, in this market, at least we're not alone.

Work isn't going as well as I had hoped, either. There's some disappointment there as well, and while I've gotten a little help from some here, the company pays in what can best be described as a quixotic manner. We've been trying to get this fixed, but there's little I can do about it except either find another company, or work for myself.

I have a lot on my mind, as you can guess.

So it was with that mindset that I got out the mixer, (a big KitchenAid monster we bought a few years ago which has seen it's share of big projects), the flour, the yeast, the salt and sugar. I poured a couple of cups of very warm water into the bowl, added two cups of flour, and turned our beloved blue beast on with the dough hook in place.

When I need time to think, I have to do something which forces my mind onto other things. I bake bread.

I let the mixer run for a few minutes, then added about four tablespoons of sugar, two teaspoons of salt, then dropped in a cube of butter into the mixture. You have to watch the dough at this time; you don't want to add too much flour to it too fast, or it can come out dry. Too little flour, and you get a flabby, gelatinous goo which is next to inedible. Not even the dog or the rat will touch it.

As I've said, I've a lot to think about. My youngest, Matt, is on his way home on Monday, having been ejected by the military. I'm grateful he'll be out of harm's way, but I'm angered at how he's getting out, and his attitude towards his fellow soldiers. Our financial situation is not helped by some of the nonsense which I'm told will "help" us by certain financial "professionals," some of whom seem to think I'm their personal piggy bank. I'm not. And I'm offended that they seem to think otherwise.

And I don't want to hear from well meaning friends who tell me that if I'd just come back to Church and tithe, things would straighten themselves out. Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that almost like a capitalized version of homeopathy?

I start adding flour now, one cup at a time, sifted into the bowl carefully. I don't want geysers of flour shooting up at me. I can begin to see the dough thickening, bit by bit, as the gluten and yeast begin their magic. Long strands of bread dough begin to reach from the hook to the sides of the bowl.

Matt has always had trouble relating to people. But catching him in lies, not once but repeatedly, has disappointed me. His fellow soldiers were getting ready for combat, and he was smirking about his going home. Smirking! He thought it was funny that they were headed off into dangerous ground, and here he was making jokes about it. It's upset him that some of the NCOs on the rear detatchment have told him they don't think of him as a real soldier. Know what? At this point, with his bragging to his fellow GIs that he wasn't going, I have to agree with his NCOs. I thought I taught him better.

It takes a few minutes to get the dough to the proper consistency. At this point, I flour a board, then roll out the dough from the mixer bowl onto the board. Now, I knead it out by hand the rest of the way, (though, properly, when I have the time, and I don't have a truck I have to prepare for a week's work, I'll do the whole job by hand.) I roll it up, fold, then push against the dough, a steady push-pull motion that develops a smooth, warm mass. In a few minutes, the bread dough is of proper consistency, and I drop it into the Tupperware bowl we bought just for the purpose. I pop the lid on, and let it rise for the first time.

From there, I clean up the mixer and the bowl, then wipe up after myself. I wash the bowl and dough hook in hot, soapy water, rinse them off, then set them in the dish rack to dry. It leaves me an hour or two to myself, time I would almost rather not have.

Matt made one mistake I have a hard time forgiving: He actually bragged about how he's getting out to my oldest son, James. James, you might know, is a former Army Ranger, someone who was an actual bad-ass in a world of wannabes. James lost four friends in Iraq, while he, having had his ankle mangled by a bad jump at night, where an Army captain left him behind in the mud after James saved his sorry ass, was stuck in Kuwait moving hummvees around a motor pool, ultimately to be sent back to Fort Bragg himself because his ankle was getting worse. James deals with some serious guilt, even though he wasn't responsible for his situation. He feels ashamed that he couldn't do more than he could, and wonders if his Honorable Discharge was warranted.

And then his youngest brother calls up, laughing about those suckers who are headed off to Tikrit. Not too smart.

I thought I taught Matt better than this.

The next step in all of this is to grease up a couple of loaf pans. I don't always like to use them, but for this particular batch, it's a better choice. Sometimes, when I have multigrain cereal, (in particular, one from Canada we like), I just roll out a pair of fat, round loaves, and we slice off big chunks of this bread, which we eat with a thick, hearty soup, usually chicken, with big chunks of carrot and onion, and sometimes celery and potato. Peggy and I would make up a big pot of this soup, and we'd serve it up for dinner on a weekend. When I had all four boys in the house, they'd eat it as if there were nothing else they'd rather see. I was surprised once they were all gone to notice that we'd make a pot of this soup, and it would last well into the week.

I roll the dough out of the bowl and onto a floured board again, kneading it once more, then cutting it with a pastry cutter in two. I take one half, roll and knead, then drop it into one of the bread pans, then do the same with the other. A few minutes later, they're both in a preheated 375 degree oven. And it doesn't take long for the aroma to permeate the whole kitchen, and ultimately, the whole house.

Matt used to watch me bake bread. Ultimately, he wanted to do it himself, and it was what led him to become a cook. Civilian jobs were hard to find last year for him, given his lack of experience. I tried to tell him that it was going to be hard, but it was going to be even harder unless he got off his rump and put in applications to restaurants. Yes, he'd probably start at the bottom. Guess what? Everyone else had to as well. That's real life. That's the way it works.

Instead, since it was hard, he would sit at home and play computer games. I finally told him, after two months of this, that he either had to get a job or get out.

He joined the Army.

I told him this was not a game. If you're going into the military, you go to serve. You listen to what you're told to do, and you do what you're told to do when you're told to do it. There are no excuses; either give it your best or don't go.

He told me he understood this.

I didn't believe him then. I don't believe him now.

It takes about thirty to thirty five minutes to bake bread in our oven. The timer goes off, and I set up a cooling rack. I grab a pot holder and drop out two perfectly formed loaves of bread out on the rack to allow them to cool, thumping the bottoms as I do to make sure they're done. (They are.)

Other people like to wait for the bread to cool a bit before they take that first bite. I pull out a knife and slice off a big chunk right off the end, and butter it up with a thick layer of unsalted butter. I love the taste of it, and the memories it brings back, of dinner with my kids, of Peggy's satisfaction with a good meal, and with the reminder that there was a time when my children had all the possibilities before them.

I look at Matt right now, and where he is, and I'm angered, I'm sad, and I'm hurt. Good men and women are going into harm's way. Some will not return, and others will return broken. And he does not understand why his brother and I are angry with him. Why we do not accept his choices.

James says he may never talk to Matt again.

I could wish I could find the way to make the bread taste a little better.

Sites to See:

Oddly enough, there's some great recipes on Fun With Cherry, (which is NSFW, BTW), as well as some great looking photos of a terrific looking redhead. (Watch it, though. The humor will get you the same way Richard Pryor did at the end of "Live at the Sunset Strip." Remember the scene with the lighter, and Pryor asking what it was? "Richard Pryor running down the street..." he said. Same deal.)

Okay, I'd like an explanation, please.

Earlier this week, I was in the Portland, OR area delivering loads of glass and other commodities, when the word came out that some idiot got involved in a road rage incident on SR 500 in Vancouver, WA.

Now, I generally don't have to worry about that kind of crap. For the most part, people leave big trucks alone. It's understandable. When someone is in command of 80,000 lbs. of truck and freight, it's not a good idea to piss them off.

But this incident leaves me stumped. Police have arrested one Christopher Partridge, 25, of Vancouver, for a road rage incident on the 19th. First, he menaced a young couple in their car because they were young and stupid and wouldn't let him pass them on the freeway. Then, he pulled a pistol and popped off a round into a car driven by a woman who was taking her mother out.

What we're now hearing from Mr. Partridge's parents is that this road rage incident is due to their poor little boy's ordeal of serving in Iraq, and it's due to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.

Bullshit.

There are thousands of men and women who have served in Iraq who have come home suffering from PTSD, and yet, you don't hear of them firing shots into innocent people's cars. Most people suffering from PTSD see shrinks, they talk to family and friends, they work on dealing with the stress of their past experience. They don't commit crimes like this.

Let's be serious here: this is a crime. Partridge is a dirtbag. I don't give a rat's ass how bad he had it in Iraq, his parents are smearing men and women who have served this nation honorably and well. This punk is facing felony counts in both Oregon and Washington, and with luck, he'll be behind bars for a long stretch.

I'm tired of good people being smeared because someone thinks it might make a good excuse to get some whiny, worthless loser off the hook for his sorry behavior.

Enough. Partridge is filth, his parents are trying to justify it, and that's damned wrong.

Believe one who has proved it. Believe an expert.
Virgil

I'm not one of the most sociable people around. There are reasons I drive a truck for a living, and tend to spend much of my time alone. When you've spend the better part of your life being told you're less than pleasant company, you tend to avoid much human contact.

Still, in trucking, when you have the time to talk to another driver, to swap a few tales, to learn something new, you do it. This is especially true when you've been a trainer as I have, because sooner or later, you're going to need that information, whether you're going to be training again or not. And usually, you'll need it someplace where you'll least expect it.

As it happened, one of the guys I was talking with had done a little training himself, and had gotten out of it for the same damned reason I did: you get impatient with people whose IQs are in the same range as shoe leather. That he was signed on as an owner op with his company only made it worse; he was obligated to use his own truck to do the training. When it's you who winds up paying for the burned out clutch, the smoked out differential, the mangled cylinder head, you tend to be cautious who you take out on the road with you.

As it happened, one of the guys he was asked to take out was only going for a check-ride. Before you take on a new job, the new company is obligated to make sure you can actually drive a truck, and this is done by having you do a check-ride with another driver. If you pass, you're in. If not, they shake your hand and thank you for your time. If you're lucky, they'll pay your way home.

The new guy had driven for System 99 for over 30 years, so this should have been a very uneventful ride. It was a straight cross country run, and the newb was only expected to drive a short distance. It was only to be for familiarization, and once the check-ride was done, he would be behind the wheel of a company truck and on his way.

They started out in California, and it didn't take long for the owner-op to learn there was something wrong with this supposedly 30 year vet. Some of the things he would say simply didn't connect to the facts, and some of what he did behind the wheel didn't make any sense. Eventually, even though he had a "co-driver," it became clear that this man shouldn't be driving. The owner-op finally wound up driving nearly the whole of the load, even when he should have shut down and gotten needed sleep.

By the time they reached the Continental Divide, the owner-op had gone as far as he could. He told the newb to take the wheel, but to wake him before they got over the top of the hill so the owner-op could take the wheel. He crawled into the sleeper and went to bed, hoping things would be okay.

No such luck. He woke up to the sound of the engine running at high revs, to the smell of his brakes smoking out, and was practically tossed out of the bunk when the newb took a runaway ramp and put the rig into the gravel.

The company paid for the tow truck to pull the rig out of the gravel, which was a good thing. (Most tow outfits charge you around $2500 just to show up for something like that.) Then there were the repairs to the rig, which were not cheap. Still, all in all, because of lost time and miles, the owner-op wound up losing a huge chunk of change because this "thirty year veteran" couldn't drive.

So, lesson learned, right? Wrong. They hired the joker.

A few months later, the newb's truck was in the shop, and the newb needed a lift to Salt Lake to pick it up. The owner-op made it clear: No. He wouldn't allow that guy in his cab for any reason.

"We'll pay you extra," the company said.

So, there they were, rolling along on I-84, and the owner-op, under company orders, let the newb take the wheel. "Wake me up before we get to Ontario. I will take the wheel then. Got it?"

The newb said he did.

A half hour later, they were in the gravel again.

The Oregon State Police showed up for this one, and as the Bear and the newb were talking, the owner-op jumped out of the sleeper, wearing little more than a pair of briefs and a smile. "You know what? I'm not just going to kick your ass, I'm going to KILL YOU!"

He never got the chance. The Bear had him down on the his belly and in cuffs in less than a second. "I sympathize with you, driver," the Bear said. "This guy's an idiot. But I can't let you do this, or I'd have to arrest you for assault and battery."

I don't know what happened to the newb. I do know the owner-op, though, doesn't allow anyone else behind the wheel of his rig, no matter how badly he needs the money. He's the only guy who drives his truck, no matter what.

Now, I realize on the surface, this has nothing to do with religion. But when you take a moment and look at what actually happened, you begin to make the connection. Most of the time, in spite of all the promises of religious belief, in spite of all the testimonies, in spite of all the "evidence," and the reputation of any belief system, the reality remains that it doesn't deliver.

We realize this, we turn away, and then someone comes back, saying there's something new for us if only we'll try it again. We wind up in the gravel again, and we wonder why.

It's been proven belief in a god does not work. I'm trying to remember this, and trying to keep the wheels clear of the runaway ramp. The promises are coming in hard and fast, and I'm still trying to remember that I wound up in the gravel up to the hubs every time. It's not worth it.

It's all understandable, of course. I spent over 20 years, (25 to be more precise), within the confines of the church. And in the end, it's turned out to be a lie. It was a comfortable lie, but still a lie.

No one wants to admit that they've lied, especially to themselves. It's a character flaw, and no one wants to admit to having any. The reality, though, is that you can't correct what you won't admit to. I have to stand before people and say, "I lied to myself for over 20 years that there was some supernatural presence which controlled everything and nothing, which guided my steps, yet let me fall on my face. This supernal being permitted the greatest evil to enter my life all so I could ultimately experience the greatest good, or so I'm told. I can't prove any of this, but I chose to follow this anyway."

There's no joy in admitting you've played yourself for a fool.

Part of what bothers me with the changes I've made is that, unlike Christianity or any other religion, you're pretty much on your own. All joking aside, what it comes down to is your own recognition of who you really are, and what you choose to do about it.

At this point, I've gotten past the "Jesus loves you" part, and recognized that if Jesus was so frickin' crazy about my sorry posterior, he'd have done something about pervo priests, mad bomber bozos, lying cretins like Sylvia Browne and Pat Robertson, and Paris Hilton. (Okay, on the last part, God gets a pass. There's nothing that can be done about Paris Hilton.)

Trucking, and the Morality behind it, is fairly simple: Pick up load, deliver load, get another load. The ethos becomes a bit more complex: Your goal is to do so safely, with minimal damage to the material being shipped, and without accident or incident en route.

Still, there's no magic involved in this. As long as you have a basic understanding of the Laws of Physics, and a healthy respect for what it is you're doing, and who you're doing it for, you should ultimately have no problem. It's difficult, but it's do-able. Failure results in a call to the insurance company, not a one-way ride into a netherworld of eternal pain and heartbreak.

There is no readily written guidebook of Skepticism, no "Gospel of Sagan," or epistles from those who have questioned before. There are books, but, as is obvious, they are individual views of people who are or were looking themselves to undertand. Just like you, they had to muddle their ways through, and there were no absolutes, just like now. I now cringe when I think about what has been recited through the Church about Carl Sagan, and how at the end of his life, he violated his own ethics. I don't see it like that, as Sagan's ethics, like any other skeptic's, were in a state of flux, influenced by the latest, best information available. He adhered to basic principles which were few, and rooted in fact, rather than his own opinion. For skeptics, it seems, there are no stone tablets upon which you can throw yourself in hopes of finding the easy answer to the hard questions in life.

With my laptop seemingly on the fritz, and a bit of writer's block hitting me on this latest trip, not to mention a series of dispatches which made absolutely no sense, I had plenty of head time this week. It left me time to try and establish a sort of almost moral center to where I am, and at least give something to shoot for, even if I wind up revising this later on. It's a trucker's ideal, I suppose: Get moving; if you're headed the wrong way, dispatch will call and let you know.

So right out of the gate, it came to me, somewhere between Toppenish, WA and Hood River, OR. The first "law" I could concoct:

You will do no unnecessary, intentional harm.

In other words, while there will be harm done to others, and to yourself, for that matter, you simply won't go out of your way to do it. If anything, you try to avoid doing anything which might cause harm. This means you have to think first, then act, (or speak, or whatever.)

Well, I guessed if Jesus could have two commandments, I could do at least as well, so the second was like unto it:

You will base your thoughts, actions, and words on fact, on what can be proven to any rational mind.

Okay, that seemed solid enough. In other words, as much as is possible, you keep yourself out of it. What you think may be the case may not be, and if you're shooting off at the mouth, you usually discover you've been aiming for your feet. Find out what you actually know, first, then think, act, and speak. Once you have that down, you discover you're better off.

I figured if I could come up with two, a third one might make sense, too. By the time I was on I-84, heading west, I had it.

You will show others the appropriate respect they are due.

This one was a little trickier, simply because: How do you respond to someone like the psychoreligious bigot who screamed in my ear that I was headed for Hell unless I turned away from Atheism and back to Jesus?

Actually, you don't. Appropriate respect is ignoring his rants and his bigotry, and working on the previous two "laws." Responding to him only convinces him he's "right." Ignore him, and you've not only shown him disapproval for his hate, but you've denied him an audience.

Further, you've done something more powerful: You've demonstrated the ethos you hope to propogate among others.

It's a start, I suppose, but I still wonder if I've covered enough.

Sites to See:

If you're an "ancient mariner," you'll love The Wooden Boat Foundation.

If we were to wake up some morning and find that everyone was the same race, creed and color, we would find some other cause for prejudice by noon.
George Aiken

There are several places where I deliver and pick up loads which have become regular stops for me. Ideally, for some of us, you want to find yourself working towards a dedicated run, one which will leave you with a guaranteed start and stop point, and provide you with a regular income over time. It's not always easy to find, but that doesn't stop you from trying.

One of these places is Yakama Forest Products, in White Swan, WA. I've been there several times over the past few weeks. I've always enjoyed going there, knowing I would be treated with respect, and I'd have my load as quickly as the staff could get it on the deck.

So, I was in Toppenish, WA, dropping off another load, when I mentioned to another driver where I was headed. He smirked and remarked, "Headed off to deal with those lazy assed indians?"

Lazy assed? Those guys? Was he serious?

It irked me hearing that, particularly as the day wore on, and I had to deal with the reality of who these people were.

First of all, it took only a couple of moments to get logged in, and for the dispatch office to pull up what I was hauling. He didn't waste his time, or mine, and had everything ready to go once I had the curtains pulled on the '48 curtainside trailer I was pulling.

I had to wait about 15 minutes before I got loaded. The forklift operators were loading up a series rail cars that had to roll out by that afternoon. They'd started on it about a half hour before I had gotten there, so there wasn't much time to waste.

By the time they started loading my truck, it was around 10 in the morning. They'd been there since six, if I remember correctly, and they'd yet to take a break. The kid who started loading me was working the summer at Yakama so he'd be able to afford his tuition at Central Washington, (which, oddly enough, was where my son Chris had gone to school.) I was reminded by an older man to get the stickers off the top of the bundles and get them on the deck so the kid could get me loaded a little quicker, something I was willing to do since the kid was already running at full throttle just trying to get caught up, with at least two more trucks behind me to get loaded.

It took a whopping total of 20 minutes to get loaded. The most time I needed was another 15 to get strapped and rolling around to the scale, and within another half hour, I had paperwork in hand, and the tarps closed on the trailer and strapped into place. It took a bit of time, but that was because those "lazy assed indians" were running like hell to catch up with the work.

I enjoy going to White Swan, but I'm in no hurry to get back. Those "lazy assed indians" work too damned hard.

Sites to See:

If you're looking for a unique ride, check out David Clash's Devaux.

There are some things I can tolerate. I can put up with bad coffee, lot lizards, half-witted dispatchers, (the latter two, thankfully, becoming rarer and rarer for me.) I can't deal, however, with some of the rude-assed people I'm having to deal with when it comes to what used to be called "customer service."

The latest insult came with some difficulties with my well-used Toshiba laptop. The CD-Rom RW was acting up. The goal was to get it fixed. I don't have the extended warranty, (I know, I know...), and while I was out on the road, my son, Jonathan, called Toshiba to get information on where I could get the damned thing repaired.

Jon called the 800 number, and was promptly directed to the operator, who asked, "What kind of computer is it?"

"It's a Toshiba Satellite A105-S4074," Jon answered.

"Serial number?"

"I don't have it. The computer is with my Dad right now, and he's out on the Interstate, somewhere."

"Well, we can't tell if it's under warranty or not if you don't have it."

"It's not under warranty. He bought is just over a year ago," Jon explained. "We just need to know where he can take it to get it fixed..."

"I can't tell you that without the serial number."

"Why not?" Jon asked. "All we need to know is where we can take it to get the CD RW fixed."

"It's company policy," the operator said. "Sorry."

Jon called me and let me know about this conversation. At that point, I made my own phone call. As it happened, I was on CA-4, trying to negotiate my way through rush hour traffic. I called Toshiba, and demanded to know just what was going on, that I couldn't get something so basic as where an authorized service center was. I finally got the information I was looking for, but I had to fight with them over whether or not they needed anything like my serial number. It was a simple request, and there was no reason for them to not provide a simple answer.

I realize that marketing gurus say you should get this kind of information. I realize it ties in with what they think will be able to move a few more computers out the door. But, what the hell were these guys thinking, by playing gatekeeper as they were? What did they think they would actually accomplish? Do they really want me to buy a Powerbook next time around?

Seriously! Toshiba, why couldn't I simply have the information I needed? Why do we have to play these damned games? Care to explain this one?

Ask a deeply religious Christian if he’d rather live next to a bearded Muslim that may or may not be plotting a terror attack, or an atheist that may or may not show him how to set up a wireless network in his house. On the scale of prejudice, atheists don’t seem so bad lately.
Scott Adams

So, I'm guessing it's been about two, maybe three months since I finally said I was through with delusions and lies. I've given up on God, realizing that I cannot prove there is one, and more importantly, I've given up on the fallacies that accompany that. Once I'm gone, I'm gone. My life ends, and what I've left behind is my legacy. I am not going to get another chance to fix the damage I've done, or to embellish the good I've managed.

The only problem is that having left behind all this "magical" thinking, I didn't realize that there would still be this residue that remains. The silliness sticks with you, whether you want it to or not.

One case in point: I am now traveling the entire Western US, though I'm primarily centered on the I-5 corridor. One of the more bizarre scenes I'm running across is vineyards and olive groves showing up in some of the weirdest places. (I mean, come on! I saw The Muppet Movie, too: Wine from Idaho?) Most people would simply shrug it off. More power to you, they'd say, and leave it at that. It's unlikely you'd find a self-respecting Frenchman spitting out a fine Bordeaux from Boise into a bucket anytime soon, raving about it's puckish nature. (Okay, maybe if they changed just one eensy little letter...)

Only, I allowed myself to be trained to see things apocolyptically, rather than logically. Instead of seeing someone who couldn't make a living growing potatoes, I am reminded of the call of one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, as he mandated that we not bruise the oil and the wine. Yes, there are people who are turning to a more profitable commodity for an income, and THIS IS A SIGN OF CHRIST'S RETURN!

Except...

See, this sort of thing has been going on since even before Jesus hit the Earth. If you can't make a living growing one thing, you grow something else, and hope you can earn enough to pay the mortgage on the property. If this is a sign of the Last Days, just how "last" are they?

Need more? How about the declarations that in the end times, men will act like women and women act like men? Except, just how are is that supposed to manifest itself? Is a Metrosexual with perfect hair and an even more perfect smile going to usher in an Armageddon where the combatants are perfectly permed and perfumed? (He'd be out of luck with me. I just use bar soap on my hair and comb it out after I rinse so it doesn't tangle when I crash in the sleeper.)

The reality is that we know this is a load of crap, but when you've allowed yourself to be trained to think like this, it's not so easy to let go of it all. You get used to this way of believing, to the knowing nods to your fellow faithful, the declarations to one another that, indeed, the time is drawing close, and that truly, Christ is coming for his own.

It's easy to look at this, to recognize the fraud. It's harder to let go.

When I had dinner with friends of mine, Terry and Stephen, Stephen told a story that stuck with me, about growing up and attending parochial school. It seems that he'd been something of a cut-up while he was a kid, (not that this has changed any now that he's an adult), and at one point, the teacher/nun sent him upstairs to his sister's classroom to be disciplined.

If you've gotten to know Stephen, you know he's about as likely to back down as James Randi is to go to Peter Popoff for a healing. The nun running his sister's class didn't exactly appreciate this, and at one point, she grabbed him and hung him out the second story window to the classroom. (I may be wrong, here, but I think he was about seven at the time.)

Stephen looked the nun in the eye and said, "You wouldn't dare let me go!"

I'm looking at where I am right now, with this "belief," and beginning to see that I've got this entity, holding me outside the window, with my feet dangling over the grass a couple of stories below. Far too often, we look at this situation and we cave in. We ought to be calling the bluff, but we don't, thinking we'll be dropped into the pit. We forget the times we've seen how others have faced this and fought back, winning the fight, and ignoring the reality that if we'd just face the liars, if we'd just dare them to let go, they'd be the ones who capitulate.

To be honest, I'm still somewhat afraid. Here I am, a 47 year old trucker who can handle an 80,000 lb. rig fully loaded, running the 11 western states, and I'm afraid of some spooky talk which I ought to have dismissed ages ago. I should have, when the Pastors and Priests all began hitting me with the weirdie business, come back loud and clear with "I DARE ya!" I caved in for, what I thought at the time, was for the good of my family, when if I'd had any stones at all, I'd have simply made sure my sons knew I loved them, and my wife knew I listened and loved her. It would have been a lot cheaper, and in the end, we'd have been a lot happier.

I can't change any of that. I can only go forward and try to undo the damage done. It's not easy. I don't see any real discussion from anyone here regarding how to rebuild your head after brainfuckers with bad hair have had their way with you for over 25 years. You pretty much find yourself going this one alone.

I finally accepted full responsibility for my own life. It's a hard thing to do, but if you have any cojones, you do it.

You might have had a rotten past. You might have been beaten senseless by your parents, molested by every pervert in town, and broken down and insulted by every cruel dolt on your block. But your life remains yours. If you screw up, it’s on you, not on the SOBs who have tried to break you down. It makes far more sense to accept your responsibility for your life and drive onward than it does to blame the bastards and retreat to someplace “safe.” At that point, you’re not “safe,” you’re merely comfortable. You don’t think you have any responsibility, and you can skate by. You’re no longer living, or even existing. You’re in decay and wasting resources. I don't want to do that anymore.

I read a lot these days. I'm checking out Richard Dawkins when I can find his books at the library. (He's pretty popular for obvious reasons.) I read a number of books from a variety of authors, and while I can't say I've found the one magic bullet that says "Here's the way out," I can say I'm finding solid ground as I move forward. I can wish the road weren't as hard as it is, but maybe, just maybe, I can keep someone else from taking the same miserable detour I did.

I was in a truck stop somewhere on I-5. Some poor slob was getting preached to by some truckstop preacher, and as I was walking by, the good reverend declared, "Hold up, friend! You need to hear this, too!"

Now the thing about many truckstop preachers is that they're more tenacious than a lot lizard, and a hell of a lot more annoying. You shut them down quick, or you can expect a sermon, and I don't mean a quickie. "Tell you what, Rev," I shot back. "You live it, and maybe there will be a reason to listen."

"That I'm telling you the Good News is a sign that I live it."

I shook my head. "That you're telling me is a sign that you've got a good schtick memorized. Nice try.

"God ain't on the Interstate, Dude, because Jesus don't drive."

I left it at that and picked up four corn dogs and a bottle of Pepsi inside. It was more filling than communion, and considerably more nutritious. Tasted better, too.

Sites to See:

Learn more about skepticism and how you can benefit from it. Check out The Amazing Meeting!

The problem with the rat race is that even if you win, you're still a rat.
Lily Tomlin

It's been a fairly busy week for me. With the harvest coming in over the next few months, I've been hauling lots and lots of sheet steel for cans and the like, not to mention glass and lumber for the construction industry in California.

There's too much to cover in one entry sometimes. And sometimes, the workload comes close to overwhelming you. I was only able to get the truck washed yesterday, and it was so covered in bugs from running through Klamath Falls, OR, they literally came off in long strands when I gave it a preliminary rinse before scrubbing it down.

And it's been part of a bigger problem. I've been so busy, I haven't had the chance to talk to my sons and my wife. I had no clue as to how bad the tension was between Peggy and my older two boys.

I had a long conversation with my second son, Chris. Of the four of them, Chris has had the biggest hurdles to overcome, (in some cases, literally, since he ran track in high school), and yet, he's become the most successful at this point. In recent weeks, he's learned he's become one of the best teachers for computer science in the state of Washington. It's quite an achievement, and he's got every right to be proud. Part of what eats at me is that I have spent so little time with him over the course of his life, and it's really only in the past few years I've gotten to know what a good man he's become. A significant portion of that has to do with the time he's spent with his grandfather, my ex-wife's father, a former engineer with the U.S. Navy's shipyard in Bremerton, WA.

But another critical part of this is Chris, himself. Maybe I'm wrong on this, but I tend to think that good people in general are that way because they themselves decide they want to be good people. Throughout his life, he's had a solid "No bullshit" attitude. It may tend to make him a bit hard to deal with at times, but at the very least, you can't say he's tried to pull a fast one on you.

We've been talking over the past few months, and really getting to know who we each are. If anything, I've been learning just how much I've missed out on while he grew up, and during those times when I was so busy just trying to make ends meet, I had no time for my own kids. I'm grateful for the time I've gotten with my four sons in recent years. I only wish I'd had the cojones to tell people I needed more time for my sons, rather than knuckling under for my damned job(s).

More to come. I'm out on the road.

Trust men and they will be true to you; treat them greatly, and they will show themselves great.
Ralph Waldo Emerson

One of the things which separates Truckers from Drivers is that there are rules you uphold with the information you get. For example, unless the information you have is the only thing separating someone from their family, their income, or their lives, you keep your yap shut. Another is, what is said in the cab stays in the cab. Now, that ought to be a fairly basic rule. Unfortunately, I've worked with a lot of folks who never really got that lesson through their heads.

Back when I was with a certain heavy haul outfit, one of the toughest things to find was someone who wouldn't stab you in the back. It was easy enough to find another driver to talk to; it was much harder to find one who wouldn't take what you said and turn it against you, or worse, twist it into something that would hurt another driver.

The boss I had back then relied on this back-biting and undercutting. He thought it kept him in control, when in reality, it undercut any control he actually had, because it was one of the main reasons most folks left the firm. Truth to tell, had he dealt with people honestly, and encouraged loyalty between the drivers, he'd not only have had a better trucking company, but a better handle on his people. He didn't see that, and he's got one the heaviest turnovers for any trucking firm in the area.

In one instance, I had trained a new driver who became the company nark. He first reported to the boss everything I said on the CB, and then reported on what I did with my equipment. I probably wouldn't have objected too much, except that everything John told the boss was either wrong or an outright lie. On one occasion, he reported that a woman driving for the outfit had shown up at a job site where we were picking up some heavy mining equipment dressed to the nines bringing some papers for the company's head wrench. Only problem with that was that the mechanic is married, painfully devoted to his wife, and the woman driver drove out to the job site directly after hauling out some steel pipe to the East Bay. In other words, there was no time to change into a dress, or put on some makeup. Ultimately, John left, but not without screwing the boss over on his way out. What goes around comes around.

Loyalty, of course, is ultimately a personal decision. Read through the Bible, and there's no rule against skewering your enemies. The exception, of course, was Judas Iscariot, but in that instance, he was trying to screw God, which, had he any brains, would have realized was a damned fool idea. Me, after getting screwed, I tried to avoid screwing others. Sometimes, you find you can't avoid it, such as the place I worked where they had all these damned tripwires set up in every corner, just waiting for you to set off an HR bomb. It wasn't fair, and ultimately, you leave. You tell people like that to go to hell and move on to companies where they don't have to play those sorts of games.

That was ultimately what led me to where I'm working now. I'm working for people who would rather lead on the basis of trust instead of intimidation. And after a few months of being treated like a human being, I felt I could rely on these people enough to get some friends in touch with them, and see if they could make a go with this outfit.

One of these people was Will. I'd known him for a few years, and knew he was a good driver. I called my former dispatcher, got Will's number, and got in touch with him.

Will hasn't had it so good for the past year. His wife died about a year ago, and not long after that, he started to lose everything else. He'd lost what really mattered, his wife, Lonnie, and now he was losing the material things which reminded him of her. Add to that the company where he was working was simply not giving him enough work to keep up on his bills; at one point he had a week with a total of seven hours.

I owed Will big time. He'd covered for me when I needed it at the heavy haul outfit, and when I needed a hand, he was there to help me through it.

So, I got him an app, he moved in with Peggy and me for the times when I was home, and stayed at the yard where he was working when I was out on the road. Tomorrow, I'm taking Will up to Washington, and hopefully, he'll be able to get back on his feet again.

I know how to get in touch with John. I can't see any point in calling the boss to recommend someone who would undermine everything he's tried to build up in Sumner, WA. When there's too many guys like Will who are willing to work on the basis of trust, on the basis of honesty, I know where my loyalties lie.

Peggy and I will be out on the road together this next week. More to follow.

It had been a while since I had seen my niece, Chermaine. Our lives have taken different twists and turns over the years, what with me going over the road, and her becoming a mother of two.

Meinie has two very sweet children, Caitlin and Logan. Her husband, Josh, is probably one of the most decent people I have ever met. But she's got a slight problem; she had a relationship for several years with John, Caitlin's father.

And John has shown himself to be a dirtbag.

There are few things I find unforgiveable. If you've done hard time in San Quentin, as long as it was a property crime, I can probably forgive that. If you harmed another person, particularly a child, we're going to have a problem. At that point, a line has been crossed, and a stand must be taken.

When I was growing up, my parents divorced. My biological father had been ordered to pay $50 a month for child support, for both my sister and me. It wasn't much when you think about it, even back in 1963. But it would have at least helped out with a week's groceries. The courts back then didn't ask much of fathers, though given that my earliest memory of my biological father is of him beating my mother senseless in our living room, I could have wished that they had.

My biological father revealed he was a dirtbag within the first month. My mother got one month's child support, and after that, nothing. The only way she ever got any more of it was when the DA's office in Sacramento County finally got off it's collective ass and put a lien on his house in 1979.

I have friends who have stopped paying child support. Generally, they did so because their wives decided their ex-husbands didn't deserve to see their own kids, or worse, they started falsely accusing their ex-husbands of molesting their kids. In one case I know, the wife was cheating on her husband, and the proceeded to trash-talk the man she divorced because his presence was cutting into her social life with her boyfriends.

My biological father never had those excuses. He was simply scum. There was a time when he wondered why I didn't call him, why I didn't talk to him. I figured if he couldn't be bothered to send a miserable $50 a month, if he could take that money and blow it on a 17 foot bowrider, why would I bother to talk to him? It made no sense.

There are some things I cannot forgive.

John, Meine's ex, is presently $37,000 in arrears for child support for Caitlin. I'm grateful for guys like my step-dad, and for Josh, for stepping in, for being fathers when certain slime decide they can't be bothered. I'm reminded that when I wound up divorced, I made a serious effort to get my older two kids child support to them to my ex-wife. I paid every cent I owed, and I'm still trying to get myself to a position where I can help them, even as they've become adults. I have zero patience with men who choose to ignore their responsibilities to their kids. Enough is enough.

At $45,000, Meine tells me, John will face five years in prison. He's always got an excuse for why he can't pay up. I'd like to see what kind of excuse he comes up with for a judge.

Sites to See:

I'm mentioning these guys to Meine. If you have experience with them, let me know about Support Kids.

The Department of Health and Human Services main website has information if you're a custodial parent or not. I could wish they had been there for me or my mother when we were needing assistance.

If you live in California, check with the Department of of Child Support Services for the help you need.

Never continue in a job you don't enjoy. If you're happy in what you're doing, you'll like yourself, you'll have inner peace. And if you have that, along with physical health, you will have had more success than you could possibly have imagined.
Johnny Carson

I was hauling rocks.

Rocks! A few weeks ago, I had a 48' trailer loaded up with rocks from Idaho. (What, we don't have rocks in California?) The customer, down near Palm Springs, had ordered up something like 47,000 lbs. of rocks, though with the way they were stacked and crated, I could only take 43,000. Not bad, I suppose, but it was a bit of a come-down.

The previous week, it had been lots of high tech stuff. The highlight had been parts of the new Airbus A380, a load which came to only 5,000 lbs. While I appreciated the extra fuel mileage, I would have loved to have had a bit more weight on the trailer axles. (Stability, you understand.) At the same time, it gave me a chance to stick my chest out a bit: "Yeah, I'm in the high tech industry. Aircraft. You understand, of course..." Ah, yes, I had my moment of glory in geekdom.

Two high tech loads, and they bookended a load of rocks. (If I were up to it, I would go into the cliche of the juxtaposition of my loads, but you have better things to do.) I've had weird runs before, but this was a new one for me. I was wondering if maybe my Uncle Mel who works for Greyhound was taking busloads of neanderthals and rocket scientists to their respective conventions or something. Hell, maybe they could share a bus:

Neanderthal: "So, what do you think of the new metallurgical analysis regarding the primary booster structures?"

Rocket Scientist: "Chongo want MEAT!"

(Hey, we only ASSUME Rocket Scientists are civilized.)

Still, there do seem to be parallels between my loads and my career. The past week has been more than a bit of a disappointment.

First, I tried to put the Pete into a space where Peterbilts simply do not belong on a visit to my doctor's office in Citrus Heights. I wound up putting the first ding into my passenger side fender. You have to be looking for it to find it; I didn't do that much damage, and thankfully, no damage at all to the chain link fence I rubbed up against. But still, I enjoy having my rig look good, or at the very least, as good as I drive. (Don't say it...) It makes a better impression on people when you show up to pick up multimillion dollar aircraft parts.

It was stupid move on my part. I called dispatch, let them know what happened, and we arranged for a body shop to take a quick look to see if it would be worth spending the money to repair, or if we could just let things sit as they were and say, "Shit happens." I got points for honesty, but at the same time, I'm sure the company brass was wondering just what the hell I was thinking when I tried to put my big orange Pete into a space where Peggy and I used to have trouble putting our old brown Subaru.

That was bad enough, I suppose, but for the run north, things got a little worse.

I had picked up a load of plywood from Santa Fe Springs, CA, near Los Angeles. This wasn't your usual plywood, like you'd find in Home Depot: some of it was high grade marine plywood, guaranteed no voids, used for some of the luxury megayachts you see out on the water near Seattle. The exposed plies varied as to material, with some being mahogany, others birch, and still others even more exotic woods, but they were all high end, and the per sheet cost ran up to around $80. Other bundles were industrial plywoods used in trenches, or other applications, some of which, even after having it explained to me, made no sense. (I guess I had to be there.) It wouldn't have been that bad a load, except I had to keep going back to get the load readjusted, I kept coming up heavy, both on the axles and the gross. The destination was western central Oregon and northwestern Washington.

I wound up staying overnight in Sacramento, partly to pick up a copy of my DMV printout, then managed to get rolling up north. It was a sunny day, and things seemed to be going well. I would have the load off within a day, and from there, I could pick up at least another couple of hundred miles. It was shaping up, in spite of everything, to be a profitable week.

Spoke too soon. At around 6:30 in the evening, near Manzanita, OR, I started to hear a "tic-tic-tic" coming from the upper turbocharger on the engine. I wasn't able to track down exactly what was wrong, simply because I had so little experience with the Cat C-15, but at the same time, I knew that if I didn't get it together quick, I would be sitting by the side of the road waiting to get hooked.

I was able to get my four drops in, and by the time I was able to get the rig to our yard in Sumner, WA, I was hearing a high pitched whine from the engine every time manifold pressure started to climb beyond 20 psi. I rolled it into the yard, checked in with the head wrench, and a few minutes later, heard from him that I'd lost a stud from the lower left side, and a nut from back near the intake. And while it was warranty work, the reality was that I'd be sitting idle for the next couple of days. Instead of coming up miles and money ahead, I would be short on both.

I have said before, I didn't choose this profession. It chose me. I was given an opportunity and I took it because there was nothing else for me to do. But in the end, it's turned out to be for the very best.

Over the past few weeks, I've managed to catch sight of some of the most beautiful country anywhere, parts of Nevada and Utah I didn't even know existed. There have been places in Oregon and Washington that most people will never see, simply because it's not on the Interstate. These are places that catch you unaware, but ultimately leave you stopped by the side of the road, trying to take it all in, knowing it's simply not possible.

There were the miles I drove along the Snake River in Idaho, catching sight of deer and green trees, and feeling incredibly envious of the people who had the opportunity to live their lives in such a spectacular place. And yet, on the same trip, I rolled through parts of Nevada, surrounded by sage brush and getting glimpses of mustangs loping off over the ridgeline, and beginning to wonder if any of that land was for sale. There have been ghost towns of every vintage where I've driven, including one with the boarded up cathouse, complete with the "NO TRESPASSING" signs, and another one which was even more to the point: "NO GIRLS. BEAT IT."

I was never the "acceptable" child to my family, and I doubt I ever will be. You learn to get past that, and to forge your own life. Only a fool will tell you it's easy, but you set a path, you take a chance, you move on. My mother and sister tell me I'm a disgrace because of how I earn a living. I have learned to tune that sort of crap out of my life. If people are ashamed of me because I drive a truck, they are the ones who ultimately miss out; I've grown to love this.

For all the miles we drove when I was growing up, for the times I stayed up late at night as my dad drove us to his new duty station during his time in the Army, it was nothing compared to what I've had the chance to see at this stage in my life. That my wife, Peggy, has had the chance to join me on occasion, and that I've had the blessing to meet up with friends along the way, it's a huge part of what's made it worth it.

And at this stage in my life, with all the frustration, with all the irritation that I've had to go through, the reality is, I can't imagine doing anything else.

Sites to See:

Just to make you say "What the fuck!?!?" Stick Figures on Crack.

So I'm sitting at my laptop, trying to think of what I'm going to say this week. I click on the Yahoo! news links, and there's the story of poor little Miss Paris Hilton. Sometimes you gotta work for it, and sometimes, they hand it to you.

If you've been out on the road actually working for a living, you can read about it, here. I don't have the time for it. Suffice it to say, Paris Hilton's behavior was based on her own choices, not on anything anyone imposed on her. That's real life.

Maybe it's just me, but I'm finding it hard as hell to feel sorry for her. Miss Paris is sitting in a jail cell because she chose to drink and drive. That she chose to violate a court order and do it again tells me she's not just rich and spoiled, but she's stupid, too. Add to this her behavior in court when it became clear she'd be headed back to jail to actually serve the time, with her wailing to her mother about how "this isn't right," especially when she's getting a very light sentence, (and I've had friends who have served a hell of a lot longer for doing a whole lot less), and my sympathy index for her is somewhere in the neighborhood of zilch.

Just a few thoughts for you, Paris. At nine years old, my grandmother's drinking came close to killing my sister and me. She drove drunk down Highway 65, near Lincoln, CA, and hit a Toyota Corona with her Chevy Caprice. It was a stupid move on her part, compounded by my family's insistence that there be a sort of "official version" of what happened.

Did she do time for this? No. But there have been times when I have found out about my grandmother driving smashed in the times that followed, I sure as hell wish she had.

We're being subjected to seeing you teary-eyed and shrieking about how unfair all of this is. Give me a fucking break! I've got a news flash for you: you committed a crime. Ask any trucker about drunks on the road, and you'll get more than a few tales of mangled bodies, broken lives, and hope destroyed. That you lucked out and didn't kill anyone is a borderline miracle.

Just a suggestion: Shut the fuck up and do your time. After you get out, you can whine about how unfair it is. Until then, serve it and get it over with. And while you're at it, quit drinking. Drunk chicks aren't much fun.

Integrity without knowledge is weak and useless, and knowledge without integrity is dangerous and dreadful.
Samuel Johnson

One of the things you get plenty of on long runs is head time. You get plenty of time to think about whatever runs through your mind. Sometimes, this can be a blessing: you get to seriously consider things most other folks would simply gloss over.

Religion, as you might guess, is a big one for me. Having been in vocational ministry, (though the station was owned by an atheist, believe it or not), I've had to re-examine everything I believed over the past few years, and why I chose to believe it. Part of what bothers me about this part of my life is that I'm forced to admit that in becoming a Christian I probably didn't think the whole business through before I got into it.

It's very easy to think that we examine things like Christianity before we leap, that we take the time to review the evidence and decide based on fact what we will choose to do with our painfully short lives. We take great pains to explain to people the value of evidence, and in fact, much of our entertainment is centered around just that. It's just too sad that when it comes down to cases, we actually find that much of the "evidence" we examine is so limited, it's little more than a rehash of ancient legend, that if we had to admit it, we'd have to say that we've simply gone along with the crowd.

It's interesting, because when you think about it, you almost have to admire some of those we're told are outright evil. Consider Anton LaVey, the guy who started the Church of Satan. On the one hand, you can say he protested mindless belief with his forming his organization. Another view is that he formed it as a parody of the God Squads, that he's mocking Christianity. Either way, you have to admit he was a prime grade genius. (You could also say he truly believed what he taught, and that might make him a flake, but he's still brilliant in a weird sort of way.)

Part of what drove me to follow Christianity is that I wanted to be a good man. I had grown up being told that I wasn't capable of being Good, that I was an insult to my parents, that I was a failure. I saw in belief in Christ the possibility that I could, for once, be a good person.

The reality is that, like sports, church doesn't develop your character, it reveals it. I had to admit for the most part that my character wasn't very good. This meant I had to change, and that was hard as hell. It still is, and it will always be.

But it's necessary. Goodness, oddly enough, is a pretty basic concept for most of us, and if you spend any time with other people at all, their reactions to you will tell you if what you're doing is good or not. If you accept the idea that Goodness is what enables us to work together for common good, that it enhances our lives, rather than detracts from it, then you can gauge what works to make life "good," and what can in turn help you to be a "good" person. The rest of it is pretty much window dressing.

To phrase it another way, if you need God/gods/deities of any sort to make you a good person, you have far greater problems than any religion can help you solve.

Sites to See:

This guy's so nasty, he makes Simon Cowell look like a sycophant. Of couse, he's computer generated, but who cares?

Looking for a woodie? A real one? Check out the Hercules Motor Car Co.

I don't know if God exists, but it would be better for His reputation if He didn't.
Jules Renard

I was in a rest area in Oregon a couple of days ago, making a quick stop as I put the final push in to get a load down to Martell, CA. Ordinarily, I try to make these stops as quick as I can, simply so I can spend more time driving instead of wasting it with other business.

One of the risks you have in these places is that you can find yourself buttonholed by some of the oddest characters. Sometimes, it's just some guy with a "Will Work For Food" sign, looking for a handout. Others, it's a lot lizard, hoping you'll fork over a few bucks so she can share multiple organisms with you.

On this day, it was a Jehovah's Witness, and he'd already snagged a guy from A&M Trucking, some poor slob who made the mistake of actually talking to the guy who had copies of Awake! and The Watchtower in hand. Even as I was heading back to the Pete, the other driver was trying to get the Witness to leave him alone, "Yes, I'll take the magazine, but I have to get to Portland or I'll miss my load appointment..."

The thought came unbidden, and it surprised me. But there it was: "Even when I believed there was a God, I didn't waste my time with that crap..."

I was in the cab and starting to put it in gear before I realized just what I'd been thinking. "Even when I believed there was a God..."

Had I really gotten to that point? Had I finally said, "Enough"?

I think I have.

Over the past few years, many things have been gnawing at me about the whole question of God. There were three big ones that kept at me, keeping me up nights, and I finally realized these were things that were never going to be answered to any degree of satisfaction.

As a Christian, I was not taught to think logically, but apocalyptically. Everything had to be interpreted in light of Christ's immenent return. Anything that didn't connect with that had to be discarded; we had to be found worthy in His eyes, not in our own. Failure to do so was to risk Hell, the complete and total absence of God.

Therefore, it was considered a sin to ask for evidence of Christ, of God's existence, of His will. As a mortal man, I was not to put the Lord my God to the test.

But, how do you interpret, for example, Gideon laying out a fleece, seeking evidence that it was actually God who was talking to him? On what basis do you condemn Gideon, knowing that as he faced the enemies of Israel, he could easily wind up and spear fodder?

On that score, I was told that was the Old Testament, the Old Covenant. As a Christian, I was bound by the New Covenant.

Fine. Jesus was met by followers of John the Baptist, who, knowing who Jesus was, asked for that blasphemous evidence. That falls under the New Covenant. Why were they allowed to ask for evidence, (and in fact, praised for doing so), while I'm damned for it? Or for that matter, why were the Bereans praised for seeking evidence, while I'm told I'm "putting God to the test?" Sorry, this became a no-go for me.

Taking that to it's logical end, I now had to ask about logical inconsistencies. As one example, why would God, who one presumes leads by example, demand that we are to take action against Evil, but take no action for the most part Himself? How do you explain His granting of permission to Lucifer to abuse and break Job, including killing Job's children? Are we saying that on a whim, God can turn his hand and cynically allow such incredible misery in a person's life because it somehow "glorifies" Him?

Let me borrow from something I discussed earlier: When Enan Smith died from leukemia at two years old, how the hell did this "glorify" God? Add to this the response from "Good" Christians, that God was punishing Enan's grandmother because she hadn't been in Church for some time. If God was pissed off over something Enan's grandmother, Dona, had done, wouldn't it have made more sense for God to take a swat at Dona, rather than kill Enan? Sorry, this is another no-go for me.

Take it further: A Christian by definition is changed by the indwelling of the Holy Spirit. Accept Christ, accept the Holy Spirit, and you are a New Creation. You begin to behave in a manner which honors Christ, because doing so brings a burden on your heart through the Holy Spirit. And, as James explained, you would understand that you cannot simply pat some poor slob on the head and say, "Be healthy and well fed, live in peace," leaving them hungry, homeless, naked, and ill, because that would be a violation of Christ's will. Right?

Let me ask: How many Churches do you know of that have food closets, or clothing for those in need? How many regularly support homeless shelters, or have prison visitation programs, or work with hospitals and hospices to help those who are sick or injured? I know of only one in our area, and yet I can open the Yellow Pages, and find page after page of Churches. Scary.

My brother-in-law, as one example, is supposed to be a good Christian. Yet, he was one of those who led the charge against Dona and A TWO YEAR OLD CHILD, saying that God was punishing Dona for her refusal to attend a brutal, abusive Church by killing her grandson. This is the same spiritual half-wit who calls my kids "Jon-the-brat," and "Bratthew," and my wife, "Piggy." I've said in the past I'd like to bust his head open, but Christians say I'm being "judgemental" and "hypersensitive."

Atheists want to know why my brother-in-law hasn't been to an orthodontist or oral surgeon to replace broken teeth. Who's got my family's best interest at heart? The Christians? I don't think so.

I'm done. I'm done with the abuse, the lies, the fantasies. People ask me where I'm at spiritually, and I am now telling them: I no longer believe. You can pray for me if you like, but that does not change the reality. There are good people out there, and there are those among them who choose to believe there's a God, that their belief in God makes them good. Mathematically speaking, you're going to find there are a certain percentage of good people in any society, and encouraging their good benefits us all.

But doing so in the name of a God who has been shown to not be there, by unanswered prayers, by the actions and inactions of those who claim to believe, by the manipulations of those who want us to believe as they do, is a cruel hoax.

When you consider that we know there were additions made to The Antiquities of the Jews by Flavius Josephus, when you consider the lengthy footnotes in the New International Version of the Bible, which list line after line of text which was not found in the earliest known versions we have of the books of the Bible, you begin to realize that you've been played.

I chose to believe mainly because even within my own family, I did not belong. In choosing to be a Christian, I found I didn't belong because I asked too damned many questions. Perhaps I'll never belong anywhere, to anything, to anyone. At least, in the end, I'll do so with something resembling integrity, and can do so with something that at least resembles courage. If anything, I owe at least myself that much.

Sites to See:

If you're sick of a particular website, maybe it's time to destroy the Web!

If you remember old fashioned carnivals, perhaps it's time for a visit to Johnny Meah, The Czar of the Bizarre.

The Fool du Jour is Cpl. Matt Sanchez. Be careful who your defenders are: they could be far worse than your enemies.