Greg’s Blog

It was announced this past week during a Republican presidential debate that three of the candidates do not believe in evolution. A fourth, John McCain, tried to walk the fence with some inane statement like, "I believe in evolution, but I see the hand of God when I’m in the Grand Canyon." Shouldn’t this ignorance and/or political obsequiousness immediately disqualify the candidate?

So what’s next in the our mental devolution? Leeches? I hear we’re using them in plastic surgery because of their incredible ability to increase circulation by slowly, but consistently sucking blood. They’re also useful for severed body parts. Both of these applications should appeal to the current administration’s various efforts.

But back to leeches… If we’re done with evolution, let’s toss all of modern science and medicine. Down with the Xanax, Away goes the Anesthesia, Vilify the Viagra, Blast that Hay Fever, and Forget the Micro-Surgery.

Bring back the leeches, Fellow Americans, but let’s not confine their uses to our Iraqi ambutees and Paris Hilton’s boob jobs. NO. Let’s take it back to the antiquities when the leech was science, men were Adam, and women were Eve. Put a leech between the cheek and gum, put a leech in the nostril, put another leech on that electorate. Cures hangovers, too.

Arguing for pacifism begins by confronting the following paraphrase: "We’ve only lost 3000 out of 140,000 soldiers in 4 years. The costs are low. What’s the problem? America has no stomach for war, and we simply need to accept these costs to ensure our freedom and defeat terrorism."

So I won’t address the following:

1) The lies of the Bush Administration
2) The fact that terrorism is the new bogeyman. Like the Cold War, it’s good for certain sectors of the economy.
3) The fact that our freedom is not at threat. Blowing up the the WTC created longer security lines at the airport and gave the right wing the ability to tap my phone lines without a warrant, but my domestic freedom has not faced any threat from abroad.
4) The argument over whether this war is about oil (it probably was, but the neo-cons realize it’s now about keeping what they have rather than taking something they didn’t have)

My issue addresses societal costs, and I would argue that 3000 lives is merely the tip of the Transamerica Building. The number 3000 is only the number of dead. That number doesn’t address the wounded, the amputees, the mental casualties, or battle-scarred. I recently asked the marketing director of the RAND Corporation (http://www.rand.org) if they’d ever done a study on crime following a war-torn generation and crime following a generation that had primarily known peace. Unfortunately, the answer was no.

I hypothesize that following Vietnam, homelessness, mental illness, crime, and drug use all increased in the United States. Paradoxically, I believe that these societal ills decreased during the X and Y generation. X & Y had little war. Reagan dashed away to flex his cowboy muscles in Grenada and Panama, but those weren’t wars. Bush the First went to war in Iraq, but it ended instantaneously (BTW, there were veterans who complained of Post-Traumatic Stress and other unexplainable illnesses). Clinton led a period of peace.

Given the travesty of outpatient care at Walter Reed Medical Center, it’s a great time to explore this hypothesis. Do you think that we’ve only had 3000 casualties? Those following the Walter Reed Scandal have noted the following:

1) The casualty to fatality ratio in Vietnam was 2.4 to 1.
2) The casualty to fatality ratio in WW II was 2.1 to 1.
3) The casualty to fatality ratio in the Iraq War is approximately 15 to 1.

Since Blackhawk Down, we’ve learned how to keep these guys alive for 72 hours. Instead of medics, we have E.M.T.’s treating our on-field casualties. In that time, most soldiers are transported to an army hospital and their lives are saved. It’s an amazing feat, but the fact remains that instead of being left to die on the battlefields of Vietnam or Normandy, these guys are surviving post-Baghdad.

Most would argue that survival is positive, but they are surviving with lost limbs, brain damage, and other enduring ailments. One writer covering Army Reed noted that as a constant reminder of this war, U.S. streets will soon be littered with amputees because while we’ve only lost 3000 people, we’ve had 50,000 wounded (that number doesn’t include non-combat injuries that occur in Iraq).

The data is coming in, which brings me back to my interest. How many of these people will return to the U.S. with Post-Traumatic Stress, another terrible mental illness, or the anger and frustration associated with war, and then go on to commit crimes, become homeless, or drive themselves into a dark hole of government subsistence? We, as US citizens, will support many of these people for the rest of their lives. One way or another, we will pay. Pacifism makes good sociological sense as well as economic sense. We need to recognize this instead of hanging on to the old myth that war is good for the economy.

Namaste Nothing! I’ve been doing yoga for 15 brutal years. It’s not peaceful. It’s not serene. I do hot yoga, and it’s an hour and a half of 105 degree torture. It pains me to see my fellow practicioners in a zen state. It’s not zen. Every minute of the class, I’m trying to settle myself through a steady breath. I’m trying not to collapse. I’m pushing the posture because I’ve mistakenly positioned myself in the front of the class.

…and let me address hate. I hate those whose faces are not red. I begrudge those whose clothes are not dripping sweat. I disklike the teacher who tries to offer advice when I feel I should be knighted just for staying in this pit of damnation.

I’m surprised that I haven’t read of someone going postal in a yoga class. Imagine hot pavement in a Detroit Summer with unbreathable moldy air, and a bunch of people looking for the answer to a question that was never asked. It’s painfully impossible and terrifyingly frustrating. You want out, but you say, "I’m not a quitter. I can do this. It’s good for me. I must endure. Others will question my resolve if I walk out in the middle of class. Push on, Tiny Dancer. Argghhh!!!

And when it’s over, it’s better than finishing those windsprints that Coach Edwards assigned for failing to suit up in P.E.  It’s better than pumping iron at Muscle Beach. It’s not better than winning American Idol, but I only say that because I cannot lie to you or myself. Regardless, I feel like I have been born again. Energy surge. Mind clear. Synapses firing. And sleep is either not necessary or it is calm like a tibetan terrier on a filthy woodchip pillow. Yep, it’s home and happiness and clarity, and accomplishment and aspiration are within reach again.

"They either love him or they hate him," our soft-spoken, but well-informed waiter told us about the chef, Scott Carsberg.
"I read somewhere that this is one of the best restaurants in the country," I added.
"He’s the first one in at 7AM, and the last one to leave," our waiter applying finality to the topic.

These comments were ascribed while dining at Lampreia, a 14-year old restaurant in Belltown. It was the most creative, delicious meal that I’ve ever eaten in Seattle, and perhaps one the ten best of my life. It was not inexpensive, but I was deserving given the prime number of "41" I was celebrating. Cindy treated me to this extravagance, while sharing the secret potion of eternal youth— The Tanqueray Ten and Tonic.

After opening with our T,T, & T, we enjoyed some lightly cooked Octopus (poached in a vacuum-packed bag), and a dish called Baccala, black cod wrapped in peppers. It melted in our mouths. Following those appetizers, we moved on to a salmon roe soup, and a ravioli that encased an egg. All was seasoned to perfection with too many ingredients to remember.

Finally, our entrees arrived. I had the duck, cooked to perfection and not gamey, accompanied by various fruit jellies along the side. Cindy had the sea bass, beautifully seasoned and prepared.

Nothing was ordinary, and if I had the menu before me, I’d include a description of the preparation and integration. Over the top.

Unlike Friday night, we did not close out with a Sambuca in Old Ballard. That frosty-coated licorice crunch had left me at less than Mach Ten. Sleep suited me well this night.

The Chargers let me down. I cannot provide any analysis. I run it through my head and it pains me at every turn.

On the bright side, a good tailgate party thrown by John Conner. Haswell & Phil White jumped a fence to the parking lot b/c non-ticket holders were not allowed to tailgate. There were many people scurrying down the dirt embankment through the brush so that they could partake in the Charger party-magic. Conner had a great spread laid out. First rate Mexican food, tasty margaritas, lots of beer and booze. Then he wired a Direct TV hookup to his truck, had the flat screen going in the back, and we watched the Bears-Seahawks game.

Post-game, Mom and I went to Carino’s, commiserating over Michelob (that beer has been on-tap there since 1981 anyway… Does anyone else serve Michelob anymore?), pizza, and trying to stay on the good side of the manager/waiter who was wearing a Charger hat and Tomlinson jersey, drunk out of his mind and belligerent.

Me: “Hey, Man, we were at the game, too. We’re ALL hurting.”
Him: “yeah, but you don’t’ have to wait tables when it’s over!”
Me: “True, true.”
Him: “I WOULD’VE CRIED OVER THIS LOSS WHEN I WAS A KID.”   

And memories of my tears after the 1979 loss to Houston all came back to me. I tipped him $20 and we went home.