My 2¢ about Ft Hood

I'm rarely aware of current events until they're brought to my attention in a hey did you hear about... kind-of-way. I have, however, been following the Nidal Hasan spree-killing at Fort Hood Texas.

Although I know none of the soldiers or civilians involved in this incident, I still have some good friends on active duty. And, crimes of this nature still push my long-unused investigator buttons (I wonder if it will ever completely go away). Though I was in the Army for 20 years, and retired as a senior CID Agent, I realize my insights aren't very much. But, hey, what's a blog for, if not someplace to scrawl my current thoughts?

Fact: A 6 November news article reported that the day prior to the incident, the shooter, Major Nidal Hasan, gave his furniture to a neighbor and paid her to clean his apartment.

Observation: This is a textbook example of things a person who has decided to commit suicide does.

Fact: Major Nidal Hasan's performance as a psychiatrist has been questioned by members of the press. The military has responded vaguely about his performance.

Observation: Above the rank of Captain, the number of quality active-duty Army doctors quickly diminishes to zero. You see, most doctors join for the training and leave once they finish their service commitments (which happens to coincide with how long it normally takes to be promoted to Captain). For obvious financial reasons, good doctors leave the military as soon as permitted. An average psychiatrist (in most medium-large US cities) can easily earn $250,000 a year.

Major Hasan has already served twelve years (he joined in 1997). He must have completed his initial service commitment (normally 4 years after completing all training) years ago. Even with all of the specialty medical incentive pays, Major Hasan's military pay could not be much above $100,000 a year. The vast majority of doctors (and lawyers, and dentists, and pilots, and air traffic controllers...you get the picture) who remain in the Army after completing their commitments, do so because they are fully aware that earning a living in "the real world" requires more than they are capable of. Major Hasan was most certainly one of these highly-trained-incompetents.

Fact: The senior military officer's who supervised Major Hasan have not said much of anything, positive or negative, about his job performance.

Observation: What can they—the more-senior, more-highly-trained, incompetent doctors who have stayed in the Army long enough to attain the rank of Colonel because they could never earn a living as a medical supervisor in "the real world"—say? He was a terrible therapist? We knew he was a fucktard-zealot? We were deploying him to the sand box wishing and hoping that he'd step on a land mine?

I know that you cannot hate other people without hating yourself. — Oprah Winfrey

Autumn Zonk Hikes

This year's hiking season is officially over for Zonkey and I. We completed some great hikes this year—a total of thirteen. Zonk hiked 28 miles and rode in-pack or on-shoulder an additional seven. A six-mile out-n-back (with a 1,200' change in elevation), was the longest; but the most difficult ones taught me that he doesn't prefer to walk out in the open, on soft sunny beaches, nor in the forest on very soggy paths.

The primary reason our hiking is over until next Spring isn't foul weather, but because of hunting season (both furry and fowl). Although I'm apprehensive of either of us being shot accidentally-on-purpose, more importantly, any walk in the woods with a constant staccato of gunfire echoing around you is a foul hike.

I spend a lot of time by myself, and I consciously do that to strengthen myself and to stay centered. — Oprah Winfrey

This is where I was at ten years ago — You (.1)?


Passion is energy. Feel the power that comes from focusing on what excites you. — Oprah Winfrey

And the winner is...


So go ahead. Fall down. The world looks different from the ground. — Oprah Winfrey

Open letter to Crazy (or do you spell it with an i?)


Dearest Crazy,

You say you've read one of my posts or this, that or even a mass market other thing or two, and now you actually believe the world is going to end on the 21st of December 2012?

No, you sweet-idiot, the world is not going to end on our watch.

And, to be perfectly honest, I don't know. But I do have reasonable and logical reasons to think so. If I distill these reasons into a List of Facts will it be easier for you?

1. The 21st of December is the Winter Solstice (day with the least amount of daylight) in the Northern Hemisphere.

2. In the Southern Hemisphere the 21st of December is the Summer Solstice (day with the most amount of daylight).

3. The Ancient Maya lived in Mesoamerica, which was in the Northern Hemisphere.

4. These Mayans kept track of time with a large quantity of different calendars.

5. One of their long calendars kept track of time for a little more than five thousand years.

6. Many people have "matched up" this long calendar with our current (Gregorian) calendar. There are almost as many different "match up" solutions as there are people who have tried to match them up.

7. There is a small consensus of people who think the "correct match" is the one that lines up the last day of the Maya long calendar (when it clicks over to all zeros) with the last day of the solar year.

8. Which is the first day of the solar year in 1/2 the world.

My point is that even if the calendars have been matched correctly (volumes of books have been written to refute or proclaim the calculations) it is only a calendar coming to an end.

On the 22d of December 2012, the new Mayan calendar begins and, for the entire modern world, the first of January 2013 will be just another new year.

But I waste my time, don't I crazi? You don't want logic; you want to witness the end. Your strangelovian-dream has always been to be Slim Pickens hasn't it?

Breathe. Let go. And remind yourself that this very moment is the only one you know you have for sure. — Oprah Winfrey

Disturbing Eavesdropping


Conversation between two female bookstore clerks:

That's disturbing. Just disturbing.

I knooow. Can you imagine?

You should call and complain.

What?

I think you should call them and say something.

I think I will.

(20 seconds of silence)

There's no answer. I bet they're away from the desk. I'll call them later. Teach them to say disturbing shit about us.

What's the most disturbing thing you've ever seen?

I don't know; I've seen some pretty sick shit. What about you?

Me? I. Well. There was this little baby rabbit. And it had this gross kinda open sore in it's side about this big and, and you could see . . . well, there were things moving around in it . . . inside the guts and stuff. And it was panting, you know, breathing real heavy and. . . Well, then my fiancΓ©-at-the-time just goes up and stomps on it's head and. It was. Well. I still get upset thinking about it.

(At about this point a customer is waited on; they stop talking until the customer is gone. I think her distress was caused—more—by learning that some guy who she contemplated marrying was capable of euthanizing an injured bunny with his boot, than by the maggoty wound.)

What about you?

I think it would probably be this guy I saw on the train. He didn't have any arms or legs and he was duct-taped to a skateboard. (breathy giggles spread between them) And he had this little red swiss army knife sticking out the corner of his mouth, and it bobbled up and down when he talked—like a cigarette does—you know? . . . And whenever someone would get to close to him he'd say 'I wouldn't do it'. That was all I ever heard him say...(in a Burgess-Meridth-as-The-Penguin voice, she repeats—amid more giggles) I wouldn't do it.

Your stories! I always have difficulty believing your stories.

I wouldn't do it.

Where was this? Was he flat out... how. How'd he get around?

I assume he had some caretaker-handler or someone. He'd be in the isle of the train near the door. This was when I lived in New York, but he was always near or around Brooklyn I think. I saw him more than once. Couple times.

Duct-taped? I mean it must have . . .

Right to the board. It was a long board, or at least it was longer than a regular one. There was, like, a piece of foam under his head; but other than that: he was taped flat... I wouldn't do it.

Duct tape is like the force. It has a light side, a dark side, and it holds the universe together. — Oprah Winfrey

Clackers, Creepy Crawlers & Jarts

My parents were the Howard-n-Marion-Cunningham of the neighborhood. They based their parenting ground rules on how something affected their own comfort, or (if their comfort was not in play) their decisions fell into two categories: either they approved in a clueless and over-trusting manner or they were groundlessly and adamantly opposed. Determining which way they'd decide, or why, was never simple or obvious.

Although I played with my friend's Clackers, and whacked myself on the head a time or seven, I never witnessed them shatter or break (as they were alleged to). Mom wouldn't allow us to own them because she heard the noise from three yards away and didn't want that ruckus in her house.

The bubbling plastic and smoky molds which heated my day-glow worms and spiders . . . oh, I recall those smells and burns with fondness . . . (even now) a car sitting in an unshaded parking lot for hours can bring those memories wafting back. Mom restricted Creepy Crawlers to our basement; next to my wood-burning, and chemistry sets.

No one in our family or neighborhood got hurt by Jarts (even though we tossed them in each other's general direction). Playing with them was no different than playing with horseshoes, you watched where they were being arced and didn't play when smaller kids were running around.

Which reminds me of the worst Halloween injury I was involved with:

My little sister eagerly rode around me in a circle as I tried to arc a utility-pole anchor spike (tied to a string) through the back of her tricycle. The tricycle-lariat-king was off his game that day, I'll tell you. After over a half-dozen misses, I eventually hit her in the face with the pointy end, which punctured her left cheek and chipped her tooth.

It looked traumatic.

Of course I was sorry.

Only, at the time, I was actually feeling sorry for these things, in this order:
  • that I'd, again, missed hooking the back-rung of the tricycle

  • her screaming was, obviously, going to put a stop to the game

  • now I probably won't be able to convince her to play driveway rodeo with me

  • maybe ever again

  • getting really screamed at (what were you thinking!?) and grounded, by my parents, felt scarier than the blood and histrionics

  • saying "but she didn't mind playing the rodeo calf"

  • realizing the answer to my parent's shouted question was that I wasn't, but was old enough to (and that I could only blame my stupidity)

  • that in my imagination (as I waited in my room for them to return from the hospital) worse luck added an inch of arc to my throw, which punctured her left eye and stopped in her brain

2D Map of the 4th Dimension


It is now possible (thank you Google Earth) to collect and compile footprint-shots of every place one's ever lived. This collage reflects four decades of places I've rested my head; beginning at the top left—my parent's home when I was in high school—to the bottom right: my current abode.

The overlap of my 4th dimension (movements through time) with other people's, intrigues me. In almost every location, I've overlapped the life-prints of prior residents, and in every location someone has lived-slept in my life-print once I moved. Exceptions are few: I did not overlap anyone's 4th dimension in 1972, because my parents built that home, and the Quonset hut in which I slept from January to May of 1983 (green smudge under my parent's old house) has been torn down.

Although I limited my shots to locations where I slept for more than 3 months, obviously I could broaden my scope and increase my footprint-shots exponentially, by including sites/locations/hotels where I resided for shorter periods. My memory would be the only limiting factor. When I was three, where was that little pink house we lived in? When I was training in the California desert for 30 days (at Ft. Irwin) where did we set up camp?

I shall stay the way I am
because I do not give a damn. — Dorothy Parker

My Ten Favorite Films of the Last Decade

Everyone has their own favorites and nobody shares the same ten (and what a borin place it'd be if t'were). I hope to "discover" some I've missed by sculpting my list now (with the world ending on 21 Dec 2012 — I guess this December 21st is the last day of the 00h's — and it's not too much of a strain to suspect that no films coming out in the next month-and-a-half will be good enough to alter this list...even though I'd love that to be wrong).

To make it easier yet more complicated on myself, I picked ten categories (omitting documentary and some others), then broadened the scope to include films from all over the world, and then re-narrowed it, to insure there were not too many films from any one year.

Mystery — Memento (2000) [runner-up: Donnie Darko, 2001]
Teen — Almost Famous (2000) [runner-up: Superbad, 2007]
Musical — Hedwig and the Angry Inch (2001) [runner-up: Across The Universe, 2007]
Romantic Comedy — AmΓ©lie (2001) [runner-up: High Fidelity, 2000]
Suspense/Thriller — Oldboy (2003) [runner-up: Sin City, 2005]
Action/Adventure — Kill Bill (03 & 04) [runner-up: Hero, 2004]
Drama/Crime — Brick (2005) [runner-up: O Brother Where Art Thou?, 2000]
SF/Fantasy — Children of Men (2007) [runner-up: Minority Report, 2002]
Horror/Monster — Let the Right One In (2008) [runner-up: The Host, 2006]
Animation/AnimΓ© — Up (2009) [runner-up: Metropolis, 2001]

Authors and actors and artists and such, never know nothing, and never know much. — Dorothy Parker

These pretzels previews are makin me thirsty

I've previously discussed my desire for an ability to discern good-bad-or-ugly films from their previews. Last month, I compiled an "after seen" list (of the large quantity of suck's which sucked-me-in to their suckage so far this year), as well as the small few gems I correctly identified. My average is less than 25% for 2009.

Either preview makers are getting better at their craft, or I'm getting worse at identifying shite from shineola in my declining years. In an attempt to learn which is the case, I've decided to take a slightly different tack (as in the path a sailing vessel takes when utilizing wind and sail - or, better - tac: the abbreviated verbiage for tactic?)

I recently watched dozens of previews and these are the ones which currently have me more than 50% convinced to pay theater-ticket prices to watch their upcoming product.

You can click on each poster-pic to view an IMDB trailer.


Fantastic Mr Fox
(25 November)
Thoughts: A unique stop-motion visual with lots of Wes Anderson's "regulars" voices. The script may not be all that funny. Wes missed last time out, so may be off his game (Darjeeling Unltd. sucked).
Chance I'll pay $10 to see: 60% (18 Dec: GOOD!)


The Crazies (February 2010)
Thoughts: A remake of a not-so-good George A. Romero movie. Their use of a snippet of the song Mad World works perfectly. An-Nuther zombie film? I may be more sucked in, if the last minute of the trailer didn't reveal so much second act information.
Chance I'll pay $10 to see: 70%


The Men Who Stare at Goats (6 November)
Thoughts: This looks like a Coen Brothers Comedy - it's not - the director directed the Leatherheads suckage, and Goodnight and Good Luck. This all-star cast guarantees a quality acting product. I hope the remaining 90 minutes are as funny.
Chance I'll pay $10 to see: 90%
(7 Nov update: Not as funny as I hoped; ragged script; forgettably-average film)


The Fourth Kind (6 November)
Thoughts: This is the second scary movie to over-shoot Halloween weekend by seven days. An alien abduction film from the viewpoint of the PTSD-survivors. Milla Jovovich not kicking ass in a tight suit is a welcome change.
Chance I'll pay $10 to see: 60% (7 Nov update: less than 5% chance)


The Wolfman (February 2010)
Thoughts: Benicio Del Toro and Anthony Hopkins! The CG special effects look nice. What is it with this glut of scary films?
Chance I'll pay $10 to see: 75%



The Imaginarium Of Doctor Parnassus (25 December)
Thoughts: Depp, Ledger, & Law are the same character, Terry Gilliam directs, and the supporting cast is crunch-packed-to-the-point-of-leaking. Chance I'll pay $10 to see: 99%


Avatar (18 December)
Thoughts: Science Fiction and Fantasy and Military Action in one tootsie roll - with James Cameron directing... I sure hope he mixed Aliens, Terminator and Titanic successfully. Supporting cast has Sigourney Weaver, Giovanni Ribbisi, and Michelle Rodriguez.
Chance I'll pay $10 to see: 85%
(28 Dec update: Cowboy & indians; simple script and plot; above avg.)

Gentlemen Broncos (30 October)
Thoughts: This could be hilarious. This could seriously suck.
Chance I'll pay $10 to see: 50.0001%
(6 Nov update: terrible review downgrade. Current chance of paying $10 to see: 10%)


The Lovely Bones (January 2010)
Thoughts: Could be a bad mix of What Dreams May Come and The Invisible. Could be a good mix since Peter Jackson directs it. But when's the last time Marky-Mark acted in a good film? Maybe - 2006 - his small role in The Departed?
Chance I'll pay $10 to see: 55%


The Road (25 November)
Thoughts: Filmed in Oregon. Viggo Mortenson, Guy Pearce, Charlize Theron! I've been waiting for this to be distributed for over 18 months (when I first saw a teaser).

Chance I'll pay $10 to see: 95%
(4 Dec update: Stuck to the book too closely.  Mortenson mis-cast; OK)

... now I know the things I know, and do the things I do; and if you do not like me so, to hell — my love — with you! — Dorothy Parker (from her poem Indian Summer)

All That She Want...The Road Jack — Dub FX

I am inclined to think this man's ear/mouth-coordination work much-in-the-same-way as my eye/hand.



Into love and out again, thus I went, and thus I go.
Spare your voice, and hold your pen — well and bitterly I know...
all the songs were ever sung, all the words were ever said;
could it be, when I was young, someone dropped me on my head? — Dorothy Parker

Magnifico's Safer-Brand Tomato

Last month, I challenged Driz—who's amazing prose can be read at Ex Movere—to provide me with some imagery I could use to refract and distill a digital rendering of his love. He provided the following finely-woven tapestry, abstractions of image and form:
Looking through, looking past and into, a sideways glance, a shard and piece of the whole, half of a reflection, a tenth of soul and yet all too much substance, oppressive in her presence and demanding of my lips.
I feel like everything she tells me is a secret she’s decided to share, words I’ve earned, softly spoken, directly to my heart.
Wild acceptance, unending patience, friendly smiles, happy glances and giggles, girlishness and pride in and of it, sensuality of curve and curvature of senses, wild arcs in impossible directions and sly slopes of female in all of her form.
I feel like everything she does she does with grace, moving slowly as the world rips by at fantastic speeds, time itself bending to her beauty and pushed aside to make room for her divine soul.
Generous glee and softhearted insistence, pushing and penitent in her desires and drive; hesitant and anxious, self-conscious and self-conquered; well traveled and static; bright, loving, noble eyes.
I feel like every day starts where our last day ends, and the sun rises and sets with every sweet breath she drinks in.
God help us all if this love ever dies; she’s made with her love, this monster a monk.
And not in final, but with finality, to look upon her is to desire the memory of her the instant you see her; the very second eyes such as mine come to touch on her skin, I should never want of anything else again but to find that soft topaz glow in the darkness behind my eyes… I should become a defender of memory, guarding precious rocks and ore of the mind, crystal memories of only the best, and whole storehouses of past trinkets and the unprecious gems of my prior recall laid out with the trash to make good room and space for my new betters.
I am better for keeping my memories of her; all present(s) in her presence should be secondary to a burning and wild need to remember them. Men like me should see her and live in such unbelief of themselves at that moment, we should be human enough to fail at our understandings, and find ourselves scrambling about collecting temporal scraps of proof should doubt of her and our moment together ever enter our hearts.
She demands that I feel like she belongs only to me.
I demand then of myself that I rise, and deserve.
After absorbing the essay, I sparingly plied search engines with Driz's descriptive phrases (verbatim) and then crawled through the multitudinously-proffered images until successfully discovering all the materiel I needed for this piece.

I decided to compile the open-source images into this mosaic. Although it might be interesting to try and determine which phrase resulted in which picture (some are simple to see, others not so) I also thought it might be fun to try and de-re-construct the shattered kaleidoscope.


The completed digital rendering is titled Magnifico's Safer-Brand Tomato, for two reasons: because those words are an anagram of Driz's original title, and I think I was getting a little giggle-slap-happy-tired before I completed this rendering.


Art is a form of catharsis. — Dorothy Parker

Petting Rhymester


Summer makes me drowsy. Autumn makes me sing. Winter's pretty lousy, but I hate Spring. — Dorothy Parker (writer and poet, 1893-1967)

Lions and Fires and Fairs, Oh My

(five postcards from summer to you)

- Oh My
The people who run the 36-hole disc golf/picnic area/swimming hole/fishing pond/campground/music venue in the countryside, northwest of Portland, have more than a dozen guard peacocks roaming their grounds. I collected this one—for you—at the beginning of the Summer during a disc golf outing.

This (almost-extinct) type of Mom-n-Pop business leaves a handful of money in a bucket on their porch under a hand-scrawled list of prices, instructing you to: make your own change. Of the many signs in both English and Spanish, one was in Spanish only. I asked my paramour to translate it and she replied, "It warns about the penalties for catching fish and not paying for them."

Oh my Mom-n-Pop...there's a reason you're goin extinct.

- LionsI will not beat them in a dimly lit cave, I will not beat them crowded on a rock, I will not beat them if depraved, I will not beat them even to shock.

The chiaroscuro quality from my camera phone, rendered what would have been a mundane snapshot of sea lions in a cave worthy of presentation.

- The Fair
I captured a rare public display of the popular-in-a-previous-century, African-American headdress, being worn by a bald member of the Caucasoid race. In other words: a bald red neck cracker wearing a blue doo-rag. Because he also wore a white t-shirt with torn-off sleeves exposing racist tattoos, and four of his friends and family members were wearing at least one item of camouflaged clothing, I feel confident about my classification.

Please note: This is not an accidentally blurry photograph. I took this after four hours at the state fair err... really it was the Oregon Brewers Festival...and successfully captured what my eyes were seeing at that time.

- Fires
We went to Crater Lake and it was as snapshot-pretty as you'd expect (*oohh aahhh so bluuue*). As we were leaving the National Park surrounding the lake, a rather vaguely written portable electronic sign along the side of the highway flashed: FOST FIRE BX MM 39/44 H138. No mention of a closed road. So, about fifty miles later (with the smell of smoke gradually increasing) we were slowed by traffic cones when the two-lanes narrowed to one in several spots because of an adjacent fire.

Taking a picture of a forest fire—as one drives passed it, in a car—is something most people, in the US, don't get to do (I know in some countries, like Australia, it's more commonplace).

- Non-conformity rocks!
On a beach with a half-mile of smooth gray, varying from torso- to Lima-bean-sized, (stacked over twenty feet deep) I fell in love with a white palm-sized skipping stone.

Towering genius disdains a beaten path. It seeks regions hitherto unexplored. — Abraham Lincoln

In defense of . . .

Profiling. It's something every police officer does; all the time, every day.  Every effective police officer becomes an efficient profiler.   But, the definition of profiling has been twisted-into and confused-with that of:  prejudicial behavior (by lawyers and their ilk) making it necessary for those efficient members of law enforcement to add to their repertoire:  perjurer (which "adds insult to injury," compounding the negativity).  Profiling was (and still is) the best way to get the job done, it's just that now, police officers need to lie in court when they do it.

Black-marketing is an economic crime, which is enforced by US military law enforcement officials in some oversea locations.  Twenty years ago, I worked as a Military Police black market investigator in South Korea.

At that time, the 27" Sony Trinitron television was one of the more highly black-marketed items.  It could be purchased by US soldiers for about $550.00 in on-post stores but was available in South Korean stores for approximately $950.00 (because the South Korean government considered high-end Japanese electronics 'luxury items').

If Private Dingleberry wanted to make some extra money, he could buy a Trinitron and sell it to Mister Kim for $750.  Mr Kim saved $200, so he was happy.   PVT Dingleberry made $200 in an afternoon, so he was happy.   But the South Korean government lost $400 in taxes.  Put simply: black-market enforcement was, and still istax enforcement.

A black-market investigator accomplishes the same thing as a highway patrol speed-enforcement officer. You can't (and aren't intended to) catch all; but, by occasionally catching a few (and by maintaining a visible presence) others will slow down out of fear of being caught.  Or—in the case of black-marketing—the government won't lose as much, in luxury taxes, if soldiers fear being caught.

So.   Put yourself in my 1989 shoes.   How do you catch someone who is legitimately allowed to purchase items but is not permitted to sell them to Koreans?

Go to the store and follow every person who buys an item that is wanted on the black-market until they either:  carry it into their house/barracks, or deliver it to a Korean?

— or —

Conduct research to determine what type of person is normally targeted by the Korean black-marketeers.  And then identify a "profile" of the typical person who becomes involved with black-marketeers.

As you may suspect, it was waaay beyond futile to attempt to follow every purchaser of every item found on the black-market.  And...no matter what...conducting month upon month of daily surveillance in stores is chrysanthemum-on-a-pogostick-amazingly-boring.  The solution was (yes, you guessed it) profiling.

I learned:

Black-marketeers, logically, targeted young risk-taker-type soldiers who wanted more money than they earned.  That turned out to be: (84% of the time) 18-25 year old male Privates, Corporals, and Sergeants; (14% of the time) Korean wives; and (2% of the time) someone who did not fit the profile.

$500 (in late-1980s dollars) was almost a full months pay for a Private; about half months pay for a Corporal; but less than a weeks pay for an Lieutenant or a Captain.

Many officers could afford (and were permitted to own) their own car.  Privates and Sergeants took taxis.

It became possible for me to identify a persons pay-grade...even when they were not in uniform...just by looking at their demeanor, their tattoos, their clothing, (especially shoes and shirts) their haircut, and their friends.   It normally took less than ten seconds.

I could watch a person purchasing an item (say a Korean-made, Samsung VCR, because it wasn't just Trinitrons) and, in under a minute, I could identify if he was going to become a black-marketer.

Some of the indicators I watched for were:

Purchase speed - A black-marketer, sent to purchase a specific item, didn't "shop".  He just went to the counter and said he wanted to buy a model 1099SD Samsung VCR.

Reference material - Since a black-marketer was sent to buy a specific item, he may have written it down or refer to a piece of paper in a Korean's handwriting...very distinct.

Payment type - Black-marketing soldiers were, many times, fronted the cash to make the purchases by the Korean black-marketeers, and - if so - that cash was, normally, all twenties.  However, most soldiers made routine "honest" purchases with a check or credit card.

I still ended up following the occasional person who "fit the profile," but didn't sell the item to a Black-marketeer.  But, mostly, the people I chose to follow would attempt to sell the item to a Korean.  Once they attempted to sell (or sold) the item(s), I'd arrest the soldier, and seize the item, and identify the Korean(s), if possible.

THE RUB:  When asked by a defense attorney, "Mister Glines, when and how did you identify my client as a person engaged in the illegal transfer of duty free goods to a foreign national?"  I had to lie.  Always.

"Sir, I was conducting surveillance on Saturday, the 13th of November, at 1930 hours, on a known Korean black-marketeer, whom I only know by a nickname:  "Donkey."  I noticed your client arrive near Donkey's location with a delivery truck containing an eight point four cubic foot refrigerator.   The refrigerator box bore only words in English.  Your client was obviously an American soldier.  I identified myself as a Military Police officer and asked your client if he lived here.  At which time, he admitted that he did not. I, then, detained him and seized the refrigerator."

If I told the truth:   "Sir, I watched a 19 year old man, dressed in ripped jeans, a Def Leppard T-shirt, and $10 Converse sneakerswhich means he was a Private or, at best, a Corporalwalk directly to the appliance counter of the PX, refer to a scrap of paper, and tell the clerk he wanted a GE Frigidaire model number 8.4ED.  He then pulled a wad of over forty twenty dollar bills out of his front pocket to pay for it, which I knew was over a month-and-a-half pay, for him.  So, I followed him to the PX warehouse where he loaded it on a delivery truck.   Then I followed him to an off-post location in Seoul where I arrested him before he could unload the truck."

He'd have said:  "What was your probable cause to begin surveillance and subsequently stop and question my client?"

And I'd have had to reply:  "He looked too young and too poor to afford a refrigerator that shits ice cubes and pisses ice water out the front."

The judge would have ruled that I had no probable cause and thrown that case (and every case) out, because appearing too young and too poor are prejudicial words.

The number one reason I left law enforcement, as soon as I was eligible to retire, was:  I was tired of being forced to constantly lie to make my living.

It is said an Eastern monarch once charged his wise men to invent him a sentence to be ever in view, and which should be true and appropriate in all times and situations.  They presented him the words:  'And this, too, shall pass away.'  How much it expresses!  How chastening in the hour of pride!  How consoling in the depths of affliction! — Abraham Lincoln

Trailers For Sale or Rent

Being a phrequent-pheckin-philm-o-phile, it will come as no surprise that I want the power to determine (accurately and 100% of the time) whether a philm is going to be good, bad, or ugly—just from viewing its trailer. Please take note, dear all-powerful-genie, and grant me this straightforwardly (with no bizarre side-effects, which habitually befall those who've oft been granted greed-based desires*) thank you.

Too many of the philms I watched this summer (because their trailers successfully accomplished what they were designed for) were phalures. I bemoan the money I spent to see: 9, which is the phirst to mind, because the animation was wonderful, but it was the only good; the script was bad and the plot ugly. Cold Souls was a miserable pile of shite (Paul Giamatti was his usual good, everything else was mambo-ugly). Adam was phorgettably bland with a heaping side of unmemorable. 500 Days of Summer was unphortunately mediocre (since I, usually, love both Joseph G.-L. and Zooey D.). And X-Men Origins: Wolverine was jam-pack phull of banality.

Of course there were those I knew ahead of time were going to only deliver phair-to-middling entertainment, and they lived up to those expectations: Adventureland; Drag Me To Hell; Observe and Report; Land of the Lost and Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. Although I don't regret spending the money to see them, I feel slightly guilty recalling my pre-awareness of their empty calories.

Some philms, which may have attracted my phunds (directed-by/acted-in by someone I like, or contained a story/plot-type I normally enjoy) but—because their trailers made me suspect bad-to-ugly—I did not see were: The Time Travelers Wife; BrΓΌno; The Brothers Bloom; Terminator Salvation; Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen; Angels & Demons; and Ice Age: Dawn of the Dinosaurs. I still don't regret not seeing these.

There were a few I chose not to see, but suspect were good—alas, their trailers phailed to hook me: Thirst; In the Loop; Tetro; Ponyo; Battle for Terra; and Rudo y Cursi. I will put these on my see-on-dvd list.

And then there were the good few: Inglorious Basterds; Departures; Moon; Is Anybody There?; The Hurt Locker; and the four I mentioned here.

*As In: Mirror mirror on the door, make my dick touch the floor ... and his legs fell off.

These capitalists generally act harmoniously, and in concert, to fleece the people. — Abraham Lincoln (Not referring to the makers of film-trailers, only because films were, as yet, uninvented.)

The World Is Supposed To End Anyway


How many legs does a dog have if you call the tail a leg? Four. Calling a tail a leg doesn't make it a leg. — Abraham Lincoln

That 1 Guy - Mustaches



I'm a slow walker, but I never walk back. — Abraham Lincoln

Hiking Housecats Batman!

Last week, a couple bikers and compatriots-on-the-path complimented me on my hiking cat.  They asked: How do you keep him with you? - and - What does he do when he meets dogs on the trail?

So, here's a brief "how-to" about hiking house-cats.

I've hiked with a cat for seven-and-a-half years.  My first hiking cat, a fox-point Siamese named Gus, hiked for six years—through forest, desert, meadow, and trail—in both Arizona and Utah.  I, briefly, hiked with a black-on-white kitten named Powell before he died of FIP.  And now, Cecil O. Zonkey, a lynx-point Siamese, hikes with me.  We have another cat in my household, an all-gray female named Aggie; she also hikes, (but is reluctant to cover much terrain).

The first step in determining if you can successfully hike with your house-cat is to quantify the amount of attached-to-you he has in him.  A way to measure this (without going on a preliminary hike) is ask, does your cat:
  • come when called?
  • display interest in what you are doing, especially when it's something new?
  • follow you when you walk around the house?
  • enjoy human proximity (sleep at your feet / in your chair / your lap)?
The ASPCA has a survey, to place your cat within a nine-category personality matrix, which they call Feline-ality.  This test ranks cat's socialization and energy levels.  I think the top five "most social/most energy" felines may have what it takes to become good hikers.   On the other paw: aloof cats, very lazy cats, or those who are overly timid or easily frightened will become poor-to-terrible hikers.

I think indoor-only, neutered, males who have strongly imprinted on—and are possessive of—their owners, make the best hikers.  Outdoor cats may follow you for a walk, but they are not only dis-inclined to leave "their territory" but will quickly rely on instinctual survival skills, rather than you, in a crisis (which means they will run far away when a dog shows up to your hiking party).

Once you've determined your house-cat has enough attached-to-you in him, you'll need to [1] obtain and compile some specialized hiking gear and [2] find a good location to take your first test-hike (which may mean scouting it out, without your cat, ahead of time).  Obtain these items:
  • pet backpack
  • bottle of water
  • small container of cat food
  • hiking staff or walking stick
  • brightly colored cat-collar
  • large towel
  • training "clicker" or whistle
  • small flashlight
  • optional safety items (map, compass, cellphone, first aid pack, etc.)
Place the towel at the bottom of the backpack. Put the water and food in a pocket of the pack or under the towel.  Insure the cat collar has a break-away snap and your phone number written inside; put it on when you start each hike and take it off when finished—your cat will learn to associate this collar with hiking and know when you're finished by its removal.

The reason you need a hiking staff is not about: balancing on uneven terrain, removing spiderwebs from your path, poking into hollows (for snakes) before your cat does, or having something to waive over your head if you need to appear larger to a predator (all valuable, sound, reasons to have a walking-staff between shoulder and head high).  It's more about appearance.  Walking with a staff signals: hiker.  Your cat will associate your use of it with "hiking-time" and he will quickly learn that a hike—different from a rambling walk or stroll—is reasonably-paced, mostly trail-based, and that navigation is decided by you.

For your first house-cat hike, locate a place with as many of the following as possible:
  • dirt or sand trails (cats will naturally stick to a trail, but gravel can hurt paws)
  • mostly shady (or pick an overcast day)
  • nothing man-made nearby (no cars, tents, campfire pits, etc.)
  • no roads with vehicle-traffic within 200 meters (carry your pet in the pack until then)
  • a low pedestrian-traffic area (the less other hikers and dogs the better)
  • moderate temperature and weather (not raining, not too hot or cold)
  • a long, clear, distance of visibility is best (to see other hikers coming)
Plan on your first hike being a slow one, of no more than 1/2 mile to 1 mile (but he may surprise you with the energy to hike longer).  Your cat will need to get used to the new smells and sounds, and will need to be corrected (when he heads the wrong direction) by carrying him until he sees the direction you want to walk.

Be attentive to what your cat hears or smells; pick him up and/or put him in the backpack if you: suspect another animal is close, get too near to dwellings or roads, or your cat begins to display a belligerent I-don't-want-to-walk-in-that-direction streak.

Occasionally use the 'clicker' or whistle to get, and maintain, his attention (not to get him to come to you) there may come a time when you lose sight of each other (more-so as trust builds) and then a loud, familiar, noise will tell him where to find you.

The flashlight may never be needed, but it's better to be prepared.  At least once a hike: lay out the towel and teach him that when the towel is down and you're sitting he is not to explore beyond a comfortable distance (25 feet/8 meters or closer, depending on terrain and visibility).  As with anything, the more hikes you take together, the more comfortable/familiar you will become with communicating with each other, and the more challenges you can attempt together.

The answers to the questions from the beginning of this article: He stays with me because he's been trained to follow me on the path.  When dogs approach I pick him up.

Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any other one thing. — Abraham Lincoln (President of America 1861-1865)

Kirby Archer: an infamous friend


          Kirby Archer was introduced to me in 1999 when I assumed duties as the SAC of a small CID office, in a US military community in central Germany.  He was a Military Police Sergeant attached-on-orders to my office to investigate drug crimes.  He was an enthusiastic worker and expressed interest in applying for training as an apprentice CID special agent.

          Over the months I associated with him off-duty—occasionally.  Cops tend to befriend other cops.  I knew his lovely, extremely young, pregnant wife.   He commissioned a work of art from me (which sagged over his couch for years and when I offered to stabilize it firmly to the wall, he declined, stating that he liked it that way).  He could be personable and even charismatic at times.

          He had (maybe still has—even in prison?) a weird thing about food.  First, he would never eat anything green.  No green jello.  No green icing on a birthday cake.   No green beer on St. Patty's day.  Second, there was no such thing as "leftovers" in his refrigerator.  Anything not eaten was discarded.  No Tupperware.  He owned no plastic wrap.  Barbecue's at his house meant everyone else took the uneaten food home.

          He appeared overly protective of his wife.  After an a abbreviated evening of live music and drinking, he was bounced out of a club for punching someone in the face.  He claimed the guy fondled his wife's breast as they were elbowing through the crowd.  I didn't see the frottage.  His wife was far-more upset with his overreaction than the titty-graze.

          When I learned Archer could speak Spanish, we subsequently discussed his '95 assignment, as security/interpreter at Guantanamo Bay during the Cuban detainee 'boat people' crisis.  I recall some stories and his claim of making good friends there.   I recall a picture of him posing in uniform in front of a fence and all the small, dirty, smiling faces mugging for the camera behind that fence.   All the disheveled little boys seemed innocuous to their situation.   Archer's smile in that photo was innocuous to his looming future with the 'shoe on the other foot'.

          Soldiers perform their military mission regardless of their sexual-orientation every day, and Archer was no different.  My first indication of his homosexuality was when he told me, in late 2000 or early 2001, that he'd changed his mind about applying to become an agent.   His previous enthusiasm had vanished and the only explanation he provided was an unusually vague, "I just changed my mind."  I learned, much later, that his attitude had changed after he learned about the extensive background investigation which would have to be "passed" before he would be able to become an Agent (homosexual behavior still results in a black X on Top Secret clearances, in the military).

          In 2002: I retired, Archer was transferred from Germany to Oklahoma, and although we fell out of contact, I learned (from his ex-wife) he was divorcing her because he'd decided to live an outwardly homosexual lifestyle.  He was still an active duty MP at that time.

          I compiled the rest of this story from open-sources, pieced together from press clippings mailed to me by a friend of my mothers who lives in Florida and this web of internets.  I've also made a few guesstimates about some of Archer's actions because, although he eventually confessed, there's not one clear rendition of this near-epic ready to be made-for-TV-saga.  Since this extensive sequence of events has not been compiled anywhere else, anyone—including Archer himself—who wants to suggest corrections, please, feel free.

          At some point between 2003 and 2005, I think Archer decided not to reenlist even though he'd attained the rank of Staff Sergeant (E6) and served at least ten years on Active duty.  It's possible he failed to keep his off-duty homosexual behavior away from his chain-of-command and they administratively discharged him.  (Note: see the comment section for updated clarification on this paragraph's information.)

          He left his male lover, moved to Arkansas, and re-married a woman whom he dated in high school.  Coincidentally, his second wife had the same name as his first: Michelle.  Although both women birthed several boy-babies, the first was a small, dainty, Philippino and the second was a very-healthy Arkansan.   I suspect, in regards to his affairs of the heart and groin, Archer was "moving with the winds" rather than making any real decisions.

          Archer got a job at the local Wal-Mart and over the next few years worked his way up to Assistant Manager.  He became enamored with some of the clerks and stock-boys who, obviously, took advantage of his willingness to provide them with alcohol and a place to imbibe it.  Alcohol, and drugs, and 17-year-olds...oh my!  Only this was Arkansas.  Where it don't matter if those boys are a-wantin to stem the rose, they're not of age and that'd be Statutory Rape.

          He learned, probably from the boys (but possibly from a local cop he'd have had plenty of time to befriend) about the local grand jury preparing to indite him.  An arrest warrant was on the way.  A plan had to be hatched.  And Archer chose to flee (for he knew what awaited a gay ex-cop kiddie rapist).

          He removed a microwave from off the shelf, filled it with the daily cash-receipts, put it back in its box, and pushed it out to his car when he went off shift.  Good night to all and to all a good night.  (Note: see the comment section for updated clarification on this paragraph's information.)

          He turned right toward Florida instead of left toward Arkansan-Michelle and had $92K and a 1.2 cu ft Sanyo microwave to begin his new getaway life.

          Archer arrived in southern Florida where a friend he'd renewed contact with now resided: a 20-year-old man named Zarabozo.  Bozo was a little boy of about eight in 1995 when he was a Cuban detainee at Guantanamo Bay (I think I've seen a picture of him from then).  Archer re-connected with Bozo.  They spoke Spanish together.  They stemmed the rose together.  They fabricated getaway plans together.

          Bozo was now a security guard.  Bozo had a 9mm pistol.  Bozo was infatuated with his childhood friend who was then and is still shit-packed-to-the-gills full of unbelievably tall tales.

          And Archer.  Ex-military.  Ex-cop.  Ex-husband (x3).  Ex-WalMart assistant manager.  Extremely poor decision-making-skill possessing felon-on-the-run (who knew he had it in him?..not me.)  He was now (definitely) carrying a pistol.

          Archer was just smart enough to realize that $92K would not last long (and not one neuron smarter).  He decided he needed to get out of the country and thought if he could get to Cuba he wouldn't be extradited, his dwindling money would stretch for many years, and it was someplace he could fit-in because he spoke the language.  He thought he and Bozo would live there happily ever after.

          Archer hired a deep-sea fishing boat, the Joe Cool, and four crew for $4K cash and told them he needed transport to Bimini Island, Bermuda, where his girlfriend was waiting with his passport.

          His actual plans were to hijack the boat and force them, at gunpoint, to take he and Bozo near the coast of Cuba where they'd disembark in the lifeboat and never be seen by American eyes until the statute of limitations expired on: four counts of kidnapping, one count of grand theft, multiple counts of sexual congress with a minor, several counts of flight to avoid prosecution, and one count of being abysmally stupid in a zone limited to simple dumb asses (which is—actually—only about ten years).  If Archer had succeeded and was currently a resident of Cuba, instead of Pollack USP, he would have been the first person I knew with an Interpol warrant.

          But.  Almost to Bimini, Archer's "plan" shit the bed.

          It probably unfolded OK at first, but then one of the three men being hijacked decided to call Archer's bluff, attempted to jump him and ended up leaking fluid out of a couple of new holes.  With premeditated homicide on the table, Archer—at that point—had nothing additional to lose by shooting the screaming and pleading other three crew members.  I'm certain he knew that and did it rapidly.

          After all four were tossed overboard to be eaten by sharks, Archer and Bozo headed south toward Cuba.  Several hours later (maybe they were unable to navigate) the deep sea fishing boat ran out of gas.

           This is my first dunno
—a boat that size, with enough gas to get to Bimini, would have enough to get near Cuba.  Why it didn't is not something I can figure out.  My best guesstimate is: it did have enough gas on board, but when the hijacking began the boat captain hit a cut-off switch to stop fuel from the second gas tank from reaching the engines.  (New information:  I learned from this book: the boat captain only put enough fuel on-board to get to Bimini, in order to travel much faster.)

          Archer and Bozo got in the lifeboat and began to paddle.

          The US Coastguard picked them up the next day—many miles from the empty boat, many miles from The Bahamas, many miles from Cuba, and many miles from Florida . . . but closer to federal penitentiary than the Bozo boys had planned.  (Also learned from same book:  the gulf-stream caused their life raft to float north...away from the Joe Cool and Cuba, faster than they could paddle.  I find this hilarious.  If you tried to make this shit up, it would read as an over-the-top farce.)

          Almost a year of legal fumblings and Archer eventually plead guilty.  I stopped tracking the case at that point, and don't know if Bozo was found guilty or not.

          As is always the case with true stories, there are unknowns: Archer was found with only $2,200 on him in the life raft; where is the rest? — I suspect most of it was spent foolishly in the many months Archer was "on the lamb."

          Why didn't they sink the fishing boat once it ran out of gas? — I would guess panic.

          Why didn't Archer feed Bozo to the sharks (preventing him from confessing)? — maybe love or maybe even Archer had a line he wouldn't cross.

2023 Addendum:  Archer's son, TJ (who was a toddler when I was stationed in Germany) is now an adult.  He provided a YouTube interview-statement detailing the sexual and physical abuse he suffered at the hands of Archer (and others).  Be forewarned!  It's not easy to listen to this man's description of his parent(s) various forms of abuse.  Near the end of the video, TJ describes his inability to feel emotions like anger and sadness.  Which brought to mind the adage:  Sociopaths are born; Psychopaths are created. 

          ...the high crime rate of our society must be due to the pressures that modern conditions put on people, to which many cannot or will not adjust. — Theodore Kaczynski

Snaggletooth

This is a short non-fiction tale about an employee who I'll forever remember as 'snaggletooth'; a nickname I bestowed upon his short-bus-eligible ass.

"It just came out? The rest of your teeth are perfectly fine. Teeth don't just fall out. Did you get smacked in the mouth during a fight?" I asked. (Snaggletooth was a Military Police Investigator employed by me at the CID office, as an undercover drug officer. Although I knew of no "altercations," that just meant he or his supervisor decided not to tell the boss, not that a fight hadn't happened.)

"Nope. It fell out."

"Well you're lucky, the Army dentist will do it for free; for a civilian that'd be real expensive to fix."

"It's no big deal. I wasn't gonna fix it."

"What?"

"You think I should?"

"Yeah. I really think you should."

"I dunno, it's no big deal."

For the next seven months (until I fired him) he never fixed the front of his face. But...I'm getting ahead of myself. The next WTF happened a month later, when Snaggletooth's immediate supervisor, Staff Sergeant Snuffy, rushed into my office:

"Chief, Chief, you have got to hear this." He said as he came around my desk, picked up and dialed my phone, handed me the handset, and said. "Just listen."

The ring-tone was followed by Snaggletooth's voice: Hiya! You've reached Xxx Xxxx's Machine. I'm out arresting bad guys and can't get to the phone right now. Leave a message at the beep.

So his supervisor had to explain to him what the word 'undercover' meant, and I get a story to tell.

But that was just Snaggletooth's first strike. Several months later SSG Snuffy comes rushing into my office (he seemed to always be in a state of mania).

"Chief, Chief, you have got to see this." He said as he placed a well-worn, 100-page spiral notebook in the center of my blotter. It didn't lay flat because it had been, obviously, folded in half so that it could fit into a pocket. "Before you open it, though, let me explain."

"Is this about...?"

"Snaggletooth. Yea." Snuffy's eyes looked concerned but his voice was holding a giggle back. I suspected this was a prank of some kind and decided to go with it. "For as long as Snaggle's been working for me, I've seen him writin and I just figured—well, everyone did—that it was a diary. I asked him about it a while ago, cause I was concerned he might be puttin classified stuff in there and then might go an leave it layin around for anyone to find. But, he said it wasn't about work. He told me he was just writin in the book to pass the time. The only thing was, nobody on the team had ever seen what he wrote. I asked. They all said he always closed the book when they got close. I found it layin on the table in the break area, today. He musta left it there when he wentta lunch."

He nodded and look-pointed at the notebook (signaling it was time to read what Snagglepuss had written). I opened it at about the middle. Both sides of the pages were filled top-to-bottom, margin-to-margin, with numbers. Handwritten in black ink.

. . . 5982, 5983, 5984, 5985, 5986, 5987, 5988, 5989, 5990, 5991, 5992, 5993, 5994, 5995, 5996, 5997, 5998, 5999, 6000, 6001, 6002, 6003, . . .

I looked at Snuffy to see if this was a prank on me. The concern was still there, the giggle was no longer around. I leafed through the book. About 3/4 of the book was full and the last page was half filled.

. . . 94841, 94842, 94843, 94844, 94845, 94846, 94847, 94848, 94849, 94850, 94851, 94852, 94853, 94854, 94855, 94856, 94857

The front page began with 1. The last page ended with 94,857. Every number was on a line. None that I could see were skipped. I thought about, "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy," from The Shining. I realized that I had an insane person working as an undercover drug officer.

I talked to Snaggle. He claimed, just like Snuffy said he would, that it was 'just something to pass the time'. I told him it was, in my opinion an abnormal way to pass the time. He asked what I would consider a normal way to pass the time. So...I noted that—since he liked to write—a normal way to pass the time, would be to sketch or write down anything that enters one's head, like a fiction story or maybe a real event that happened to him.

"I ain't got much talent for that kind of stuff, Chief." He replied.

So I suspended him from active case work and sent him to a psychiatrist. Snaggle told me his discussions with the therapist were, "...Mostly boring and a waste of time. He says my writing isn't abnormal, though..." His therapist sternly informed me I was wrong (I think he used inappropriate use of my authority and a bunch of other fluff-words) to have said Snaggle's "list-writing" was abnormal.

After about a month of Snaggle doing only paperwork, I discovered his car had handcuffs hanging from the rear-view-mirror, and an MP brassard in the rear deck. Strike three.

"Chief, I thought it was OK, since I'm on admin-duty, now."

"No Snag, it's not OK. But it will be next week. I'm sending you back to be a real time-y po-leece officer. You can carry those cuffs on yer belt and wear that brassard on yer shoulder and when you just want to pass the time, you can write down all the license plate numbers you see during your shift because that'll be a normal way for an MP who is not undercover to pass the time.

Our society tends to regard as a "sickness" any mode of thought or behavior that is inconvenient for the system, and this is plausible because when an individual doesn't fit into the system it causes pain to the individual as well as problems for the system. Thus the manipulation of an individual to adjust him to the system is seen as a "cure" for a "sickness" and therefore as good. — Theodore Kaczynski

Cycle Three


No, what worries me is that I might in a sense adapt to this environment and come to be comfortable here and not resent it anymore. And I am afraid that as the years go by that I may forget, I may begin to lose my memories of the mountains and the woods and that's what really worries me, that I might lose those memories, and lose that sense of contact with wild nature in general. — Theodore Kaczynski (from his June 1999 interview)

Hike Two



3.1 mile stroll through the forest today with Cecil.

We crossed paths with seven groups of people—three were with their dogs.

The first dogs actually caught up with us from behind. They were running full-out, ahead of their owner, who was sprinting. Cecil had been walking 20 feet behind me on a wide part of Wildwood Trail; I turned and noticed he was looking back the way we came. Then I heard the jingling of dog collars and started to dash back to him. But Cecil began to run toward the dogs, who were fast approaching.

For about a second I thought he confused the dogs with my movement; but as he scrambled up a tree (in two bounds, he was six feet up) I realized he had instinctively realized the proximity and speed of the dogs and realized the nearest climbable tree required him to run ten feet toward them first.

I pulled him off the tree before he got higher than I could reach (and received a couple of belly and chest scratches thankyousirmayIhaveanother). The dogs payed us almost no heed and we returned to hiking after they were no longer audible and his tail was no longer the size of a toilet brush. The other two dog-groups were fellow-hikers and we had time to prepare for their arrival and pick Cecil up (no scratches).

Words like "self-confidence," "self-reliance," "initiative," "enterprise," "optimism," etc., play little role in the liberal and leftist vocabulary. The leftist is anti-individualistic, pro-collectivist. He wants society to solve everyone's problems for them, satisfy everyone's needs for them, take care of them. He is not the sort of person who has an inner sense of confidence in his ability to solve his own problems and satisfy his own needs. The leftist is antagonistic to the concept of competition because, deep inside, he feels like a loser. — Theodore Kaczynski, aka prisoner number 04475–046 (he'd undoubtedly have a "News" show on FOX, if they were permitted to broadcast from the federal supermax in Florence, Colorado)