"Ripped From The Headlines''

Well, we had the quarterly meeting of the Board of Directors for this blog this afternoon and big changes are in the works, let me tell ya.
The biggest change will be an additional feature, a commentary on stories “ripped from the headlines of today’s news.‘’ That used to be a promo used on the TV show “Law And Order.‘’ Very dramatic, huh?
The board, in case you are wondering, consists of me and the other residents who live on the property, all of whom happen to be horses.
Anyway, the vote for six in favor, none opposed, with Bernie the draft horse abstaining in favor of hogging all the alfalfa while the rest of us discussed the idea.
I’m not sure how often I’ll do this: Fortunately, the board has given me great latitude on the content of this site, mainly because none of them ever read it anyway.
TODAY’S HEADLINES:
“Man caught with Cocaine in Shoe”
A Chandler man was arrested Thursday after police said he was supporting a lifestyle based on drug sales in the presence of small children.
Rene Saul Arrieta, 27, was arrested at Dobson and Elliot roads Thursday after police said they found approximately 2 ounces of cocaine inside his shoes while he was in the presence of four children between the ages of 1 and 9.
COMMENTARY: Gellin’ like a felon. Literally.
“Gilbert Woman To Be On Big Brother 10’’
A woman from the Higley area of Gilbert made the cast for the 10th season of CBS's Big Brother that premieres Sunday.
April Dowling, 30, is a financial manager for a car dealership, and according to the show's Web site, is obsessive-compulsive and can't sleep unless the bottles in the refrigerator are lined up correctly.
COMMENTARY: I did some further research on this story and discovered that this woman is very blonde and, uh, busty, to put it delicately. Shocking, huh?
I think it’s wonderful that we have someone from our own backyard joining this cesspool of a show. I am wondering now how long she will maintain her virtue. My guess: She’ll be deflowered by the second commercial break, if past shows are any barometer.
If you know this woman's parents, good taste dictates that you avoid the subject altogether when in their presence.
“Sheriff Won’t Be Deterred By Graffiti Incident’’
Sheriff Joe Arpaio says the Mesa graffiti incident won't hold him back from doing his job.
Graffiti of Arpaio's head and the words "Nazi Joe" were recently spotted on several buildings in downtown Mesa.
"There hasn't been one elected official to step up and say 'they shouldn't be saying these things about our Sheriff' regardless of what they believe," Arpaio said. "Where is everybody? For me, no one cares."
COMMENTARY: It’s a comfort to know that Joe’s single-handed mission to Make The World Safe For Inhumanity will not be impeded by the presence of his name on some cinder block walls in Mesa. Quite frankly, I would expect nothing less from “The Toughest Human Being Who Ever Lived” or whatever title he claims for himself these days.
I suspect Joe is already brushing back the tears (For me, no one cares!) and making plans for another massive assault in an effort to get those dangerous hotel maids off the streets.
The real news here is that Joe’s name wasn’t already on all those cinder block walls to begin with. Look around: Everything in the county seems to have Joe’s name on it. If he ever leaves office , it’s going to cost the county about a zillion dollars to take his name off everything.

xxx

GOOD NIGHT! And remember, if you can read this blog, thank a teacher. If you can read this blog in English, thank a soldier. If you can read this blog in English and Arabic, thank Barack Obama.

AARP jumps the gun

The very first e-mail I opened Wednsesday morning was an invitation from AARP.
“Happy Birthday to me,,‘’ I thought.
Then I thought, “Hey, hold your horses on that invite, hoss. I’m only 49 today!’’
Wednesday was my birthday. I was born on July 9, 1959. Do the math. I am 49. Honest.
That’s the problem with being 29 or 39 or 49, I suppose. Any birthday with a “9’’ at the end invites skepticism.
Fortunately, my birthday fortunes improved as the day progressed.
Part of my morning ritual is to read through the Valley’s two newspaper websites and I quickly discovered that Arizona Republic columnist Laurie Roberts had chosen Wednesday to publish a column about me. I doubt that she wrote the column to coincide with my birthday, though. I suspect it was mere happenstance, one of those rare days when Sheriff Joe isn’t up to some self-promoting nonsense.
Laurie was very generous to me in her column. She even included this blog address and, boy, did readers flock to it. Normally, I’ll get a couple dozen visits per day. By early Wednesday afternoon, more than 300 people had chosen to visit the blog. Of course, that means I’m going to have to be a little more diligent in writing blog entries, now that I’ve captured a wider audience.
Many of the visitors to the blog followed up with an e-mail to me. I even reconnected with a few of my old readers from my days at the Tribune, which was very nice.
One guy from Prescott e-mailed me to ask my advice. He’s headed to prison for a four-month DUI sentence later this month. I called him Wednesday evening and we talked for more than an hour about what he could expect in prison. It made me feel good to be able to answer his questions, to assure him that he can get through the experience. I thought back to how frightened I was about the prospects of going to prison.
Laurie also forwarded me responses she received. Several of them mentioned job prospects. So we shall see. I am hopeful, as you might imagine.
I’m certainly grateful to Laurie. I can‘t see much news value in a column about me, to be honest. I will say that is very odd to be the subject of a columnist. I had always been on the other end of that particular stick, after all. She was kinder to me than I deserve, I realize, although she didn't mention in the column anything about my rugged good looks. Maybe the editor took that part out because of space limitations. I’m going with that theory, anyway.
All of my brothers and my sister called with birthday greetings. Birthday cards arrived in the mail from my kids and ex-wife (we have a surprisingly good relationship now that she’s shed of me, oddly enough) and my dear, sweet friend Ann in Queen Creek.
So, on the balance, it was a very good birthday.
I look forward to hearing from AARP this time next year.

An old dog, a new trick

Maggie is going home tomorrow and I’ll miss her.
Calling your attention to the photo on the right side of the page, you’ll note that Maggie is a dog, an Airedale Terrier/German Shepherd mix.
She has been staying with me for the past week while her owners were on vacation in Boston. We’ve had no disputes, really. Oh, the first time I left the house, she proceeded to shred the bamboo blinds on the front door, but I do not believe she did this with any malice. I think she was just suffering from a little separation anxiety, which is understandable since she was in unfamiliar surroundings.
But that has been just a hiccup. We’ve gotten along famously, to be honest.
Each morning, before the heat becomes too oppressive, we talk a little walk. In the evenings, we take a longer walk, usually about 45 minutes.
Now, I am sure that Maggie will be happy to be back home. After all, she has a lot more room there and more people, too, including a couple of kids. Dogs love kids, it’s been my experience.
So, while I’m sure she’ll enjoy being reunited with her family, I also believe that she’s enjoyed her stay here. I know I’ve enjoyed having her.
I gave her snacks and belly rubs and a place of prominence on my bed. (not my side, of course; we worked that out on Day 1).
Really, it’s a pretty good place for a dog. Because I live on an “urban ranch,’’ there are a lot of things that are of natural interest to dogs
Now, as the time approaches for Maggie‘s departure, I realize that she has been teaching me a pretty good life lesson.
They say you can‘t teach an old dog a new trick. But I reckon an old dog can teach us a lesson or two, if we pay attention.
The first couple of days, as we made our evening walks, Maggie seemed to be aware of everything we approached. There were many, many thinks to sniff, to study, to bark at. During those first couple of days, she must have stuck her nose in every gopher hole on the property, which is saying something. She put all the horses on the property to a through sniff test, and they returned the favor. She stared, fascinated, at the goats and the Alpaca who live on a nearby property. Alpacas are world-class competitors when it comes to a stare contest, by the way.
Yes, Maggie spent our entire walks sniffing and discovering and investigatin g. She seemed to be aware of everything.
And, then, on our third evening walk, she spotted a rabbit. The fact that it took her three days to see a rabbit is a bit surprising, to be honest, for the rabbits are plentiful and unafraid here on the ranch. You can approach to within a few feet of them.
But a rabbit’s instincts tell it that a dog is a predator. And in Maggie’s case, those instincts were correct. Maggie spotted her first rabbit as we were leaving the house. The rabbit was lounging under a horse trailer when it caught Maggie’s eye. Suddenly, Maggie was sprinting after the rabbit, almost jerking my arm out of its socket, so hard did she pull on the leash.
Well, that single incident changed the nature of our walks.
What had been a leisurely stroll, became - at least from Maggie’s point of view - a hunt for blood.
From that point on, she rarely investigated any gopher holes or stopped to sniff out the scents that had always fascinated her in the pre-rabbit excursions. Horses, alpacas, other dogs - they also disappeared from Maggie’s consciousness.
Her’s was a single-minded obsession. The multitude of pleasures that greeted her along the way in previous walks seemed to offer no solace.
I think it was a poor choice on Maggie’s part. After all, she must have realized the futility of it. There was no way I was going to let her off that leash. She was never going to catch a rabbit.
And yet, she persisted in her obsession.
I wonder if we humans aren’t like that, too.
I know I am.
God save us from our most desperate desire. Its pursuit can blind us to all other blessings.
I guess Maggie taught me a lesson she can’t learn for herself.
Thanks, girl.

A year out of prison

Today is Wednesday, July 2. That means that one year ago today, I walked out of Florence West prison. I doubt that Emily Post has a section on how such anniversaries are to be commemorated.
Here’s how I chose to do it.
I’m having a friend over. Her name is Maggie. She’ll be staying with me for a week. She came in last night and the only instructions I had for her was to show her which side of the bed was mine. I should point out that Maggie is a dog. I mean, a real dog. I am taking care of her for a friend, who is vacationing in Boston for a week.
Maggie is part Airedale Terrier, part German Shepherd. Basically, she is a large fuzzy-faced dog.
And, like most all dogs, she is a very good listener.
It’s kind of nice to have someone to share my thoughts with on this occasion. For some reason, the anniversary date of my release for prison has been on my mind for the past couple of weeks. During that time, I’ve been trying to reflect on what has happened since then and what this whole experience has meant.
Well, I wish I could share with you some profound conclusion. But the truth is, in many respects, I don’t think I’ve made a whole lot of progress since the day I got out of prison.
Back then, I was brimming with optimism. I figured I’d be able to land a job with a newspaper or, failing that, find a job in a related field and would quickly get back on my feet financially. Well, it’s been a year and I’m still just scraping by, still looking for work, still applying for jobs online, still waiting for responses to those applications that never come.
Back then, I had entertained the idea that I could somehow re-connect with my fiancé,, who broke up with me a few months before I went to prison. To my surprise, I found that she had met someone else and got married while I was in prison. So that door has been slammed big-time. To be honest, it still stings a bit.
So, by all outward appearances, I’m still in pretty much the same spot as I was when I got out of Florence West 365 days ago.
But in another sense, I think maybe I have made some progress. More and more, I am beginning to view this whole experience, which began with my DUI arrest on Feb. 19, 2006, as primarily a spiritual journey.
And as I reflect on this past two-and-a-half years, I’ve come to realize that God has used these often painful circumstances to point me toward those things that are really important in life.
And slowly, I am beginning to realize that while a fulfilling career, a companion, and a secure financial future are all things to be desired, they aren‘t the essence of life.
All the things we can see or touch or possess in this world are temporary. The enduring things - faith, hope and love - are the real treasures of life.
And that is why, through no credit of my own, I find that with each job rejection, I am more hopeful, not less. That is why, on those days when it occurs to me that, gee, it would be great to have a mate to share my day with, I find that I am not so lonely anymore. And that is why I find myself to be more empathetic toward people I would have previously judged ever so harshly.
I’ve come to understand that there are really only two kinds of people in this world: The Unrighteous and The Self-Righteous. It’s pretty obvious that I fall into the latter camp. What I realize now, is that it’s the best camp to be in.
So, while my external circumstances may not have improved in any discernable way, I know that I am a better man than I was back then. That’s progress of the best sort.
Of course, I cannot accept any credit for that. People don’t change. People are changed. If I’m better, God made me better.
So here it is a year later and these days I find that my life is sort of like trying to put together one of those giant jig-saw puzzle. Only I don’t have to cover of the box to look at.
The big picture has yet to emerge and, as you might imagine, I am extremely curious to see what it will be. But for now, the best I can do each day is to find pieces that seem to fit together and trust that the picture, a good picture, will someday emerge.
What do you think, Maggie?

The Intolerant Christ

Well, this was a head-scratcher.
You may have seen the latest survey by the Pew Forum on Religion & Public Life. Versions of the story ran in most major newspapers on Tuesday.
The survey finds that a majority of those who are affiliated with a religion do not believe their religion is the only way to salvation.
Now, there’s nothing extraordinary about that in and of itself. After all, this idea of polytheism has been circulating since antiquity.
What is surprising is that the survey indicates that 57 percent of those who described themselves as evangelical Christians hold that view.
At this point, I add my own data: 57 percent of those who describe themselves as evangelical Christians aren’t.
Now I know this is going to seem like a harsh assessment. It may even sound mean-spirited, disrespectful, I realize.
That sort of thinking simply does not conform with the Cult of Tolerance, which is apparently the god of this age.
But sometimes intolerance is the only real choice.
The fact is, we demand intolerance in many important areas of our lives.
For example, it is intolerant that 2 +2 = 4. There are pre-schoolers out there for whom a tolerant view of the equation would allow for the answer to be 5 or 7 and 34. A child who adds 2 and 2 and gets 5 is no less sincere and honorable than the child that arrives at 4.
And while it may bruise a child’s ego to be told that his addition is faulty, it is better for him to suffer that shame than continue in error. Common sense tells us that much.
No doubt, it is harsh when the doctor arrives with a grim prognosis, but no one is his right mind would expect the doctor to tell his patient he has the flu when the doctor knows the patient has cancer. It is better, in this case, not to spare the truth to in order to spare one’s feelings.
So what do you think? Is it intolerant to claim that the only way to God is through the Christian faith? Before we get to that, I think it's important to recognize the true nature of tolerance.
Genuine tolerance, the sort that should be advocated, is simply this: Impose your beliefs on no one; share them on anyone who inquires. That is what I have tried to do. It is consistent with my faith while being generous to those outside my faith.
During the darkest days of my recent journey, I've been most comforted by people of other faiths. People like Ann Rosenberg and Lowell Cohn, both Jewish, have been so kind and sharing that I know that I will never be able to repay the debt of gratitude I owe them.
So, even though my faith differs from theirs, I do not believe that either would suggest that I am intolerant.
But when it comes to Christians, I can speak with certainty on this point, although I am only a layman.. To wit: A Christian simply cannot hold the view that there are other paths that lead to God outside the Christian faith.
Rather than take my word for it, better to go to the authority on this subject. So what did Jesus have to say on the matter?
Here’s what:
“I am the way, the Truth and the Life. No man cometh unto the Father but by me.’’ (John 14:6, emphasis is mine)
There is nothing ambiguous in that statment, no grounds on which to arrive at a diffferent interpretation that would open the door for the validity of other faith systems.
Notice, Jesus did not say, “I am one way, one truth and one life. Some men cometh unto the Father by me.’’
The implications are obvious: The person who believes that salvation can come from a source other than Christ contradicts Christ himself and, by extension, cannot seriously consider himself a Christian. I don’t know what that person is, quite frankly.
Like I said, it’s a head-scratcher.
And it should be a wake-up call to the clergy.
These days, you will hear a lot of ministers lamenting the demise of Christian ideals in the public arena. But I wonder if that angst isn't misdirected in light of the Pew survey. Seems to me those ideals are as scarce in the church house and the home as they are in the schools and court house.
Which, do you think, represents a greater threat to the faith?

You can cancel my Library card

I had just boarded the 62 Hardy North bus on the way to visit a friend who is gravely ill and being treated at Banner Baywood Medical Center in Mesa. It’s about a 2-hour trip.
No sooner had I settled into my seat than I got a call from the man’s wife, who said the doctor’s were performing a procedure and that he would not be allowed any visitors for 24 hours.
Since I was already on the bus, I decided just to ride along to the end of the route, which happens to end at the ASU campus. From there, I made my way over to the Mill Ave. District.
It was about 3 p.m., and one of those blistering hot June days. The first few weeks of summer are the worst, I think, because it takes about a month or so of 100-plus temps to get acclimated. You could tell that nobody on Mill Ave. was acclimated. People moved very slowly. It was so hot, in fact, that I saw a dog chasing a cat and they were both walking.
Normally, when I visit Mill Ave., I head to the Borders to drink coffee and look through books. But it was so hot that coffee didn’t seem all that appealing. So I stopped in at a bar/ restaurant on the corner of 5th St. and Mill Ave. to suck down some ice tea. There were only a handful of folks there. Several men were sitting at the bar, flirting clumsily with the 20-something blonde bartender. A family sat at one of the tables enjoying a late lunch.
The name of the establishment is called The Library. If you are at all familiar with Mill Ave., you have probably heard of it. It struck me as an interesting motif for a restaurant/bar. After all, most people don’t associate a library with food and drink. In fact, most libraries discourage the presence of food and drink.
Of course, I have no formal training in marketing, so what do I know.
Anyway, the motif was established by the presence of lots and lots of books. Book cases lined all the walls.
So here we have a theme for the bar/restaurant. OK. Now, consider the efforts made to carry out the motif with all those books. Naturally, you would expect the wait staff, bartenders, etc. to be dressed as, well - I don't know - librarians, maybe?
How silly of me.
The wait staff, I can assure you, were not dressed that way. It was at this precise point that the theme was abandoned.
I looked around. I did not see a single severe-looking lady with her hair pulled back in a tight bun, clothed in an ankle-length gray dress with cat’s-eye glasses and sensible shoes. No one hissed, “SSSHHHH!!’’ as the conversation swelled at the bar.
Instead, the wait staff, made up of what I can only assume were co-eds. They were dressed as if they were cast members in a particularly tasteless porn movie about wayward Catholic school girls. By that, I mean they wore plaid skirts so short that modestly - if they had had any - would have prevented them from bending in even the slightest manner. Some of them work knee-high stockings. The ensemble was completed by a sleeveless white shirt, tied at the bottom to expose a bare midriff and unbuttoned in order to expose as much cleavage as the law permits. The law permits a lot, by the way.
It was overt sexuality and I suppose there some valid marketing research encourages the ownership to insist on that sort of uniform. I suspect the girls don’t spend too much time bothering about how they are being objectified. Hey, the tips are good. The general strategy seems to be: Let's exploit our young staff so they can, in turn, exploit the customers. Everybody wins!
Shoot me if I ever get into that business, OK?
Now, I know I am going to be dismissed by some as a hopeless prude at this point, but the whole scene struck me as tacky, demeaning, juvenile. So, as the middle-aged guys at the bar tried out their best and crudest lines on the little blonde bartender, I started looking at the bookshelves.
But rather than being a suitable diversion, it only made things worse.
Maybe it is my writer’s sensibilities at work here, but I started thinking about what those books represented to the people who wrote them. Without a doubt, each of those books was the fulfillment of something extremely important to the author. Each volume was a testament to the endless hours of toil, of doubt, of lonely struggle. A book is the window to a writer’s soul. It is something very personal, very intimate. It is the author’s passion and purpose. It is the realization of a dream, a validation of an original idea. A triumph.
But here, as the patrons ogled the wait staff and the wait staff wriggled and giggled and the air filled with clumsy innuendo and booze, the books on the shelves served only as props to fulfill a silly theme.
Any book lover would be offended, I think.
I know I was.
Fortunately, there are other, better places to have an iced tea.

The book I would have written

Just about everybody I know suggests that I write a book. Up until now, I’ve dismissed that as flattery.
But recently, I’ve been giving it some serious thought.
In fact, last week I made up my mind to write a book, although I doubt it is the book any of my acquaintances would have expected.
The book is about a whole bunch of desperate people, told through the experiences of one family. This family - we’ll call them the Garcias - were farmers. In fact, generations of their family had lived and worked the same land.
Unless you have an instinctive hatred for poor folks, you will like the Garcias, I think. They are a good, decent hard-working family. They have been swept up in circumstances beyond their control. If they are to survive, they will have to leave.
So the Garcias, like so many of their friends and neighbors, packed up their few meager belongings and headed for a land of promise hundreds of miles away. California.
That far-away land represented a fresh start, a better life. Some of their relatives had made the same journey years before and had encouraged them to join them. California was a land of milk and honey, they all said.
Well, really, what options did they have anyway? It was California or ruin.
The book begins with the beginning of the Garcias’ journey.
It was a tough trek over difficult terrain. The little money they had was soon exhausted and they were forced to make do the best they could. Sometimes, they were helped by other travelers, who were pursuing the same dream.
Sadly, Abuela Garcia dies, broken-hearted, along the way. With no money for a proper burial, the family simply buries her in the desert and moves on.
When the Garcias finally arrive in California, they are completely destitute. What’s more, times have changed. The boom days are over and even relatively prosperous Californians are beginning to feel the effects of a faltering economy.
Years before, these refugees had been welcomed and accepted. In fact, a lot of their culture was adopted into the community. There was a spirit of mutual respect and appreciation. The residents appreciated their willingness to do all the jobs nobody else wanted to do, for pay that no one else would stand for. The immigrants simply appreciated the opportunity to build a better life.
Now? The visitors are treated with suspicion, even hatred. “We have our own people to take care of,’’ the thinking went. “These people are just a drain on our resources.’’
So, they were told to go back where they belonged, even though a return trip would sentence them to a hopeless future. Going home was not an option, so they hid as best they could, sneaking out only to look for work.
Before long, politicians and law enforcement, sensitive to the fear and prejudices of the residents, began to make political hay of the situation. Laws that had been simply ignored for years were suddenly dusted off and implemented with great vigor. Lock 'em up or send 'em home, came the cry.
And the plight of the Garcias grew worse. Residents sneered at them, called them names. Cops rounded them up, beat them down, generally abused them.
And if they dared complain, they were told, “Go back where you came from. You have no right to be here!’’
Soon, employers - fearful of government reprisal and the hostility of the residents - refused to give them any work at all.
Without work, some resorted to stealing, so desperate had their blight become. Others, as is the case with any mass migration, were simply criminals at heart. It didn’t take long for that distinction to be lost to the residents, though. “They’re just a bunch of criminals, little better than animals,’’ was the general opinion.
The book chronicles the demise of the Garcias, and many others like them.
I was pretty excited about writing that book.
And then, I realized something:
This book had already been written. In fact, it was written almost 70 years ago, by John Steinbeck.
It’s called, “The Grapes of Wrath.’’
Oh, there are a few differences between the book I imagined and Steinbeck’s. The family in Steinbeck’s book are the Joads, not the Garcias. And they were from Oklahoma rather than Mexico.
Beyond that, it’s the same story.
With the same implications.