Thanks, Barack!
By Shawn Hovis
In my conservative eyes, Democratic Party presidential nominee Barack Obama could not have made a better choice for his running mate than the cranky, crotchety, old wind-bag, Joe Biden. Very few politicians polarize the citizens that they were (mistakenly) elected to represent more than this has-been, who is riding out his political career as long as possible, while simultaneously trying to squeeze as much juice out of "the system" as he can. Indeed, he has added a new level of tart to the Obama lemonade that no amount of sugar can sweeten.
Joe Biden is not just one of the most transparent frauds in the Senate, but he also has as much charisma as the robotic Gray Davis. The similarities between the two are frightening to me: their lobbyist-controlled brains signal their mouths (both sides of which they use while talking like the pros they are) to smile their biggest, toothy grins as if on cue. He is quick to make an insulting quip, and then somehow work more insults in to a meritless apology.
If the pot calling the kettle black translates to being a hypocrite, Biden is a black hole. He and his far-left liberal friends love to "own" social concepts, such as equal opportunity, as if they invented it. They continue to consistently drive a wedge between Americans and make some of them think that they are each individually being cheated and are losing out on the American Dream solely because of who they are, be it an identifier like their skin color, heritage, gender, working class, etc., etc., etc. In their bland stump speeches, these politicians continue to make their constituents feel like they have very little, after which they go home to one of their plush multi-million dollar estates.
I clearly remember Joe Biden from the confirmation hearings for Superior Court Justice Samuel Alito and Chief Justice John Roberts. His behavior as a Senator was insulting. He would drone on and on in an apparent love affair with his own voice (the only person in my guesstimation that can accomplish this Herculean feat). After about five minutes of a rambling oratory with little or no point, he would ask a question of the nominee, who in turn would have about thirty seconds to answer. Biden would then selfishly interrupt to either make another pointless statement, or withdraw his question altogether. This is the man who, if elected as vice president, would be the tie-breaking vote in a deadlocked Senate.
I feel that I must clarify that I have nothing against Barack Obama. I don’t think that he is necessarily a bad person, unlike Biden. It’s just that his politics are all wrong. The fact is, I don't think much of him at all. But that's just the point: there is very little to think of this empty suit. He may have a way with words, as he recently proved during his tour of Europe (what was the point of that trip again?), but those words are empty and mean nothing. His handlers have certainly been successful in keeping Dorothy from looking behind the curtain. I challenge anyone to analyze his speeches and tell me exactly what he stands for and what his specific plans are for this country. Also, he sure handled the Russian invasion of Georgia well. There were very few sound bites on the subject from Obama in Vacation-Land. Apparently, Barack is only against the occupation of a sovereign nation if the occupier is the United States, the very same country he is hoping to LEAD. His stump speeches may sound good, but there is no depth. If you could only find meaning within the deepest abyss of the political ocean, Obama would be orbiting the earth high overhead.
So, on that note, I want to say, "Thank you, Barack!" You have just sealed your fate this past weekend with such a mind-blowing vice presidential pick. Good luck in Denver!
Monday, August 25, 2008
Friday, August 22, 2008
Remembering Bob Maggi
There comes a time in our lives when we face the reality of our own mortality. This thought is a common cliché, but for me, it happened this week. A friend from high school died as a result from injuries sustained in a car accident. The details of his death are unimportant, especially when I reflect on him as a person and the source of memories, distance and reconnection that I don’t think he ever imagined he would become.
When I moved to Jackson, California (a small, old gold-mining town in the Sierra Nevada foothills) my sophomore year, I was not the person that I am today. That is to say, I was quiet, shy, and not confident of who I was. Bob Maggi was the polar opposite. Previously, I had grown up in a large city in the Midwest, where football is king. I played on the team, which really means that I was merely ON the team. Taking the field was a pipedream, but I was happy to just be wearing a jersey. The high school I attended my freshman year had a huge population (a few thousand, if memory serves) and I was content with being anonymous.
Flash-forward a year and I found myself in a new school, whose entire population was about the same as my previous freshman class. Anonymity was no longer an option, and being on the football team meant that everyone (except for uncoordinated, near-sighted goofs like me) played offense AND defense. We won our division my junior year and there were many gifted players, including Bob. A decade and a half has robbed me of specific games and stats, but I remember Bob for being an extremely intense player. His stature was such that he had a low center of gravity and could plow through opponents and find holes in the line where you thought there were none. He lived his life the same way. Some players carry their intensity off the field with them until they are put back in. Bob didn’t. He was cool and collected, but the coaches could depend on him to amp up on the field. Even though I had many more inches of height over him, I recall being intimidated merely by his presence, but not due to anything he ever said or did to me. I never really gave it much thought at the time, but I realize now that it was because I viewed him as a badass, a far cry from how I saw myself.
Attending a small country school means that everyone knows everyone. Even though we may have not hung out in the same social circles, we all saw each other in nearly every class. We almost surely ran into each other at parties. I wasn’t much of a party animal, especially due to the fact that I worked every night on the weekends, but I got out from time to time. Bob and I attended the same party on at least a couple of occasions that I can recall. I was slightly intimidated as usual, due to my own insecurities. I remember Bob striking up a conversation with me once and I thought I was pretty cool, even though I must have acted like an idiot.
Our class graduated just over 90 students. Many of us have stayed connected over the years, despite the fact that life has limited the consistency of our communications. There is a bond that I feel with every one of my classmates. I hadn’t seen or spoken to many of them until our ten-year reunion a few years ago, but it felt like time had never passed. I ran into Bob Maggi at a bar that a fellow classmate had recently opened. It was the reunion after-party and it felt like old times, except we weren’t worried about hiding from chaperones or parents. I was utterly surprised at how friendly and light-hearted Bob was. He acted as though we had been great friends in high school. While this wasn’t untrue, we had never spent much time together during our formative years. He told me that we should hang out, then gave me his business card and told me to call him. I can still see the card, with his name and number on the front. Several more years have passed since our reunion, but I have never seen Bob again. I have moved several times since then and have subsequently misplaced his card. I hope I come across it someday. What I recognized from this encounter is that I never really knew Bob. He was more friendly and congenial than I had ever realized. My own insecurities robbed me of getting to know a good person and becoming a better friend.
From what I understand, Bob, like many of us, has had his battles over the years. Some of us emerge victorious and others don’t. Those like Bob are never given the opportunity to find out. I don’t know too many particulars of his life, but frankly, it’s none of my business or anyone else’s. What has emerged from this tragedy has touched me every time I think of it. As I alluded earlier, there is a deep spiritual connection that I have always felt with my former classmates. As the news of Bob’s accident came to light, I began to receive phone calls, e-mails, and text messages from friends that I had not heard from in years. I, in turn, continued to relay the horrible news. Despite the passage of time and lack of communication between each of us, Bob was cared for enough to hunt each other down and pass on the word. We also still care for each other enough to reconnect and console one another. Bob is the first one from our class that any of us can recall losing and it is a huge loss. Bob’s presence always filled a room, and even in his absence, he will continue to do so.
When I moved to Jackson, California (a small, old gold-mining town in the Sierra Nevada foothills) my sophomore year, I was not the person that I am today. That is to say, I was quiet, shy, and not confident of who I was. Bob Maggi was the polar opposite. Previously, I had grown up in a large city in the Midwest, where football is king. I played on the team, which really means that I was merely ON the team. Taking the field was a pipedream, but I was happy to just be wearing a jersey. The high school I attended my freshman year had a huge population (a few thousand, if memory serves) and I was content with being anonymous.
Flash-forward a year and I found myself in a new school, whose entire population was about the same as my previous freshman class. Anonymity was no longer an option, and being on the football team meant that everyone (except for uncoordinated, near-sighted goofs like me) played offense AND defense. We won our division my junior year and there were many gifted players, including Bob. A decade and a half has robbed me of specific games and stats, but I remember Bob for being an extremely intense player. His stature was such that he had a low center of gravity and could plow through opponents and find holes in the line where you thought there were none. He lived his life the same way. Some players carry their intensity off the field with them until they are put back in. Bob didn’t. He was cool and collected, but the coaches could depend on him to amp up on the field. Even though I had many more inches of height over him, I recall being intimidated merely by his presence, but not due to anything he ever said or did to me. I never really gave it much thought at the time, but I realize now that it was because I viewed him as a badass, a far cry from how I saw myself.
Attending a small country school means that everyone knows everyone. Even though we may have not hung out in the same social circles, we all saw each other in nearly every class. We almost surely ran into each other at parties. I wasn’t much of a party animal, especially due to the fact that I worked every night on the weekends, but I got out from time to time. Bob and I attended the same party on at least a couple of occasions that I can recall. I was slightly intimidated as usual, due to my own insecurities. I remember Bob striking up a conversation with me once and I thought I was pretty cool, even though I must have acted like an idiot.
Our class graduated just over 90 students. Many of us have stayed connected over the years, despite the fact that life has limited the consistency of our communications. There is a bond that I feel with every one of my classmates. I hadn’t seen or spoken to many of them until our ten-year reunion a few years ago, but it felt like time had never passed. I ran into Bob Maggi at a bar that a fellow classmate had recently opened. It was the reunion after-party and it felt like old times, except we weren’t worried about hiding from chaperones or parents. I was utterly surprised at how friendly and light-hearted Bob was. He acted as though we had been great friends in high school. While this wasn’t untrue, we had never spent much time together during our formative years. He told me that we should hang out, then gave me his business card and told me to call him. I can still see the card, with his name and number on the front. Several more years have passed since our reunion, but I have never seen Bob again. I have moved several times since then and have subsequently misplaced his card. I hope I come across it someday. What I recognized from this encounter is that I never really knew Bob. He was more friendly and congenial than I had ever realized. My own insecurities robbed me of getting to know a good person and becoming a better friend.
From what I understand, Bob, like many of us, has had his battles over the years. Some of us emerge victorious and others don’t. Those like Bob are never given the opportunity to find out. I don’t know too many particulars of his life, but frankly, it’s none of my business or anyone else’s. What has emerged from this tragedy has touched me every time I think of it. As I alluded earlier, there is a deep spiritual connection that I have always felt with my former classmates. As the news of Bob’s accident came to light, I began to receive phone calls, e-mails, and text messages from friends that I had not heard from in years. I, in turn, continued to relay the horrible news. Despite the passage of time and lack of communication between each of us, Bob was cared for enough to hunt each other down and pass on the word. We also still care for each other enough to reconnect and console one another. Bob is the first one from our class that any of us can recall losing and it is a huge loss. Bob’s presence always filled a room, and even in his absence, he will continue to do so.
"Tomatoes", or "I Did It!!!"
I confess that I have a mistress. I am deeply in love with Miss Cuisine. No need to whisper around my wife; she is aware of my deviance. My love of eating is only surpassed with the science, technology, and art of preparing food. There was a time in my life that I could have followed the path to culinary greatness (count your blessings, Bobby Flay), but I instead chose the better path that led me to where I am today. My experiences during high school of grilling finely cut steak over a raging inferno, whipping up sauces and soups of a French persuasion, and being mindful of the time bomb counting down until the plating of ten orders must be served together for a single table, have stuck with me for (dare I say it?) fifteen years.
If cooking is my whore, the Food Network is my pornography. On several occasions, I have found myself glued to the boob tube for an entire day just to find new, quirky recipes. The blends of ingredients astound me, especially if they are used in a way that is new to me, or better yet, if I have never heard of them. I salivate watching chefs choose produce from their expertly grown personal stock, and I think to myself, “THAT is what makes them a chef!” There is no substitution for fresh herbs and vegetables. Would Thomas Keller, owner and executive chef of the world famous French Laundry in Napa, use dried herbs, or so-called “fresh herbs” from his local Safeway? Inconceivable! I have had this “Eureka!” moment on several occasions and have aspired to grow my own personal garden more times than I care to recall.
If anyone has ever accused me of having a green thumb, they didn't realize that it is gangrenous. Of all the mightiest of great battles throughout recorded history, not one challenger has capitulated to a more crushing defeat than I have to Mother Nature. In the beginning, I would plant seeds in a pot of overpriced dirt from the local hardware conglomerate. I have over-watered, under-watered, and finally, after giving up, put my seedlings through a drought that would rival biblical famines. The next logical solution would be to swallow a little pride, skip the first step, and buy seedlings already sprouted by someone else in little disposable pots. The young tufts of green are perky and happy when they leave the store, but wilt at will as soon as they cross my threshold. It reminds me of a young, idealistic puppy that playfully rides along to the veterinarian’s office for the first time, only to discover he is not leaving with everything that he arrived with. The subsequent terrifying trips to the vet are the replicated experiences of new saplings entering my palace of vegetative death.
Earlier this summer (an inspiring time for gardeners), I was at my local over-priced grocery store that specializes in organic produce. Lo and behold, they have an entire area purposely located by their front doors dedicated to fresh, organic herb and tomato saplings. I walked by looking at them longingly, their future deaths firmly predicted in my mind. Strolling through the produce department, I began to concoct a recipe and knew I would need some fresh packaged herbs, but my God! Look what they charge for those things! I could buy the potted variety outside, plant them for my culinary uses and never have to buy any again! Just as a recovering alcoholic tells himself that one more drink won’t hurt, I rushed outside and loaded the bottom of my shopping cart up with a variety of my favorites: rosemary, sage, basil (two types!), and thyme. “I’ll start slow,” I told myself. The biggest thrill of all was the tomato plants nearby. Throwing history to the wind, I picked up a couple of them as well.
The basil lasted exactly 36 hours; the sage started to go after five days. The rosemary looked okay until the lower half started to brown. “What the hell?” I thought. Previous time spent in the desert told me that sage and rosemary bushes were resilient to drought. Regardless, I curiously thought that maybe the heat was getting to the younglings. I then remembered that a constant blanket of fog keeps the central coast of California (where I live) at cool temperatures, rarely venturing out of sixty-degree weather. My next logical deduction was that perhaps the fog was keeping them from getting enough direct sunlight. This was a little beyond my control. I really didn’t feel like getting raised eyebrows from neighbors by setting up growing lamps bought at the local head shop, a.k.a. hydroponics store. I just kept watering them in the mornings and checking their progress in the afternoons.
Progress is an interesting concept because daily attention makes you think that there is none. Only the elapse of time allows you to look back and properly gauge progress. I had gone into maintenance mode, which is a step above giving up and letting the plants die a slow, dry death. My lovely wife first alerted me to their existence. I couldn’t believe my ears; I had to see for myself. I ran out to our deck and sure enough, a miracle was before me. Tiny, dime-sized tomatoes, still green in their infancy, were beginning to form on the vines that I was a week away from declaring dead. Only then did I realize how much they had grown beyond their initial size when I had brought them home from the store. It is at this point that I began to get choked up and teary-eyed up and mentally made the connection between the use of the term “nursery” as a place that raises plants and a place that cares for children. Screw the herbs; they are the red-haired, freckle-faced stepchildren that I never wanted. These tomatoes are my offspring. I will care for them, water them, and love them until the day that I can eat them.
At this point, I am feeling like Michael Phelps must have felt with a neck full of Olympic gold medals. I could hear my neighbor on his deck, which is positioned about eight feet behind mine. It is a little tough to see over there, so I leaned over my railing slightly to proclaim my victory. “Congratulations,” he told me. That’s when I saw it. He has a 32-gallon rubber garbage can, filled with dirt. A barrage of tomato plants are overflowing the top of the can, threatening to overtake his entire deck. He and his girlfriend planted the tomato plants themselves...from seed. “We sprinkled in about 80 seeds. I never thought this many would grow. There must be about thirty plants.” They can bite me. I turned my back and looked at my own tomato plants like a father who has an only son that aspires to be in the debate club instead of the football team. Even in victory, I admit defeat.
If cooking is my whore, the Food Network is my pornography. On several occasions, I have found myself glued to the boob tube for an entire day just to find new, quirky recipes. The blends of ingredients astound me, especially if they are used in a way that is new to me, or better yet, if I have never heard of them. I salivate watching chefs choose produce from their expertly grown personal stock, and I think to myself, “THAT is what makes them a chef!” There is no substitution for fresh herbs and vegetables. Would Thomas Keller, owner and executive chef of the world famous French Laundry in Napa, use dried herbs, or so-called “fresh herbs” from his local Safeway? Inconceivable! I have had this “Eureka!” moment on several occasions and have aspired to grow my own personal garden more times than I care to recall.
If anyone has ever accused me of having a green thumb, they didn't realize that it is gangrenous. Of all the mightiest of great battles throughout recorded history, not one challenger has capitulated to a more crushing defeat than I have to Mother Nature. In the beginning, I would plant seeds in a pot of overpriced dirt from the local hardware conglomerate. I have over-watered, under-watered, and finally, after giving up, put my seedlings through a drought that would rival biblical famines. The next logical solution would be to swallow a little pride, skip the first step, and buy seedlings already sprouted by someone else in little disposable pots. The young tufts of green are perky and happy when they leave the store, but wilt at will as soon as they cross my threshold. It reminds me of a young, idealistic puppy that playfully rides along to the veterinarian’s office for the first time, only to discover he is not leaving with everything that he arrived with. The subsequent terrifying trips to the vet are the replicated experiences of new saplings entering my palace of vegetative death.
Earlier this summer (an inspiring time for gardeners), I was at my local over-priced grocery store that specializes in organic produce. Lo and behold, they have an entire area purposely located by their front doors dedicated to fresh, organic herb and tomato saplings. I walked by looking at them longingly, their future deaths firmly predicted in my mind. Strolling through the produce department, I began to concoct a recipe and knew I would need some fresh packaged herbs, but my God! Look what they charge for those things! I could buy the potted variety outside, plant them for my culinary uses and never have to buy any again! Just as a recovering alcoholic tells himself that one more drink won’t hurt, I rushed outside and loaded the bottom of my shopping cart up with a variety of my favorites: rosemary, sage, basil (two types!), and thyme. “I’ll start slow,” I told myself. The biggest thrill of all was the tomato plants nearby. Throwing history to the wind, I picked up a couple of them as well.
The basil lasted exactly 36 hours; the sage started to go after five days. The rosemary looked okay until the lower half started to brown. “What the hell?” I thought. Previous time spent in the desert told me that sage and rosemary bushes were resilient to drought. Regardless, I curiously thought that maybe the heat was getting to the younglings. I then remembered that a constant blanket of fog keeps the central coast of California (where I live) at cool temperatures, rarely venturing out of sixty-degree weather. My next logical deduction was that perhaps the fog was keeping them from getting enough direct sunlight. This was a little beyond my control. I really didn’t feel like getting raised eyebrows from neighbors by setting up growing lamps bought at the local head shop, a.k.a. hydroponics store. I just kept watering them in the mornings and checking their progress in the afternoons.
Progress is an interesting concept because daily attention makes you think that there is none. Only the elapse of time allows you to look back and properly gauge progress. I had gone into maintenance mode, which is a step above giving up and letting the plants die a slow, dry death. My lovely wife first alerted me to their existence. I couldn’t believe my ears; I had to see for myself. I ran out to our deck and sure enough, a miracle was before me. Tiny, dime-sized tomatoes, still green in their infancy, were beginning to form on the vines that I was a week away from declaring dead. Only then did I realize how much they had grown beyond their initial size when I had brought them home from the store. It is at this point that I began to get choked up and teary-eyed up and mentally made the connection between the use of the term “nursery” as a place that raises plants and a place that cares for children. Screw the herbs; they are the red-haired, freckle-faced stepchildren that I never wanted. These tomatoes are my offspring. I will care for them, water them, and love them until the day that I can eat them.
At this point, I am feeling like Michael Phelps must have felt with a neck full of Olympic gold medals. I could hear my neighbor on his deck, which is positioned about eight feet behind mine. It is a little tough to see over there, so I leaned over my railing slightly to proclaim my victory. “Congratulations,” he told me. That’s when I saw it. He has a 32-gallon rubber garbage can, filled with dirt. A barrage of tomato plants are overflowing the top of the can, threatening to overtake his entire deck. He and his girlfriend planted the tomato plants themselves...from seed. “We sprinkled in about 80 seeds. I never thought this many would grow. There must be about thirty plants.” They can bite me. I turned my back and looked at my own tomato plants like a father who has an only son that aspires to be in the debate club instead of the football team. Even in victory, I admit defeat.
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