Healthcare Reform?

So we have the reform bill of the day, though this one seems closer to becoming a reality than any we have had to date. Just what are we getting? Should we be be glad?

The Insurance Industry is happy. They just got a valentine from Harry Reid. He's prepared to load them up with taxpayer money, force the currently uninsured to get coverage with them or face a penalty, block any restriction on what they can charge their customers (I'm not unusual - and I just got a 28% rate increase), and limit competition that a government-run program can give them. Silly me - I thought that insurance reform meant improvements on our behalf.

The tradeoff? They have to cover pre-existing conditions. I don't want to rain on anyone's parade, but the anecdotal examples of PE conditions that you've heard, while horrific, represent a tiny fraction of claims, and will be massively offset to the industry by all of the new bodies they'll be getting as they are forced to choose between coverage by one of these profit machines or pay the penalty.

Oh yes, there will also be a third choice - that of a public option. Okay, it's better than the ridiculous trigger approach so popular with the irrelevant Olympia Snowe. But it still won't kick in until 2013 at the earliest, meaning that there's plenty of time for it to be gutted by Republicans and Insurance industry whores like Max Baucus.

Then, individual states will have the option of refusing it! Got to admit, it could be fun watching Republican governors twist themselves into knots, turning it down while their in-state medical system chokes on the uninsured.

Which brings me to another point. This bill is expected to cover some 11 million folks who are currently not covered. What about the other 36 million? Are you kidding me?

OK, I'm an optimistic kind to guy. I want to believe that if we put in some kind of healthcare reform, any reform, that it's a foot in the door. Maybe the Insurance companies will not continue to pour in hundreds of millions of dollars trying to prevent additional reform. Maybe the public option will be successful and millions of other Americans will insist that they be allowed to give it a shot, generating so much political pressure that it will have to be opened up to everyone. Maybe Republicans and blue dogs will sense that political tides and history are against them and find some other cause to wreck.

But right now, the choice is yours - is this reform bill a shit sandwich, or a better-looking shit sandwich?

Tale From a Trunk, pt. 8

“Before we commence with your quest,” the Captain said sternly, “perhaps we ought to review the remaining remains of the victim. They reside in a tub of turpentine within.” He gestured in the direction of his office. Memory of the foetid alley came upon me and I protested, but the rest of the group were eager for the thrill, and I reluctantly agreed.

Inside, it was as dark as a cat, and Captain Burnside had to light two lamps to shed enough light to see the large wooden tub which squatted in the otherwise unoccupied cell. We gathered round like schoolboys ready to see a two-headed frog, while our host took a metal hook from the lip of the rub and searched tentatively in the vaporous liquid. He held it above the strong smelling brew and hesitated. “Those interested citizens of the city have generously offered a nickel apiece to view what I am about to show you gentlemen.” His pointed hesitation continued, and continued further, until with an exasperated chorus of “for the love of Christ’” and so forth, the necessary coins were reluctantly dropped onto his outreached palm. Into the tub went the hook.

After a moment’s probing he pulled a long, awkward-looking object from the bath. It took a bit to recognize a curved backbone and a set of ribs, looking red and brown and shiny from the turpentine. It was an awful sight, and pitiful. Rafe Still fumbled in his coat for a sheaf of paper and charcoal, and emitted low purr.

“A bit of respect, if you don’t mind,” said the Captain meaningfully and looking at Still. And at us: “The turpentine bath seems to have eroded Mr. Slade somewhat. There was more meat on him when last I looked at the remains.”

“Does anyone else notice that there are two ribs missing?” Billy said softly in my ear.

“That is as they were discovered in the alleyway behind Mr. Spander’s establishment,” the Captain explained. “It would seem that Mr. Phoenix had a taste for them.”

The ensuing silence passed from one of respect to that of waiting for someone to break the deadlock.

Compliantly, I said, “This fascinating artifact, while an object of surefire interest, does not tie to my client. Someone, we’ll assume not Mr. Slade himself, has removed the ribs. Let us further assume that it was for the purpose of their consumption. To do that, one would have to have the wherewithal to pull the meat from the bone. Isn’t it so?” There was a general lack of comprehension. I let it go. I turned to Captain Burnside. “Have you examined the living quarters of Moses Phoenix?”

He shook his head. “He wasn’t at home.”

”Well, then, we should go there straightaway!” I admit that I had not been in a rush to reveal my discovery: namely, that Moses Phoenix lacked the teeth to devour human flesh, and could therefore not have been the villain in our story. I enjoyed having knowledge that others did not. I was willing to draw out their ignorance, as it seemed to me that the satisfaction it would give to me once revealed, would be that much the greater the longer it cured. Further, by waiting as long as I had, my audience had increased to a respectable size. Still, I felt that the time had come. It was fitting to exonerate Mr. Phoenix by making the announcement at his own home.

With a small amount of resistance the group agreed to make one last journey (it was but two hundred yards from the jail) to satisfy my whim. Our little parade attracted the attention of townsfolk, and some of them may have joined the procession. We reached the boarding house and with Captain Burnside in our group we were readily given admittance. I bounded up the stairs to his room and thrust open the door.

It was as I had pictured it. Modest furnishings, few pieces of homely furniture, a daguerrotype of Mother on the wall. I turned to look at my companions, tears welling in my eyes. Was this not a scene of domestic tranquility? Was Moses Phoenix not a paragon of sweet innocence? On one wall set a cupboard. Surely, it held a bible!

“See here,” I said solemnly. “This is the dwelling place of a man without natural enemies. Mr. Phoenix could not harm a soul, because he is too pure of heart and gentle of spirit to wish anyone ill. He could not do the terrible deed of which he is accused” - and here I paused meaningfully - “because the man has NO TEETH! He cannot chew meat! He is incapable of everything you accuse him of!” I strode to the cupboard, in order to fling it open and reveal the bible, as a last punctuation on my performance.

There, on a shelf in that cupboard rested a beautiful set of ivory choppers, still stained red with the unfortunate Slade’s blood.

This is where the fragment ends. I assume that it is where he intended to halt the tale, but I cannot be certain. Now I’m wondering whether I should start transcribing the rest of what I found in the trunk. I am open to suggestions on that front.

Tale From a Trunk, pt. 7

There sat Captain Burnside, leaning precariously back in his chair with his feet against a rail. At nearly three hundred pounds, this was risk-taking of a high order. Considering that he was deeply drunk at this early hour, his bravado was breathtaking. His kepi was low over his eyes, and he was deep in thought or in sleep. We formed a semi-circle around him and waited respectfully.

Having given it a full thirty seconds I kicked his foot. He snatched his feet from the rail abruptly and teetered for a few thrilling seconds before his chair thundered to the boardwalk, safely.

“Jesus wept!” he cried. He was always using out of date phraseology, which was one of the reasons he was so popular. “What are you trying to do? Commit murder? Can’t a man, a man of the Law, take his rest without being the object of assault?”

I swept my hat from my head. “No offense meant Captain, but we are here to prevent an accident. The ship of justice is about to beach itself upon the reef of error. Everyone on board, Captain included, has been deluded into believing that the water runs deep and clean, but just beneath its surface lies the submerged tree that will stove her in, for sure. Without a rapid change of course, she’ll be sinking in no time at all.” I could sense the rolling eyes about me. If I occasionally lapsed into the talk of my previous occupation, it was only because I had been a man of means, of dignity. They could not help but scoff, with so little accomplishment, so much envy among them. I forgave them.

“God’s blood, young Clemens, what in the name of all that’s holy are you disputating upon?” I took a moment to absorb what he had said, then continued my course.

“All will be clear, Captain. You have been in pursuit of the murderer of Mr. Slade, who was once curator of the cuspidors at the Blue Gem.”

“I have had that honor.”

“And I have come to inform you that the object of your investigation, Mr. Moses Phoenix, is innocent of that crime. He is simply incapable of performing the deed. Your strenuous search (here, I applied a bit of gilt to the flower that was Captain Burnside), nobly acted upon, is misplaced. If my client is harmed in any way it will be a crime as foul as the one perpetrated on the unfortunate Mr. Slade.”

He rose to his full rotundity and pulled on his suspenders. “I am fully conscious of my rectitude, sir, and cannot be at fault. The facts are clear. The victim was slain by knife, then cut up like a Sunday roast. It wasn’t a crime of passion, necessarily, but mayhap more like one of hunger.”

“He was a Donner, Sam!” Stevie Gillis whispered loudly.

“And well accustomed to the craft,” Denis added, needlessly.

“Further,” Captain Burnside continued, “he has gone missing, ever since the crime was committed. The Rubicon is fairly crossed. He is the culprit for certain, and I shall not rest until he has been captured, quickly tried and found guilty, and strung up as he so richly deserves.”

“Preferably before his next meal,” Billy Stewart added.

I know had them exactly where I wanted them. The entire town, citizens, the Law and the Fourth Estate, all wanted Moses Phoenix caught and dead. There was only one man upright enough to save him. Only one man with the calm and commonsense to see through hysteria to the truth. A town can’t have too many heroes. They get in each other’s way and muddy up the narrative. I would have to do it on my own.

“If you’ll come with me to Mr. Phoenix’s abode, I’ll make all clear,” I said. “You’ll see in a flash why I am so certain.”

Miscellanea

Sometimes you have to get these things off your chest...

A.G. Eric Holder is

telling states that they should back off marijuana arrests unless the perp is ‘profiting’ from its sale, excluding for medical use. Can this mean that, at long last, we are going to move away our insane drug policies of the last few decades? When Ronald Reagan took office in 1981 one in fourteen convicts was there for a drug bust. Now, it’s one in three.

Speaking of Reagan, is there anything you can legitimately attribute to his reign that wasn’t awful for the American people? A demented drug policy, the ravaging of American unions simultaneous with reckless deregulation, which combined to eliminate the middle class, the defunding and closing of hundreds of facilities including medical hospitals, thereby throwing tens of thousands of patients onto the streets and ballooning homeless numbers, the tacit connivance with corporations, to the extent that they began to (more overtly) run the government, the acceptance of racism once again (e.g., welfare queens), Iran/contra, and that barely scratches the surface. And yet with our propensity for national amnesia he is still considered a positive creature, instead of the second-worst president ever?

Does anyone else think that, even if the Heene’s are tried & convicted for their balloon boy stunt, they’ll still get their reality program? C’mon, TLC and VH1, ‘fess up. You’re already in negotiations, aren’t you?

Why is it that, when a photographer lies on his back, on the ground, to take a picture up a young woman’s skirt as she gets out if a car, public scorn is reserved for the woman?

Michael Moore’s latest film is out, with the predictable backlash already going strong. Sure, there are better documentary filmmakers around, but for putting all of the dirty truths out there, for reminding us (as if we all needed reminding) that there are malign forces placing short-term profits for a few, ahead of the public good, he’s hard to beat. The one legacy we’ll remember from Rage Against the Machine is their tag line: your anger is a gift.

Again, why is it that a couple can be arrested for wearing anti-Bush t-shirts, and yet someone else can carry a loaded, semi-automatic weapon to an Obama event without being bothered? Just wondering...

There, I feel better...

Tale From a Trunk, pt. 6

“First,” I said, we must examine the scene where the ghastly crime unfolded.”

“Easy,” he replied. “It’s right out back, in the alley.” I stood aside and let him open the door for me, then I strolled past him into the narrow, dank pathway that separated his establishment from the whorehouse next door. It smelled foetid and foul, and I would have thought that it had been the place where the butchering of chickens or other beasts for dinner had taken place, except that I knew slaughter of another kind had occurred there.

I looked around, seeming to take in clues in order to satisfy my bilious friend. The ground was covered with litter, though the light was too dim to make out its character. The damp seemed to rise of its own accord and to clutch me about the throat. Feigning nonchalance, I took a cigar from my breast pocket and made a show of lighting it, holding the lit match aloft and looking about the alley. I could easily see the slash of dried blood on the wall of his saloon, then looked down to see that dried gore was sticking to my shoes.

Resisting a strong urge to vomit, I puffed furiously and said firmly, “Yes, yes, just as I thought!” In response to my friend Julius’ questions I merely stated that the scene was as I suspected and saw no need to delay there. I hurried out into the street, taking in great lungs full of air. Seeing through my distress he laughed.

“It’s just what’s left of Slade,” he informed me. “That, and what Moses has shat out.”

I scolded him. Had I not determined that Moses Phoenix was innocent?

“Not so’s I can tell,” he answered mildly. “How exactly are you certain?”

I made a show of immense patience. It was simply beyond the ken of the uneducated, I explained. The superior mind can detect hidden meanings in the mundane. What he failed to see in the alley was as clear as day to me. I needed only to peruse additional locations and it would even be clear to him. With a detailed explanation from me, of course.

“We’ve little time to waste,” I urged as I walked swiftly down the muddy thoroughfare. “A guiltless man is likely to fall victim to the mob, unless I can present the evidence to prove his innocence!” I strode purposefully, trailing the lumbering Spander in my wake.

It was only a diagonal journey to the offices of The Daily Times, and the daytime abode of my newly identified rival, Billy Stewart. Without introduction I burst into the room in which he sat, and came to an abrupt halt, hands on hips and a tower of cigar smoke issuing from the corner of my mouth. Julius struggled to keep from knocking me to the floor, so sudden was my stoppage and so close to my heels had he kept.

“Why Sam,” said Billy slowly, and looking over my shoulder to take in my companion, “are you carrying the bar with you today?”

“Not today,” I said sternly, waving my hand. “Today, I have deputized Mr. Spander, in order for him to be my witness as I reveal the results of your journalistic assassination against my client.” A fine turn of phrase I thought, as I listened to myself.

“Whatever are you on about, Sam?”

I explained rapidly that I had undertaken the rehabilitation of Moses Phoenix’s reputation, and let Billy know that he had gotten it all wrong. He sat up straighter and eyed me with greater interest.

“Do you say that you know the whereabouts of Mr. Phoenix? Why, all of Virginia City is looking for him, Sam, and you say you have him? That’s first rate work! Where is he, exactly?” I frowned at that. It wouldn’t do for a mob to take apart the offices of the Enterprise. Bill Wright might get it into his head that I was somehow responsible, and suggest that I pay for the damages.

“That’s not important, just yet. I can’t have a drunken throng stretching his neck, just because you’ve got them all stirred up. He’s in a safe place, until I can sort this all out and prove his innocence.”

“Well then,” he said, taking his hat from the rack by his chair and placing it on his head, “that’s something I have to see. Mind if I trail along?”

I did indeed. This had taken a course I had not foreseen, nor wished. Still, when a pilot comes upon an unfamiliar bend in the river, because some storm has changed its course, he finds his way. “It will be my pleasure,” I replied amiably. This way, I thought, I will have the enjoyment of seeing his chagrin, when I showed him how wrong he had been. As he stood to leave with us, he called out to one Rafe Still, an artist who worked with the paper, to join us. He wanted him to make sketches, if justified by our investigation. Magnanimity flowing within me now, I happily agreed. What was one more witness? Another member of the audience.

As we walked down the puddled thoroughfare, Still whispered mischievously in my ear: Did I know how badly cut up the remains had been? He had made sketches, but the editor refused to allow them to be printed, so hideous were they. Slade had been butchered with some skill, and the lesser cuts had been left behind in the alley. If the people of the city had seen Still’s (and the murderer’s) work, there would be no keeping them away from the killer. It would make no difference to Phoenix, I assured him, once I had proven him guiltless.

“How do you propose to do that?” Billy Stewart interrupted, concerned now, I could see, that I was on to something. His hasty reporting was about to be his comeuppance, I was certain.

“We’re going to Captain Burnside’s office,” I said happily. “I need only to determine the effects of his investigation, then I shall reveal all I know.”

Burnside was some specimen of law in Virginia City, having been appointed years previously by a long-forgotten eminence in the East. Now, his sole function seemed to be to drink from eight in the morning to four in the afternoon, to eat from four to eight in the evening, and to sleep the rest of the time. Still, he was inoffensive. He let people kill themselves regularly without meddling, and kept his lone cell free from the detritus of prisoners. It left him with a good place to nap, once he was through with his daily repose.

Before we arrived at the jail however, we happened upon Denis McCarthy and Stevie Gillis, who were standing at a bar, taking in the morning along with a few bracing glasses. Stevie was a printer at the Enterprise, a diminutive bantam. Though scarcely rising to my shoulder, his fists were deadly. I always treated him cautiously and courteously. Denis was co-owner of the same paper, so I obligingly lifted my hat to them both.

“Join us, Sam?” Denis inquired. “Steve won me a hundred in a bout not more than half an hour ago, and we were just starting to celebrate.

I explained my business as quickly as possible, but there was no use to it. They no sooner heard my tale than they determined that they must accompany me, to serve as both bodyguard and reportorial back up. So we continued until we reached the jail.

Tale From a trunk, pt. 5

It was a cloudy day, even so I had need to adjust my eyesight once entering the Gem. It was nearly black as the inside of a lawyer’s heart, not in respect to the departed, but because the activities pursued within were almost always best practiced in the dark. I took a moment to acclimate my vision. There were a couple of whale oil lamps which shed what little illumination there was to be had, and they let me know that besides me, there were three characters seated around a tilting, round table, and a tender behind the bar. This was Julius Spander, made newly famous by the slanderous article recently printed in The Daily Times.

“Hello Sam,” he greeted me as I felt my way to the bar, really just a plank set on two barrels. “It’s a little late for your eye opener. It’s nearly ten.” I told him that I was all business that morning, and was maintaining my sharp senses. However, not wanting to antagonize a potential news source, I accepted a glass from him, and drained it off. I had known Julius for six months, and knew him as a man to befriend when drunk, and avoid when he was sober. He topped six feet by several inches, and a prize hog by several pounds. Peering in I could see that he was clear eyed, and accordingly I took my stance at the far end of his bar.

“Have one on me, Julius,” I said companionably. He squinted in my direction warily.

“And add it to your tab?”

“Not at all,” I replied, slapping a dollar onto the bar top. “I’m feeling fine today, and wish to share my good fortune. Especially with those who have stood me well in the past.” He continued to regard me suspiciously, but poured himself a drink and swilled it. I pointed out that the change would get him another two drinks at least, and he became more agreeable.

“What accounts for your good mood?” he asked.

“I am often thus,” I said happily, “when on to a good story.” He sipped his third drink and pretended to dust the bar at his end, but I could tell that the hook was already in. “Have another,” I said cheerfully, replacing the lost dollar with the same. “And another.”

He grunted a grudging thanks and did not hesitate. He dusted closer to me, making small talk the way a bar man does. After half a dozen whiskeys he was in a mood to match my own, and dusting the bar especially for me.

“So, what sort of ‘good story’ are you on about?”

“Why none other than the true story the Virginia City cannibal.” He snorted loudly.

“That story’s ripe!” he laughed. “It got done days ago, by that reporter for The Times. Don’t you know that, Sam?”

I made a show of my disappointment. My face dragged close to the splintery surface of the bar. I shook my head slowly, in profound disgust. “You mean to tell me,” I finally said, “that someone already figured out that Mr. Phoenix, late of the Donner party, isn’t the culprit?” He squinted more fiercely than before, and, resting his elbows on the bar his chin on his hands, leaned closely.

“What’s this your sayin’? I ain’t served you but one drink that morning. You been drinkin’ at home, Sam?”

“Not a bit,” said I. He rubbed his chin in concentrated thought.

“Then why are you sayin’ that Phoenix ain’t the one?”

I made a show of disgust, and shook my head. “Now Julius, there’s no cause to go and have fun at my expense. Just because somebody else got to the truth of the matter before I did, it’s no reason to mock me. There’s many, probably, who didn’t suspect that Moses Phoenix was not guilty of this horrible crime.”

At that he straightened up and made a show of wiping down the bar. I had him, I could tell. I had him good, and he wouldn’t want to be the last one to be in the know. He was already imagining himself lording it over the less fortunate, the gullible fools who had jumped to the false assumption. He pretended to ask his question casually.

“Now, I’m not sayin’ you were the last to know,” he allowed. “I’m only interested in how you came by your conclusion. You know, what was your method?”

“Well then, if you’re sure you’re not still making fun.” He swore he wasn’t. I told him that I would be glad to take him through every step of my process, but that it could best be done by showing him, just as I had deduced it myself. First though, I would have to have his solemn vow not to reveal my means until I had published them for the world to see. Once they had caught the drift of my genius, he could bather about it ll he wished. Eager to witness the superior mind in action, he readily agreed.

Airily, I waved him towards the back door of his establishment. He chased the few drunken customers out of the front door and quickly locked it. Assuming a pose of complicit mystery,he crept to my side and awaited my instruction.

Tale From a trunk, pt.4

I sat in silence for a moment, dismayed that they had gotten the drop on me like this. It should have been me writing this juicy, sordid tale. And to beaten by our rival, The Daily Times, hurt like the devil himself. I was a regular drinking partner with Billy Stewart, a reporter at the times, and we enjoyed a friendly animosity. Why, we had sipped and supped on at least three occasions since the murder, and not one word of the deed had passed his lips. Still, Moses Phoenix may not have been an inspirational subject for rebuttal, but he was all mine. So I made him a fine speech.

Why, here he was a beleaguered immigrant to our fair city, a man struggling, and succeeding, to make good under difficult circumstances, Against the odds he had prevailed, only to be thrust back into oblivion by the evil press. Why oh why would they pursue him, unsatisfied hounds of hell, their thirst for his blood never slaked until, he had either been driven from town or strung up by a citizenry maddened and provoked by the bloodlust of the Times? Would no one take his side, would no one listen to mild reason, would no one stay the crude mob and shine the light of justice? Why yes, there was someone.Someone who knew better than the lurching, unthinking crowd. Better than the slinking, hate-filled, ignorant and conniving newspaper, the Daily Times. There was Sam Clemens. And what a hero I would be!

Full of fire, I shook his hand, which proved to be remarkably strong, and assured him that he was as good as vindicated. I would write a vivid rebuttal to the slanders of the Times and in short order have the people of Virginia City begging his forgiveness. It was as plain as day, but first I needed to ascertain some of the facts. I would have to peruse the scene of the crime, the better to provide my readers of the base nature of the murder (after all, they oughtn’t to be deprived of the gory details). Then I would describe the scene of the non-crime, that is, Mr. Phoenix’s abode, where I would prove that nothing untoward could possibly have occurred. I would be, I assured him, his personal savior. Those iceberg eyes filled with tears, not cold but warm with gratitude. He took both of my hands in those crushers of his and professed his undying thanks.

“Not a bit of it,” I said modestly, as only true heros know how. “It is only what one does, to see that justice is done.” I left off the fact that I would destroy Billy’s standing as a credible reporter and deliver an exclusive interview with a surviving member of the Donner group in the bargain. Not bad for a day’s work.

But first I had to gather the detail for my story. I grew excited as I considered how I would insert actual, verifiable truth into my reporting (a usual story would be pieced together from random, amusing thoughts that occurred to me whilst I nursed a hangover from the previous night’s debauch). This would be something new, something entirely novel for me, and I found myself becoming more and more proud of myself. I was quite the prince.

My new friend wanted to accompany me, to show me where the various crimes against his good name had taken place, but I would have none of it. He must protect himself, and remain hidden from public view while I visited the scene of carnage. There was what called itself the law in that city to be considered, to say nothing of what an aroused citizenry might do to him, if they were to act before receiving my golden words of reasonableness. No, he would have to remain in my little office, and not show his sad face about town. With a show of reluctance he agreed to my plan. Planting my slouch hat upon my head and stuffing cigars in one pocket and some papers and a nub of pencil in another, I left him there.

Fairly skipping down the stairs I left the Enterprise building disappeared down the alley which brought me to the street on which the Blue Gem was located. I found it wedged between a brothel called the Golden Gully and another saloon, The Rye Expression. I had had some familiarity with both establishments, by way of my study of the nether world of the city. Nothing too intimate, just enough to recognize the devil’s tools if ever I should find myself in need of them.

To be continued...

Eight Years On

In the fall of 2002, along with 20,000 concerned citizens, I attended a demonstration in New York’s Central Park to protest what looked like an imminent, needless war against Iraq. You may not have heard about it, since most of the media decided not to tell the people that millions of Americans were on to the machinations of the Bush/Cheney cabal, and were taking to the streets to make their disgust and alarm known.

One of the themes of the daylong event dealt with how poorly things were already going in Afghanistan. While you could make a case for why we were there in the first place (Tim Robbins spoke of his anger after 9/11, and acceptance of the incursion by U.S. forces), it seemed that we were going to replace one questionable war with one that unquestionably wrong, and were poised to substitute Osama bin Laden with Saddam Hussein.

Eight years on, here we are, still in Afghanistan. The “war” is not close to won (close to being lost, rather), Osama bin Laden is free (or dead for several years - my personal opinion), and the Taliban is resurgent. Why are we still there? What do we hope to gain? Does anyone have a clue how to win the conflict? Don’t know, nothing and no.

Everyone knows how the Soviet Union had their asses handed to them by the mujahideen. We like to give ourselves credit, because of the timely intervention of stinger missles put into the hands of the proto-Taliban. They helped, but without a determined, fanatical force willing to use them, and to die in the thousands while using them, no amount of technology would have been successful. These same fanatics, hardened by decades of battle and by centuries of dealing with foreign incursion, are stepping up to the plate once more.

The Soviets were by no means the first invader to meet their demise there. In 1841 the British occupied Kabul and set up their hand-picked puppet to lead the country. To support him were 4,500 British and Indian troops. Where the Afghans are concerned however, to control a city is to control nothing. Temporarily putting aside their own internecine quarrels (which are legion, and endless), rebel tribesmen turned out in force and soon had them surrounded in their garrison. Skirmishing ensued, with the advantage teetering from one side to the other. Eventually however, the British found themselves outnumbered by more than seven to one and were compelled to arrange a truce, contingent upon their agreeing to quit the country.

This they did, along with all of their soldiers, 12,000 camp followers and three dozen wives, children and nannies of the military. The rebels did not keep to their side of the bargain. Once the retreating army entered the mountain passes leading down into India, they were attacked in a never-ending series of ambushes, lasting days. One man, a Dr. Brydon, emerged safely but badly wounded. Other then him, the entire company perished.

I refer to this incident because little has changed in over a century and a half. The tribesmen are still as ferocious, still as intractable. They are still as suspicious of the foreign, still able to pull together, however temporarily, in the pursuit of expelling that foreigner. What are we trying to accomplish? How do we define victory? When a stable government has been created? Right now we are settling for a clearly corrupt leader, who can’t win an election without resorting to fraud. When Al Quaeda is eliminated? We’ve been paying whack a mole with them for eight years, and they seem to be real good at turning up in another country to pursue their ends. Besides, an army makes a poor mallet for such a small target. How many lives, how much treasure, has to be wasted before we realize that this, like the other, war, is not the right one to be fought? When they have better roads, better schools, better lives? By all means, let’s make their lives better if we can. And dropping bombs on innocents seems counterintuitive. And remember their illiteracy rate is at nine-five percent. Do we have the stomach for decades-long commitment with scant chance of success?

Here’s an idea: let’s continue to do a better job of protecting ourselves at the point of entry into our country. That’s something we can control. Let’s support the Afghan people with all of the humanitarian aid we surely owe after we wrecked their country. And as long as we can keep Republicans out of office and lobbyists away from this important work, we may be all right.

Tales From a Trunk, pt.3

Old Moses (though he could not have been much older than forty-five or fifty) had been on the ill fated caravan, sure enough, had seen terrible things, things that he did not want to revisit. Through God’s mercy he had come out alive, saved by the rescuers after that dire winter. But knowing that regular folks would look at him in fear, ever though he had refused forbidden meat, he had kept his story a secret.

Still, every few years someone would get wind of the truth, discover that he had been a member of that tragic party, and the whispers would begin. With the stiff wind of condemnation at his back, he would pull up stakes and move to another town. A dozen times he had been forced to leave a prosperous business (for he was an astonishing industrious fellow), and more than once a family, and find him a new home, a new livelihood. Like the biblical Moses he had wandered the deserts of the American West, seeking his home, never knowing if it would be his final destination, or whether some fresh discovery would send him into exile yet again. I misted up, hearing his wrenching tale. What a stalwart, suffering man. Under the care of a skilled scribe, what citizen would not weep a heavy tear for his story?

Now, he explained, though he had made a success of his suttler’s business, had even become a pillar of the community and a man of some wealth, he had been found out. Someone had been rumor-mongering about his supposed nighttime habits, suggesting that he was up to his old culinary preferences. And to back them up, there were even suspected cases of cannibalism right here, in Virginia City! Naturally, all eyes would look to him, who was as innocent as on his birth day.

“Now now,” I interrupted, “but surely there is no proof. Why should you fear if there is no evidence to attach the crime to you?” Here he shook his head sadly, as he would to a simpleton. But of course he would be suspected. He was of the evil Donners, and the citizenry would make their assumptions as they always had. No one would give a second’s thought to the possibility that anyone else could have done it. It was the way it had gione in town after town, and would again in Virginia City.

Now, I had to admit, he did look the part, all scrawny and skeletal, dark and angry. Why, I bet he could tear through a club of spinsters for lunch, and have room left over for a lawyer or two. And he was a Donner, was he not? Still, he had aroused my sympathies, which I felt were keener than the average newsman’s, and I wasn’t ready to give the up just yet. Didn’t he, I asked, have some sort of alibi for the time that the dire murder was supposed to have occurred?

He flushed redly at that, and struggled for his words. “I don’t have many acquaintances,” he said, his eyes downcast. “Even them that doesn’t know my full history, they tend to shy away from me, like maybe they know something.” Then he looked up at me fiercely, his eyes which I could now see were the palest blue, sparked. “No, I don’t have anyone who will vouch for me. I was at home alone, as I am most every night. But I couldn’t have done it, don’t you see?” And with that, he open wide his foul-smelling mouth and pointed at the open, near-toothless maw. Of course, he was right. A fine cannibal he would have made, gumming his victims to death. Plainly, he was not the man for this crime. Once again I was filled with crusading zeal.

“So, tell me, Mr. Phoenix. Who has slandered you so foully?”

With a sneer of contempt, he pulled a soiled, heavily creased sheaf of papers from his jacket pocket. I recognized at once the work of our rival newspaper, scant yards down the street from the Territorial Enterprise. Dastardly rag I called it, even before he had carefully unfolded the document and offered it to me, solemnly pointing a long bony finger at the offending article. Puffing furiously on my cigar, I prepared myself to be outraged. The story read as follows:

A Heinous Crime!

Cannibalism in Virginia City!

In a city already suffering from a variety of social ills: namely gambling, public drunkeness,

loose morals, official corruption and the threat of Chinese influence, is it too much to ask

that we be spared the indignity of cannibalism as well? Apparently not, as evidence of this latest

evil have been thrust upon our community. Thursday last, a defamed corpse, once belonging

to a Mr. Slade, lately employed as a bootblack and spittoon carrier for the Blue Gem saloon,

was discovered behind that same building in a condition best described as rendered for dinner.

Deprived of his human chops, steaks and tenderloin, Mr. Slade was left for the four-legged vermin

to finish. They were chased off when the proprietor of the Gem, the hon. Julius Spander, found

him around eight o’clock on the following morning.

A Perpetrator Suspected!

And who, Virginia Citians want to know, is responsible for this heinous crime, this Aetrian

feast? It has come to our attention that for the last nine months, a Mr. Moses Phoenix, lately

a member of the Donner party of 1846, has been a resident of this city. Is it such a leap to

suppose that there is a connection here? Where was he on the night that Mr. Slade was

transformed into roast? What has he to say for himself? Has he returned to his depraved ways?

Others who survived that tragic expedition have also refused to swear off eating their

neighbors. It appears that he has joined that camp.

And, since constable Martens has not seen fit to pursue this suspicion, this newspaper will ask

the questions of Mr. Phoenix, and will get the answers.

To be continued...

Tale From a trunk, pt.2

Dinner in Virginia City

It was 1862 or 3, and I was a freshly minted reporter for the Territorial Enterprise. My editor, Bill Wright, known to many by his pen name Dan DeQuill, had departed east to visit his wife and children in Iowa. They were sick, but he went anyway. This left me alone to sort out the many possibilities for stories that arose on a daily basis.

There were usually fatal gunfights to report, and nonfatal ones as well. The latter lacked the drama that the reading public thirsted for, but with a bit of license I could usually amend the outcome to produce a corpse. This upset more than one breathing citizen, who awoke to find himself deceased. He would confront me with his existence and demand a retraction, and it was then up to me to point out the benefits of his demise. In this way I acquired some of the creative skills which continue to hold me in good stead.

Another source of stories which called upon my dexterity as a writer involved Virginia City’s bars and brothels, located on a a street just behind that of the newspaper office. This was convenient, both for material gathering and after work entertainment. With over four dozen establishments to choose from, I was hard pressed to explore them all, but I applied myself diligently.

In addition I was responsible for writing articles pertaining to local businesses, civic organizations, and politics, but as these produced a paltry count of cadavers, and so interested me very little, I was forced to add to the record in order to make the copy readable.

I was slaving over just such an article when I was visited by a spectral character. He was tall, lean, and dressed all in black. I judged him to be about forty-five years of age, spare as a rail, and thin of hair, what little of it I could see poking from his black hat. His face was twisted in some variety of intestinal distress, I thought. Or an injury that had lodged itself there, for the world to enjoy. I continued to write, pretending not to notice his arrival, while I slyly took him in. He stood there patiently. I could see that he was not a manual laborer, as his hands were soft. The quality of his clothing suggested some success in business, but not over much. I chanced a glance upward and saw that his teeth had long departed, save for an incisor and a molar or two, his sunken cheeks making that clear. His overhanging brow showed intense worry and old suffering.

Having ascertained that he was worse off than me, I greeted him and asked his business.

“My name is Moses Phoenix,” he announced. “I am a suttler. I own a store further down C Street,” the very street where I worked. Relieved to gain my attention, he got right into it. “I want the record put straight. I want it printed in the Enterprise. I have been slandered, and I want it put right.”

I put my cigar down and appraised him anew. Airily, I waved him into a chair. He coiled himself into a sitting position and leaned towards me. Halitosis swept over me like a malign cloud and I recommenced puffing on my smoke, putting volumes of tobacco between us. “What sort of slander?” I inquired. His face darkened and he looked at me intensely.

“I survived the Donner party in ’46,” he said firmly, “and someone is accusing me of cannibalism. Here in Virginia City!”

Halitosis be damned. I could have kissed him right then and there. Here was a story to beat every other story I had fabricated since coming to Virginia City. Oh, I thought, this story will put me on the map. It was a solid 14 carat story. And the reaction that old Bill would have when he found that I had gotten the credit instead of him, why that would be 24 carats at least. I could envision his dismay that I had gotten to the story before him. He would positively eat this spleen. But, I thought, how could there be a case of cannibalism in Virginia City which could have escaped my notice? Then I recalled that there had been a victim of a knife fight a week previously. There were many such in that lawless town, and nothing much had been made of it, but now I remembered that the loser had been literally butchered, with several choice cuts removed. The perpetrator had not been found.

Composing myself and adopting as professional an attitude as the circumstances would allow, I asked him to tell all, sparing no details. I licked the tip of my pencil and began to write the glorious words.

To be continued...

Gimme Fiction - Tale From a Trunk

While traveling through the Midwest to visit an old friend, I happened upon an estate sale taking place in an old Victorian in Galesburg, Iowa. I usually pass these things by, but I had the time and, more than once I've been rewarded by curiosity. So I stopped in to browse.

The only item that struck me was a dilapidated steamer trunk, bound tightly with cracked leather straps. Intent on selling heavy, ugly, sure-to-be-overpriced furniture, the estate curator (is that the right term?) waved me off when I asked if I could see the contents. A tentative hoist of the corner of the case told me that it weighed no more than twenty or thirty pounds - no family jewels here. Still, I hung around, and after three quarters of an hour he was willing to let me take it away for a modest price.

When I got it to the motel where I was staying, I eagerly pried it open. The brittle straps gave way with a reluctance that told me it had been untried in many decades. Inside was a moldering pile of clothes, too ruined to be of any use. Beneath them was a caved-in floor which must have been meant to be secret, when new.

Within the false bottom was a thick roll of papers, tied in old twine. Using my pocketknife I released them, and saw that on the top of them was this letter:

September 1891

Keokuck, Ia.

Orion Clemens

Dear Orion,

How are you and Mollie? Our tribe manages, despite the financial difficulties I wrote of earlier. The Paige Typesetter has had its last cruel swipe at us. Soon we leave for England, where I will attempt to regain our fortune, providing the deity is through toying with me. Leaving Hartford and our friends and loved ones is painful, terribly so, but what must be done, must, etc.

You will have noted that this letter is in an envelope attached to a large packet of papers. To you I entrust their care. You have always been a great ass, but you are my brother, and incorruptible in your own, incompetent way. The packet contains writings: jottings, stories, thoughts and sketches I have begun and mainly left unfinished for the last near thirty years. I have carried them with me around the world, always keeping them from the incurious eyes of my darling Livy. At Nook Farm they were sequestered in a number of secure hiding places, where neither she nor our daughters ever caught sight of them.

Now that we are relocating, the option for their concealment is to be greatly reduced. I fear that she will find them, and believe me that they were not meant for her eyes.

Almost without exception, they are vile, profane, execrable and scatological. I had the best time writing them. However, they are also unpublishable, at least in their present form. Perhaps one day, when tastes change, they may prove more palatable to the world. They are as old as my days as a reporter in Virginia City, and as recent as two years ago. I fear that I have been unable to part with or burn them, at the same time as I acknowledge that they are unworthy of being read by the general public. Mostly, they cry for extensive rewriting, and some are perhaps best left for the ash bin.

In the meantime, I ask that you keep them safe and hidden, at least as well as I have done these long years. Above all, I bind you to the promise that they not be shared with innocent eyes. I need hardly add that that includes you.

Once our fortunes are restored and permanent residence resumed (pray that it be in Hartford!), I will request their return.

Until then, fondest regards from Livy, the girls, and of course,

Your devoted Brother,

Sam

In my next blog I'll reveal the contents appended to this letter.