Hell, Mary! Where's Your Grace?

I started writing this several days ago. Yeah, you've heard this before.

ADD sucks. Anyway, I reread this and figured I'd let it stand, but now it's changing a little in context. You won't see that until a little later.

Thanks, for checking in and feigning interest.

The dishwasher was ready to be emptied this morning, and in the top rack among the sparkling glass and stainless steel were a couple of my favorite, well-worn coffee mugs. Looking at them, then studying the crowded cabinet where they reside, I had a thought about gifts and how the gracious recipient might deal with perfectly lovely thoughts that are incongruent with his or her design sense, decorating style or the manner in which he or she approaches a typical day.

Gracious, according to Merriam-Webster's definitions 2 a, b, c, and d: marked by kindness and courtesy [e.g., a gracious host];  graceful; marked by tact and delicacy: urbane; characterized by charm, good taste, generosity of spirit, and the tasteful leisure of wealth and good breeding [gracious living].

I thought to myself, I wonder what other people do since I seem to fit in the group that has a house full of stuff that reminds me of those Sesame Street quizzes... none of this stuff looks like the other...

Is it graceful to throw said gift in a closet until one sees an opportunity to regift? Is it more acceptable pass things along to Goodwill after they've collected dust/been dusted for years? Would it be acceptable to donate it within days of receipt?

Usually for me -- particularly when it comes to items designed for specific uses, but are redundant because I already have the same thing in a style I've chosen -- I use the gift seasonally. Maybe it works well as an Easter brunch platter but looks out of place as a Cinco de Mayo chip bowl. Maybe, in cool weather, it works better as a soup mug than a coffee cup.

I read an article that mentions other alternatives for handling unwanted gifts "unless you need to keep the gift around to showcase it whenever the giver stops by your home."

Something about that sentence feels so slimy to me. I know we've all seen the situation unfold on tired sitcoms or heard acquaintances mention hiding something until said giver is coming to visit.

Why can't we just be truthful?

In the past, I've expressed my gratitude and sometimes have offered the gift back with the explanation that I'm switching things around or not using the article anymore. Perhaps the people to which I'm offering these things are exercising more grace than I, but I think I ought to at least offer before I consider one of the previously mentioned alternatives.

Then, there are other times when I've made a complete ass of myself, calling a set of dinnerware I'd been given "tired" in front of the person who gave it to me.

An esteemed colleague of mine has told me more than a handful of times, "just because you're tired of looking at it doesn't make it tired." Of course, this is in reference to the brand and brand guidelines I worked with him to create for a locally revered institution. And, he's right. The thought is applicable here, too, regarding the things we accumulate whether by choice or by gift.

Here is where the context of this post changes: this entry was meant to explore gratitude over arrogance, or grace, when it comes to maintaining order in one's mind versus letting others' interpretation of that place be a part of that order.

Being open. Letting others in.

Being grateful. Being flexible.

Finding beauty in things one may not have been drawn toward without the gentle nudge from someone who wanted to bestow their love in a physical, tangible memento....

I posted on Facebook several weeks ago that our eleven-year-old Boxer, Billie, has been diagnosed with degenerative myelopathy. Within hours of that post a very good friend called me to talk about how he and his husband handled the same exact diagnosis with their baby, Zara.

From what I know, and am now experiencing, it's an ugly disease very similar to multiple sclerosis.

Please, don't be offended by my oversimplifying of either of these maladies that follows. I am not a doctor. I am a complicated, but simple guy, a creative/art director by trade, who has worked for nearly thirty years to research then distill a message to its core and blast it out there for the three seconds' attention I may get from a passerby hoping to keep them interested in staying longer.

If you're still here, thank you. Apparently, I've done something right.

The simple explanation: the protective sheath around nerves deteriorates, making signals from the brain become lost before they end up where they should. In my Billie's case, this means she's losing control of the back half of her body.

In late October or early November, the best I can recollect, I started noticing that her hip/leg function had become a little odd. She was still getting around well, jumping on the bed, doing her normal things. But, as time has progressed, the things Dr. Carol told me to expect (during Billie's annual checkup in January) are coming to fruition.

First, feet dragging. We got rubber booties for protection on our vast concrete patio areas so she wouldn't make herself bleed a second time. As a bonus, they helped with traction on the linoleum and hardwoods indoors.

Then, it was knuckling over. Booties getting stuck on her bed. Doing the splits in the kitchen while waiting for a cookie. Legs getting crossed. Falling down. The look on her face as she fell and landed on her hip in a puddle today, in the rain, just about did me in.

But, she's doesn't appear to be frustrated, either.

I think I may have seen confusion in her face today, though. I try to be reassuring. I tell her "it's OK." I tell her, "go pee pee." She goes, even in the effing downpour that was our gift from the front that destroyed an Oklahoma City suburb. So -- really -- I'm not bitching about the weather in the wildest stretch of any imagination. My heart and prayers are with each an every soul in Monroe. I just hate to see my little girl suffer in the torrent just so she can "go pee."

Because Dr. McCutcheon tells me that Billie isn't in pain, I'm not going to have my usual sign that it's time to return this gift.

I'm going to have to look at this beautiful face one day, and decide when it's time to let her go without any indication from her that she's ready. This once fawn and black but now completely white face, the one that visits me in my office twenty or thirty times a day, head tilted like Nipper, ears up, waiting, that seemingly says, "I'm focused on you so I can be ready to respond gleefully when you finally get your ass out of that chair and follow me to the cookie jar (first) or the back door (last). I love you. Please come with me."

Billie, this gift, is as inquisitive as she's ever has been. For the past eleven years the curious, interested, full-of-life Boxer has been at her core. But, her body is not keeping up. Lately it seems as if the latter is in a wicked, hateful race to abandon her.

I suppose I've said all of this to say, "Grace? Yeah. I've got that -- most of the time." Do I fall down? Youbetcha. Am I now? I'm not sure.

So, I pray, God, give me the grace to know when it's time to express my gratitude for the extraordinary amount of time we've had with this blessed gift, and help me trust when it's time to let her be at peace.

Happy Birthday, Nano

On what would have been her 95th birthday, I'm happily recalling fond memories of my grandmother, Thelma.

My first thought of her this morning was remembering that she gave us a wake-up call every day for many years so we wouldn't miss the school bus, largely because I would ignore my alarm clock and fall back to sleep. Being the eldest, I was expected to motivate my sisters and brother for the walk (or run) down the street to the bus stop at Becky's driveway where we would wait for (or chase after) bus #307. Unfortunately for her, the chore usually ended up on the shoulders of my more responsible, younger sister, Lisa.

Thinking of those phone calls helped me remember many a weekend spent behind the white picket fence at 1311 East Breckenridge, and how I often wish we could relive those days with her.

Once, when she was standing at the sink shaking a can of V-8 we told her that she was "shaking more than the can". She didn't find any humor in that remark and she made sure we knew it. I'm not positive, but at that moment we may have seen her weapon of choice for dispensing discipline and keeping order: the flyswatter.




Often, after having experienced that rare display of frustration with us, we'd hide behind her black sofa, the kind from the early sixties with silver threads woven into the fabric, to pout or perhaps "make her miss us." One of the long, hipster sofas with a slanted back, it provided a perfect "cave" between it and the wall for three little brats to find refuge.

Because we could be a hard-headed, determined lot, she'd usually come to the living room in order to coerce us out of our isolation, and ask, "Would you like an ice cream and a Pepsi?"

What child wouldn't want a sugar buzz? We'd follow her to her kitchen, where for as long as I remember a bird cage hung from just inside the kitchen door, with a little yellow inhabitant that wouldn't sing songs like Nano had hoped. Oh, it would chirp and make noises in the mornings, but for all of the "practice" with the 45 RPM Hartz Mountain canary records she played, Sunny never produced a song. None of the canaries named Sunny did.



Gathering our "rewards" from her white Coldspot, she'd position us around the kitchen table where we could sit and drink our Pepsi-Colas and eat our swirly chocolate or strawberry ice-cream -- the kind sold ten to a bag at A&P or Kroger in little plastic cups with cardboard lids and wooden "spoons" -- leaving space for her to start preparing dinner in anticipation of Papaw returning from his day at Pillsbury. And, more likely, where she could keep an eye on us.

To begin, she'd pull the snap-bead chain of the flourescent fixture on the ceiling. As it flickered to life, she'd fetch a paper grocery sack out of her pantry, carefully tearing it open so it would lie flat on the kitchen table. It was always fascinating to me, watching how she could peel a tomato, an apple, a potato or just about anything with that Old Hickory butcher knife, (one Papaw sharpened so many times that the blade, blackened with years and years of service, had become concave), skillfully leaving a long, unbroken ribbon of skin in a rumpled pile. Watching her with that same knife and a whole chicken was another experience altogether.

"How do you do that, Nannie?" She would just smile and wink.

Once the peeling was done, she'd set in motion the other tasks to put food on the table. And typically, boredom would send us kids back to the console television to watch afternoon cartoons in the living room. In a while, we could smell the fruits of her labor, often accompanied with the rhythmic hiss of the the Mirro-Matic on top of the stove.

After Papaw came home, they'd drink a couple of Blatz beers, no doubt purchased from Jesse Schook's Beer Depot on Kentucky Street near Barret Avenue -- with the foul-mouthed Mynah bird -- and Charms Blow-pops. He'd drink his from the bottle, but she'd pour hers into a glass and sprinkle it with salt from one of those orange and green "Indian" shaker sets.

It seems like I asked her why she salted her beer, and if I remember right, it was to get rid of the "suds." Truth be known, though, she salted a lot of things I would've considered "no-salt" foods until I tried them her way, like watermelon.

I haven't salted my watermelon in decades. I rarely eat watermelon for that matter, but I'd love the chance to do it with her one more time. Happy 95th birthday, Nano.

Oh, For God's Sake

I'm constantly in awe of the ridiculous, ignorant claims made by folks who oppose marriage equality for whatever reason, which are becoming more frequent with last week's Supreme Court hearings regarding the constitutionality of The Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA) and California's Proposition 8.

Like this one from Georgia's GOP Chair, Sue Everhart, as reported by TalkingPointsMemo via Marietta Daily Journal:

“You may be as straight as an arrow, and you may have a friend that is as straight as an arrow,” Everhart said. “Say you had a great job with the government where you had this wonderful health plan. I mean, what would prohibit you from saying that you’re gay, and y’all get married and still live as separate, but you get all the benefits? I just see so much abuse in this it’s unreal. I believe a husband and a wife should be a man and a woman, the benefits should be for a man and a woman. There is no way that this is about equality. To me, it’s all about a free ride.”

Sue "My Easter bonnet was an asshat" Everhart.

She continued:

“Lord, I’m going to get in trouble over this, but it is not natural for two women or two men to be married. If it was natural, they would have the equipment to have a sexual relationship.”

Of course, we have a plethora of nonsensical tidbits like this about which we can mock and ridicule. But, at this moment I'd rather mention one of the most sensible comments I've heard on the whole debate, which aired on ABC's This Week with George Stephanopoulos, as shared by The Raw Story:

Abyssinian Baptist Church Pastor Calvin Butts on Sunday called on the U.S. Supreme Court to legalize same sex marriage because it was part of “the freedom God has given you.”
“It’s something that we don’t believe in, in terms of what we have learned from the Bible,” Butts told ABC’s George Stephanopolous. “But in terms of men and women having their rights as citizens and human beings, we certainly affirm that.”

“You should have every right as a citizen of this nation and every right as a human being to enjoy the freedom that God has given you. The choice is yours. And I should not stand in the way of you making that choice.”

Butts added that even though his religion did not teach that “marriage between a man and a man or a woman and a woman is God’s divine imperative,” it would be wrong for him to oppose marriage equality for all Americans.

“And I think that the Supreme Court should not stand in the way of that,” the pastor explained. “I have to support that in a civil society because, otherwise, I would not be a good citizen of our great nation and a participant of this great experiment in democracy.”

“However, I choose to believe the book upon which I build my life.”

If you follow the link to The Raw Story, there is a video of the conversation at the bottom of the article. It's worth a click.

In my final analysis, I don't expect the church to change its views. In fact, I could care less about what they believe as long as it doesn't influence law and interfere with my life.

Separation of Church and State. It's a pretty simple concept.

Which brings me to the whole "we're being oppressed" bleating I'm hearing from the likes of Family Research Council.

I've got news for them. We know what they're doing and it's wrong. We must vociferously expose their claims as heresy. This article from Jay Michaelson in The Advocate sums it up very well. Click the link and read the whole article, but here's an excerpt:

"But according to a well-coordinated, well-funded campaign, actually the gays are oppressing conservative Christians, you see, because we’re not letting them discriminate against us. And according to a comprehensive new study published last week by Political Research Associates, and prepared by this writer, the campaign is working. Its rhetoric has been adopted not just by the usual fundamentalist loons but by mainstream politicians and academics. It has successfully obtained religious exemptions to non-discrimination and same-sex marriage laws. And it has turned the cherished value of religious liberty from a shield into a sword."

And, just for fun (or clarification for those who may believe they're being oppressed), there's a nifty little quiz, brought to us by The Huffington Post, and Reverend Emily C. Heath of the United Church of Christ that will put fears to rest. A sampling:

Quick Questions." Just pick "A" or "B" for each question.

1. My religious liberty is at risk because:
A) I am not allowed to go to a religious service of my own choosing.
B) Others are allowed to go to religious services of their own choosing.

2. My religious liberty is at risk because:
A) I am not allowed to marry the person I love legally, even though my religious community blesses my marriage.
B) Some states refuse to enforce my own particular religious beliefs on marriage on those two guys in line down at the courthouse.

She concludes:

"In closing, no matter what soundbites you hear this election year, remember this: Religious liberty is never secured by a campaign of religious superiority. The only way to ensure your own religious liberty remains strong is by advocating for the religious liberty of all, including those with whom you may passionately disagree. Because they deserve the same rights as you. Nothing more. Nothing less."

Seems simple, really.

I'm Awake. That's a good thing, I think.

It's been a whirlwind few days and I wasn't expecting this one to start so early due to the exhaustion both Cameron and I felt when we retired last night. Yet, I was rudely awakened by a rerun of Lizard Lick Towing at the end of my first four-hour sleep cycle, and instead of grabbing the remote and clicking "off," I idiotically reduced the volume and changed the channel to TCM thinking I'd find something familiar by which I could doze back sleep.

I knew better. Really, I did. But, after punching the right channel buttons, I found myself watching what was left of The Graduate. It had only been on for a few minutes. I. Can't. Not. Watch. After the credits, station identification showed the first of the next three films to air: Kramer vs. Kramer. I thought to myself, "I've seen this." I'll be able to go back to sleep now.

Right.

I became intrigued by a short film "The Big Sur," narrated by Richard Burton, promoting MGM's 1965 release, The Sandpiper, starring he and Elizabeth Taylor.

Still awake.

Kramer vs. Kramer.

Credits.

Maybe I'll get up for a glass of water. I might even have a cigarette.

Let's see. Four hours' sleep. I know that's not enough, but I honestly don't feel tired. And, now, that I have a cup of coffee sitting in front of me, I suspect it's going to be a while before I rest again. Maybe I'll take a nap this afternoon.

I feel like I should be exhausted. I should be sleeping. In fact, after a fun but frustrating day bowling in singles and doubles events during St. Patrick's Invitational Tournament yesterday, (at which I stunk: 98 pins under my 1,164 scratch average for six games), Cameron, Cleo and I kicked off warm weather dinner season with homemade baked beans, potato salad and barbecued chicken with homemade barbecue sauce. It was a fine way to wind down and he and I both commented to each other that we were both pooped after Cleo hit the road. We went to bed at least two hours earlier than typical.

Bowling six games on any given Saturday isn't usually exhausting for me, but perhaps the preceding two days added, somewhat, to my fatigue.

I woke up Thursday morning nearly unable to close my inexplicably painful, swollen, itchy, red hands and had a rash covering just about everything "but the junk," as my doctor said, who squeezed me in for a visit that afternoon without an appointment.

"Did you have a rubella shot as a kid?"

"Yes, I'm sure I did."

"It looks like German Measles. Do you have a sore throat? Forgive me, I'm running through all of the possibilities with these symptoms. The patterns on your hands and feet look like an allergic reaction to something. What's happening on your torso looks like hives."

After further discussion, a swab test for strep, and another painful stick in the arm for two vials of blood, I've been instructed to throw out the bathroom cleaner I used on Wednesday, avoid latex gloves and stay away from the new Clif Bar flavor I ate that day.

Until we get the results from the allergy panel he's running, I'm on my third day of a Medrol dose pack, Xyzal for allergies and Zantac to ward off any stomach upset caused by the steroids. Cortisone cream makes it bearable to bend my hands and it looks like this plague is subsiding.

"Do you still have Chlorpromazine on hand in case the steroids give you hiccups?"

Ugh. Please don't bring hiccups into this conversation.

The prescriptions didn't have enough time to affect the swelling in my hands before the Friday night no-tap "fun bowl" celebrating twenty years for our tournament. I could barely get my fingertips and thumb in the ball. Add to that the fact that we were bowling with black lights, blaring music and a 4-screen video wall flashing images of the Notre Dame vs. Louisville game on two screens and music videos on the other two above the lanes, I could rarely see my mark.

Nicki Minaj. I try. I do. But, how can someone look so sexy and fun at moments (like in the latter half of "Starships"), but then annoy the crap out of me with ghetto attitude otherwise?

I managed to bowl over 200 the first game, followed by an unceremonious 59-pins-below-average game for the second: a dismal 135. By the end of the third game I was only interested in saying goodbyes, packing up my gear and heading home -- I don't even remember what I bowled for that one.

Really? I didn't even bowl my average during a 9-pin no-tap game where I'm given a free strike for every nine I bowl?! This didn't bode well for regular tournament play.

Coincidentally, I had PLENTY of nines (that should have been strikes) yesterday for singles and doubles. I hope to do my team proud during team event today. While the goal is always 300 on the lanes, I have to hit 226 for every game today to bring me back to my average for the weekend -- just for pride's sake -- 'cause average during a tournament rarely places or pays.

It's nice to have a goal, though. I'm awake. It's now 7:15AM and time for another "cup of ambition" while I "yawn and stretch and try to come to life." I hope my fingers fit the ball more comfortably today.

No matter where or what you decide to put your fingers in today, I hope your Sunday fits like a glove. Good morning, y'all!

Flying High Maintenance

I've always considered myself a fairly gregarious fella, even affable at times. I try not to be judgmental, but sometimes folks just drive me over the edge.

Please forgive me. I'm venting. I figured it had been a while since I posted and this way I could kill two birds with one stone.

Often, I think about what causes me to feel the way I do with first impressions and being judgmental -- while I try remembering to live and let live, or that we're all God's children, or "do unto others" or any other manner of encouraging words that are instilled in us so we can all get along -- as I develop negative feelings toward others, particularly complete strangers.

Typically, it's their obvious lack of consideration for anyone but themselves, which I find infuriating. Other times, it could be inconsiderates who talk on cell phones in restaurants and theaters or other public places where nobody should be forced to listen to half of one's conversation. Still, it could be the drivers who lose control of their cars because they are too busy texting, talking, eating, farding (thanks, Jeff), shaving or reading the paper. Or, it could be people who eat with their mouths open. Or, those who don't cover their mouths when they cough, hack, wheeze and sigh around other passengers on an aircraft.

Which brings me to "her," and my curiosity about the depth of my disdain. Truthfully, I started this to work at figuring out my disgust, knowing that in the end it's inconsequential to her, me or the rest of the world. But, apparently, I abandoned the need to come to terms with my feelings and have decided to rant.

I suppose it began with seeing her being wheeled in a chair to the gate and down the jetway with a big bag filled with McDonald's "food" and a large drink perched in her lap. Of course, if you read this erratically updated journal much, you know how I feel about the evils of fast food, particularly McDonald's. But, then it occurred to me, her size and her station may have nothing to do with poor eating habits and lack of exercise. So, I think, maybe it's a glandular problem. Surely it's her thyroid. So, I'll give her a pass and try not to think poorly of her.

Zone 1 boarding was announced, my boarding pass was scanned and I made my way down the jetway, where there were at least 10 people waiting to board behind her. Mind you, she'd been escorted down the runway long before "zone one" was invited to board. Of course. There was a problem. As I drew closer, I listened to the conversation the exhausted but patient young wheelchair escort was having with her -- as he explained that because this was a regional jet her backpack and the remaining pile of luggage she'd managed to drag along with her was ineligible for regular boarding on this junior sized plane with limited on-board stowage space.

Clearly, "her" is high maintenance. "Well, I need to keep that. And, what about this."

Finally, he backed her into the aircraft. As he came out, others began to board. But, some of her ephemera still needed to find its way to her, so the young wheelchair assistant was trying to get back on board behind us. When he learned that "her" was in row 5, Cameron offered to deliver the jacket since we were to be seated in row 4. We could see relief in the wheelchair attentandant's face as he handed over the garment and turned back to secure the rest of her stuff for gate checking.

She thanked Cameron. In fact she's been very polite to the whole crew, in spite of needing help with everything from securing her soft drink to stowing her bag under the seat. Even with the flight attendant's good-natured guidance, the negotiations working to determine what was kept and what had to be discarded or stowed were tedious.

Already exasperated for the crew because of her neediness, I began to lose my charity while we waited for baggage to be loaded in the belly of the plane...

...the smell of the crap she was eating was nauseating. The ventilation port above my head was wide open in hopes of deflecting the stench away from me without success. I don't know if I've ever heard such noises and utterances from eating before. The snorts and groans between noisy bites and slurps were enough to remind me to check for an air sickness bag in amongst the aircraft information card,"SKY" magazine and "SkyMall" catalog front of me.

In the midst of this inexplicable scene, I hear, "ANYBODY GOING HOME TO ELMIRA?"

I shuddered. Surely she couldn't be fishing for a ride with someone from the airport. Could she?

Crickets.

Nobody said a word. Finally, we were cleared for takeoff, and as we ascended she finished eating. I thought to myself that maybe things in row 5 would finally quiet down. I was wrong.

Cough. Hack. Snort.

I understand that as weather changes we may experience respiratory difficulties and sinus problems. Allergies wreak havoc on countless folks, including myself to a lesser degree.

BUT FOR GOD'S SAKE, COVER YOUR EFFING MOUTH WHEN YOU COUGH. Especially if you're sitting behind me in a pressurized, sealed metal tube hurtling through space with recycled air.

Rather than coming unglued, I decided to immerse myself in a couple of crossword puzzles and prayed that I could ignore her. Somehow this worked -- or she fell asleep. I was grateful that the flight time was right at an hour. We landed safely in Elmira, and I breathed a sigh of relief as I heard the familiar tone signaling that the "fasten seat belt" sign had been turned off.

After the passengers in rows 1 through 3 deplaned, I escaped with my laptop as quickly as I could, and waited in the jetway for my rollaboard, while an unsuspecting wheelchair attendant made her way up the jetbridge to the plane. God bless her.

Flight attendants: still the unsung heroes of 9/11

As the spouse of one of many bedraggled, underappreciated flight crews, this is worth sharing. Again. In somebody else's words. Thank you, Charlie Leocha.

From consumertraveler.com

Flight attendants: still the unsung heroes of 9/11

by Charlie Leocha on September 11, 2012

Photo: By Tomas Pihl, Flickr Creative Commons

Over the years since 9/11, there have been many ceremonies, new memorials and remembrances for those who died in that day’s tragic events.

Police officers, firefighters and other first responders gather every year with politicians on stages across America. Yet few remember that the first casualties of the terrorist attacks were flight attendants. Sadly, airline crewmembers are almost never included in the tributes.

That’s a shame.

I’ve said so on every anniversary of the September attacks, and I’ll say it again this year.
Airline flight attendants are the unsung heroes and frontline foot soldiers in this country’s “war on terrorism.” The stress on our airline systems has increased and will only get worse. And yet flight attendants continue to report to work every day, ready to do what they can to keep us safe. I hope the traveling public does not take them for granted.

Every time a plane takes off, every time a traveler stands up and walks toward the cockpit, and every time a passenger ducks behind his seat to dig through carry-on luggage, flight attendants go on alert.

Immediately after the terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, the media was filled with stories about “real heroes” — rescuers, police and firefighters who risked their lives to save workers in those buildings. The firefighters, EMTs and police deserve every accolade they receive. However, flight attendants should be praised as well.
Flight attendants face potential danger every time they go to work. Where once their main purpose was to see to in-flight comforts and provide knowledgeable assistance in case of an emergency landing, their new job requirements are much more nerve-racking. Worse, their work is almost always taken for granted.

What once was an airborne world of giddy tourists and grumpy businessmen is now a war zone. Trouble — perhaps deadly trouble — could break out in the cabin at any time. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But perhaps someday.

New terrorist dangers are unknown. So unknown, in fact, that the Department of Homeland Security, the Federal Aviation Administration, and other government organizations still cannot predict where, when or how an attack will take place.

While passengers grumble about the inconvenience of security. We have that choice. Flight attendants don’t. If they want to continue being paid, they have to go to work.

The same is true of pilots, of course. But pilots are now barricaded inside their cockpits. Some have been given stun guns and others have been trained to carry firearms. But what are flight attendants getting?

Not much. Before captains lock themselves in the cockpit, they now basically tell the flight attendants that they will have to fend for themselves. They don’t have much choice — most everyone agrees that the cockpit door must stay locked.

As for public recognition, there’s been almost nothing. Instead, what flight attendants have seen since I first wrote this story seven years ago is a continuing series of layoffs, downsizings and reductions in pay.

Are our memories so short?

Flight attendants were the most consistent source of information on 9/11 when, at the risk of their lives, they phoned airline operations personnel to let them know about the hijackings; they even provided seat numbers and descriptions of the hijackers. Flight attendants were most certainly involved with the in-cabin attack on the terrorists aboard United Airlines Flight 93, which crashed in the fields of Pennsylvania instead of into a building on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Later, in one of the few instances of terrorism thwarted in the act, a diminutive flight attendant physically prevented a fanatic from lighting a fuse to a shoe-bomb that would have downed American Airlines Flight 63 in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

So, let’s get our priorities straight.

Baggage screeners earn between $25,000 and $38,000 a year. TSA supervisors earn $44,400 to $68,800 a year. Federal air marshals make between $36,000 and $84,000 a year. These workers receive all the standard government perks of medical care, vacations and insurance. Meanwhile, flight attendants, the airlines’ real frontline troops, receive starting salaries of $18,000 a year, or less, and don’t have a prayer of seeing $30,000 for at least three years. Vacation time in those years is meager, while time “on reserve” (waiting around in case another flight attendant is sick or gets stuck in traffic) seems to be endless.

To add insult to paltry pay, over the past half-dozen years many flight attendants have had their retirement programs and pensions stripped from them by their struggling airlines.

While the plane is in the air, flight attendants are our first line of defense. They may be serving peanuts, pretzels and drinks, but they are constantly on watch until touchdown at the final destination.

Today’s flight attendants face what amounts to nonstop battle stress from an unidentified, furtive and unpredictable enemy.

I, for one, thank them for their service. All of us who fly should thank them as well.

airlines, flight attendants, security

Hurricane Zealot

While Isaac built up steam, I heard murmurs to this effect. Truthfully, I'm surprised it's taken as many days for this bullshit to surface.

Bloviating zealot.

I've never been to Southern Decadence and it's not likely that I'll go. Mardi Gras in New Orleans, straight or gay, just doesn't appeal to me.

My only Mardi Gras experience took place in Port Arthur, Texas, where we were able do some of the usual Mardi Gras stuff, like watch floats, drink beer, get hit in the face with beads and listen to great Zydeco music. Until this time, I didn't know that other places like Port Arthur, Mobile, or a host of other Gulf Coast cities and towns observed the holiday. As such, I'm happy to have a little of the carnival experience between Epiphany and Ash Wednesday without the drunken crowds and their vomit/urine/YIKES in the streets.

Ooohh, SCARY! (nola.com)

I've seen the annual photos and watched numerous videos of both Mardi Gras and Southern Decadence. Behaviorally, they look pretty much the same to me. Either one is a curiosity, one that I can watch from the quiet comfort of my home without being elbowed, mugged or trampled. It's sort of like watching that moron and her brat daughter Honey Boo Boo. A train wreck.

Clearly, there are people who enjoy this sort of thing, though, as evidenced by the throngs that flood the French Quarter in February and September. And, I'm thrilled that they have the opportunity. What I find less thrilling, however, is the lunatic zealots trying to blame the gays for natural disasters.

Convenient, isn't it, that the "straight" carnival happens in February -- far removed from hurricane season? Idiots like American Family Association's Buster Wilson apparently don't cotton much to science. If he did, he'd realize a hurricane hitting New Orleans in the middle of hurricane season isn't so unusual. Right? Oh, but wait -- it's because of the gays.

Bead-worthy in 1860.

Best I can tell, the earliest recorded hurricane to hit New Orleans was in October, 1527. Between then and now, 86 hurricanes have hit Louisiana's coast. Prior to 1974, when Southern Decadence had its modest beginnings, what could Louisianans have possibly done to earn being smote 68 times, Buster? What of the years, like 1860, when hurricanes struck in August, September and October?

I'd send the blathering, Bible-twisting buffoon this interesting, fact-laden paper in its entirety if I thought it would do the rest of us any good by shutting him or the rest of his fellow loonies up for good. But, I know it wouldn't.

So, I'll take great delight in my favorite part of The Advocate's article from the first link above: "Rev. Grant Storms, a regular antigay activist who has railed against Southern Decadence, was recently arrested for masturbating in public."

Yeah. Let's listen to them about righteousness.

And, if you're at Southern Decadence, have a hurricane for me.

Source: "Louisiana Hurricane History" (David Roth, National Weather Service, Camp Springs, MD)