G.I. Issue

 

A few weeks ago I had a funny dream that I do not want to forget. I wish my father was alive because he would enjoy this one.

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A comedian is doing a standup act for a group of old World War II veterans. The comedian says, “So, I go to the clinic and the doctor tells me that I gotta get a G.I. procedure. I say, ‘No problem, Doc. I was in the army so I know all about G.I. procedure.' So I go to the G.I. Department. This nurse tells me that they’re gonna stick a long tube up my butt and I say, ‘The Hell you are! That ain’t no G.I. procedure. I mean it might be in France or someplace but it ain’t a G.I. procedure in America.”

All of the old guys in the audience get it and laugh.

I wake up laughing along with all of the other old guys.

What Did You Do in The War?

If Sullivan or Finnigan ever study American history and ask questions about the Viet Nam war I hope they read the following story.
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The United States lost the Viet Nam war. We deserved to lose. We were, for the most part, among the bad guys in that war. I never figured out who the good guys were.

The war in Viet Nam was a civil war between people in the south end of the region and people in the north end. People in the south thought their government and economy should be organized in one way (democracy and capitalism) and the people in the north thought it should be organized in a different way (communism). People on both sides thought the other side was morally corrupt, manipulated by outsiders, and bad for their country's future. From what I could tell they were all pretty screwed up on both sides. 

But it was their country, their war, and their problem to figure out. Unfortunately, because a neighboring countries, China and the Soviet Union gave weapons and support to people in the north end, the USA (on the other side of the damned planet) decided that we had to give weapons, money, and eventually thousands of our own soldiers to support people in the south end. Most historians recognize that our role in this was the dumbest foreign policy decision in American history. Over 58,000 Americans died in the Vietnam Nam war. I don't think  anybody knows how many Vietnamese people died.

In those days our government forced its citizens to join the army to fight our wars. The system was called involuntary conscription, a.k.a., the draft. I know it sounds crazy, but all 18-year-old guys had to register with a local draft board and then wait for a letter to arrive in the mail ordering us to report to the army. At that point we became, more or less, property of the government. For many young Americans that meant about six months of mandatory training and then a long trip to Viet Nam to fight strangers.

Many of our soldiers in Viet Nam did not have a clear sense of purpose other than to be one of the survivors. The other side did have a clear purpose. They knew why they were fighting. They wanted to kick our asses out of their country. That is why they won.

Many young Americans in those days, including me, thought the war was bogus. We refused to participate in it. Some people moved to Canada with the understanding that if they ever returned home they would be sent to prison. Some people just chose to go directly to prison. Others joined the National Guard which meant they were committed to the military part-time for six years but, at least, they would not go to Viet Nam.

I was absolutely certain that I was not going to participate in the Viet Nam war but I was unsure about how I was going to avoid it. I had a student deferment in college. So for those four years all I needed was an acceptable GPA to postpone the problem. 

As college graduation approached I considered a few other creative alternatives. I visited a liberal theological seminary in Chicago because seminary students got an extended deferment. Seminary was an interesting idea but it would have required me to adopt religious beliefs that were out of the question. I also applied for status as a conscientious objector even though I was told that my local draft board had not granted C.O. status to anybody during the Viet Nam war era. In case you don’t already know, conscientious objectors were people who were against all wars. They were pacifists who refused to fight under any circumstance. In retrospect, I did not deserve C.O. status but I sure respected their point of view.

During the first week of May, 1971 I got a notice from my draft board ordering me to report in thirty days for a physical examination. The physical exam was a prerequisite for the draft. As I read that notice I made a decision. I could not rely on others to solve this problem. I was going to have to solve this myself. I decided that I would lose enough weight within the next thirty days to flunk the physical examination. 

There was a draft counseling service in the city that gave free advice on ways to avoid military service. I met with them the same day that I got the notice for the physical. They explained that losing weight was a risky strategy because sometimes the examiners would pass skinny people regardless of their weight. You had to be significantly under their minimum weight requirements to be safe. They told me that for my height I would need to weigh less than 107 pounds. At that moment I weighed 130.

Over the next thirty day period I just ate a lot less and exercised a lot more. During the first week I limited myself to one small meal each day. I ate mostly salad. It was difficult for the the first week. After that my appetite disappeared. Each week I focused on eating less and less. I monitored my weight loss very closely. I also ran each day around a track at Bellarmine College wearing heavy clothes that I thought would make me sweat more. During the last week a doctor at the draft counseling service gave me a prescription for diuretics. The medicine caused me to pee excess fluid from my body and helped me lose the final few pounds to get under the limit. When I reported for the physical I had trouble standing up but I weighed 106 pounds. Bingo.  

The good news was I had failed the physical. The bad news was that they told me that I would be called in for another one in six months. So six months later I had to repeat the entire damned process. The second time I reported for the physical weighing 104 pounds. They told me that I would be called back again in a year. I am not sure I could have done it again. Fortunately, they did not call me back. By then the USA was giving up on the war in Viet Nam. I was glad that I had nothing to do with it.

This experience occurred about 44 years ago. I am still thinking about it because it was so important to me. It was the first time in my life when I took charge of my future and refused to go along with a bad idea. Opportunities to do this sort of thing are rare but I hope you will look for them while you are young. The value to you might echo for a lifetime.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

I saw the Facebook post of a friend who was inspired by the movie, American Sniper. My friend suggested that, “we should appreciate all who serve in the military as heroes.” I disagree.

I think there are real heroes who serve in the military and they deserve our respect and appreciation. They are people who made courageous sacrifices or risked their lives in order to save others. Some of these heroes are officially recognized and acknowledged. I suspect there are many others who are not.

However, I think that most of the people who serve in the military are not heroes. They are regular men and women who go to work and do their jobs. Their contributions to society are no more (or no less) valuable than the work of policemen and police women, healthcare workers who work in emergency departments, Peace Corps volunteers, or countless others in the USA.

I also think there are people in the armed forces like people in all of other walks of life. Some are lazy. Some are cowards. Some are brutal and some are criminals. All of them are not heroes and to suggest that they are diminishes the status of those members of the armed forces who actually are heroes.

Two Quotes Captured My Attention - this week

Things are as they are. Looking out into the universe at night, we make no comparisons between right and wrong stars, nor between well and badly arranged constellations.
Alan Watts

Alan Watts is reminding me that all things are as they are. You, me, everybody, everything… just is what it is. I have spent a large chuck of my life judging reality as if I expect It to be something else. In reality there is only one big picture and we are It.

Success is going from failure to failure without losing your enthusiasm.
Winston Churchill or Abraham Lincoln (attribution is uncertain)

I really like this quote because by this definition my father was an outstanding success.

Losing a Loss

I even tried writing poetry

but it didn't help.

It didn't change anything about the way I felt

when she left me

hanging

waiting

for another shoe to drop

like the many other shoes that would not stop

dropping

causing waves of depression that transformed me 

into a sobbing 

loser.

For a long time the sense of loss owned me 

instead of the other way around.

It was in control of my video 

and in control of my sound.

It owned me until eventually it became too repetitive, 

too boring. 

So finally the sense of loss just left without any closure, 

without much warning.

It was a lot like her.

Out of the Box

I am locked in a small cell with an open door.
I am afraid to look outside for fear of being confined even more.
Suddenly I take a risk. I run outside and I jump in the air.
I breathe in the sky and think if I'm caught I don’t even care.

But I am caught - and locked this time inside a very small box.
I hear the top close. I hear the sound of the locks.
I cannot move. I cannot breathe. It feels like something Satanic.
I am losing control. I am near the edge of an unthinkable claustrophobic panic.

When suddenly I relax
and fall into some inner space
Where I feel safe, quiet. No fear. No fear at all in this inner place.
Now I am grateful for the tormentor who is forcing me to see.
The way out of the box is to stop fighting, let go, and just be inside of me.

I realize now that I am awake but not moving because I want the dream to return.
Instead I am getting up to go to the bathroom to forget what I just learned.

PAIMI Advisory Council

These days my most interesting work is with Disability Rights North Carolina. I am a volunteer member of an advisory group called the Protection and Advocacy for Individuals with Mental Illness (PAIMI) Advisory Council. This group is  comprised predominantly of people with mental illness or family members of people with mental illness. The group helps set direction for Disability Rights NC which is the unofficial conscience of our state's system of services for people with disabilities. I am very proud to be a volunteer with this group. The website is www.disabilityrightsnc.org.

Tornado Dreams

Recently I have been having recurring tornado dreams,

very clear, full of fear dreams, not quite sure what they mean dreams.
They are similar - each with an ominous tornado dragging chaos as it gets near.
I watch the tornadoes approach from a window in my basement in total awe-stricken fear.

The tornado arrives and hits hard like a battering ram.
It hits so hard that I wake up breathing heavily and wondering where in the hell I am.
I lie there wondering what is this dream really trying to tell me?
Is this about a tornado or something even worse that I won't let myself see?

Over time the tornado dream has become pretty easy to figure out.
It's not the tornado. It's the fear. The fear is what the dream is about.
The fear of the unknown, the subconscious fear of what's going to happen next.
It's the fear of the future that I face in a fully conscious context.

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PS: I have not had a tornado dream since I wrote this poem. I think recognizing the fear helped to neutralize it. This poem was published in the November, 2012 issue of the Blotter Magazine.

Telepathic Snow Monkeys

Some time ago a good friend, Hugh, asked me if I would participate with him in a parapsychology experiment at the Rhine Research Center in Durham. Hugh explained that the Rhine Research Center was a reputable institution that studied consciousness and parapsychology. He told me that he had been recruited to be a subject in an experiment to determine if pairs of creative people who knew each other could communicate telepathically with greater success than pairs of random people.

Hugh was (and remains) the most rational, pragmatic, and honest person that I ever met. Therefore, I was not surprised when he candidly told me that he thought the proposed experiment was bullshit. He thought the entire idea of mental telepathy was unproven nonsense. His motivation to participate in the study, he said, was to help disprove the ridiculous hypothesis. The content of the study and Hugh’s skepticism were enough to motivate me to participate.

The study required an initial meeting at the Rhine Research Center in which Hugh and I were interviewed and then asked to complete detailed questionnaires. The questionnaires asked about our personality characteristics and personal preferences. There were lots of questions about how Hugh and I knew each other. In the meeting a researcher explained that in our subsequent session we would each be isolated in separate rooms and given an assignment related to telepathically communicating a specific message. After we left the meeting we stood in the parking lot and talked for a few minutes. I was impressed with Hugh’s commitment to follow the expectations of the research design despite his reservations about the overall merit of the study.

A few nights later Hugh and I returned for the experiment. He was placed in a comfortable chair in a sound proof sensory deprivation room. I remained in the room long enough to watch as his eyes were tightly covered to restrict any light. His ears were covered with head phones. A small microphone was attached to his shirt. In front of Hugh was a TV monitor. The researcher explained to Hugh that he would be guided into a state of deep relaxation by a voice in the head phones. Once in a deep relaxed state he would be asked to receive communication from me. He was told to verbally “free associate” his thoughts into the microphone so that I could hear through my headset what he was experiencing and know if I was making progress.

The researcher then escorted me to a room on another floor of the building. My assignment was to watch a looped video of a group of cute Japanese snow monkeys as they gently moved around in a semi-frozen body of water. In front of me were pencils, markers, crayons, and paper. I was told to watch the same 2-minute scene over and over while attempting to communicate what I was watching to Hugh. I could use any strategies that occurred to me to communicate including using the materials in front of me to draw what I was watching. Headphones were placed over my ears so that I could hear Hugh’s comments about what he was experiencing. If I stumbled on a communication strategy that produced images of snow monkeys in Hugh’s running commentary then I would know I was doing something right.

The researcher left the room and I watched the video many times. I drew pictures of snow monkeys. I strained to concentrate on the idea of snooow monkeeey. I tried to imagine my brain waves synchronizing with Hugh’s brain waves. I tried every mental gimmick that I could think of to communicate the snow monkey theme to Hugh. I heard nothing in Hugh’s comments to suggest I was making any headway. This part of the experiment went on for about 45 minutes.

My part was then complete. Hugh, however, had to be tested. He was asked to watch several short, unrelated videos. He was told that one of the videos was the one I had been watching and he was to attempt to identify it. I could hear Hugh in my headset as he commented on each of the five videos he was watching. He watched all five videos and then rank ordered them based on his level of certainty. Snow Monkeys came in fourth. Hugh had accomplished his mission. He had disproven the hypothesis of the study.

Hugh and I knew that there were many other pairs of people who would be subjects in the same experiment and that all the results would be combined and statistically analyzed before conclusions would be drawn. However, for the two of us there was plenty of evidence to debunk the idea of mental telepathy. I did not express it to Hugh at the time but I did experience a little ego-driven disappointment that we could not do it. As we left the Rhine Center that night we agreed that the experiment had been a fun and interesting experience.

Later that night the experience became more interesting. I got an email from Hugh. He told me that a day or so prior to the experiment he had stopped by the Durham public library and picked up a few books and movies. When he got home from the experiment he grabbed one of the movies to watch while he prepared dinner. It was a National Geographic program. As he watched he saw a presentation on Japanese snow monkeys. It was the identical scene that was used in the experiment.

I was stunned for a moment. What were the chances of Hugh unconsciously picking up that video a few days prior to the experiment? I wondered if there might be aspects of telepathic communication that were not even considered in the experiment. When I talked to Hugh he brought me back to the reality most of us have come to accept. He considered the Telepathic Snow Monkeys to be just one of life's many strange coincidences.

Killing for Money or Politics?

Would you regret shooting a man you never met
right in the eye
then watching him die
then wrapping him in a sheet
and throwing him in the ocean
without even a sense of mixed emotion
calling it an operation done
with surgical precision
as if you were some kind of physician trained to heal
instead of calling it an assassination by a covert Navy Seal

Do you ever question if you were definitely the good guy
and that your prey absolutely deserved to die?
No judge, no jury, no clear understanding of exactly what he did
but one side was certain that he was a demon even though others were screamin'
that he was a hero who had been redeemin'
the lives of many others killed by the "great Satan"
while the governments on all sides kept placatin'
people with bullshit explanations
of who was right and who deserved extermination

Do you wonder if the whole story is a a matter of perspective?
Cause we used to give him money to carry out our directive
When he killed Soviets with our money and our supplies
I guess we ignored it or maybe concealed it with lies
Do you wonder if he was hidin' out for such a long time
just waitin' for some kind of sign
that we had changed our minds again and put him back on the payroll
cause he knew our intelligence and our money doesn't have a soul
Man, I wish that one of us somewhere on some side had the insight
to know that killing people for money or politics just ain't right.

Why I Don't Write Poetry

I don’t write poetry because I don’t know how
to connect with anything that really matters right now.

I don’t write poetry because my brain tightens up, even as I’m trying to get it loose
and in that state of mind whatever I write sounds far too obtuse.

I don’t write poetry because it requires a depth of feeling
that can hurt and leave me staring blankly up at the ceiling.

I don’t write poetry because I prefer to repress
feelings that real poets struggle to express.

I don’t write poetry because it requires me to admit
that much of my self image is really full of shit

I don’t write it, read it, see it, or feel it.
I put all my effort in trying to conceal it.

Still, sometimes when my feeling state safely submerges,
a poem from some weird place spontaneously emerges.

I do not willingly write poetry because it’s just too risky
I wouldn’t be writing this one if it wasn’t for the whiskey.

New Year Greeting

My mother will be 87 years old on Ground Hog's Day. Being her age and living independently isn't easy, but she maintains a great attitude. At least, she does when talking with me.

She sent the following email message to all of her friends on New Year's Eve. Her message is a partial answer to the question, "What's mental health?" I am glad I am on her email list.

TO ALL, WISHES FOR A SAFE AND HAPPY NEW YEAR. BE THANKFUL FOR YOUR BLESSINGS - LOOK FOR ALL THE POSITIVES AND NEGLECT THE NEGATIVES.

To George Owen

A tribute to the late
George E. Owen

George used to say, "I may not be pretty, but, at least, I’m unique." About that he was absolutely right. He was not very pretty and he certainly was unique. I think it was his uniqueness that enabled George to leave us a legacy that I don’t think he was completely aware of, but a legacy that deserves to be mentioned today.

First, George left us a model or an example of a man who refused to give up on his hopes and dreams. Of course, the rest of us thought George’s dreams were unrealistic. But George did not care what the rest of us thought because they were his hopes and his dreams. He steadfastly held on to them until the very end, leaving us an example of a determined guy who just refused to quit trying to make his dreams a reality.

Ironically, the second legacy George left us was his heart. I say ‘ironic’ because as George’s bad heart (his physical heart) got weaker and weaker and finally stopped, his good heart (his emotional heart) got stronger and stronger. His good heart enabled George to tell those of us who were close to him that he loved us. It helped George recognize, appreciate, and sometimes express his gratitude for the support he got on a daily basis from so many people, many of whom are here today. Of course, the primary source of this support came from my mother whose devotion to George will someday be part of her legacy. But today George has left us his good heart.

Finally, George left us his sense of humor. He had a very active sense of humor and could tell the same jokes over and over and enjoy them every time. Now I realize we are in a church, but I bet we can all close our eyes and remember a joke that George told us. Who knows? We all may be thinking of the same one.

In closing, I will just say good bye, George and thanks for what you left us. We all love you, too.

This is my best recollection of a eulogy I delivered at George's funeral 14 years ago.

My Friend John

John Freeman is a good friend. We have been friends since we were in Cub Scouts about 150 years ago. Long stretches of time have passed between contacts but, we still have remained good friends.

Today John is listening to Obama's speech to the Middle East from an interesting perspective. He is in the Middle East recuperating from a complicated heart surgery in a hospital room in Istanbul, Turkey.

He had the surgury last week on Memorial Day. The procedure repaired a funky heart valve and uncloged a "critically" clogged artery. John was not over confident about surviving the operation but, it now appears that he is recovering well in Istanbul.

I know for a fact that John likes to travel but, that is not why he went to Turkey for heart surgery. He went there because the healthcare system in the United States was not up to the task. Sure, the same procedure was available here but, the price for an uninsured US citizen(approximately $124,000) could not compete with the Turkish rate of $18,000. His choices were to have the procedure here and face financial ruin or travel alone to Turkey and protect his net worth. Of course, he had a third option which was to die.

John's internationally-respected surgeon was trained at Johns Hopkins Medical School. John thought the entire medical team around him was high quality. The overall care that John recieved sounded more customer-focused than the care I have occasionlly experienced in hospitals in the USA.

As Obama speaks to the people of the Muslim world he probably won't mention healthcare. He is not likely to talk about "medical tourism" or how it could play a part in improving relationships between Middle East and West while helping solve our burgeoning healthcare crisis. Too bad. After John's trip I am going to remember the Turkish altenative if I ever need it.

Be Wary of Barry

I think Barry Saunders is a first rate columnist. His column appears every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday in the Raleigh News and Observer. If you call the phone number listed at the bottom of his column (919-836-2811) you will hear his recorded voice say, “Hi. This is Saunders. Sorry I can’t get the phone right now. Chances are I’m being cursed out by someone else about the column. You can leave a message if you want and I will get back with you.” This is followed by another voice that says, “This voicemail box is not accepting messages.”

If you call Barry’s cell phone number (810-7154) his recorded voice just says, “Leave a message.” If you email Barry at barry.saunders@newsobserver.com he might respond but, only if he needs something from you.

At least, that describes my experience with Barry Saunders. When he needed information from me he was persistent and responsive. When I wanted some follow up information from him he was invisible.

He initiated our first conversation on the day before Thanksgiving holiday last year. He called me because he was interested in a letter that I had sent to the News and Observer regarding the death of a panhandler in Durham. The panhandler’s name was Bulldog. You can read about him elsewhere on this blog.

When Barry contacted me he said that he wanted to write a story about Bulldog. He expressed both an interest and respect for Bulldog’s story. I was excited because I thought Barry could bring attention to Bulldog’s story and broaden the awareness of thousands of people regarding the complicated issues associated with homelessness in Durham.

Over the next few months Barry contacted me several times seeking additional information. I tried my best to hook Barry up with other people who had known Bulldog. I helped him contact Aaron, another panhandler, who was a friend of Bulldog. I gave Barry contact information to reach Reverend Collier, Bulldog’s spiritual guide. Whenever I had information for Barry he was easy to reach or he was quick to return a message.

In January, 2009 Barry lead me to believe that he was going to write the story and that it would be in the N&O soon. I shared this news with Aaron, the panhandler, who, like me, was excited about the prospect of good press for his friend, Bulldog.

Also, in January I gave a talk to a local Kiwanis Club in Chapel Hill about homelessness and panhandling. I told Bulldog’s story to the Kiwanis Club and mentioned that they could read more about it very soon in Barry’s upcoming column.

The column never appeared. I have tried to contact Barry to find out what happened. I have left numerous messages and emails for Barry but, he never responded. I assume that the column may not have appeared for good reasons, but I have no way of knowing. Barry may have determined that Bulldog padded his resume regarding his military service. Barry's editor might have rejected the story. I don’t know. I do know that Barry should have let me know why the story never appeared.

Bulldog’s friend, Aaron, asks me about it a couple of times a week when I see him panhandling at the interstate ramp. He also deserves an explanation.

Note: I was wrong. Barry Saunders does read and respond to his email. I emailed this blog post to him. Within about 15 minutes he sent the following reply:

Mr. Owen, I am indeed still working on the story about Bulldog, but
I am trying to get information from the hospital, which has not been forthcoming. Also, I was unable to verify that Bulldog was a Navy SEAL. No one with whom I checked in the Dept. of Defense could confirm what I'd been told. I never said the story on Bulldog would be in the paper "soon."

I respect Barry's sense of journalistic ethics and his need to fact check Bulldog's story. Personally, I have always assumed that Bulldog may have fabricated (or hallucinated)some of the details. However, the most important parts of his lifestyle and his story were observable.

More Interesting Than I Thought

Last month I wrote a letter-to-the-editor of the Chapel Hill News. The letter expressed my opinion that Chapel Hill has become a much less interesting place over the last twenty years or so.

You can read the letter ( A Radical but Interesting Idea) in the January archive of the blog.

I saw a play this week at the Paul Green Theatre that both challenges and confirms the point of my letter. The play is called, "Because We’re Still Here (and Moving)." It is a collection of stories based on interviews with over 100 African Americans whose families have lived in Chapel Hill for 150 years or so.

The play weaves together many fragments of oral history in a very moving and creative way. I learned a lot about the proud (but disappearing) history of the black community in Chapel Hill.

The play also tells first person stories of slavery and racism that are a part of our community’s shared history. The play reminded me how easy it is to forget that Chapel Hill is part of the South. I was surprised to hear stories about violence and intimidation by the KKK in Chapel Hill within the relatively recent past. It was interesting to consider that former UNC presidents were slave owners.

I was particularly interested in stories about Lincoln High School (now the Lincoln Center). I have lived here for many years but, I was unaware of the history of extrodinary achievement and community pride that surrounded Lincoln High School. The play effectively communicates the sense of loss associated with the closure of that school - a sense of loss and resentment that still exists within the black community.

I think Chapel Hill is a more interesting place when the timeline of history is extended beyond the narrow limits of the past 30 years. I am once again reminded that I am a newcomer.

Lifestyles: 2190

I got a phone call a year or so ago from a woman who hosts a website for people who use wheel chairs. She asked me if I could write a humorous article for their website. I thought that sounded like an interesting challenge so I submitted the following satire about life in 2190. The satirical piece is still available on their website, www.PeopleonWheels.org.


Welcome to www.AmbulosUnited.org. This is the website of the National Association of Ambulary-Centered People.

The purpose of the National Association of Ambulary-Centered People is to promote walking, running, jogging,...or just standing around.
The Association strives to:
• Combat the stigma associated with individual ambulation.
• Advocate for the needs of people who walk, trot, jog, or just stand around.
• Promote appropriate public access for ambulos.
• Influence legislation and government policies that discourage ambulation.
• Promote the tradition and values associated with walking and other forms of individual ambulation.

About Us
The National Association for Ambulary Centered People is a membership organization founded in 2101 to support people who rely on walking or other natural means of self-mobility. We respect the rights of members of the dominant culture who use motorized wheeled vehicles (formerly known as wheel chairs); however, we are dedicated to maintaining the tradition and constitutional rights of people who use walking or other forms of ambulation as their primary means of personal transportation.

History
In the early days of the 21st century, wheeled forms of individual transportation were used only by people with physical disabilities. By 2050 technological advancements made motorized forms of personal transport more efficient, effective, and affordable; therefore, people without physical disabilities began to adopt wheeled forms of transport.

During the later decades of the 21st century the dominant culture became increasingly reliant on television eye glasses, computerized brain implants, virtual reality applications for home offices, and many other technologies that enhanced passive methods for work and recreation. Walking or running as a means of transportation was regarded as slow, inefficient and ineffective.

Eventually the overwhelming majority of people ceased to recognize the need or lost the desire to walk, run, jog, or even to just stand around. By the early decades of the 22nd century the dominant culture relied solely on technologically enhanced means of wheeled transportation. Ambulation as a practical means of getting around became obsolete.

People who insisted on walking or using other organic forms of ambulation were viewed as anachronistic. By 2075 ninety two percent of all people who could afford wheeled transportation were using it. In many communities ambulos were ridiculed, persecuted, and denied appropriate access to public places.

The Walter M. Class Action Lawsuit.

Recently circumstances for ambulos have improved because of a landmark class action lawsuit. Three years ago the Walter M. class action lawsuit was settled on behalf of ambulos who were denied appropriate accommodations in public places. No longer can ambulos be required to stand for entire basketball games because arenas do not provide seating. Ambulos no longer have to stand at the rear of movie theaters because they do not bring their own seat. The sale of pedometers is no longer illegal. People who jog or run are now protected from harassment. Ambulo school children can no longer be required to stand all day because there are no chairs. Stand up comedians are now free to practice their craft in its original form, and they are protected from unwarranted ridicule.

What can you do?
• Teach your children to walk and to enjoy the benefits of ambulation.
• Learn about the history and tradition of running, jogging, and just standing around.
• Fight against the stigma associated with ambulation.

Bottom Line
Seriously, never forget that walking and running should be a cherished aspect of human experience. Never take walking, running, or just standing around for granted because the right to ambulate can be easily lost.

Melancholy Demons

Duke basketball fans are not a mentally healthy group. I know this because I come into contact with a lot of these people. Some of them I even like. Most of them function pretty well in other life domains. But within the universe of Duke Basketball they suffer.

Their condition always seems to deteriorate in the days leading up to the Carolina/Duke games. This year is no exception. Some of them are delusional and are claiming that Carolina has a recruiting advantage that inevitably produces superior athletes. Others are paranoid. They think UNC’s larger fan base has biased the media against Duke. Some are bi-polar. These poor souls barely have time to enjoy the euphoria of a victory before anticipating Duke’s next big failure. They then crash into a preemptive depression.

I am curious about the epidemiology of Duke Disease. Is it a genetic disorder? The condition does seem to run in families. Or could it be environmental - the result of some toxin within the water supply in New Jersey? This is clearly an area that needs more research.

In the meantime, we should be gentle with Dook fans this week and avoid the temptation to ridicule the Melancholy Demons.

A Radical but Interesting Idea

I have heard that Jesse Helms once described Chapel Hill as the “North Carolina Zoo.” I am pretty sure he was not trying to be flattering. However, for many people who lived here at that time it was a compliment. It was evidence that Chapel Hill was an interesting and unique place. Too bad Chapel Hill is no longer so interesting.

Perhaps it is time to consider a radical New Year’s resolution. In 2009 let’s raise Chapel Hill’s interest quotient (IQ). The first step in this process may be the hardest. We will have to break through our collective denial and admit that we have become the least interesting point of the three major communities that form the Triangle.

A relatively short time ago it would have been unthinkable to suggest that either Raleigh or Durham was a more interesting place than Chapel Hill. However, over the past fifteen or twenty years both cities have aggressively built on their strengths and added to their IQ. Durham has reinvented old areas and neighborhoods to create an attractive, fun and vibrant sense of place. Raleigh has provided housing and entertainment venues to attract thousands of people to move downtown and add life to the inner city. During the same period Chapel Hill’s most interesting feature has become our proximity to Carrboro.

In 2009 let’s try some new approaches to increase the interest quotient of Chapel Hill. If we make downtown more user-friendly and fun it might attract more people and some of them might be interesting. How about designating a new “free speech zone” on Franklin Street that encourages students and others to transfer some of the on-campus energy from “The Pit” to Franklin Street? How about inviting Carrboro to collaborate with Chapel Hill to expand the Carrboro Music Festival to become a Carrboro/Chapel Hill music extravaganza? How about just making parking downtown free on weekends?

It is possible that the addition of new condos, retail, and office space downtown will add to the interest quotient of Chapel Hill. I doubt it. I think we have paid so much attention to protecting the economic viability of the community that we may have forgotten what previously made Chapel Hill an interesting town. Maybe we should build a new zoo. We could name it after Jesse Helms.
Note: This post was printed as a letter-to-the-editor in the Chapel Hill News in early January, 2009.

Obama's Reach

Entrance to the Apatachee Correctional Institution


Some of you may know Brad. If not, you may know someone like him. He used to be an attorney in Pittsboro and an active soccer dad in our community. He is now serving a fifteen year prison sentence in Florida at the Apatachee Correctional Institution. He has been there for about a year. He was arrested in Pittsboro as part of a “sting operation” conducted by the Florida State Police. Brad pleaded guilty to a series of internet-related sex offenses.

My family knew Brad for several years prior to his arrest and we were shocked when we learned about what he had done. Brad and I have exchanged letters quite a few times since his incarceration.

I got a touching letter from Brad this week. He wrote it on the morning of Inauguration Day. He described his hope that he and his fellow inmates would be allowed to watch the inauguration on television. He was optimistic because they had been allowed to watch television on election night. He wrote, "On election night it was nice to see a number of the older inmates – black and white - teary eyed and quiet when Obama was declared the victor. I was teary eyed, too."

It is impressive that the significance of Obama’s election extends to those who are as forgotten as the inmates at Apatachee Correctional Institution in Sneads, Florida. I hope they were allowed to watch the inauguration.

If interested in Brad’s experience with the criminal justice system you can read an essay I wrote about it at: http://whatsmentalhealth.blogspot.com/2009/01/in-defense-of-friend.html