Why I Am NOT Voting For Obama

Wow. Here you are, just thinking you’ll pop on over to friendly MSH to see what that crazy ZamFam is up to and you get a giant political smack in the face! Well, before you get all riled up, please read the next two paragraphs. Sit down, relax and let me tell you a little story from when I was a kid. (No politics, I promise!) And then decide if you want to read the rest. . . .

I grew up living in an unincorporated neighborhood on a gravel road. We were an eclectic bunch of folks living in an odd assortment of houses that included one that was meant to be underground, but was built above ground due to permit problems; a couple of Swiss-style chalets; a multi-level house built in a sort of circular style; a house whose front looked like a giant glass pinwheel; a Tudor mansion; and an old Girl Scout camp lodge. Our house was my parents' dream home, a plan they got in a magazine with soaring cathedral ceilings, spectacular hillside views and finished with salvaged items.

In an era before such groups were common, we had a neighborhood association that was responsible primarily for contracting for services to grade and add gravel to the road in the summer and plow in the winter. My dad would come home with spectacular stories about the “fireworks” at these meetings. Get a group of eccentric folks together with their equally eccentric ideas, toss in some hot-heads and watch the fun ensue. One of the hottest was a red-headed, red-faced German named Martin. He was formidable – big, loud, intimidating, prone to swearing while clenching his smelly European cigarettes in his teeth. And that was before he got to these meetings. Apparently he was quite passionate about various issues that came up and wasn't afraid to let everyone within a ten mile radius know what he thought. Then, on cold, January mornings, he would be at the top of our hill, waiting to drive the neighborhood kids to school, all gruff smiles and German-accented pleasantries. I remember asking my dad about this, how you could be at such loggerheads with someone one moment and still be friendly with them later. I knew my dad had deep moral convictions about how to treat people, so I wasn't asking so much how my dad did it, but what about blustery Martin? Martin himself had explained to my dad that Europeans were different from Americans in many ways, but one notable way was that Europeans were perfectly willing to fight about ideas to the death, but when the arguing was over, it was time to shake hands and head out for a beer -- the old “let's disagree agreeably” that is so easy to say, but so hard to do.

I write this rather long introduction partly because it was fun for me to remember our old neighborhood and its interesting inhabitants, but to also illustrate how I hope that friends, family and acquaintances who read this blog and also know me in real life will take what I post today. First this will be the only post this year about politics unless something totally bizarre happens like McCain or Obama turning French. Let me say that I am a “rah-rah” American, probably one of the more patriotic people you’ll ever meet. I am unabashedly proud to be American and think that the United States is the greatest nation ever to grace the face of the planet. Please don’t write to tell me about all the ways America has screwed up or how much we suck. I know that America is not perfect, has screwed up and sometimes even sucks. I’m just saying that other countries are even less perfect, screw up more and are suckier – take France for instance. . . . Just as a crazy aside: I actually like the new French president Sarkozy, so maybe I’ll move to France if this election doesn’t turn out how I want.

And I know it is not polite to discuss politics or religion, but since I already talk about my faith, I guess one political post won’t kill anyone. This is not a blog about politics, work or rants, but it is MY blog, so I reserve the right to write about what I want and occasionally that will be on some of these topics. I write because it is cathartic for me and it helps me solidify and order my thoughts. I have gotten into many discussions about politics this year, even though I avoid them like I might avoid a stranger in a dark alley, and I have walked away feeling frustrated that I wasn’t better able to articulate what I believe. Depending on how happy I am with this post when I’m done, I think I might carry around little cards with my blog address and if people ask me what I think, I’ll just smile, say nothing and hand them my blog address card!

I also know there are several people who know me in the real world who are going to differ with me. I already know you disagree with me (even if you don’t know I disagree with you!) and I like you anyway! I hope we can all be grownups and celebrate the fact that we live in America where we can dissent and not end up in jail or friendship purgatory. Let’s do like the Europeans and disagree like crazy and then all go out for beer together afterward and chum it up. With us it will have to be figurative beer since I only like British ale on tap and not really that much. How about coffee? Whiskey?

And if you want to argue with me in cyberworld, that’s fine too. You can even comment and tell me about it. Let’s just not call names or be reduced to slinging insults (that’s reserved for the French). Frankly, I don’t intend to have a long drawn out discussion about this. This is my manifesto and you’re not going to change my mind. It’s not that I am not open minded. I was. I have researched this situation, formed an opinion and now my mind is closed. You won’t dissuade me from my position. My job as “information bounty hunter” has served me well because my mind is geared toward gathering and synthesizing information. I have gathered, synthesized, ordered, formulated and to use an Olympic metaphor – here is my “stuck landing.”

So now this post is crazy long and I haven't even written about what I actually believe! So I will post my “Why I Am NOT Voting For Obama PART TWO” with the actual “meat” of what I wanted to say in a separate post. You have been warned. Read at your own risk. See, that wasn't so bad, now was it? How about that coffee?

(Part II is written and will auto-post tomorrow . . . stayed tuned . . . then back to regular programming!)

The ZamFam Takes a Road Trip: Part 1

When I lived on Grand Cayman, we used to get what was called "rock fever." Living on an island only 7 miles wide and 32 miles long, you couldn't get very far. A few toodles around in the black blazer and you were just seeing the same flat ironshore and scrub brush you'd been looking at for the past several months. Most people living above the subsistence level, which was everyone except ex-pat teachers and Jamaicans, would take advantage of $49 fares to unwind in the chilly northern climes of Miami, but we poorer folk were left to languish on some secluded Caribbean beach, perhaps in a hammock slung between two palm trees, faithful dog and good book in tow and dream of a road trip. As with so many things in life, the dream is often better than the reality. In fact, I once read a book called The Art of Travel whose entire thesis was that the anticipation of travel was better than the reality of it. I'm not sure I agree completely, but the author may have had a point.

We did take the longed-for road trip and was the dream better than the reality? Did the ZamFam survive Routes 94, 80, 72 and the Pennsylvania Turnpike? What about the dreaded border crossing? Well read on, armchair sojourner, and you can venture to some of the most touristy places in North America with a most un-touristy family. So strap in and imagine yourself hurtling down the highway in a ubiquitous mini van with two girls, ages 6 and 3 and a little guy 1 and 1/2 strapped in the back. Girls are bickering, whining, coloring themselves with marker. Said little guy is squawking, throwing toys, kicking the back of your seat. This can all be tuned out with practice. You get plenty of practice during a fifteen hour ride. At one point imagine peace and quiet. Girls watching charming Madeline movie, Bug peacefully sleeping. Chica is reading a tear jerker to El Guapo, both adults choked up a little. . . Flash to the next moment, Bean hollering, "Bear just wrote on the DVD screen with pencil!" Mother flying through the air to the very back of van in a single bound, shrieking, "Why did you do that?!" Bug waking up screaming. Welcome. You are now in your very own mobile pod of hell. Welcome to the ROAD TRIP.

We loaded up the ZamFamVan (ha ha, I'll stop -- maybe or maybe not. Dear K just returned from Zambia and said they joked ad nausea about things being "zamtastic," etc. I just might commandeer that and drive my whole universe insane. waaahhhhhaaaaaaa!) and headed out with El Guapo's sister's family to visit El Guapo's other sister who lives in Baltimore. We decided to caravan along a northern route and see Niagara Falls on the way. We hit the Canadian border, identification in sweaty palms, around midnight. We drove right up to the guard booth and were greeted by a crisp young Canadian woman. We were toying with the idea of saying we were "Just oot and aboot" when asked the nature of our visit, but with our hearts thumping in our chests, we spoke through gritted teeth that we were just wanting to visit Niagara Falls. Our Canuck was all business as she went through each of her checkpoint questions, and we breathed a sigh of relief when she said everything appeared in order and to enjoy our visit. Not wanting to arouse suspicion, El Guapo said, "The car behind is with us . . ." Before he could finish asking where we could pull over to wait for them, the guard said with a mischievous glint in her eye, "Do you want me to give them a hard time?" Awesome. Who knew Canadians were so much fun? She was obviously not French Canadian . . .

Aaaahhhhh. The next morning we headed to the long-awaited vista. The destination of honeymooners from around the globe. The Wisconsin Dells meets Branson AND Gatlinburg. All for some water falling over some rocks. Some gorgeous bottle-green water rushing past and plummeting 170 feet down into an 180 foot deep pool at a rate of 6 million cubic feet of water per minute! Incredible. As I must have said a thousand times, much like the Grand Canyon, no picture can do it justice. It is so grand and amazing, one must experience it in person.

Spectacular, isn't it? It doesn't look as big in pictures as in real life, but trust me, this is just amazing up close . . .

Ok, Ok, just kidding. This is what it looks like approaching the giant drop of Horseshoe Falls. What is really funny, is that in a slide show (real slides in a projector), my dad played this same (lame) joke back when I was a kid, and I didn't remember it until just now. Insert cliche here about the apple not falling far from the tree, great minds thinking alike or both eating the same retard sandwich!!

I snagged this picture online, but it shows just how beautiful the water is. That is one of the things about the Falls I love best, the color of the water -- almost Caribbean blue, almost. . .

If I would have sent you a postcard, it would have looked like this.

Here are Bean and Bear with a real Canadian Mountie of the non-French Canadian variety. How do I know? Because it was almost 100 degrees that day and this woman was wearing a full-on wool uniform and was not sweating a drop! Amazing, and definitely very un-Frenchlike to be able withstand such hardship with grace and aplomb.

Here's Bug's impression of Niagara Falls. It was so moving, he was driven to tears.

My own little maids of the mist. Here's where I was having a heart attack and a stroke. See that tiny little rail? It's about 170 feet down into Maid of the Mist Pool directly back there (a difference between the US and Canada -- if this were in the US, you would have to look at the Falls through a telescope. They would never let you get that close!) Can't you tell they were having a great time, though, at "April Falls?" (Bear-speak for Niagara Falls/April Fools which somehow got smushed together in her brain!)

Speaking of Maids of the Mist, all afternoon, "We want to do that!" was ringing in our ears. We're on a budget, we're not real touristy, we need to head down to Baltimore . . . . Did the ZamFam 5 make it onto the Maid of the Mist? Were their plans foiled by a lightning storm, a Canuck run amok or a hairy, smelly Frenchman? Stay tuned.

And all that talk about the dreaded border crossing? The guard did joke with us, but we weren't nervous. I mean c'mon, it's CANADA.

Au Contraire

What was that, Mr. Bernard? Could you please speak up? I think you said, "The Americans? We're going to smash them." Did I hear you correctly? Ummmm, I think when you trash talk, you're supposed to actually be able to back it up. So Mr. Lead-Croissant-In-Your-Speedos, what's it like to taste defeat? Oh wait, you're French. That's the feeling you live with everyday. . . .

Thanks for bringing home the gold, guys!! Victory is always sweet, but even sweeter when it's against trash-talking Frogs!

King Filly

I was going to apologize for writing another horse racing tome here, but I've decided not to. The story I am telling today is so great that even if you are a smelly, unshaven Frenchman who eats horse meat, you will be moved. If you're not moved, well, check your pulse, you may not have a beating heart.

I mentioned Ruffian in passing in my post on the Kentucky Derby, and in light of the Belmont Stakes this weekend and the hopes that our hero Big Brown will be winning a Triple Crown title, we'll talk about another champion who never felt the dirt on her face.

Foaled in 1972, Ruffian was a spectacular, leggy, almost coal black racing machine, thought to be an even better horse than great-of-all-greats Secretariat. She won all ten races in which she competed, always in the lead, breaking or equaling every track record she ever raced on. As a two-year old she aced her maiden race in record time by 15 lengths. In 1975, Ruffian captured the Filly Triple Crown (now called the Triple Tiara) and was dubbed “Queen of the Fillies (that's a young girl horse for all you non-equine folks out there!).

Her eleventh race was run at Belmont Park on July 6, 1975, before a crowd of 50,000 and a television audience of over 18 million. It was a match race against that year's Kentucky Derby winner, a colt called Foolish Pleasure. This “equine battle of the sexes” was eagerly anticipated, and interest was compounded by the fact that the regular jockey for both horses was Jacinto Vasquez. He chose to ride Ruffian in the match race considering her to be the better horse.

As the starting bell sounded, Ruffian slammed her shoulder into the starting gate. Faltering for only a moment, she blazed ahead, completing the first quarter mile in a blistering 22 seconds, ahead of Foolish Pleasure by a nose. Never having a race so close, our big-hearted gal hammered ahead, pulling in front by half a length when suddenly her right foreleg snapped. Vasquez heroically kept her upright, but was unable to force Ruffian to a complete stop. So unaccustomed to seeing another horse in front of her, she continued running on three legs, pulverizing her sesamoid bones and grinding the gritty sand of Belmont into her open wound. In the age of the Internet, one can find film of her tragedy online, but the tape was deemed so gruesome that Ruffian's demise was censored by media outlets and never aired on public airwaves again.

She was attended to by a team of veterinarians and surgeons who labored for three hours to try to repair the damage. As she came out of the anesthesia, Ruffian attempted to win her match race, flailing around on the ground and thrashing wildly as if running. The intense movement smashed the cast against her elbow crushing the joint to bits, breaking off the cast and reopening the surgical site. Knowing that she would not survive a more extensive operation, her team decided to euthanize her.

Her spectacular performances in 1975, earned her the Eclipse Award for Outstanding Three-Year-Old Filly and in 1976, she was inducted into the National Museum of Racing and Hall of Fame. Since Ruffian's death, no match race has taken place at Belmont Park, where she is the only horse buried in the infield, near a flag pole, facing the finish line. Ironically, her trainer Frank Whiteley, Jr. died the day after Eight Belles went down at the derby. He was 93. To his dying day, he believed that Ruffian was the greatest horse he had ever trained and never allowed her stall to be occupied saying, ''There'll never be a horse worthy of entering it.''

Why do I love horse racing? Because tales of heart and heroism are not limited to the human race. So, again, fingers crossed for a safe race this weekend and go Big Brown!

The Diving Bell & The Butterfly

So maybe thrillers about the imminent demise of the world as we know it are not your "cup of tea." Well, how about a book about someone who can only blink one eye? Actually, a book WRITTEN by someone who can only blink one eye.

However, before we go any further, there is one point that must be clarified. I will continue to count "French bashing" as one of my many hobbies. My positive review of this book changes this fact in no way, no matter how un-Christian it is of me to be Franco-averse. I have been a student of history far too long to let slip my steadfast conviction that "Going to war without France is like going deer hunting without an accordion. All you do is leave behind a lot of noisy baggage." (This quote is attributed to everyone from Schwartzkopf to Churchill, but who cares? It's true!) If you have any doubts as to the veracity of the overall crumminess of France in all areas besides w(h)ine and cheese then Google "French military victories" and hit the "lucky" button. So far, I think the score is France-zero, the world-17, but who's counting. . .

I feel so much better now. I always find it cathartic to write off an entire nation of people in one tiny paragraph, hop onto my high horse and ride into the sunset! (And Mr. Wonderful thinks I'm sarcastic.) So how does one transition gracefully from caustic to charitable? I'll have to ask Ann Coulter, oh wait, she's always just caustic. . . . Ok, Ok I'll stop right now. Period.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly by Jean-Dominique Bauby is such a great book , that it deserves a better introduction than the one I gave it. It is truly an inspiring and life affirming memoir. Bauby was the editor-in-chief of the French version of Elle magazine when he suffered a rare and usually deadly stroke in his brain stem. Upon awakening from his coma, he discovered that he had Locked-In Syndrome which is exactly what it sounds like. He was fully cognizant and aware, but completely trapped in his body only able to blink his left eye and turn his head a little. He "dictated" this book by having someone read through the alphabet and then blinking at the letter he wanted transcribed. While this book may not be Les Miserables in length, its strength lies in the simple beauty and buoyant humor of Bauby's prose.

With the sharpened view of his single eye and the forced contemplative nature of his condition, Bauby looks back on his life with a razor focus. He hones in on friends, acquaintances and family and explores the fleeting nature of life. Some have criticized this work for not being a "complete" memoir. The Diving Bell does not start out, "I was born on . . . ," and Bauby does not delve into the fact that he was apparently quite a womanizer and playboy, a domineering figure who ruled his magazine with an iron fist. I don't think this is a fair criticism as this memoir does not purport to explore every facet of the man's life. I would offer that, in fact, when he found himself "locked-in," Bauby was distilled down to his very essence and stripped of the extraneous trappings and labels that others saw. This book is that reflection.

I saw a little of myself in his tale. We are all trapped in a "diving bell," those things that weigh us down, threaten to crush us, defeat us, suck away our lives -- that physical part of us that is consumed with temporal cares, the fleshly side of our natures. Yet, all of us are spiritual beings, that when connected to God, can rise above the circumstances and experiences of life. We can become new creatures and be reborn like the butterfly.

Sadly, I don't believe that Bauby came to true salvation before his death in 1997. His book, however, is a lesson to everyone about the buoyancy of the human spirit, about humor in the face of darkness and about the celebration of the simple pleasures of life. As Bauby says, "If I must drool, I may as well drool on cashmere."