My Very First Blog Post Ever

Way back in the spring of 2001 I decided I wanted to create a blog to capture some of my personal ideas, beliefs, life, and history. It wasn’t that I had (or have now) an amazing life that I needed to write an autobiography, I just wanted a place to put my thoughts, what better way than to use the new and upcoming technology then to make a blog. My roots remain intact today, I write for the purpose of being able to “talk out-loud” to a very non-specific audience. But then again, one couldn’t really even define one’s audience back then. Fortunately for me recently, I was trolling myself, y’all might be familiar with Googling yourself, a disgusting habit, but I’m sure most of us have done it at least once. Anyway, my original of the three blogs I have started pops up as a result. Intrigued, since I thought it was dead and buried long ago, I clicked the link. It remains as the day I left it, before moving on to pursue other pastures. But when I started reading the things I was writing it all came back to me. I then located my initial post. In a minute, I will share that with you. Oddly enough, I find myself concerned in similar ways with how religion changes the lives of the most honest men and women. Fortunately for me, many years has passed, but one thing remains the same, what history writes about us will never change, good or bad, right or wrong, historical facts will remained emblazoned in time forever.

I remain, still today, as seen by my last post and some real recent ones, a critic of organized religion because, more often then not, it is personal opinion. I remind each of you that I am a full supporter of personal freedoms and we all know that each individual will always be bound for the choices he/she makes. I may criticize, ridicule, and as many accuse me of, mock organized religion, it is purely my personal opinion in life and my choice to do so. I used to think I was seeking answers, shopping which version of truth and reality I wanted to see or be a part of. Slowly but surely religion began to be pushed out of my life, becoming pointless, and I really started looking into what we all know as mainstream organized religion. Although there is personal opinions in this inaugural post of mine, there are also many historical facts. Take from it what you will, but I think after this post I will be avoiding the topic we all call organized religion for many reasons I don’t think I need to go into now. The emails used to be entertaining but they have turned into another kind of beast, a beast that I had to learn to break and learn to ride like a horse with an attitude problem.

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Let’s Follow The Money …….. 

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I have studiously avoided the subject of religion and politics in past conversations face to face with people, preferring to concentrate on personal aspects of our situation in the world. But, the fucking time has come to discuss it. This will be difficult reading to some Christian patriots out there. But if you have reached the level where you can accept that our government is not, nor has been, acting in our favor; that those in power lie; that “those who would enslave us” will use any means, any vehicle to achieve that enslavement; then you must examine the evidence without the rose colored glasses.

If we are indeed in a spiritual battle across the planet, then you must be able to recognize the devil in his many guises. Correct or incorrect? Next to “government”, his favorite institutional tool must surely be “organized religion”. What better way to lead the sheeple, his captured “flock”, into slavery. In my youth and even as an adult, I found myself being very uncomfortable with organized religion. At that time in my life I was, like most Americans, totally ignorant in regards to the New World Order agenda and the plot to destroy, or override our Constitution. Intuitively, I refused to allow government or religion to exercise much of a hold on me. For many years I struggled with what appeared to me to be an unsolvable paradox; How could I love my country to the extent of serving her military and believe in a God yet be fearful of my government and apprehensive of the church and organized religion?

Certain aspects of Christianity have always disturbed me since I was a very young age. The Crusades, the Inquisition, the burning of so-called witches and the distant look in a fanatic’s eye when they realize you aren’t going to fall for their particular interpretation of the Bible. Yet Christianity and the pursuit of the freedom to practice it, is directly responsible for the founding of this country I love so dear. Christians account for less than 30% of the world’s population. Are we supposed to believe that the other 70% of the world and all of the great men who were not Christians were and are still wrong? For us to believe that any one denomination, or religion for that matter, is the only way, is to deny the omnipotence of God and the mere idea of his actual existence in body, spirit, and mind.

Religion is man’s way of dealing with his mortality and the Bible used by Christians is much more than the proprietary property of one group of people. It is the foundation of two other religions, Judism and Islam. It is, in itself, the greatest tool for the civilization of mankind in existence and simultaneously the cause of most wars, bloodshed, divorces, and disagreements. The Bible is a history of tyranny and an epic saga of the determination of a few men to lead their people out of slavery. It, and the lessons it teaches, inspired our Constitution, our Declaration of Independence and our Bill of Rights. Yet, despite the recurring theme of God guiding men out of their slavery; of God giving man his freedom; of breaking his chains and protecting his chosen ones from harm by the leaders of the day; we have, allowed our so-called leaders to use it as a tool to return us to a slavery called organized religion.

Standing on a Sacramento Mountains summit in New Mexico in 1997, looking out over the perfect harmony of earth, air and sunlight, I knew without a doubt that something spectacular existed somewhere in our vast universe. Something more to explore, something more to explain, and something more than we, as men, could possibly ever have the capacity to understand. Each of us see divinity through eyes colored by their culture and surroundings, we have the tendency to believe others are somehow wrong in their beliefs. Evil men have seized upon this practice and used it to unite us against others, often ending in us fighting and dying for someone else’s favorite interpretation. Our country was created by men fleeing religious persecution, but some of those men, in turn, persecuted the Indians who worshipped God in their own way, through nature. Is it not said that God gave us the gift of free will. When we use it to persecute, prosecute, denigrate or force our belief system on others, we are giving in to the dark side of man. When we allow our greed, our envy, our sloth or any of the seven deadly sins, to guide us, we allow evil to rein. When one man, or group of men, seek to impose their morals or their dictates on another, we have tyranny. It is even more insidious when, under the guise of religion, we allow ourselves to be led down the path of slavery once more.

How is it done? An example from our history. Before World War 1 Joseph Stalin and Franklin D. Roosevelt conspired to dominate the world. It was their job to create a tension that would lead us into a world order. With most of Russia already dominated by the Communists, it fell to Roosevelt to create the same conditions here. In his sweeping measures of 1933, he stole our gold, gave it to the bankers and replaced it with a monetary system that they could control, inflating or deflating it as needed. There was still the need for an entity to replace the failed League of Nations. Alert Americans doomed that organization but Communist spy, Alger Hiss, and his buddies were waiting in the wings with the United Nations.

So, even before the war was over, the scene was being set for the installation of  the UN as a ruling body, with the memory of Patrick Henry still fresh in their evil little minds, the “One Worlders” had to neutralize the danger of Christians becoming involved in politics. They latched upon the fraudulently used but oft-quoted doctrine of the “separation of church and state.” The  agency used to cut the balls off the church was none other than the IRS. According to this list, excerpted from a list of 30 requirements for 501(c) (3) Churches. Put out by the Department of Treasury Internal Revenue Service Pub 1826 (9-94) Cat. no. 21096G, churches must:

1. Be incorporated (BECOME A BUSINESS)
2. Have a recognized creed and “IRS approved form of worship.”
3. Have “IRS approved code of doctrine”.
4. Have ordained ministers educated in “state accredited colleges.”
5. Be “neutral on political issues.”
6. “Have tax exempt status issued by IRS.”
7. Pastor must answer to the IRS as to “daily activities of the church.”
8. The IRS must be privy to “all financial transactions” of the church.
9. Pastor must supply “names of all donors”- make books records available.
10. May only use “IRS approved” fundraising methods.
11. Pastor will be “called to account over any stand taken against the tax system.”
12. Church “must advocate and support racial integration.” (Multiculturalism)
13. May “not” engage in activities “opposing pornography.”
14. May “not” support legislation saying “children belong to parents” rather than state.”
15. May not form a Political Action Committee nor support legislation “opposing lotteries and gambling activity.”
16. May not “oppose the public school system.”
17. May “not publicly declare” we are to “obey God rather than the government.”

These requirements only pertain to churches that want to escape paying taxes. Most businesses cannot operate at a profit today because of taxes. In fact, most small businessmen are either forced to cheat on their taxes and lie to the government simply to make ends meet and to feed their families. So the government which stole our gold in 1933, led us into a world war, imposed illegal taxation and adopted the 10 Communist planks verbatim, as stated in the Communist Manifesto, and has now invaded your churches and now controls your religion, as of 1942. Our pastors, preachers, priests and rabbi answer to the government, not God. The obedience of the Christian Coalition to the Republican party, the refusal of the ministries to endorse a true leader or to expose political corruption is now explained.

Meanwhile, Bible reading Christian Home-Schoolers are prosecuted, their children taken away because the “government court” believes unauthorized, unsupervised reading of the Bible (or the Constitution) is somehow dangerous! Guess what? They’re right! For when you read the Bible without the blinders of “organized religion” you realize you are in a constant battle against evil to maintain your freedom. If you aren’t against it, you are unwittingly for it. The Word the Bible teaches is hushed up in Church. The word you get, when you read it right, is FREEDOM. The ironic part of all this is that no religious leader has had the guts to stand up to the system, to expose the part the bankers play, or to break through the primarily Jewish control of the media. Only Louis Farrakan has been able to organize an effective protest against the new enslavement of Americans. He was able to organize a million man march and speak out against this creeping Fascism called the United States government while a white patriot group was only able to amass a few hundred. Dick Gregory led a demonstration against the CIA drug running. For all our espousal of the Constitution, God and Country, we lack the effort to bring organized religion back into control.

Feel free to look into the finances of organized religion and you will find deceipt, corruption, idolism, and money funding things you don’t even want to think about, it’s ALL a piece of history now.

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As I reviewed this very first post of mine before re-posting it here I see I used to be a little fucking angry. At what specifically or exactly why I don’t really know today. But, life was different for me back then, I had just got out of the Air Force, been divorced, and starting a new life, to include a new wife. I wasn’t a very big fan of people back then, it has taken me years to pinpoint why, but as I get older I am able to see better. Does this post from a long gone era justify my way of thinking towards organized religion today? Absolutely not, but the point I want to make is that the further I got away from religion, politics, the military, and a cheating cunt wife, I found that things began to make sense. Men are evil, nobody can deny it, it is a fact proven every single damn day. We, as human, look for a root and reason, and some continue to follow an outdated way of thinking, a way that uses FEAR as a primary tool. Do you really think that this is the right approach? Sure, we are people, we need organization, we need to be able to herd together in gatherings, but we also need room to be able to think for ourselves without being condemned for pointing out flaws in organized religion, man, government, and society.

As mentioned at the beginning of this particular post, I think I will steer away from writing about religion of any sort simply because it is taxing on the mind. It has come crystal clear that no matter what, its all just my opinion. Maybe I’m the one who is butt-hurt.  I’m tired, bored, and disappointed in many things about the response this blog gets. Most of all, I realized there are many angry motherfuckers out in the world that don’t want to see anything at all. So be it, tour is now officially over. I will be returning to posts about weekends, sex, naked women, vacations, family, tattoos, music, food, cars, guns, military, The United States of America, and all the other things, people, and places I like in this world. I would like to stay away from the negative impact that religion has had on me and the world in general. If you want depressing shit about your religion just turn on the ol’ boob tube and cook your brain a little while there. Anyway, I really appreciate ALL of the email that has been coming in, even those wishing I would go to hell, ALL very appreciated. So, well, fuck, where are we taking this little ‘ol blog from Texas? I figure it like this, since I’m already driving on the road headed to hell then I better make it a road trip to remember. With everything being said, I think, all there is left to say is to remember to eat it every day, your lady will always appreciate your continued efforts.

The Next Chapter For An Old Friend

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When I was in high school, a junior I believe, I found the iron ends of what used to be a bench of some sort. I rescued these end pieces from the trash pile, taking them into the garage where they would eventually sit, in a corner, for a few more months. Over the summer I scrubbed, rubbed, and scraped off years of paint, decay, and outdoor abuse. With the aid of my dad, we used some scrap red cedar, too short and too narrow for anything else, to make this a bench once again. I spent many hours applying linseed oil to the planks of wood, hand painting to iron supports, and getting it ready for a life in my mother’s garden she had in the front yard. This is where the bench lived for the next year. After graduation, I left to college in Waco the summer of ’87, my mother insisted I take the old bench because in her eyes it has always been mine. Since my high school sweetheart went with me, we decided to rent this little one bedroom, one bath house, the bench was our couch for the two years we lived there.

Soon enough, this bench would begin a journey with me, seeing the places in the world I would live, and eventually being introduced to my daughter who was born in Japan. The bench sat in my back yard facing a beautiful Japanese garden complete with koi ponds, statues, and a zen garden. We would sit out here daily, as weather permitted, watching the old couple in their 90s meticulously groom their garden. This is where I would read to her as I tried my hand at learning to speak Japanese. Eventually, we would begin calling New Mexico home, the bench found a spot under a large Chinkapin Oak where my daughter spent allot of time year round playing, reading, and taunting the local wildlife. Years later, her mother and I would indeed divorce, we owned very little in regards to furniture and such, but she wanted the bench for some reason. When I got wind of this devious plan the bench mysteriously got stolen, meaning I made it disappear, finding it a new home, once again, at my parent’s house. Skip ahead a few years now, I’m remarried, bought the place we’re in now, and the bench has been watching the pond ever since. By now, as you can see, some 28 years later, it needs a little tlc. I don’t know how old this bench is for real, but my almost 4 year old granddaughter has taken a liking to it. My oldest daughter thinks I should give it to her, one day, when she decides to get married.

When I told my son that I was going to be doing a little work to the bench he begged me to be a part of it all. Which is great for me, reminds me of when I was young and wanted to help my dad do things. I set him to disassembling the bench, taking care not to nick himself with something rusty, he used a fair amount of penetrating oil on all of the rusty bolts, all which would be replaced, which he didn’t know. He helped me scrub the metal and eventually paint it, he chose black again because as far as he can recall, its always been black. I had some engine block red I was going to use, but we kept it black for old time sakes. He helped cut the slats out of some reclaimed red cedar planks I had stashed, helped sand, shape, and finish them with me as well. Finally we were all ready for assembly, which he was very much involved in. I can see the pride on his face as we near the finish, he has done an absolute fantastic job, and I think he learned a few new things as well. Reminds me of a show I like that shows what happens to man made items if there is nobody to take care of them. For fun, I sent the picture below to my dad, asking if he remembered this bench. He called me and we talked about its great adventures and how well my own son had done bringing it back to life once again.

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Thank You Karma, I’ve Been Patient

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So, I was working at the club last night, bored to the point I was actually on the verge of falling asleep standing up. Then, a ringtone begins to play on my phone, one I have not heard in many years, “The Bitch Is Back”, when I look at the screen to make sure it is who I think it is, I see ” The Cunt” is calling. Before I get into this wonderful conversation, let me remind y’all that in just over 15 years, I have spoken with my ex on the phone 4 times, and in person twice. Needless to say, we are on less than talking terms, much less being cordial terms with one another. But she called, which had to be hard for her personally, and now I am wasting my time “writing” about her cuntness while sitting here in my shop with better things to do, like scraping the duck shit off of my 50 year old iron bench so I can refinish it later. Oh Yea, the phone call.

When I first saw who it was I did smile a bit, but only because I was hoping she was calling me to say “I’m sorry” and “you are right”. It makes me smile because in 12 years of marriage and all the years since, I have never heard those words. Oh well, I better see what she wants so I don’t have to listen to a lengthy voicemail. It started off polite enough, almost like she was reading a prewritten script or something. I know I am the last person on Earth she wanted to be calling. Like normal, she talked and I listened, this is just the way it works, she wants something I have, and I just listen. This time it was different, this time there were a couple of ” pleases” there and a bit of gratitude in her voice. I had to pull my phone back twice to make sure who was calling me. Very strange indeed. So, what does she want? Well, that’s complicated. So you understand better, I need to take y’all back to when we were getting divorced because it would appear she made a few boo boos filing her taxes and now she has an appointment to discuss the discrepancies.

Anyway, part of the terms of our divorce were for her to receive proceeds from the sale, rental, or lease from the house we once called home. It always struck a nerve with me because this house was only in my name. But whatever, community property is what it is. The market to sell was very soft, so, with the aid of a realitor, which I paid for 100%, we put it on the market to rent. Now, I remind y’all, by this time I was out if the Air Force, living in Houston, and this house is in Alamogordo New Mexico. Within a month of our divorce a military couple were signing a rental agreement. Since I was still paying for the house, each month there was about $500 remaining, which I was oblidged to split with my now ex-wife. I made sure I wrote a paper check each month for ease of keeping the records straight. After around 3 years of the same couple renting the house, I received an offer to purchase it, cash. Seems the housing market was on the rise there. I purchased the house for $57,000.00, put another $10k into it, and at the point when they made the offer, I still owed the bank roughly $18k. What was their offer for this 2900 sq ft, 4 bedroom, 2 1/2 bath house? $98,699.00 plus closing costs with immediate move in. Without thinking, I agreed to the sale. But the cunt would not see half because I protested the decree and proved she never spent a penny on the house, the judge awarded her $20,021.09 payable over the next 16 months.

OK, so here is the problem, never did she report any of the proceeds from the rent or the final sale as income or a source of revenue when she filed her taxes. Oops. So, as it stands, she is claiming ignorance, and she has been given 30 days to prove she shouldn’t owe over $56k in taxes, penalties, and fines. She has been trying, unsuccessfully obviously, to do this on her own, leaving only a few more days before the 5th of August rolls around. Like I told her, I am not giving up any information without written proof she needs my information. When I asked what I get in return for graciously taking time out of my life to copy all the shit she needs, she offered to take me out for steak. I told her, in that case, when she shows up at my front gate to pick up her package, because I refused to do everything for her, for her to leave enough time for dinner. After a long, very dramatic pause, with a sigh, she agreed to meet with me on Saturday.

So, why am I helping the cunt? Its easy, I don’t want her mess getting on me, because trust me, she would find a way to suck me down that rabbit hole. Meanwhile, in exchange for the documents she has requested, my lawyer has drawn up documents that she must sign which release me from any obligations, financially or otherwise, and it includes a detailed inventory of all the documents so if push comes to shove, I can show I provided up, above, and beyond everything I could. No sign, no copies. Luckily for me, I keep the records of my past life neatly tucked away in a small three drawer filing cabinet. Lucky for her I packratted all of this away or she would be fucked and she probably doesn’t like prison orange anyway.

You want funny? As she reads along with you here today she is realizing that I truly don’t give a fuck about her situation and that this life lesson is one that will soon be forgotten by her because that is just the way she is. Yes, she reads my blog, only because my daughter sees to it on occasion for some reason. In the end, my dearest cunt, I can only thank you because you gave me something to do with my time and gave me something special to write about today. See you Saturday. Remember not to be sad in your time of need because, like always I am prepared, something you never took the time to learn.

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Is Your Life Fate, Destiny, Or Choice?

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Your life is a maze, your life is full of choices, do you leave those decisions to fate, will the wrong choice be your destiny? There are as many answers to the many questions in life as there are individual people on this planet. I don’t think I have ever heard the same answer twice, maybe close, maybe a variation, but never the same answer twice. Have you ever wondered why? What is our fascination, as humans, to need answers to questions. We ask other humans but those other humans are no different than us and are seeking answers of their own. Is it just a vicious little circle? Is there a true meaning to life and why we are here? Here at The Sting Of The Scorpion, as well as in my actual daily life, I tend to stay away from conversations regarding spiritually, afterlife, and the purpose of us being on this planet. Why? Mostly because my opinions vary from Joe Public and they are things that can only be spoken of in theory. I had my bluff called by my children over the weekend, they had questions about two specific times I walked away from death, and they wanted to know some answers. I have spoke here about two times in my life which I, statistically, should have died, but instead cheated death, both times successfully. These two times, coincidentally, do not give me personal pleasure to talk about either, but since I have these thoughts fresh in my skull I figured I would try to put them into a post.

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Both instances, both incidents, both brushes with death are very, very long stories, so for the purpose of demonstrating the recent conversation I will condense them and just assume you can fill in the blanks. Both if these occurrences are very true and really happened to me. With that in mind let’s take this journey back in time now. When I was 15 it was time to get my Experimental Aircraft Pilots License because I had been leading, training, and preparing for a very long time. The date was set, the planning was complete, and everyone was in place. Amongst family and friends there were also people from the local newspaper and local television station because locally this was a big deal in the little farming community of Tea, South Dakota. When it was my turn I taxied out, did a final check of my Ultralight, pushed the throttle, and moments later I was airborne setting up for my demonstration of skills. After I had completed my designated moves it was time to bank around to line up for my final approach to begin my decent to land. At 426.3 ft in the air I hit a crosswind shear which stalled my engine which left me doing a nose down unpowered decent towards the ground, meaning I was falling from the sky like a rock falling back to the Earth. I remember the impact and the pain. 10 1/2 weeks later I woke up from the deep sleep I was in, confused, and surrounded by family.

I didn’t know why I was in a hospital room or why I was in so much pain. I was scared because I wasn’t aware what everyone else already knew. Later in the day the room was cleared of everyone except a doctor and my dad. Together they explained the journey I had been on for the previous 2 1/2 months. The impact of the accident caused 32 broken bones, one punctured lung, and my jaw being broken badly enough it had to be wired back together. When I arrived at the hospital in the backseat of my dad’s Volkswagen Thing I was pronounced dead due to heart failure and blood loss. After hours and hours of surgery I was stabilized but remained in a coma holding onto what was still my life. I was visited by a catholic priest later that day, since I had been baptized catholic as a very young boy, and the priest prayed with me while he explained it was not my time to die. To this day I don’t understand that conversation completely or what I was meant to do with the information.

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The other time I was 26, while serving in the United States Air Force stationed at Holloman AFB, New Mexico. When I was younger I was a serious adrenaline junkie, I had a passion for going fast, for living life by the seat of my shorts. So much so that I had to buy a Kawasaki Ninja ZZ-R1100 because, at the time, it was one of the only street legal bikes that boasts speeds of up to 175 mph as a stock bike. I got the bike used from a fellow airman who needed to sell it because he was getting stationed in Alaska and he didn’t think he would have the opportunities to ride it any longer. I had other bikes before and after her but this black beast actually was and always will be my favorite. This bike screamed speed and danger which allowed me to take both her and I to our physical limits. I had a part time job in Las Cruces, 68 miles away from my house, under normal driving conditions and speed one can make the trip in just under an hour. I could make it in under 30 minutes on this bike and used to do it regularly in 40 minutes. One summer night, the skies were clear, the moon was bright, and I was running very late getting to my part time job. It takes a moment to get dressed and leave no skin exposed in preparations for riding this bike. After zipping the last zipper I kissed my daughter and (now ex) wife goodnight before tearing ass into the night. There was little traffic on US-70 that night which is the excuse I used to see if my bike really could get to 170 mph and maintain that speed. But, as it stands, I will never know personally because while passing 3 18 wheelers at over 150 mph the bike lost traction, my bike and I were sucked under the trailer and spit out on the other side, resulting in me laying the bike down in a 100+ yard slide into and through the desert. When the dirt settled I stood up, checked my self out, and discovered I was in one piece, more than I can say about my bike.

This was a time before cell phones so I walked back to the highway and started walking back home. Lucky for me an older gentleman picked me up and drove me to the front gate of the base. It was a short walk to my house from there. I woke the wife up to explain and then called my best friend so he could go with me to scoop up the remains of my bike. To say it was trashed would be an injustice to the damage and reminded me what a lucky sonofabitch I really was since that crash should have killed me. Following the scrape from the highway through the desert we saw I went under a barbed wire fence and missed two giant rocks by mere inches. In fact, the lens on my helmet was smashed by the last rock which actually put the final stop for us. We loaded up the parts we found into the back of my truck and drove back to my house on base. It sat in my garage in a twisted heap for roughly six months when I had sold it as is to another speed enthusiast. I vowed then I would never own another invitation to death. A few years ago, much older, in my forties, I bought a Honda Goldwing, a touring bike, so I could get out and enjoy the open air once again. But nowadays, my only risk taking is driving into Houston.

After everything, I still ask if is fate, destiny, or the choices we make daily which allows us to cheat death just one more time. As I sit here I consider myself to be lucky because I have done some stupid shit in my life, hell I used to build explosives for a living, yet I am here today, a survivor of my own mistakes. The maze was found with a Google search, the picture of the tractor is of the remnants of the airstrip I crashed on taken this past March, and that is an actual picture of US-70 taken on a trip in late summer in 2009.

 

The Places My Combat Boots Have Seen

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A natural choice of footwear for me is my last remaining pair of Air Force issued combat boots. I have had many pair of combat boots over the years, starting back in 1988. I don’t remember them all, but there are a few that stand out in my mind because of what I was doing when I was wearing them. Currently I have only one pair left out of my collection as I have had to retire so many before it. My very first pair of issued combat boots were in United States Air Force BMT (Basic Military Training). I recall the thoughts of how uncomfortable they felt on my feet since I was in the habits of wearing my cowboy boots which were worn, haggered, stunk like shit, but were the most comfortable boots (shoes) I have ever worn. My new pair of boots were rigid, stiff, and lace up. I can’t remember how to tie my boot at first, I had to watch other new airmen as they laced and tied their boots, as I haven’t had to tie a shoe in a long time, in fact I couldn’t really remember a specific time when I tied a shoe last. I was at a loss. I was going to get kicked out on my first day because I couldn’t tie a shoe, I guess that is what I get for wearing boots for as long as I could remember. I went from owning 2 pair of shoes, cowboy boots & flip flops, to a single pair of combat boots. I better learn fast I thought, I better learn fast. I knew I was excited, this was my first day as a soldier.

After successfully completing BMT and Technical school in Denver Colorado it was noticed that my boots did not fair so well, it was time to get a new pair. Of course, I was told to wait until I got to my first base, Misawa AB Japan, where I was told I would be issued another pair as part of my in-processing. When I got to Japan I was impressed, they don’t mess around when it comes to boots, I was issued 4 pair, two summer weight and two winter weight (insulated) pair, also, I was issued my first pair of mukluks since it was winter in full force in Japan just days after Christmas. Everyone knows that if your feet are cold, your whole body is cold. I wish I would have known that before I got to Japan. How in the hell am I supposed to know how to deal with snow, I’m from Houston in southeast Texas. In late 1990 I was given orders to go to Turkey in support of what will become to be known world-wide as Desert Storm. Time to let go of the snow and the black combat boots, it was time to get introduced to desert styles. The military has a boot to fit most functions, most terrains, and most weather. This was a long 6 months for me, it was the first time I had to remind myself to do the right thing whether anyone is looking or not. I watched people lose focus, make mistakes, and basically ruin their career, I didn’t want to be that guy. I was also involved in the Liberation of Kuwait where I got to see for the very first time in person, up close and personal, the destruction that was causes. Most people think war is a physical element of destruction because we can see physical damages. I saw things beyond that, I walked over the remains of what appeared to be a family caught by surprise as a bomb that was dropped exploded just outside their house. Walking across them was an accident and when I realized what it was I had stepped on I was a bit shocked, it hurt me to see them. Our team leader explained to me that they were not “my” problem and we must move on since we were in the process of locating an area to set up shop. After that day I never wore those boots again.

Soon enough I returned to Japan to finish out the remainder of my tour. After a few years I left Japan and headed to Iceland. Unfortunately I was only in Iceland a matter of a few weeks as I was diverted to be stationed at Holloman Air Force Base, New Mexico. I already had some experience living in the desert so the transition to a zero humidity environment wasn’t that hard on my system.  From New Mexico I would truly see the world beyond what I knew. I visited many places for many reasons doing my assigned job. Leaving became easier over the years, it was the coming home that was hard to do. In mid summer 1995 I was sent to Osan AB Korea to assist in the inspection of some specific munitions components which had been in long term storage. It was time to determine if they were still serviceable and if so prep them for shipment to a variety of bases world-wide. 18 months later I rotated back to the world to be reunited with my family in New Mexico. Things were not good at home, but that is another story, in fact I think I have written about it here once or twice.

In late 1998 I was in Las Vegas Nevada for the 3rd or 4th time for training and I was given orders to go an undisclosed area for the initial drive of what will become known as Operation Desert Fox. My views had really changed about the United States’ role in the world and it really impacted how I performed, I turned off the emotion, I turned off the feelings, and I just did my job. This would be the first deployment I did not get issued fresh boots, probably because of the timeline, who knows. However, when I got back there was a shiny new pair waiting for me. Well, they weren’t shiny yet, but they would be in no time. Eventhough I had a grunt job, I worked in and out of warehouses, a variety of shops, drove a variety of equipment, and walked everywhere as well, two things were always important, a persons attitude and a persons appearance. The first thing a person notices, unfortunately, is a dirty pair of boots, we always were cleaning our boots, making sure they were taken care of and shined with a reflection that rivaled most mirrors. I eventually left the Air Force, I was medically retired due to previous injuries which happened while active duty. I had no idea what being label a disabled veteran meant. I had no idea how I was going to function in the outside world. I was divorced by this time, a single parent to my daughter who didn’t know what civilian life was all about and I had all but forgot. Luckily my dad was there to catch me, offered me and my daughter a place to call home, and gave me a job working with him in his concrete contractor business. Not knowing any better, on my first day of work, I laced up a pair of my steel toed combat boots. Eventually I traded them in for a pair of work boots, finally no laces!

I always fall back to the combat boot as a boot to wear when I know my feet will be in an unruly environment. After the Air Force, my combat boots continued to see service protecting my feet from the elements and my daily life. I have one pair that has been bitten by two different snakes and has seen more blood of animals killed in the hunt than most shoes should ever have to endure. These boots are my “go to” boots. Over this past weekend I was getting dressed to go weed-eat the perimeter of my fence-line. When overgrown like was, it is a fairly dangerous place for feet because one doesn’t know what is in the tall grass. As I laced up my boots Sunday morning I found myself remembering what I wrote about here today. Interesting how a single pair of boots can trigger memories both good and bad. I wore them without incident, I don’t bother cleaning them anymore, I just knock off the big clumps, and then hang them back on the hook, ready for the next time they will serve me well.

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Traveling Down The Rabbit Hole

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A couple of months ago I received a letter in the mail that made some, in my opinion, really outlandish claims. It was a letter that took quite a bit to digest because the information made sense but at the same time confused the hell out of me. The first person I talked to about this letter was my oldest daughter (23 y/o) because I was hoping she might help me make sense of it enough where I could have a talk with my wife that actually made sense. In the beginning of the letter the woman identified herself (I will refer to her as “ST) as the granddaughter of my biological mother (I will refer to her as JT). I was 2 sentences in to the letter and now I was a little pissed. Let me track back a few years and I will explain. I will assume from this point forward that y’all know I’m adopted. I located my biological mother back in 2002 and the short version was I was fed a boatload of bullshit that took me roughly 8 years to unravel. When I unraveled what I was able to find out I was able to find my biological father (died in 2004) which led me to tracking down his wife, which eventually led to me finding their children, and in 2009 I met a majority of them when attending my eldest daughter’s high school graduation in South Dakota where the biologicals also happened to live. Anyway, the long and the short of this is that my biological mother (JT) said without saying that she does not have time for me in her life and wishes that I will discontinue contact. Her wish was my command and I do not have contact with her nor have I met her yet because she has declined meeting me under any circumstances. Back to the beginning of the letter from ST. Granddaughter? This means that JT had children or at least one where she told me that after the “ordeal” with me that she never wanted any more children because she was heartbroken that she was forced to give me up for adoption since she was only 16 y/o at the time of my birth. Shall we go deeper into the rabbit hole?

ST went on to explain that she was the daughter of the youngest of two sons of JT. Dramatic pause please ………….. wait for it ………………. WTF did she just say???? Did she just say that my biological mother had two sons besides me? Unfuckingbelievable! Now ST had set the hook and was in the process of reeling me in, it was slow going because, as one might imagine, I was fighting the information a little bit because of my disbelief of what she was saying. I can’t help but reading on, pushing forward, looking for the next little surprise that she might have to offer. Here it comes, she didn’t ease into it at all, no cuddling and no foreplay, just jumped right into it. Apparently my biological mother is having some heath issues of some sort so ST was asked to come over to her house, because they live in the same town of Kingston Idaho, to help her do some cleaning. ST wasn’t there to help, she was there to do it herself because JT was in the hospital for a few days having tests done. While at JT’s house ST got to snooping around because she has never been in this house alone so she said it felt natural to look around a bit. ST had done some laundry and was in the process of hanging the dresses up in the closet when her hand bumped a large envelope. When she peeked to see what was in this stuffed envelope she saw pictures of her dad (RT), her uncle ( also JT), and another man she didn’t recognize (me). There were individual pictures of me while I was in the Air Force, individual pictures of her dad while he was in the Air Force that she had never seen, and one picture of her dad and myself together in our uniforms. She enclosed a copy of this picture. My first thoughts? Holy shit I met my half brother and neither of us even knew the relationship. ST had not made the connection at this point, it took her some time looking through letters that I had written to her over the years, 4 to be exact, none of which were ever answered. ST explained she was very stunned because grandma had some explaining to do. ST borrowed the envelope that afternoon knowing that grandma would not be home for a few days. She wanted to talk to her boyfriend of 4 years what he thought and if he had got the same impression from everything that was read, to include information about my adoption and so forth. He concluded the same thing, her grandmother was hiding all of this from the family for some reason. But, what was the reason? Why hide all of this for so many years? Why is it so important to keep this a secret? That information boys and girls may never be revealed.

After speaking with her boyfriend, ST spoke to her father in a very private setting. Her dad, RT, explained to her that it was ok to contact me since they had my phone number and address. So, she did contact me, she did write me the letter, and she did talk to her uncle as well. I reviewed what I knew about her dad. He was part of a select group of people that I hung around while I was stationed in New Mexico. He was on my “crew” but I knew all six of my crew pretty well because working with explosives you need to be able to know the “sides” of people and their moods as it helps to determine how they operate day to day. In fact, I knew ST as a young girl, I would guess she was 9 or 10 at the time, as well I knew his wife. Her dad and I had a weird relationship, we acted like siblings to one another, but were never really close by any means. We joked around well together and worked well together. As I read this letter I would pause to look at the picture she sent because I knew exactly when, where, and why the picture was taken. That in itself isn’t important, just had those flashback moments that in the end made me smile. After a very long talk with my wife the ultimate question was asked, she wanted to know what I was going to do. Well, first, I kissed her on the forehead, gathered up the letter, and headed out to my shop to be alone. I was mad. I was mad at a person who didn’t have the time for me to tell me she had two sons just a few years younger than me. I was mad that I wasn’t important enough to tell. I did allot of yelling at her in my shop, I called her things I don’t care to repeat here, and I cut up allot of wood that otherwise I would have used to make something nice. I worked thru my anger as the night passed. I would read the letter, stare in to the picture, read the letter some more, and then finally I folded the letter back up, replaced it into the envelope, closed up my shop, and went back up to the house since it was about 3 in the morning. I called her that day, I tried to be a cold hearted bastard and act as if I didn’t care, but it didn’t work because ST was so damn sweet to me. She knew she would be fucking my life up by sending the letter, but she knew she needed to tell me what she did for the sake of everyone involved, to include herself. She mentioned that she put all the papers back in her grandmothers closet and she isn’t any wiser that anything has transpired. St asked me if I was mad at her, I guess my tone was a little stressed, but I let her know I hold no anger for her because they were as clueless as I was. She mentioned how bizarre she thought it was that her grandmother would keep all this information about me but keep me a secret to all her family. All I could do at that time was agree with her.

Since then, I have spoken to ST and my two 1/2 brothers on a few occasions. I have not spoken to my biological mother. I have sat down and talked with my mother who finds everything I uncover over the years very interesting. Sadly, she has been able to provide zero help because she had parts of the same false information I began my journey with. But, she knows I am not family shopping. Any additional people brought into my life all have to understand I do have a life, that they also have a life, and just knowing all of this information is disruptive enough. Then a person has to process the lies, the deceit, the rabbit holes, and the sometimes high hopes which get deflated every so often. I don’t know if they will ever confront their mother with what they found out or with what I was able to tell them. Personally I don’t care. They will have to wrestle those demons on their own as I wrestle my demons on my own. I know what your thinking but I’m not really that selfish. As far as I am concerned I don’t have anything specific to say to my biological mother. If I never meet her in person I think I can live and die in comfort with my decision. It’s things like this in my life that demonstrate the exact reasons why I don’t trust too many people.

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The Obamacare Exchange

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This information was original found @ YouViewed.com and with many attempts to reblog the post and failing attempts I decided to borrow the picture/chart because I really wanted to share it. Please visit YouViewed.com for the original article in it’s entirety.