A letter to President Obama

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Dear President Obama,

I have some deep concerns about your recent change in policy vis-a-vis top tier tax cuts. I do not see this change as positive, moreover I do not see it as being fiscally responsible.

I understand that you are the President for ALL of America, and thus represent ALL American view points. I applaud your recent efforts to try and find some middle ground with the upcoming Republican Congress. However, I think your are selling this particular point too cheap. If you are going to “sell out,” then I believe you should get something more than unemployment extensions in exchange for the top tier tax cuts. There is a fine line between reaching out, and caving in (no doubt, some would say they are the same thing). I believe you have crossed this line.

Since there are a lot of voices supporting the conservative rhetoric that tax cuts to the wealthy are good fiscal policy, please allow me to provide an alternate view. I believe a closer following of the European “austerity” movement is in order. I suggest you kill all Bush era tax cuts. ALL of them. Every single one. When confronted by opposition to such a position you could simply say, “The price for being an American citizen just went up. And it has gone up for ALL Americans, not just for the poor and middle class.” To be honest, what I would prefer you to say would be the more simple, “Quit your belly-aching,” or “There aint no such thing as a free lunch,”  but I understand that both concepts are a bit too divisive for you to say.  Mores the pity.

I am a small business owner (sole proprietorship), and unlike a lot of other Americans, my business has been doing very well the past couple of years. Although I am not in the $250k/year range, removing the Bush era tax cuts will hit me harder then average citizen. So what? It is a distinct privilege to own a business and to make money in this country. I would not mind paying more for it. Well, that is not quite true. I would mind. However, I also understand that sometimes the river rises, or the rains don’t come. What I think is missing from the modern political rhetoric on this topic is this simple truth; there is no right to owning a business or making money in American. It is a privilege. And with this privilege comes certain responsibilities. Only a fool would buy the best tractor, and condition the soil to perfection, only to plant the cheapest seed.

Please, Mr. President. I urge you to reconsider your stance on this topic.

Thank you for taking the time to view my email, and give it all the consideration your busy schedule allows.

Sincerely,

Eric Tolladay

The god of the handy

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I was riding our exercise bike out in the garage (meaning, in the cold) this morning. I had a good book, and everything was going fine for the first 6 minutes, up until it got to the “steep” part of the program. Then the darn thing started slipping like an elephant on ice skates. There is a belt that transfers the pedaling force into something the computer can use to tell you how you are doing. It was this belt that was slipping, no doubt because of the recent cold temperatures around here. Well I tried pushing for a while to see if it would warm up some, but it didn’t. The darn thing was slipping so much that every push was too easy. So cursing my luck, I got off, and looked at the bike. There’s only a few screws holding the case, I told myself. This should be easy.

Famous last words.

An hour and a half later, I had the whole thing opened up, the pitifully antiquated bearings were soaking in gasoline, and most of the parts were clean. (As an aside, when was the last time you broke down an open bearing? For me it was on an old bike over 25 years ago. Were talking metal races holding a dozen large bearings. Huge gaps in the side with nary a bearing seal in sight.) While I was trying to tighten down the old style bottom bracket I was forcing the wrong wrench on a part while my knuckles kept brushing the last plastic guard I had left on the bike. That last piece was held on by only 6 screws. I knew because I had taken off it’s opposite, mirror-image piece on the other side. 6 screws was just that much more to break down, and I really was trying to finish up. Those of you who are handy will know the rest. Sure enough, the wrench slipped, and wham! I got a pressure cut across the back of the knuckle. Damn.

Funny enough, after that, it was smooth sailing.

All this has lead me to conclude that the god of small repairs must be Hephaestus; the crippled Greek god of the forge. On little projects he does not care as his help is not as needed. But on big jobs, he likes to see a little sacrifice in order to get things to work well. Blood mixed with grease or oil must be his thing. I cannot tell you how many times I bloodied a car engine, or a lawnmower engine, or pretty much anything that takes an hour or two to break down, and put back together. And it is usually after the hand has slipped, and the blood has flowed, that the project begins to snap.

When I got the whole thing back together, I discovered that the belt was still slipping. (insert sound of face palm) A few twists on the belt tensioner seemed to do the trick, and I finished the rest of my ride, 2.5 hours later, in peace.

But it sure pedals nice now.

The very definition of brave

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I met a young man today while waiting for a bus. His name was Alan (I believe, I am terrible with names). Alan was 25, african american, and new to the LA area. We started talking about this and that, and I come to find out Alan had just moved here from Atlanta. He had been involved in some things there, ways of making money that wasn’t healthy or legal, (or so I gathered) and he was here in this town to make a fresh start. He has been spending the past two months living on skid row, trying to find work. Even his mother didn’t believe he could do something like that. Somewhere he has a brand new baby child, and the desire to be man enough to be considered a good father.

This is one of the better things about being a man. To see in others the hard work and sacrifice necessary at times, to earn the title. It made my day, and I told him so. I also wish him all the luck he can find.

More Bus Stories

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Two different stories to share. The first was last night (Friday) coming home around 8:00ish. I was on the phone with a colleague, and I overheard these three girls ask somebody if a certain bus came by the stop we were at. Well, I just had to butt in. Turns out there were three young ladies visiting the states from Australia. They were genuinely surprised I guessed their country of origin correctly, as most Americans asked if they were English. Since I meet an Aussie about once a week on this route, its not that big a skill. They had some very nice things to say about our country, “Everybody is so friendly here.” one said. I didn’t have the heart to tell her is was likely more to the fact that she was blonde, cute, and young. They were good company until I got to Hollywood/Highland, and had to run off.

Tourists are the perfect people to meet on the bus. They don’t mind a short conversation, and one can learn oh so much just by asking them questions. They also do not expect a deep relationship, they are quite happy with a short polite talk, and then to be on their way. Sending them off with a smile is so easy, and costs practically nothing but a little friendliness.

One of the ladies asked me about superannuation, which caused me to say, “huh?” I can be quite witty at times, but this caught me completely off guard. Apparently it is the name for their retirement/pension system. It was interesting to try and explain Social Security to someone not from around here. This lead to a discussion about medical insurance which was even better. They thought our system was absolutely stupid, leaving so many people uncovered. When I told them that many conservatives were convinced their medical system was terrible, they laughed. “Why would they think that?” one asked. Why indeed. That this conversation took place on the bus, which means we were surrounded by a crowd of mostly working poor, most of whom could not afford medical insurance, only made the point stronger. I wonder what those sitting next to us were thinking.

All in all it was quite a pleasant experience.

Earlier in the week I had the opposite experience. An elderly gentlemen of color approached the stop while I was waiting to catch the Orange Line one morning. He was dirty, and smelled strongly of urine. When he saw me looking at him, he started talking to himself. He soon got very loud, and was obviously agitated. The other people at the stop moved away from him. His stench alone would have been enough, but his tone of voice was pretty scary. He didn’t yell at anyone, and he didn’t make any sudden moves, so I assumed he was reasonably safe. I did keep a careful eye on him though. The worst thing was that he often was speaking to himself, telling himself to calm down, but he could not. He mostly spoke lots of disassociated gibberish, like scanning through several talk radio stations, but all in the same voice. He also looked around and addressed people who plainly were not there. It was sad to see, as he was old enough to be a grandfather, sitting at home, bouncing babies on his knee. Instead he was living on the streets, peeing in his pants, and unable to contain his mental illness.  In his lucid moments he must know what he is doing, and feel a sick dread at is actions.

Sometimes mental illness really sucks.

Disabled vs. Differently-abled

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For years I’ve heard the term differently-abled used instead of disabled to describe a person with a major physical affliction. And to be truthful, I always thought it was more of that PC crap we are supposed to politely parrot while in front of groups of people. While I may have some small sympathy for some PC stuff, this particular term always struck me as non-sense. I guess my attitude could be summed up as, if you’re in a damn wheel chair, then by God at least be realistic about your affliction.

Well, I discovered the other night, completely by accident, that I was wrong. Let me tell you how.

I ride the bus to and from work a lot. Most of you who read this, have some idea that this is the case. The bus lends one to interact much more with their fellow commuters, and I must say I enjoy the experience much more than riding home in my own little sterile cubicle called a car.

Thursday evening was no different. I worked a long day (10 hours) and was coming home late. Later than normal. I chatted with a nice young girl while waiting for the bus. The bus was late, and as usually the case when it is late to this stop, it was packed full of people. The girl and I were still having a conversation, so we got on, and stopped only a little ways in. Normally I sit down all the way to the back of the bus, especially when I have my skateboard (which I did not on this particular evening), but because the bus was crammed full or people, the actual walk-way to the back was too full to even try. So we leaned into the others there, and continued to talk.

For those of you who have not ridden a Metro Bus in LA, the front most seats are transverse seats, meaning they run the length of the bus. After a few of these seats, the seats turn crosswise, and become the usual seats you’ve seen on almost every bus. The front transverse seats serve two purposes; they make it easier for the elderly and handicapped to get off and on the bus, and they can be easily moved aside to make room for a wheelchair.

Well on this night, there happened to be a wheelchair on the bus, with a young lady seated in it. Since the bus was packed, the young lady from the bus stop and I ended up having our conversation almost right on top of the girl in the wheelchair. after a few stops, the conversation was starting to get comments from others on the bus. This is part and parcel of having a conversation in a public situation like a bus. It is one of the few places I know of, where public input is more normal for all but the most private of conversations. So it wasn’t a surprise when others joined in. What was a surprise was when the girl in the wheelchair joined in. She was so sharp, and so interesting, that I ended up talking to her more than anyone else.

The found out the girl in the chair (although to be fair, she would probably prefer the term woman, I just use the term girl to denote she was young enough to be my daughter) was named Jane, and it turned out Jane and I are practically next-door neighbors. She’s an old hand on the bus, so we quickly started talking about other topics. I soon found out that Jane was working on her PhD in Ecology (which I in artfully mistook for Econ. at one point), was bright, vivacious, funny, sad, and just plain good company. Though I road with her on two buses, and one train, including all the elevators and such one need use with a chair (which I normally eschew) I never once got the feeling she was sorry for herself, or thought of herself as anything different than “abled.”

And in every real sense she was just as able as myself. Sure she couldn’t ride a skateboard  (most people cannot ride a skateboard), but she could motor in that chair of hers like you could not believe. She was calm and confident with it, maneuvering it around with a kind of sloppy grace, exactly like the way a buddy of mine (Clark) drives his car.

She never talked about herself negatively, which is rare for any girl. I never once got the feeling that she hung around with the disabled kids. In fact, with the exception of one story about someone she knew, she never once brought up other disabled people. What she did do was tell story after story of roommates, and friends, cooking meals, eating with her hands, living in an apartment, until I got the impression she lived her life very much like every able person lives their lives, just a little lower, and a heck of a lot faster.

When we got off the train, I asked her a few questions about her chair. She proudly spun it around, and showed me some of it features. Later when we were walking back from the last bus, she moved so fast, that my normally fast walk was far too slow to keep up. The entire block I got the distinct impression she was having to wait for the slow kid to catch up!

When she talked, she was very animated, using her whole body at times, craning her neck, twisting her arms, the whole works. I assume this had something to do with her affliction, but I also noticed that at times she would, in mid conversation, use one arm to hold down the other because it was moving too much. She never called attentions to this, nor apologized, or was in any way self-effacing or embarrassed about her motion. Good for her. In fact, I spent the better part of an hour and  a half talking with her, and she never once mentioned why she was in her chair, which is one of the first things most people will tell you.

By the time we parted I was a bit awestruck. Here was a girl who was equal to anyone you could mention, and she knew it. You might not know it, until you started talking with her, but once you did, boy it wasn’t hard to figure out. She was in every was just as able as you and I. The few ways she differs were obviously unimportant in the grand scheme of things, very much like a person with glasses doesn’t think they are disabled because they have to wear corrective lenses. She is not disabled, as she is just as able as you or I. She is just differently abled.

Busy, busy, busy

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I’ve been working a lot lately, and doing tons of projects at home. This leaves me very little time to write, which makes me slightly bonkers. To help with this I got a copy of The Writers Journey by Christopher Vogler. As a reference, it’s been a wonderful book. Chocked full of good ideas that is helping my plot out Angel of Death. So I’ve been enjoying that part immensely.

But this is also pointing out to me the obvious, that I need to do some more research, especially on Catholic mysticism especially in rural Mexico. Anyone know a good book?

Thinking outside the wall

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Did you ever stop to think about how stupid our walls are?

A typical wall in a family dwelling in North America is a custom built piece of rock, set in place upon either side of a wooden frame. Ostensibly they keep moisture from crossing from one side to the next, and ideally they are airtight. If they are of modern construction, then  they are insulated as well. Every opening, which are frequent (think of it, every window, door, electrical outlet, etc.), much be carefully constructed to maintain this solidity against air and moisture.

That all well and good, but then we also run most of important bits of electrical and plumbing through them, with no way to access those bits when the eventually break down. How stupid is that? You not only have to custom manufacture these walls on the spot, but then if there is anything inside them you need to get at, you have to break them apart (a difficult process all on its own), and then repair them again. That’s like running the break and shifter cables for your bicycle through the inter tubes on the wheels.

Walls should be built with at least one side completely and easily removable. I’m thinking no more than 8 bolts per 4’x8′ section. The edges should mate up so they are air and water tight with neighboring sections, and the borders with other walls, the floor, and the ceiling should either do the same, or at least have a way of applying trim to them which provides this same function. That way if I have a plumbing leak, or need to rewire an outlet, I can just unscrew the trim and wall pieces as needed, do the repairs, and then simply reattach the panels back into place. An added benefit of such panels would be that I could take them out, one at a time, to the garage, to paint or clean them. Much easier than dirtying up the whole house.

Darn that life thing, it so gets in the way.

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I’ve been very busy for the past couple of months, and have neglected my poor blog. All two of my fans are now obviously despondent. Sigh.

The reality is my Father-in-law passed away a while back, and we’ve been spending all our free time out at the Davis Ranch (where my lovely Mother-in-law lives) trying to help her get a handle on the drifts of interesting stuff he left behind. And I do mean drifts.

The main priority has been to get her a running truck so she can drag stuff to the dump, and generally be more independent. Of course, because it is this family, the beater truck is a 56 Ford with a big back window. Like the photo below, only more beat, and with a hood that open the proper way. Just working on it is pretty cool, and the luxury of all that space, and the absence of computers makes it a project perfect for a poorly trained shade-tree mechanic like myself.1956 Ford F-100, big back window

A real blessing is the ability to work with my delightful brother-in-law, Rob, on this project. He and I have always clicked, from the day we met, and we seem to work well together, which makes the process so much more fun. He also knows about a billions times more than me about cars and such, growing up with his hot-rodding father like he did. I got some of that growing up, but not nearly the same super sized helping of advice and tool use.

Father Juan and the novel is going a pace, I’ve got two new chapters, and a few corrections to put up. I also last week, put together a time line in which the whole novel plays out. The was needing a backbone to help locate the various bits in time and place, and I think I hit just the right mix of structure and open endedness to make it work. This will mean minor structural changes to all the chapters, adding in some details early on to fit the story to that backbone. The basic story will remain the same, but now much of it (hopefully) will benefit from a more concrete context. time will tell.

Just the two of us

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I saw a man get on the bus today. He was younger, maybe 30, had long straight jet black hair (a wig?), and was dressed in all black. Black leather jacket, black gloves with the finger tips cut off, black jeans, sunglasses. His skin was pale, almost white, and he had on black lipstick.

This alone was unusual enough, but to make things weirder he got on the bus holding a doll under one arm. A big doll, more like half a mannequin. My first thought was that he was holding a ventriloquist dummy, for it was about that size and shape, but a closer look made me think differently. The doll was dressed exactly like the man; black leather jacket, black shirt, long straight jet black hair, and the very same black lipstick. Except for the size, and the fact the doll hand no legs, or really anything below the waist, they were almost exactly alike. Well that and the fact that the doll was female.

He got on and sat down near the front, on one of the bench seats that run the length of the bus. As soon as he sat, he placed his doll on his leg, or his lap, and turned her face towards him. Then he put his arms around her, pulled his head in close, and proceeded to talk to her. They were far enough away that I couldn’t hear anything, but it looked for all the world like two young lovers whispering secrets to each other, so enraptured with each others company, faces just scant inches apart, that they were oblivious to their fellow travelers around them.

Except only one of them was human.

The other people on the bus reacted strongly. One lady, looking for all the world like a Jewish grandmother (a common sighting in that area) tut-tuted in disgust, and got off at the very next stop. Others were similarly transfixed. Me, I couldn’t tell if this was some sort of act (and if so, why try to impress people riding a bus), a sort of bizarre performance art, or if I was looking into layers and layers of delusional psychosis; so deep, and so dark that the man could not tell where his personality ended, and where his companion’s began.

The image of those too huddled together was very disturbing. It bothers me even still.

The Disposessed

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We had a few days of light rain early this week. Perfect for the garden which is just starting to take off. Then after that we had three days of cooler Santa Ana’s blowing through. The Santa Ana winds blow of the deserts north of us, and are terribly drying. They also profoundly effect the mood of the people around here. On the bus, people are less courteous, and more hunkered down, drawn inward. At night this is doubly so. I don’t know why, it is something about the really dry conditions, mixed with the huge gusts of wind. Wherever the cause, it makes public transportation less fun a people are less likely to talk with strangers (one of my favorite reason to ride the bus), and more likely to be sullen or angry.

For the mentally ill, however, the Santa Ana’s are almost like a punishment from God.  They not only have to deal with everyone else being far less understanding, they also have to deal with their own issues, which are exacerbated by the mood of others. Think of them as the canary in the coal mine when it comes to the mood of a group; they cannot help by be drastically effected by it, like a radio stuck with the volume on high, and can only be tuned to one station. For them it is literally maddening.

So on Thursday night, rolling home somewhat later (8:00-9:00), I met a charming lady from Miami who was here to take a single class on psychiatry to fulfill all her requirements for her MD. She was talking about being a Pediatric Doc, a job see seemed suited for.

Alas for her, she was staying in a hotel in downtown Hollywood, a part of town full of the mentally ill, drawn as they can be to the tourist areas. She had already had one experience when a gentleman had made untoward advances, and didn’t understand polite rebuffs, which had scared her some. Rightfully so as it is very difficult to deal with someone who projects their sexuality onto you, and does not understand they are actually acting like an ass. The mentally ill usually have just as much hormones as you or I, so when they see a person they think is sexy, they will react, only their reactions will often be totally inappropriate, because they view sex through the smashed up lens of mental illness. So a man night think he os being appropriately “sexy” towards a woman be offering to take off his shirt to show off his muscles, and ignore the fact that he is an absolute stranger, and the woman he is afflicted with has a look of horror on her face. And believe me when I say this, his was a mild reaction.

So as we were traveling on the bus, and she was telling me this story, I related to her how I used to teach special ed, and had spent several years surrounded by the mentally ill with what I like to call a hair trigger temper. I had run into mentally ill people on the bus, in fact quite often, but they never really bothered me.

I need to take a side track here, for just a moment, to describe for most of you some of the realities of this town. LA is a wonderful place. The weather is so nice that I often call it paradise; a term not without some tongue-in- cheek, mind you, but it’s not a bad term all in all. This means, among other things, that a lot of people drift here. They come because the weather is nice, or they come because they have a dream (usually to be an actor or musician) or maybe they come just to get away from the small town where they grew up and everyone knows them. Regardless of why they come, lots of people come here. Lots. Now if you couple this with the fact that a certain percentage of the population will always have mental illness, you understand that LA gets its share of the mentally ill, and then some. For instance, if you are mentally ill, and the people in your home town know (often is it all but impossible to hide mental illness), then you will have twice as many reasons to leave where you are, and try to make a “fresh start” somewhere else. That somewhere else is very often LA, the town that practically built itself as a fresh start.

One other thing. At night, living on the streets, a place many people who run out of money end up, is not all that safe. There are some who prey upon the street people, and take pleasure in hurting them. In fact we just had a case where a man was sentenced to death for pouring gasoline on a bumm, and lighting him on fire, killing him. So if you are mentally ill, and cannot hold down a job, guess where you end up at night? Well very often, the bus. You see some of the Metro lines (Metro is the name of our city wide transportation service) are 24 hour lines, meaning they run a constant 24 hours. If you can afford a bus pass, or have one as a part of a county mental health program, then the bus is a great place to be. It is warm, dry, reasonably safe, and if you can deal with the bumping, rolling, and sterile lighting, a place to rest, maybe even sleep. Most bus riders don’t know this because the crazies are smart enough to not get on until after the normal riders, commuters, students and such, have gone home, say 8:00 o’clock or so. I discovered this little trick by accident. I have a client which I get to by bus, and I often work late at that office. If just so happens, one of the two lines (the 217) that make up a significant portion of my route, is a 24 hours bus. This is how I discovered where the mentally ill often spend their evenings, because they would ride alnog with me on my way home from work.

So back to my story. This nice MD student and I were talking, and I was telling her how to deal with the mentally ill, while rolling on a late night bus, during a Santa Ana. In the midst of this, and elderly gentleman sits down next to me. By this time the topic had switched to something else, and the lady and I were conversing in opposite seats in the back of the bus. The bus was quite crowded, so having someone sit next to me was a given. Suddenly this man seated next to me stared yelling at another rider, also, we discovered, someone with mental illness. The two exchanged rants, and the man next to me got more and more agitated. I realized what was going on, having spent some time around the mentally ill, and having a slight mental illness myself. Since the bus is considered a “safe” place for someone thus afflicted, they will often “act out” or get more upset on it then they will out in the open Very much like the may most mentally ill will not act out until they are home, or around people they trust. (which is not so fun if you are in the later category, let me tell you). So these two guys were in a bizarre way, protecting their territory.

So this guy seated next to me, turns to me, and starts in on a rant, and it was pure stream of consciousness stuff; raw, unfiltered junk poured through his mouth, straight from his Id, literally without a thought at all. I don’t remember all of what he said, but this will give you an idea, “Those guys want to turn our shoes into jello, and all for a cup of donuts. That’s why the doctors are trying to close the hospital.” He went on like that for 2-3 paragraphs, each equally senseless. A classic example of a psychotic. As he talked he grew more and more agitated, until he was standing and yelling loudly to the entire bus. Chaotic ramblings and violent mood swings do not make for good company, let me tell you.

Fortunately, the man got off at the next stop, yelling at the driver to open the back door as he belatedly realized he was too agitated for the bus, and needed to get off.The sad thing is, I know he was trying to tell me, or us, something. Something terribly important to him. Alas, the lens of mental illness was so distorted for him that his very thoughts were a mangled heap of chaotic jumps and starts. He was clinically incoherent.

Imagine, of you will, that you had no one to look after you, lived with no money on the streets, AND could not communicate a coherent sentence to save your soul. What most people don’t realize is that crazy people usually know they are crazy, and desperately try to not act so. They get embarrassed when they act up in public, and try very hard not to. Alas, time and tides conspire against them. And when they do, man it must really suck to be them. Suck hard.

So after this man left, I did my best to cheer up this poor Med. student. But I have to admit, I was pretty rattled by the experience. So much so that I spent the past few nights, after Trevor had gone to bed, curled up in a book, waiting for the Santa Ana’s to pass so my ego can come out of it’s shell, and I can feel normal again.