I only cried once...

...and I'm not sure what set that ceremony apart.

Patrick Air Force Base.

Cocoa Beach Florida. 1992/3.

Base Honor Guard.

It was that part of my military career where I was going to a LOT of funerals.

Thanks to the Persian Gulf War cleaning out the 2nd MOB, and Hurricane Andrew decimating the honor guards at Homestead, anyone lucky enough to already be on honor guard could manage to make it a full time job, if you had an understanding boss.

I did. Lonnie was awesome.

Let me sign up for as many funerals as I wanted. There were hundreds. Snowbirds die at an alarming rate, and many have earned rights to full military honors.

The busiest day I remember had 7 funerals. They were back to back to back and involved a chopper flight at one point. Hopped on just north of Daytona Beach, rode the Chinook to a pad just south of Miami.

There are four basic honors a military honor guard at the base level provides:

1. pall bearing

2. 21-gun salute

3. taps

4. flag presentation

From the front end -- they are dignified, impressive components, all of them. people rarely join honor guard in a funeral zone for the ribbon. a few like me, were trying to get out of work, but most are the extremely patriotic, who are there to honor the history.

i wasn't one of those at first. i just like the precision of it all.

The snaps, spats, and aiguillettes, adding a crispy flair to the most plain-jane dress uniform in the Pentagon's closet.

The specialized drill routines, formulated for funerals, and practiced on a grassy field until they happened silently, flawlessly, without need for an uttered command.

The strangled rifles. M1s with seven-blank cartridges and metal-blocked muzzles.

I remember a meeting -- something at the beginning of summer "season" when old Soldiers, and Marines with permission, and Airmen headed for the wild blue yonder, and Sailors bound for following seas typically start to line up for their procession from the Sunshine State.

We talked about the tempo of the ceremonies, and how each was a family's last memory of a departing loved one, and how one day it would be us in the coffin.

And then it started. Day after grinding day of strapping the straps, buttoning the buttons, wiping off the dust, and climbing on the bus.

Opening the hearse, sliding the coffin out, bracing for that moment when the trailing edge slipped off the roller and we were left at center stage to determine if we'd calculated enough muscle power for the job, trudging to the green tent, navigating around the ever-present shovels sticking out of a mound of dirt, occasionally straining to lift a particularly heavy coffins onto the brass frame.

unhooking rifles, drilling to port arms, waiting through a graveside eulogy, watching a widow cry, soundlessly shifting port to ready to aim.

holding it.

waiting for the command.

!!!!!!!!!!FIRE!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!FIRE!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!FIRE!!!!!!!!!!

it ALWAYS made the widow or the mother or the baby jump.

Then resting your cheek to the butt of the rifle and waiting for taps.

He was part of the team, but never traveled with us.

Never checked in, never said hello. He was a civilian bugler. I guess he'd been Air Force at one point or another ... but I don't actually ever remember meeting him.

He was always behind the trees, or over the hill. And he was dependable like the sunset. A few beats after the last rifle report ... he invisibly commandeered center stage.

His rendition of TAPS still echoes through my memory. He liked to let taps ... waft ... with the wind.

Come hauntingly over the hill on a hot-assed blast of Florida summer.

They were never real people to me at first -- the ones in the coffins. They were names and ranks, and special instructions:

"deceased is obese, please be aware that the coffin may require reinforced manpower."

"deceased is believed to have committed suicide. mother and wife are sworn enemies. mother has vowed to kill wife at gravesite ... to 'send daughter-in-law to hell with her son' ... additional security may be prudent."

When you lift the flag off a coffin, and the six (...or two) of you start to snap it into a triangle fit for immortality in a living room, it feels like folding a spread with your mother. Except the creases matter.

And when you lean over to the grieving widow with that folded flag in hand, you stiffly present it to her with a solemn face. You look directly at her eyes. You do not blink, and you say:

"On behalf of the President of the United States, the Department of the Air Force, and a grateful nation, we offer this flag for the faithful and dedicated service of ****. God bless you and this family, and God bless the United States of America."

That moment always matters. Sometimes the widow, or mother, or daughter-I cannot ever remember giving a flag to a man--returns your stare, and you can see a lifetime of twisting emotions behind her pupils. Sometimes she wants to kill you. Sometimes she wants to hug you. She ALWAYS half-clears her throat, and manages a hoarse "thankyou."

It was 18 months of funeral after funeral after funeral after funeral. From Jacksonville to the Keys, South of Tampa to Homestead.

Two stick out.

Christmas, 1993. We got a request from the wife of a Retired Lieutenant Colonel for military honors on his December 25th burial in Miami. We couldn't get an entire team together, but a Staff Sergeant and I volunteered to go present a flag.

We talked all the way down, listening to a CD of Sade's No Ordinary Love. Hey, it was Christmas~

It was ... a sad little funeral. Just a widow, a rabbi, and some random guy who looked like either an old friend, or a drinking buddy from the bar. The Staff Sergeant made the presentation. The wife cried then handed each of us an envelope.

"I know it's Christmas. I know you didn't have to do this. It means a lot to me, and I know it would have meant a lot to him," she said.

She wouldn't take the envelopes back.

We were silent all the way back up I-95.

The second was when I cried.

I still have no idea WHY that one hit me so hard. I didn't know him. Didn't think his family looked particularly like mine, or like someone I knew. Wasn't having a bad day, guns didn't jam, coffee was hot. We didn't get lost finding the grave site.

I was on the rifle detail. We had seven that day. (Sometimes you have three, and fire 7 rounds each...)

And I was standing there on a hill, at a cemetery in Orlando, Florida that is the final resting place for thousands of vets ... hundreds of whom I'd honored personally...

And we fired the volleys, and my cheek was resting on the stock of my impotent but noisy gun ... and I had 3 funerals left that day, and a bead of sweat ran down out of my bus driver hat into my eye ... and I couldn't wipe it off because "FIRE" position is like attention...

And taps started wafting up the hill and around the trees. And for some reason ... for the first time ... i actually ... HEARD it.

There's no reason you should know taps ... but, here are the words in case you one day get curious.

“Day is done, gone the sun

From the lake, from the hills, from the sky

All is well, safely rest;

God is nigh.”

And something about the way it pedaled up that incline, and rested between the crests of two hills ... bouncing back and forth on itself so that 'gone the sun' crashed softly into 'from the hills' and 'God is nigh' got hoisted up on 'all is well' ... caught in my throat. And for the first time I realized i was ... AT a FUNERAL.

And we were saying good-bye to someone who'd worn a uniform, possibly fought and killed for this idea of America.

And maybe he had a good experience, or a bad one.

Maybe he was a great leader of men, or a shitty supervisor.

Perhaps he saved the Pentagon money with his brilliant ideas, or maybe he was the moron who ended up demanding you buy crap you don't need the day before budget ran out because he didn't want his budget cut.

No matter who the enlisted or officer was ... this whole pomp and circus we were taking on the road every day was a trip that had been earned.

that Vet had paid in advance for the right to have me skip my unimportant job and go help move his casket from hearse to brass frame.

He'd earned a flag. A 21-gun salute. Taps.

And out of nowhere, I was crying. Not heaving sobs, just unwipeable tears at the "FIRE" position.

I'm not going to cry this Memorial Day. That once was enough.

I'm also not going to make any sort of political statement. Now isn't the time.

But I haven't ever felt that moment again, least of all on Memorial Day.

The holiday has been pretty much dumbed down to bar-b-q and baseball.

There are some 1,189,457* known American fatalities from our series of wars.

Pick one, and at LEAST roast a weinie to his or her honor.

I'm Air Force General Issue. Our tradition to the fallen involves part of verse three of our song:

Here's a toast to the host

Of those who love the vastness of the sky,

To a friend we send a message of his brother men who fly.

We drink to those who gave their all of old,

Then down we roar to score the rainbow's pot of gold.

A toast to the host of men we boast, the U.S. Air Force!

We say "here's a toast..." to our fallen comrades in arms.

On veterans day ... we celebrate the living. The men and women who have put on .. or wear .. uniforms in the nation's defense.

But Memorial Day is about the dead. All, 1-million plus of them.

To each of them, and every man or woman who knows to raise a glass ...

"Here's a toast..."

Peace,

--Stew.

© Copyright 2011. justew enterprises. All Rights Reserved. This material may be used online, but not for profit. Attribution Required.

enRAPTUREd

Between 1831 and August of 1841, a baptist preacher in New England named William Miller developed a theory that the Second Coming of Jesus was prophesied to be in his immediate future.

He wasn't a crackpot, per se. Just a man who took his own insights into a few specific verses a bit more seriously than anyone ever should.

ok ... that's a crackpot.

At any rate, he was eventually joined by a former atheist named Samuel S. Snow. The two of them spent hours poring ... might even be fair to call it obsessing over a couple of Bible texts; most notably Daniel 8:14.

There was a time I could explain the logic they used -- I definitely spent enough time studying it. Alas, that information was killed by a half-keg of Soberana in the Great Panama Bash of '95.

I digress.

You've probably heard the story, or at least a version of it. By August of 1844, they'd checked and double-checked their math, painted their posters, and taken the warning to the Saints on the road.

October 22, 1844: the day Jesus WOULD return.

In a ... strangely comical -- although not laughable sequence of events, thousands of people bought into their melded math, tortured theology, and powerful preaching.

You know how this story "ends," -- even if you've never heard it before: their followers gave away all their worldly possessions, said their good-byes, and waited for the celestial ride to heaven.

Unfortunately for them, their pets, and their abandoned assets -- we can now generously say that "something was off in the math."

Nothing happened. Not so much as a bright flash in the New Hampshire sky.

The math was off.

History calls it the Great Disappointment. It even has its own Wikipedia entry.

If the story ended there, it would just be one of those sad side notes of America's religious legacy.

But this particular episode of Jesus standing up a group of true believers played a pivotal role in my universe.

A small group of the Millerites spun off their own franchise out of this experience. In the 167 years since, the Seventh-day Adventist church has grown into one of the most widespread Protestant denominations in the world.

Last Saturday, an estimated 25 million people in more than 200 countries attended a worship service in an SDA congregation.

For the first 20 years of my life, I was one of those millions. And I cannot imagine a better childhood.

SDA life is a rich tapestry of spirituality, community, and recreation. It has carved a unique and productive culture out of the human landscape. Its hospitals and school system are second-to-none. The people are warm, friendly, and loyal.

My love of music was born in Adventism. You have heard them sing--and loved it, even though you probably didn't realize you were listening to their special kind of soul.

As much as I loved the people, music, and culture of Adventism, there came a point in my life where the calculations weren't leading me to the right numbers. I realized I didn't believe what they believe. A separation was necessary.

The math didn't add up.

19 years later, I still count hundreds of Adventists among my circle of friends.

I wouldn't trade those Adventist years for anything. I wouldn't cash in those people for any other group on the planet, and I hope a couple of them will sing a song in my memory after I keel over and kick the bucket.

For the past few days, the nation has been focused on another crackpot promising he had run the numbers and identified today as the date of the rapture.

This time an 89-year old Oakland, California pastor named Harold Camping is cast in the role of William Miller.

According to Camping's math the holy were supposed to disappear at 6pm eastern time.

It's been a source of lots of jokes, and punchlines will poke out of this non-event until 2012, when we know the world will end because the Mayans whispered the planet's expiration date to us in rock calendars.

I've joked about the silliness of predicting the end of the world along with everyone else. And I DEFINITELY think it's funny in a Santayana sense.

But there are people out in our wild and crazy world who were quietly counting on Camping's calculations.

I silently tip my cap, and my ice-filled glass of vodka to what is undoubtedly THEIR day of Great Disappointment.

I hope their disillusionment leads to something down the road that's HALF as cool for some kid who deserves a kick-ass environment in which to become a freethinker.

And to that kid ... I can only say ... "watch the math."

Peace,

--Stew.







Photos
Miller:
http://snakeoilgraphics.com/NightStick/post/The-Great-Disappointment.aspx
GC Photo:
http://www.rejuvenatemeetings.com/2010/08/21/q-a-an-adventist-on-adrenaline/
Harold Camping:
http://extraordinaryintelligence.com/

Socks. A Health Care Story.

It was a pair of socks that turned me against our current health care system.

True Story:
It's fall of 2008. I'm in Prince William County Hospital, Woodbridge, Virginia -- the medical facility that tried to kill me.

I'm there with a chest full of pulmonary embolisms -- a baker's dozen blood clots spread across both lungs. They were a complication from surgery to reattach a torn Achilles tendon.

The hospital room was chilly, and my left foot was still in one of those immobilizing walking boots. Had to be elevated, which made my blanket too short to cover both my feet. The nurse comes in to check on me, and notices my 'good foot' sticking out at the bottom of the covers. She compassionately asks me if I'm cold. I say yes, and she promises to come right back.

She brings me a pair of socks. They are reasonably nice as socks go; cotton, gray, with little patches on the bottom to keep me from sliding around on the floor. I've seen similar socks since, at Wal-Mart. They retail for about eight bucks a pair.

I thank her for her kindness, and she rubs my arm.

I heal enough to go home, and later discover a pretty major insurance SNAFU. The paperwork shuffle sends the wrong documents to the wrong desks, and important deadlines pass. Ultimately I get stuck with the entire bill -- even though I was paying a significant amount to be "covered" before my accident.

Getting stuck with the bill meant I got to see all the charges. Almost $50,000 worth of individual pain-killing pills, Heparin, sleeping pills, meals, fees, and a $74.95 pair of socks.

Huh?

Double-checked it, and yep. It was a real charge.

Line 47.
Socks, Non-Skid: 74.95

Made me a little sick at the stomach. Friends and family had brought me lots of things I needed. I'd forgotten to ask for a pair of thick socks, no big deal. It was an oversight. I would have survived without them for a night or two. And if she'd asked me if I was cold enough to want some fing $75 socks, I would have said "thank you, but no. I'll be ok."

See those socks at the top of the page? I'd pay $75 for those. Hell, Maybe even $100. I don't know if you can see it or not, but they're shiny. Got what looks like hundreds of rhinestones on 'em. Plus .. THOSE socks are famous! Worn by a popular musician in his heyday. If I wore THOSE, everyone would look at them and say "damn, bro. now THOSE are socks. Where'd ya get 'em?"

And I'd prolly blush a little bit, and tell a story that would make me cool. And I'd feel GOOD about paying $75 for a pair of socks.

Instead, the now tattered gray socks with the non-stick tabs make me queasy. And probably will until the day I die. I'm not throwing away $75 socks.

Ever.

I listened to the health care debate for almost two whole years. I read all 2000+ pages of the bill Congress produced, and it makes me queasy too.

It is mysticism -- sort of like when religious people try to explain the plan of Salvation to me. I'm sure THEY understand it, but it's gobbledygook to me.

Here's MY solution, short and sweet enough to cram into ONE blog:

1. Allow everyone to buy a health care plan. Not just businesses buying for groups. Sell them in set amounts of coverage. $1M, $500k, $100k .. with varying deductibles. Allow anyone to sponsor them; businesses, churches, charities, private organizations, social clubs peopled by men named "Bob." Literally, anybody.

Also allow companies to sell term or life policies. Planning to skydive? Play semi-pro football on the weekends sans pads with your buddies? You sir, may need a $10M term policy, good for three years. That's gonna cost 'ya $10k/month ... OR you can gamble that gravity doesn't work, or Joe "wannabe-Brian Urlacher" Smith isn't coming across the middle to break your neck, and take your chances.

Now THAT money, is for catastrophic events. The things that we know will happen to each of us "eventually," that are completely fixable.

Heart attack? Insurance policy.
Rip your achilles playing parking lot pick-up ball when you're too old and fat? Insurance policy.
Having a baby? Insurance policy.

Insurance for all the mid-level stuff that's too big to fix at home, or with an outpatient doctor's office visit, but too small to require a second mortgage.

#2. Take away the mysticism of hospital pricing. One of the beauties that keeps insurance such a murky concept is that no one knows how much anything costs inside the doors of a clinic or hospital. Know why? Because there's no set price. They charge as much for EVERYTHING as an insurance company will pay. That's a recipe for two-way fraud and collusion.

Put up price lists.
Check-up: $20 (or $40, or $100 ... I don't care what an individual hospital charges for an individual thing, I only care that the provider and the patient both know it's cost/value at the beginning of the transaction..)

Cast for broken leg: $200

Allow Doctors to charge an hourly wage just like everybody else. Let me buy their time, and more importantly, their undivided attention.

Then allow them to explain my options with a menu that includes the prices, so I can understand the calculus and weigh the necessary vs. the luxurious. I'm not a moron, and neither are you. The doctor certainly isn't, so why can't we reason together about how far down the rabbit hole we want to go TODAY to figure out if I have indigestion, or esophageal cancer?

Plus, knowing how much something costs is an integral part of competition. Business slow? Let the hospital or doctor run a special; "back to school checkups, 40% off!"

Allow medical outfits to balance their books with supply and demand just like every other business in America. And let them actually get paid by the customer for their services, just like the grocery store, the gas station, and the morgue.

An outpatient procedure should not REQUIRE insurance. It also should not cost $10,000. It doesn't in lots of other countries.

I suspect, that you ... like me, get sick roughly the same number of times every year. You probably have since your 21st birthday. You could probably tell me, right now, within a range of 2 visits how many times you will go to the doctor or hospital in 2012.

That's something you can budget for, just like you budget for gas, and groceries, and new clothes. The most expensive item at the mechanic is only a few thousand dollars. And there's a mechanic on almost every corner in America. I cannot grasp why hospitals are so much different.

And when you have a procedure that WILL cost more money than you should reasonably be expected to have saved up for ... BLAMMO! You whip out that insurance policy, pay your deductible, and let the big boys pay for it... off the price list, not off some imaginary pay chart where gray non-skid socks cost $37.50 each.

Finally, there will be injuries and illnesses that nobody can see coming.

Your heart goes bad, and you need a transplant. Your child is born with a rare congenital condition that requires two years of in-patient care. You contract some off-the-wall virus from the crazy Outbreak monkey and we have to fly in Cuba Gooding Junior and Dustin Hoffman to race to the cure.

That's where I want Uncle Sam to step in. I don't need him to buy me an aspirin. I can handle that, if the price is cost + a reasonable percentage of profit. But if I need a new $20M liver, I don't mind having the rest of you kind tax payers chip in. And quid pro quo. I'll help out with your ten years of chemo if and when you require it.

I also don't mind if the hospital adds a few extra bucks to my bill that helps cover the people who can't afford care. There isn't a system that will cover everybody without it costing an arm and a leg. And as long as prices for the indigent are the same as what everybody else pays, I don't mind pitching in. I may need to tip in to the poor fund now and again, myself. Bad luck happens.

I acknowledge a couple of things. Becoming a physician is a difficult and expensive undertaking. In our system, they deserve to be paid well.

But they could be paid a bit LESS well if THEIR insurance rates weren't so absurdly high. In the current system, doctors get it from both ends. Bring down expense of care, and their malpractice rates plummet. Nothing helps inflate them quite like starting with a $50k patient charge for a hangnail procedure gone bad that ends up in court.

And the space-aged equipment American companies have developed is astronomically expensive. But that's true of a lot of industries. And I'm not so sure those costs aren't also tied to the collusion between insurance companies, big pharma, and big medicine.

I'm not a socialist (most of the time). I'm not a Communist. I'm just a guy who looks out at America and sees an over medicated country with horrible eating and health habits, and a medical system that is simultaneously underfunded, and overwhelmed.

This isn't capitalism. It's slow economic suicide.

That from a guy with ratty $75 socks on my feet.

Peace,

--Stew.

P.S. I don't believe my plan is perfect. I don't think it solves all the problems. I DO believe it's implementable, without creating a new agency, or tacking another $10T onto a debt that's sinking a sunken economy. What would you change? How would you fix it? I already know that you're smarter than Congress. Prove it.

Superhero Negro

We have turned Dr. Martin Luther King into a superhero -- and thrown away the key.

It's worse than prison; because without his unsolicited status he could have flaws, and make mistakes, and even be wrong on occasion.

That's not his lot.

Instead, some of the varnish flakes off when we look too closely. We 'discover' that Coretta wasn't the only object of his sexual affections, and take points away.

We hear his off-pulpit profanity, and try to juxtapose "motherfucker" with "I have a dream."

Its a fool's errand, because the same mind and mouth think and speak both extremes. The same brain and body enjoy the sex in both places. And the same intellect and intuition could see assassination coming, and admire a nice ass walking away.

We should be ashamed of ourselves.

If he were alive today, I wonder if Dr. King would see his role and historic speech at the March on Washington as the highlight of his life. If he were a movie star, I wonder if that wouldn't have been the blockbuster in a career that preferred small independent roles. I have a lot of questions about King. I admire him MORE now that his humanity shines through.

In ninth grade English Lit, Mrs. Mullenberg taught me that every viable hero has a tragic flaw. Growing up, I was never allowed to peek at the dark side of the Good Reverend Doctor.

Wasn't allowed to watch his stress build until he released it into some sexy Southern Belle he wasn't married to.

Couldn't acknowledge his anger spewing out in four-letter tirades among his closest friends. I am confident "the Movement" had its morons, and I wonder how he suffered them.

We have turned Dr. King into the Barbie Doll of civil rights; no genitalia, just a pretty face.

But the orator I have come to respect more is a multi-faceted MAN. A child of the 40s and 50s with warring spirits riding on each shoulder.

I can relate to THAT guy. One of MY angels covers his eyes with his wings about half the time. The other carries a pistol. And he ain't afraid to use it.

My man King is a man who could be distracted by pretty legs escalating into a plaid miniskirt while crafting a message that would change the course of history.

This is MY King. Not the superhero .. the man.

I have my differences with his philosophy. I abhor the use of children in warfare. It was his most effective tactic. I think "turn the other cheek" is a message of subterfuge crafted by men who plan to slap me. He found it a viable and controllable force of the universe, like gravity. I find pacifism degrading. He rode it to a place in history's Pantheon of greatness.

I am glad to live in the pool of promise made possible by his sacrifice.

I don't craft word pictures for the weak at heart. I don't write to make me feel good, or you feel better. I write because sometimes shit's got to be said. And I'm tired enough of the bullshit to say it.

I'm sick of the Superhero King. Tired of rehashing the Lincoln Memorial, and forgetting the Birmingham jail. Bored with fights over the holiday that don't ever reference the dog bites, and water hose bruises. I save my respect for the real guy who probably yelled at planning sessions, and held his own in the political in-fights, even if it meant crushing his opponents.

I like to read between the lines. And when I read the story of this phenomenal life, I see children left at home, fatherless for months at a time, while a bus line was being integrated.

I see a lonely, gorgeous wife -- married to an icon, when she might have preferred a warm body to cuddle up next to sometimes.

I see a church thrust into a harsh international spotlight by their baby-faced pastor when they might have preferred a Reverend who was in town long enough to visit the sick and shut in.

And I admire the, ... the, ... the, the SUCK it must have been to BE Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King.

Many people have asked what Dr. King would think about the 'black community' if he were alive today. Would he recognize it? Would he regret his role in its "progress."

I don't know, and he's not here to tell me. But my question is different..

If Dr. King were alive today, would he recognize himself? Would he smile ... or ... wince, at the Superhero Negro we have created in his image?

Happy Birthday, Dr. King. Can I buy you a beer?






















Peace,
--Stew.

...and your silly death threats...

I had a fascinating exchange with a dear friend last night.
It was short, and cordial .. but important to me.

As I type, U.S. Representative Gabrielle Giffords (D-AZ) lies in a post-operative intensive care room. A gunman put a bullet in her head yesterday morning.

His spree killed six people, including nine-year-old Christina Green and Federal Judge John Roll, 63. This morning's reports say 20 people are injured.

It is tragic to start a Sunday mourning.

But our conversation wasn't about grief. Sadness and anger are a given.

Our discussion was about timing. He has a view I respect, and understand to have some legitimacy, even as I disagree. I bring my point of view here; to my space, because it is on my mind this morning.

At issue was the timing of allusions to Sarah Palin during yesterday's chaotic coverage of the Tuscon violence.

He is a liberal, who despises her rise to prominence. But his perspective was that it is inappropriate to address the possible political undertones of an elected Representative being gunned down at a political event "before the bodies were even cold."

For what it is worth, he may be right. Mine is not a particularly political point of reference. My interest in the question goes to responsibility and how much accountability public figures have for their words.




On March 23rd of last year, Sarah Palin sent a controversial tweet to her 300-thousand plus followers:

Commonsense Conservatives & lovers of America: "Don't Retreat, Instead - RELOAD!" Pls see my Facebook page.

The issue at the time was a Health Care Reform Bill, now law, against which the the former Vice Presidential Candidate and Alaska governor was spearheading opposition.

I want to be up front about two facts:

1. I am not a supporter of Mrs. Palin. Her picture of America doesn't resonate with me. I find her voice shrill and irritating, and her words more often nonsensical than profound on any level.

2. I do not believe Governor Palin's intent with this tweet was to call for the execution of politicians. I believe she was using reload as a metaphor for not backing down from a political point of view; calling instead for re-engagement in the legislative fight.

That said, it was a poor choice of words. And the criticism was fast and furious.

Representative Steve Israel (D-N.Y.); among others, responded via twitter and a series of television interviews. His concern was the imagery:

Reload? @SarahPalinUSA Is your choice of words inciteful or ignorant?

For context, I ask you to recall that at that time there were numerous reports of personal threats to several Democratic lawmakers.

Death threats are common in America. I have always wondered about the people who make them. It seems a rather extreme response to go through all the trouble of promising to kill a person with whom you disagree. But yet, nothing controversial in America happens without allegations of threats to life.

Make a world-series losing error in game 7? Death Threats.

Say the wrong thing to the wrong crowd? Death Threats.

Vote an unpopular way on a legal matter? Death Threats.

Express an unpopular opinion on television or radio? Death Threats.

Run for President as a black guy? Death Threats.

Write a book with a contrarian view? Death Threats.

Dare to draw the Prophet Muhammed (peace be upon him) in a cartoon? Death Threats.

The point of acknowledging these threats isn't that we expect every vow of violence to manifest in a sidewalk assassination. Rather, that collectively "we" have to be aware that these morons with the hair-trigger threat gene walk among us.

And we expect the grown-ups to be cognizant of their existence, because being a public figure in America means that your words tickle millions of hammers, anvils, and stirrups ... and some of those inner canals feed directly into brains where the chemicals aren't balanced just right.

In a nation that prizes free speech, we don't expect you to put out those fires of insanity .. but from your public platform, we do ask you not to fan the flames.

We expect President George W. Bush to stand on his bully pulpit and publicly say to America:

The enemy of America is not our many Muslim friends; it is not our many Arab friends. Our enemy is a radical network of terrorists, and every government that supports them. --20 September 2001

To his eternal credit, he delivered. The non-partisan in each of us knows this paragraph saved lives and prevented lynchings.

Rights and responsibilities are the peanut butter and jelly of American citizenship. One without the other is either too sweet, or makes your gums stick together.

So when Political King and Queenmaker Palin chose to follow her OWN advice .. reloading instead of retreating on the issue, she gets the whole sandwich.

I am not prone to hyperbole, so let's speak of facts. Double click on the image that accompanies these words. Make it bigger. Take off your partisan hat for a moment, and just look at it.

A map of my beloved country, with 20 targets. Not metaphorical targets; actually scope views of specific districts in which it is "time to take a stand."

Then it lists by name, the people to be targeted:
#4: Gabrielle Giffords, AZ - 8

She now of respirators and scars, critically hanging on to life at Tuscon's University Medical Center, thank you to a man with a gun who picked her event as an appropriate target.

If this poster were a CD album cover, pointing out police districts instead of political ones, and our Sunday mourning was for Officers, would there be calls for cooler heads? Calls to slow condemnation of the artist? Same poster, same outcome ..

How about a racial separatist group, from any side of that minefield -- calling for its members to "stand up" against pockets of whites, or blacks, or hispanics? If this were their poster, and we were lighting candles over a Jewish Center, or at an NAACP rally, or Republican headquarters, would we seek to slow down the anger before we called for responsible speech?

I do not blame ex-Governor Palin for the crime. But that's not the standard for behavior we promote. The standard is to not speak words that everyone so easily calls to mind when the idiots among us do something horrendous.

Imagine this: Mrs. Palin could just have easily said "return."

Peace,

--Stew.