Month: April 2011

Cancun Redux, 2011

On April 27, 2011

Now that I’m back in Chicago in 50-degree weather (and have been since Easter Saturday), here are a few shots of Chichen Itza. Chichen Itza translates to “the mouth of the well of the people of Itza.” The Mayans used to throw their human sacrifices down one well (cenote) and drink from the other. The trip to Chichen Itza is one we made many years ago, when they still let you climb the pyramid.

Mayan Observatory at Chichen Itza.

If you’ve seen the movie “Against All Odds,” you may be familiar with some of these sights of one of the 7 Wonders (new) of the World.

Is this meant to represent a lizard or Quetzalcoatl?

The moon, at times, in Mexico, was bright red. This is a beautiful shot.

A picture of the moon during the now defunct Venetian Boat Night.

Now there's somethin' you don't see ever' day!

Saturday,April 15, 2011: Cancun’s Royal Islander

By Connie Wilson

On April 16, 2011

In Uncategorized

Pancho & Willie's on Friday, April 15, 2011.

Cancun, Mexico, Royal Islander Resort: We’ve moved down the street now, to the 9^th floor penthouse digs at the Royal Islander Resort. I’m sitting outside enjoying a balmy, slightly windy day, as groceries are being purchased from the downstairs store. We brought at least 7 bags of groceries with us. While we were assured

Two-year-olds need to be entertained during dinners out.

that we could “trade” from the Islander to the Sands, there would be the normal “trading” fee, which was something like $159. For $159, I’ll pack my groceries and move, which we did.

The daughter and her friend Emmie Futrell went out clubbing (Daddy-O’s has a revolving dance floor, they reported, and it looked as though some of the sweet young things tottering around on it might fall off at any moment) and did not get home till 2:30 a.m. Still, they had to leave for the airport at 12:30 p.m., while we had to pack up all of our clothing and sundries, which included about 13 bags of groceries from our unit and that of the son and daughter-in-law, who were sharing with their good friends. (That unit had 4 children under the age of 5 inside and one of them got sick and threw up in bed during the night).

We stayed up to watch David Letterman, but, realizing that we’d have to pack early to move, we were not up late. The 23-year-olds in residence at our unit had no such qualms. We took the girls to lunch at LaVeranda restaurant and the Cobb salad was delicious. The Nandas, with children Olivia (the sick one) and Kira were at the next table and they left just ahead of the girls for the trip back home to Chicago, where we heard the temperature was 40 degrees.

Achilles the Iguana will pose with you,,,for a fee.

I am one of the few who has an actual trench coat with her, for

Scott, Mom and Stacey,

the return. Satch was going to wear shorts. The troops leaving are brown and we had all eaten at Pancho & Willy’s last night, which was a last-minute substitute for the Rainforest Café. Son Scott had asked the taxi folk if the Rainforest Café was still in business and received a positive response. When we got there, wending our way through a display of a tiny lion cub on a leash (name: Kira) whose owner jealously guarded any picture taking that didn’t involve a fee, we learned that the restaurant went out of business 7 months ago. (So much for that idea!)

Pancho & Willy’s was right there (as was the Club known as Coco Bongo). We posed for some silly photographs (included here) and then entered the chaos that is Pancho and Willy’s. A person who looked like he had made up his face to resemble a

Achilles the Iguana and Ava from Scotland enjoy the sun,

vampire blew up balloons for the children, but one of the foursome kept chewing on her balloons and they kept breaking and hurting her. She had not had a nap and spent a lot of time crying about the broken balloons.

The twins (especially Ava) seemed smitten with the balloon animals they received and, although Ava is not fond of loud noises, they hung in there pretty well for quite a long time, as they did have naps. I ordered whatever I thought would hurt my inflamed mouth the least. All this salsa and “hot” food is not good for Yours Truly. Therefore, I had a chicken dish that involved stuffing a chicken breast with cheese of one sort and putting more cheese (Parmesan, I think) over the top. It was okay. Drinks were served in huge glasses that were very tall and tippy. Stacey’s leaked and soaked the table area in front of her. She also was issued a bib for her fish tacos, as was her father with his chicken tacos.

Following the extremely loud and noisy meal (and the random picture-taking seen here), we went back to the bus stop. To take the bus downtown costs 8 and ½ pesos, per person. That means that 12 of us could take the bus for 102 pesos, which is less than $10. A cab driver, seeing just Scott at the bus stop, tried to suggest that he could take all of us for the same price as the bus. When he learned that we had twelve people, it quickly became apparent that his plan was unworkable.

Ava really liked the bus. All the way downtown she kept putting her head out the window, like a dog, and saying, “Wow!” Elise seemed to like the bus as well.

When most of us (10 out of 12) returned to the Royal Sands (last week’s haven), the 2 girls went off on a club-hopping adventure. It seems slightly more dangerous in the downtown areas of the city (especially if you do not speak Spanish), but it still seems safe in Cancun. I would not want to send my young adults off by themselves, whether they were male or female (but especially if they were female), after events like the slaying of the young girl in Aruba, and my last words were,” Don’t let anyone put roofies in your drinks.” This may have seemed like a joke; it wasn’t. I am happy to report that both girls displayed enough common sense to have a good time making the rounds and return safely to the Sands.

As we waited for the bus to come to pick the girls up to take them to the airport for their flight back to Nashville, Emmie said that her boyfriend’s parents have a place at the Moon Palace, and we talked about where that was, in relation to our location. The Moon Palace, which I have heard is very nice, has “floating” weeks. In other words, you don’t have one particular week that is reserved for you. We have “fixed” weeks, but it is possible to trade your week…for a $159 fee.

Satch and Scott listened to our long-time favorite, Richard (Ricardo) “pitch” them on a penthouse unit at the Sands that went on the market for $14,000. The normal going rate for a penthouse unit, said Richard, had been $47,000. This was a “distress” sale. He didn’t know what the “distress” was (divorce? Ill health? Someone lost his or her job?) but he predicted it would not remain in the system long. The next closest, in terms of a good deal, was every-other-week, which would cost you $16,000 for a non-penthouse unit.
The boys were interested in (maybe) splitting the cost of a unit, but the economic times do not suggest that this is the wisest course of action, just now. They refrained from any purchases and agreed to consider for the future whether any such investment was in their future.
We learned that we first bought in 1997. We had been coming for 3 years prior, which would be 1994, when Stacey was 7 years old. Our first 2 years, we stayed in 2 connecting suites at the Fiesta Americana Condessa. The third year, when Stacey was 10 years old, we brought friend Lisa Lage with us. (That year we flew out of St. Louis and had a horrible time, as we did not have notarized paperwork from Lisa’s parents with us, which caused us to almost have to stay in Texas to rectify the situation.) We bought at the Islander when Stacey was 11, and we have been coming to the Islander and the Sands (one week in each place) ever since.

Our time at the Royal Islander, where we are on the 9^th floor in the penthouse (and where I am typing this now) will expire when we are 77 years old. Our time at the Royal Sands will expire when we are 105. Or, in all probability, we will expire before our time does.

April 12, 2011: From Mexico (Xcaret, Tulum)

By Connie Wilson

On April 13, 2011

In Uncategorized

Tuesday, April 12, 2011, Cancun, Mexico:

Stacey (Wilson) and Emmie (Futrell) visiting Tulum, Mexico.

The girls (Emmie and Stacey) took an all-day excursion to Xelha today, which saw them also visiting the ruins at Tulum. Most of the pictures below are of the ruins at Tulum, which has a breathtaking view of the ocean and a beach far below.
The girls seemed to really enjoy Xelha, where, they said, a bicycle could be used to move from place to place and visitors could wander off on paths alone, rather than having to move as part of a group tour.

Beach at Tulum, Mexico.

What follows are the pictures that Emmie Futrell shot, mostly in Tulum, Mexico.

Tulum, Mexico ruins.

Tulum: tropical birds.

Ruins at Tulum, Mexico.

Rock Island Arsenal Implicated in Shady Arms Deal

By Connie Wilson

On April 12, 2011

In Local, Of Local (Quad Cities') Interest, Politics

On July 28, 2006, the Army Sustainment Command (i.e., the Rock Island Arsenal) in Rock Island, Illinois (also known to we Quad City natives as Arsenal Island) posted a 44-page document on fbo.gov entitled “A Solicitation for Nonstandard Ammunition.” The order was similar to other orders on fbo.gov, in that it had blank spaces for name and telephone numbers and hundreds of spaces to be filled in. The document represented a semi-covert operation by the Bush Administration, which wasn’t at all sure that the 2008 presidential election would go Republican. The Bushies wanted to make sure that the Afghanistan rebels would have enough ammunition and weapons to keep fighting, no matter who was president, so they were going to go around Congress, as is often the custom, and prop up the Afghan National Army.

The order was a big one: enough to equip a small army. It included ammunition for Ak-47 assault rifles and SVD Dgarunov sniper rifles, GP 30 grenades, 82 mm Russian mortars, S-KO aviation rockets in enormous quantities. The contract would go to a single bidder as the wording read, “One firm fixed-price award, on an all-or-none basis, will be made as a result of this solicitation.” The money was only available for 2 years (which was the amount of time George W. Bush had left in office.) Unlike most federal contracts, there was no dollar limit posted.

These kinds of contracts are what the Pentagon calls a “pseudo case:” the intent was to go around Congress and allocate defense funds without the approval of Congress. The order would be published—but only on fbo.gov.

A couple of stoners located in Miami stumbled on the posting and soon were bidding $300 million (which turned out to be $50 million lower than the nearest competitor) for this enormous government contract. The two principals in the small firm known as AEY, David Packouz and Efraim Diveroli, had no business being in the running for such a large contract, but there were 3 reasons why they got it, anyway:

#1) The Bush administration had started a small business initiative at the Pentagon, requiring that a certain percentage of contracts awarded go to smaller businesses like AEY.

#2) Packouz and Diveroli specialized in exactly the sort of arms the ad was looking for. They had the “past performance” that the Pentagon would be looking for, and,

#3) The posting required only that the ammunition be “serviceable without qualification.”

What that last bit of mumbo-jumbo means is that quality of the ammunition was not an issue, indicating how ambivalent the Bush administration was towards the Afghan fighting. They’d supply them with arms and munitions, but, as Packouz and Diveroli put it, “The Pentagon didn’t care if we supplied shit ammo, as long as it went bang and out of the barrel.”

Thus began the long, strange journey that led Packouz and Diveroli to not only pose as international arms dealers (while smoking dope in South Beach), but also to prison. Diveroli to a 4-year-prison term and Packouz to turn state’s witness. Along the way, at least one of the players in this elaborate scam ended up dead under mysterious circumstances (Kosta Trebicka of Albania) and a small-time guy like Diveroli told his new partner (recruited from their mutual synagogue), “I’ve found the perfect contract for us. It’s enormous—far, far bigger than anything we’ve done before, but it’s right up our alley.”

The first task order was for $600,000 of grenades. It was important that the company of two come through on the initial order. As Diveroli put it to Packouz in the “Rolling Stone” article from which this information is taken (“Arms and the Dudes,” by Guy Lawson in the March 31, 2011 Rolling Stone issue), “You’ve got the bitch’s panties off, but you haven’t fucked her yet.” (p. 59).

The second task order was for $49 million in ammunition, including $100 million rounds of AK ammunition and over a million grenades for rocket launchers. Packouz calculated that he stood to make as much as $6 million on the contract—if the duo could deliver. The order allowed the two to live the high life at the Flamingo in Miami, telling the other attorneys and would-be models who lived there that they were arms dealers. The line was something along the lines of, “You know the war in Afghanistan? The bullets are all ours.”

Unfortunately, there were only the two of them. A task normally handled by teams of weapons experts was dumped in Packouz’ lap and he and Diveroli began contacting the Ukraine, Montenegro, the Czech Republic, Albania and attending events like the International Defense Exhibition in Abu Dhabi for suppliers. Rosboron Export, the official dealer for all Russian arms, sold more than 90% of Russian weapons, but Rosboron was banned by the State Department for selling nuclear equipment to Iran. There was also the problem of shipping the weapons…if they could be found…to Afghanistan. Turkmenistan, a former Soviet satellite, had to be crossed to get to Afghanistan, and permission could not be obtained. As Packouz put it, “It was clear that Putin was fucking with us directly. If the Russians made life difficult for us, they would get taken off the Russian blacklist, so they could get our business for themselves.” (p. 72, Guy Lawson’s Rolling Stone article “Arms and the Dudes.”

Every day, Packouz would send volleys of e-mails to Kabul and Kyrgyzstan and the Army Arsenal command in Rock Island, Illinois, set on an island in the middle of the Mississippi, once designated something like 7^th to go in the event of a Russian nuclear attack. (Omaha with its SAC facilities always ranked high on the list, too).

The contracting officers told Packouz there was “a secret agenda.” Quote from the article, p. 72: “They said Bush and Rumsfeld were trying to arm Afghanistan with enough ammo to last them the next few decades. It made sense to me, but I didn’t really care. My main motivator was making money, just like it was for General Dynamics. Nobody goes into the arms business for altruistic purposes.”

The 9% profit margins that the newbies had decided might be high enough soon gave way to 25% mark-ups, leaving Packouz and Diveroli with $85 million in profits. The boys had delusions of grandeur, even moving into larger offices, rather than the modest apartment they originally operated from and bringing in 2 young secretaries courtesy of Craigslist, 2 more friends from their synagogue and a Russian interpreter to help them fulfill the contracts. Said Packouz of that time, “Things were rolling along. We were delivering on a consistent basis. We had suppliers in Hungary and Bulgaria and other countries. I had finally arranged all the overflight permits. We were cash positive.”

A few weeks after the contract was awarded to AEY, the fledgling arms dealers were summoned to a meeting with the purchasing officers at the Rock Island Arsenal. Because they were so young, the duo asked Ralph Merrill, the Utah Mormon gun manufacturer in his sixties who had bankrolled them, to go with them to the meeting. Diveroli was also able to show auditors a personal bank balance of $5.4 million.

As “Rolling Stone” describes the meeting on Arsenal Island on page 59: “The meeting with Army officials proved to be a formality. Diveroli had the contracting jargon down, and he sailed through the technical aspects of the transaction with confidence: supply sources, end-user certificates, AEY’s experience. Said Packouz afterwards, “I just think it never occurred to the Army people that they were dealing with a couple of dudes in their early twenties.” (p. 59, “Arms & the Dudes” in March 31, 3011 Rolling Stone magazine.)

Eventually, as one of the boys’ aunts had predicted all along, things went bust. The New York Times ran a front-page story in March of 2008 entitled “Supplier Under Scrutiny on Arms for Afghans.” As the eventual House Committee on Oversight and Government Reform concluded, “The AEY contract can be viewed as a case study in what is wrong with the procurement process.” (p.75). As the article concludes, “The Bush administration’s push to outsource its wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, in short, had sent companies like AEY into the world of illegal arms dealers, but when things turned nasty, the federal government reacted with righteous indignation.” The investigation than ultimately yielded a 4-year sentence (lengthened by a questionable lapse of judgment on Diveroli’s part in handling a machine gun when specifically banned from doing so), there was “a questionable need for the contract, a grossly inadequate assessment of AEY’s qualifications and poor execution and oversight of the contract.”
And it all happened at our local Rock Island Arsenal. Read the gorier details (and there are LOTS more, in the March 31, 2011 Rolling Stone magazine with Howard Stern on the cover.)

Cancun, Mexico: April 11, 2011

By Connie Wilson

On April 11, 2011

In travel

Pool at Royal Sands.

Cancun, Mexico, April 11, 2011, Royal Sands Resort – As we continue our vacation (for about the 18^th year or so, the pool once again beckoned.

The pictures tell the story. Today was the (complimentary) taco party, and those in our party of 12 are making their plans; Xelha for the big girls on Tuesday; massage for 3 of us on Wednesday; golf for the men on Thursday; breakfast with Richard (who sold us our time shares) on Friday.

The pictures below tell the story.

Emmie & Stacey.

Craig in pool.

Ava Wilson, age 2 years, 3 months, April 11, 2011.

Fun times in the sun in Cancun for Olivia and Ava.

Stacey loses it with the XelHa Monster.

Emmie & Stacey pose with some poor schmuck in a really hot suit.

Cancun, Sunday, April 10: First Full Day

By Connie Wilson

On April 11, 2011

In Of Local (Quad Cities') Interest, travel, Uncategorized

Ava enjoys the pool at the Royal Sands in Cancun, Mexico, on April 10, 2011.

We’re here in Cancun, our first full day.

The pools and beaches are much less crowded than normal during “spring break” but this could be because “spring break” is over. Or, it could be that people are not traveling to Mexico, due to all the bad publicity. Or it could be because they’ve jacked the price(s) up on things like a massage (formerly $75, now, for three of us $297. (Yikes!). I got him to throw in a pass to the exercise/spa/hot tub room ($50 for the week) and one of our party is responsible for 1/3 of that amount. So, if you deduct the $50, I guess the expense (which is a birthday gift to daughter-in-law Jessica) is the same as last year’s amount, but everything seems more expensive.

Stacey and Scott poolside in Cancun at the Royal Sands on April 10, 2011.

We have two units in play: one is our “normal” 1^st floor digs, with the 23-year-old daughter (Stacey) and her friend Emmie Futrell in residence in the second bedroom with its own bathroom. I love my 2-year-old granddaughters, but it is nice that the people in this unit actually sleep slightly later.

Two-year-old Elise Wilson enjoys the water in the baby pool at the Royal Sands.

Today was the “Welcome Party,” which means free drinks (rum and cokes). I am so over the hoopla of throwing water balloons at one another and refuse to take part, as I have done for the past 10 years or so. The daughter and her father gamely took part, but the winner…believe it or not…was Elise, age 2, who somehow ended up with the only intact water balloon and “won” a bag from the establishment, which is handy for taking things to the beach. I thought ahead and had the spouse pack the “Chicago” bag I bought at the airport last year on our way here. It makes a perfect beach bag, and he said it wasn’t too difficult to get in on the bottom of his luggage.

Just off the lobby, this is the view from the Royal Sands.

The trip here was uneventful. We even had an empty seat between us in the set of 3 on American Airlines, which is unusual. Is this, too, a sign of the economic times?

There was a woman sitting in my aisle seat when we first reached our row, and she seemed very put out to be asked to take her own seat, which turned out to be in the middle. She spent most of her time prior to take-off sulking and turned on her laptop computer and began watching some cartoon or movie that featured dogs barking loudly. Since she had not brought headphones, it appeared that I would have to listen to her dog cartoon for the entire trip, but I was intent on ignoring her obvious pique at being asked to sit in her own assigned seat.

Heaven, thy name is Cancun's beach.

At that point, she summoned the stewardess and began some long involved tale about her husband’s pulled hamstring muscle and how he HAD to be sitting on an aisle. This was odd, because he was never seated on the aisle. He was seated against the exterior of the plane and SHE was seated on the aisle, the seat that was mine, which she really did not want to give up.

April 10, 2011 in Cancun, Mexico (Royal Sands Resort).

The stewardess kindly offered them places behind us so that her husband could have an aisle seat…, which was obviously not the issue, despite the woman’s clever oh-so-sweet explanations to the stewardess.

After their first move, next thing I heard was that they were moving AGAIN.

The first part of the trip was extremely bumpy. Even the stewardesses were told not to get out of their seats. There were storm systems and they buffeted us until we cleared Memphis, which did not seem like that long a time. One small child on the right side of the plane (age approximately 3) knew and shouted only 1 word for the entire trip. “NO!” There was a baby approximately six months old in that aisle, as well. The baby cried upon take-off, but was pretty well behaved, overall.

We arrived at our “home away from home” fairly early (noon) and learned that the shuttle prices from the airport have escalated from $12 per person to $16 per person. You must walk through the airport and outside near the front entrance of the airport to book a shuttle at the information desk. You must not be led astray by the many Time Share sales people standing there ready to pull you aside and book you into a Time Share “pitch.” As owners of 2 time-shares since 1995 or so, with a history of visiting for 3 years before buying (Fiesta Americana Condessa for 2 years and 1 year renting at the Royal Mayan), we know the drill.

This year, our time-share, the Royal Sands, has improved many things. The stove and microwave in our kitchen are new. All villas have wireless. New 32” flat screens have been installed in 3 places inside the units (2 bedrooms and the living room area).

We visited the store within the resort immediately and bought the basics. The “basics” this year cost $300 U.S. dollars. This seemed high, but we were expecting all 10 other members of the family fest to arrive at our unit and expect snacks and drinks. It’s always nice to be warmly greeted with hospitality. We will be here for 2 weeks, so we will definitely use the eggs, bread, margarine, pop, etc.

After the purchase of the groceries, the husband said, “If I have even one beer, I think I’ll fall asleep.” We had to get up at 5 a.m. in order to make our 8 a.m. flight.

As soon as the groceries (pushed to our first floor unit in borrowed grocery carts) were put away, my husband announced that he wanted to go sit outside by the pool. He had already unpacked his clothes. I had not, so I stayed in the room and unpacked my suitcase. At some point, I decided to just lie down for a few minutes.
An hour later when my daughter and her friend arrived from Nashville, I heard discussions about whether to wake me up. I immediately joined the group.

Soon, the 2 family groups with the young children arrived and now the party is in full swing. More on the rest of the week (today is Sunday), as it progresses.

One bit of good news: “Ricardo” (i.e., Richard), the one continuing presence in our close to 20 years of visiting Cancun, has returned to the Royal Resorts fold and we will see him for either lunch or breakfast on Thursday. Today was the Welcome Party. Tomorrow is the traditional Taco Party.

We spent the night watching “The Celebrity Apprentice” on TV from a Florida station. Gary Busey is obviously nuts. Very entertaining, but obviously a liability for the Men’s Team. Mark McGrath was very articulate and got kicked off. I think Donald Trump is doing all this “I’m running for President stuff” to get publicity for his show, among other pursuits.

Viva, Cancun!

Cancun, Mexico: April 9, 2011

By Connie Wilson

On April 9, 2011

In Uncategorized

After getting up at 5 a.m. to make the 8 a.m. flight to Mexico, we are now here. (No pictures yet, but soon).

In checking m Internet mail, I received a request that I apologize for an “over-the-top” comment made to a person in charge of a judging committee for the Bram Stoker awards. I had volunteered (I thought to help this person out) a long time ago. ) I recently received a notice asking me to ‘sit tight.” Then, I received a list of people who will be “judging.” I am not among those who will be judging, which is “ok.”

I wrote back and asked why, in Heaven’s name, I was asked to “sit tight.” Was this a process not unlike a pretty girl getting multiple offers for date night? The pretty girl in question would “pick and choose” when she knew who was going to apply? That was not my impression, originally. I understaood that the organization was short on true blue volunteers, and, since I am semi-retired, I thought I would offer. Bad decision, apparently.

I was pronounced “over the top” for asking what happened (???) and told to apologize. I sent a Universal Apology to the Universe. This entire scenario is getting ridiculous. Sucking up 101. I am too old for sucking up 101. I do “play nice in the sandbox” but, “Sheesh.”

At this point, as we just arrived in sunny Mexico and the weather is vastly improved over Chicago, I am in fine fettle and good spirits. I will apologize to anyone who will pay the price. I will not, however, suck up to people insincerely, because I do it really poorly. I am sincere, and, when it is merited, I do it well, but insincere sucking up is not my stock in trade.

My two-year-old granddaughters arrived. Must go eat.

Toyota Tundra Tears A New One in Prius, Tank-side

By Connie Wilson

On April 2, 2011

In Local, Of Local (Quad Cities') Interest, travel, Uncategorized

Terrible Toyota Tundra

I decided to post this account of my car accident of March 31, 2011, to warn other drivers who might not want to have their small car crushed by a giant silver behemoth of a truck, simply because they are driving up Kennedy Drive, on their way to Best Buy to purchase 3 flash drives. Not in any particular rush. Just 12 blocks or so away from home.

For those who live in the Illinois Quad Cities, I want to warn you of this “most dangerous” intersection…(or one of the most dangerous)…in the city. I mean, of course, 30^th Avenue and Kennedy Drive, right where the Walgreen store sits. I was driving south toward the Jewel store on Kennedy Drive. I came to the intersection mentioned above and noticed that there were several cars in the left turn lane (which would be a turn to head your car toward Silvis, something I did every morning for 17 and ½ years, so I know that turn well).

I was paying attention. I was only driving 30 mph. You have to pay attention in the East Moline to Moline area, or you will be picked up for speeding. I try to always run radar. The border between Moline/East Moline on 30^th Avenue as you drive towards Wilson Junior High School is particularly problematical.

There is a hill on 30^th Avenue, or perhaps it is more accurate to call it a dip. As your car heads towards Moline (from East Moline) the speed limit drops from 35 mph in East Moline to 30 mph in Moline, with almost no marking. And this happens at the bottom of a hill. So, the police thoughtfully park their vehicles on a side street, wait for you to reach the bottom of the hill and (probably) move above 30 mph, so that they can give you a ticket for speeding.

At the bottom of said hill you are usually “fair game” to be picked up for speeding, since you may have inadvertently picked up speed as you coasted down the hill (it’s called gravity), and you are entering Moline’s 5 miles per hour slower speed limit, although you have not changed roads or directions. If this seems unfair to you, join the club. In order to be in strict compliance with the change in driving speed between Moline and East Moline, you’ll have to be applying your brake as you coast down the hill. Otherwise, you’ll be facing the music in court. Be aware. Be wary. You could try defying gravity, but I doubt if you’ll have much luck with this approach.

But I was not ON 30^th Avenue this day.

I was merely diving slowly (I only go 30 mph now everywhere to avoid speed traps like the one on 30^th Avenue mentioned above) up Kennedy Drive towards the Jewel store in Kennedy Square (and on past it to Best Buy out near Southpark Mall.)

As I approached the red light at the intersection of 30^th Avenue and Kennedy Drive, heading towards Kennedy Square (i.e., southbound) I stayed on the right side next to the right curb, since it was apparent that the left-turning cars would hold up traffic that merely wanted to go straight down Kennedy. Here comes the rub.
When you go THROUGH the intersection, still heading south towards Kennedy Square, the two-lane road often has cars parked along the right side curb. Not always, but often. This day, I considered myself lucky. No cars parked on the right. Clear sailing in the “right” lane, (which is not really a lane, but will ultimately narrow so that you will have to “merge” into the left lane.)

As I cleared the intersection, I noticed in my rear view mirror that a very large silver truck was tailgating me. The driver was practically in my back seat. He seemed to be going very fast, to me (remember: I’m the one who only drives 30 mph for the reasons mentioned above), but he may simply have been going 35 mph, the speed limit in East Moline (but NOT in Moline).

I glanced in my rear view mirror and commented, to myself, that I was glad I could continue to hug the right hand side curb and didn’t have to “merge” right away, because the person driving the truck was apparently in a much bigger hurry than me and very territorial about being first with a bullet. He was obviously an “Alpha Male” type who must remain in front of all other drivers at all times. Fine by me, I thought. You just go ahead and zip right on past me! I’ll just stay over here on the right, hugging this curb, until you take your giant silver whomper-stomper of a vehicle and head on down the road. Picture me saying, “Dum, dum, de dum”at that point. I also knew this intersection was a “ bad” one because my mother-in-law once had a car accident there when picking up my daughter from her piano lesson, so, no fool I, I would just hug that curb and let old Mr. Silverback or Silver Truck have the whole road for his giant ugly vehicle. No hurry on MY part to “merge.”
Unfortunately, just as I consciously willed this ill-mannered tailgating creep to zoom on down Kennedy Drive and leave me there, a curb-hugger, he hit me.

I heard a grinding, scraping, crushing sound, and my car shuddered violently. It nearly went out of control. If this idiot pushed me into the oncoming northbound traffic (i.e., the cars coming from Kennedy Square and heading north up Kennedy Drive), I would be hit broadside. I was fighting to control the car and thinking, “This mouth-breathing Neanderthal just HIT me!”

I searched the right-hand side of the road, frantically looking for a place I could pull over and get my car (and me) out of harm’s way. Luckily, the vacant lot and not-very-heavily traveled gravel road at 35^th Avenue and 2^nd Street was immediately ahead on my right. I actually had the presence of mind to signal for a right turn before pulling over and stopping my car. I had already made a note of the license plate of the Silver Toyota truck, as I wondered if he would stop at all, since he had just rear-ended a small car driving ahead of him in traffic, a car he should not have been that close to in the first place.

Mr. Neanderthal jumped down from his silver truck and was waving his arms and screaming. Why was he screaming? Beats the hell out of me! HE had just creamed my vehicle, knocking it so violently that I almost was pushed into the ongoing traffic lane, and now HE was yelling at ME. What’s wrong with this picture?

I glanced quickly at the back wheel well area of my green Prius (“the grasshopper”) and saw that parts of it were sticking out at 90 degree angles from the rest of my car. (Ooooo. That can’t be good, I thought.) One thought I had was this, “I wonder if I can drive this car after he hit me and crushed the wheel well area? It might be that the piece that is totally turn off my vehicle will puncture the tire or something.” I said nothing to the wildly gesticulating elderly male driver so out-of-control in front of me. He had obviously hit me. It was too late for him to UN-hit me, so now we simply must deal with the consequences in an adult manner. Or so I thought. That only works if both of you are capable of behaving in an adult manner. I have learned recently that many MANY adults are arrested at a maturity level of a twelve-year-old. In fact, when I visited the State Farm insurance agency, the young girl helping me file the claim said, after she heard how awful the elderly drive had been, “Yeah. The old ones are worse than the younger kids, usually.” Food for thought. Cranky old person? A stereotype, but one this guy certainly fit. And, keep in mind…THIS guy’s vehicle was not hurt AT ALL. The policeman wrote down ZERO dollars damage to his truck, so why was HE screaming at ME? Seems rather immature and unfriendly and, also, potentially designed to distract attention from the very real fact that he had just rear-ended the vehicle of a woman who was even older than he was old, but was still capable of trying to act like a civilized human being, which, I have learned, to my chagrin, many Control Freak types are not. Get in their way and they freak out.

Mr. Neanderthal was now berating me. (Seems odd, but there you have it….) He was being totally uncivil. I immediately gave him my name. I asked him what his name was.

“I’m not giving you my name, you smart ass.”

Well, this was going well, wasn’t it? I ask the man who has just ruined my car…(and damn near caused me serious bodily injury) for his NAME at the scene of an accident he has caused and he refuses to give it to me!

I tried a different tack. “I think we should exchange insurance information.” I went to my car to get mine out of the glove box.

Mr. Neanderthal says, “I ain’t giving you no insurance information. I’ll only give it to the po-lice.” (He pronounced police as 2 syllables.)

Since I frequently am in Chicago, a second home, and the Chicago police do NOT want to be bothered by people who are merely randomly running their vehicles into one another UNLESS one of them is hurt (neither of us was, fortunately), I mentioned this fact. “I’m not sure the police want to be called, unless there is personal injury, and we’re both okay.”

Wow! Wrong thing to say! And, I admit, more the way it works in the Big City than in East Moline, Illinois.
”You shut up, you smart ass.”

I think Mr. Neanderthal then also called me a liar or some other uncomplimentary thing for having shared this bit of Big City information about police responses to accidents in big cities which, admittedly, may not apply in what my friend D.J. refers to as “Poopyville.” (D.J. means no harm, and, himself lives in Las Vegas, so people who live in glass houses shouldn’t put down wholesome communities that are in the middle of nowhere, but D.J.said it, not me.)

Since I have endured quite a bit of verbal abuse online recently, which would include the Tea Party members who didn’t like the piece I did praising Eisenhower (go figure) and the ex-collaborator who has been trolling some really questionable sites and lying his ass off to the point that legal action will be taken, and now Mr. Neanderthal, who was being a complete jerk. Mr. Neanderthal didn’t need to admit guilt, but it would have been nice to have heard him say something human or compassionate like, “Gee, this is too bad.”

But no. Mr. Neanderthal, whose large silver truck had NO damage [but did have a number of colorful paint chips on his undented bumper] (makes you wonder how many other cars he has hit with his large ramming speed vehicle?) was going to simply verbally abuse me, waving his arms about and acting like a total child and complete jerk. In fact, I think there are even some rules about HAVING to give your name, if asked, at the scene of an accident, which someone closer to his size should remind him about. But this idiot wasn’t going to provide his name when politely asked.

At no time did I verbally abuse this person or call him names, or accuse him at that time of what he had done (i.e., ram into me while following too closely and driving too fast) but, hey! I could have said, “Look, you jerk! Look at the damage you just did to my vehicle! What-the-hell were you thinking, driving up behind me that fast?” But I did not say any of these things to the rude, unpleasant, 64-year-old creep who rear-ended me and then acted put out at ME! I knew he was working on some story that would make this (somehow) be MY fault. He was the type. I could just hear him now. And I could also imagine that, if I made any effort to speak with him further, Mr. Neanderthal might actually become violent.
True, it was only 3:30 in the afternoon. But I was a woman, driving alone, and an old fart with gray hair was waving his hands in the air in a threatening manner. Perhaps it was time to retreat to my vehicle and call for back up. Which I did.
Back up, in this instance, meant my retired husband, napping at home.

I got in my dented Prius, locked the doors, got out my phone, and dialed my husband, who was approximately 13 blocks away, asleep. He, in turn, called the police. I gave the spouse directions to my location just up the street and, within 5 minutes, the cavalry rode to the rescue.

For one thing, I needed someone with some mechanical aptitude to take a look at my wheel well and tell me if I could drive away from this fender bender.

For another, I might need someone to clock Fart Man if he took a swing at me.

For a third, men don’t really like to listen to “the little woman” and it would be far better if I had a man present, backing me up and telling this guy to shut up. I have known this since the days I spearheaded (some would say master-minded, but, with all the collective bargaining rights in the entire state of Wisconsin going under, perhaps masterminding something that only lasts for 31 years isn’t anything to brag about) collective bargaining rights in Silvis, Illinois. That would be the SEA efforts to gain collective bargaining rights. I insisted that a man stand up with me then, as Co-chairman of our teachers’ group, and I definitely wanted one here with me now.

By now, the police had arrived, which means one officer who seemed to be about 30 years old. Fart Man, the old Neanderthal who would not provide his name or insurance information but felt like a Big Man threatening a 5’ 2” woman whose car he had just ruined while driving like a maniac. Naturally, Mr. Neanderthal insisted on telling HIS story first. I ambled over near where he was bending the cop’s ear, because I just knew Neanderthal Man was giving a creative version of how innocent he was. [HE didn’t drive right up my rear end, practically into my back seat. HE wasn’t going fast. HE wasn’t tailgating. He was totally blameless, of course, and I should be hanged as a witch at sunrise.]

This seems to be quite the refrain of late. I had considered taking out an ad offering to be the “scapegoat” for all the world’s problems, (for a fee, of course.) Mr. Policeman didn’t want me to listen in on the old fart’s version. He instructed me to go sit in my vehicle, which I did without protest, joining my husband there. He had found my insurance papers for me in my glove box when I became rattled at the prospect of imminent injury from Neanderthal man and fled to hide within my vehicle.

Now the young policeman (who actually said, after taking my statement that he wished we had met under different circumstances) took my statement (and it took him a really long time to write everything up, indicating that there was zero damage to Mr. Neanderthal’s vehicle, but $1,500 to mine.)

We have now taken my poor Grasshopper to the Toyota dealership and filled out claims forms with State Farm and I will be without a vehicle for some period of time while parts are ordered and repairs are made. I am grateful that I was not hurt. I am grateful, also, that Mr. Neanderthal was not hurt… although I wish he would try, for once in his selfish life, to put himself in someone else’s shoes and realize that tailgating someone and hogging the road (I would have had to merge, eventually, but HE was not going to let some little Libtard car push his big ol’ honkin’ Toyota Tundra around. HE was going to be Numero Uno in line and, if you don’t like it, well, I’ll just gun my vehicle and run right over you!) And I wasn’t even at the point of needing to “merge.” God only knows what he might have done if I HAD tried to merge, with him in the left lane. I’m glad I never tried to do so while his silver truck was on the loose.

That, my friends, was my Thursday afternoon (March 31), one day after my wedding anniversary (over 40, so alert the media). It was not the anniversary present I had most desired.

I hope Mr. Neanderthal learns to be civil, polite and courteous and also reads up on the rules about how you MUST give your name at the scene of an accident, something that he flatly refused to do. As for the “let’s call the cops” thing: I needed the cops more than he did, since he had obviously done this sort of thing before (judging from the variety of paint colors displayed on his undented bumper) and he seemed to be a very unpleasant, impolite, poorly raised creep. I’m not going to give you his name. He knows who he is. If there’s any justice an even BIGGER vehicle will tailgate him and cream his car some day, and maybe, if he’s as mouthy and unpleasant as he was to me, cream him, as well.
Whatever happened to the days when, if you rear-ended somebody who was driving ahead of you, it was an automatic ticket. That’s what it should have been, for this guy. But instead, he’s still out there, tailgating unsuspecting small vehicles and probably shouting “ramming speed!” as he hits them. And, of course, telling HIS fantastical story to the police FIRST, because God forbid anyone but Mr. Neanderthal is allowed to go first.
Doesn’t he remember the Beatitude that said, “The first shall be last?” Keep that in mind while speeding up Kennedy Drive in East Moline, Illinois, hoping to be able to, at some point, merge into traffic without having to fight your way in.