Weekly Wilson

I signed myself up for a class at the “Tribune” building on Facebook. The class began at 9:00 A.M. , so I rode the bus to the 400 block of North Michigan Avenue and entered the impressive-looking old stone building.

The building has inscriptions on the walls that reflect the laws as they pertain to freedom of speech and freedom of the press.   I was met at the door by a young girl who directed me to go “down the hallway and turn left and you’ll see a Welcome sign.” Unfortunately, she failed to mention the room number and that I had to take an elevator to the basement, as well. Therefore, I found myself standing in front of a nice sign on an easel with absolutely no idea of where to go next.

At that point a very nice gentleman in a suit and tie took it upon himself to attempt to guide me to the correct room, which had never been mentioned in any literature. We went back to the lobby, but the welcome girl was gone. We asked at the desk and that yielded little, so he took me to the 7th floor (wrong) and, again, back to the lobby. There, we learned that I would have to take the elevator to the basement, which had never been mentioned in any directions. (My guide suggested I write this down on the “appraisal” form following the class.)

The class went about as I had anticipated and we were released to “the real world”  about noon. I knew  the statue of Marilyn Monroe was right next door, so I took the pictures you see below of the Marilyn statue that is all the rage in Chicago this summer season (replacing the giant eyeball that held that distinction last year.)

After enjoying the Marilyn phenomenon—complete with tourists lined up to pose under the giant statue—I caught a bus to travel the rest of the way down the Miracle Mile to the 900 block (or so) where Water Tower Place is located. I had thought I might be able to walk it (from the 400 block) but thought better of it now that I had paraphernalia from my morning class.  As I got off the bus, I began walking in the wrong direction, as it turned out. Nothing looked familiar and I was standing on a street corner waiting for the light to change when I noticed there was a policeman next to me, so I asked him, “How much farther is Water Tower Place? He laughed and said, “It’s 2 blocks back THAT way.” I turned around and began walking towards my destination, but, as I neared the Hancock Building, I heard the unmistakable sounds of “live” music being played in the courtyard outside the Cheesecake Factory and decided this would make a far better lunch venue than the interior of Water Tower Place.

My waiter, Peter Weaver, was very nice and obligingly posed with the 3D glasses I had found in my coat pocket while walking to the venue. They were left over from a Peter Gabriel concert (in 3D) that was shown at the Icon Theater on Roosevelt at 7:30 p.m. the previous evening. I only know one Peter Gabriel song (“In Your Eyes” from the movie “Say Anything”) but I always liked that one song, so I went. There were many unusual effects for the audience, as during a song called “Red Rain” when the rain appeared to be coming down on the audience and the idea of Peter holding a small mirror and reflecting back the lights on the audience via this hand mirror, which was weird. There was a full orchestra backing his vocals, called the New Blood orchestra, with a very young director named Ben Foster and arrangements for orchestra by John Metcalfe, who came out only to direct Gabriel’s big hit, “In Your Eyes,” which he sang as an encore. (“In your eyes, the light, the heat. …I reach out from the inside…”) Who can forget the iconic scene with John Cusack holding the huge boom box on his shoulder and playing that song for Ione Skye?

I ordered the half sandwich and soup, with salad ($10.95). To be honest. the soup wasn’t that great, but everything else was fine and my waiter was wonderful. I have film of the group playing, but it says it is too large to upload to this site, so you’ll have to imagine them singing various Motown songs, like “My Girl” and “Stand By Me.”

Following my lunch, when I spilled an entire glass of water over the table (not on myself, however, fortunately),the music stopped and I paid my bill and proceeded to Water Tower Place with the sole goal of going to Sephora and maybe to the Coach store. Here you see me with the two girls who work at Orogold, the make-up store just before you enter Sephora on the 5th floor of Water Tower Place. Mor Bare and Nina Angel. Nina is the blonde;  I didn’t believe her that that was her real name, but it is. They were excellent saleswomen and sold me a bionic mask that is going to turn me back into a teenager with use just once a month. Both are from Israel and very pretty.

Unfortunately, the budget of a retired English teacher did not allow me to purchase as many products as I probably need (and want), but I did secure the most important ingredients to lovelier me…or so say Mor and Nina. I asked Nina if I could use her name in my next book. She agreed.

I told the girls, as I left, that I still had to make the obligatory stop at Sephora, as I needed some other things, besides the gooey warm stuff that would save my skin.

Therefore, I walked the 20 feet or so to the entrance of the Sephora store, where I entered saying, “BOIING. I need BOIING.”(Boing, for the uninitiated, is an under-eye concealer that my daughter turned me on to.) My clerk at the Sephora store turned out to be the store manager, Domingo Gonzalez, who has worked for Sephora for 6 years. He helped me find a brush and some night eye cream to replace my empty container and posed, obligingly, with my 3D glasses and the orange I had taken from the “Tribune.”

Now, it was time to travel down the escalator and find the Coach store, where I would buy a new fall purse. This would set me back a fair amount, if you know anything about Coach products! ($228, before tax, …and tax in Chicago is 10% or something outrageous..highest in the country.) Mor and Nina, if you’re reading this, now you know why I had to pass on certain cosmetic items that I’m positive would have helped me immensely. I needed a new purse, so what’s a girl to do?

I checked out all the Coach items and settled on the one that was the last of its kind in the store, and…said clerk Erin Watt…was the one most of the girls in the store have purchased because it has some gold in the “C” logo. [And it's big. I mean really big!]

Here are the two girls who helped me at Coach, Erin Watt and Kelly Rady (Kelly is the blonde)

My last stop was within Macy’s, where I bought a pair of earrings on sale for $9 ($10 with tax) and met Katai Fenesk and Daniel Marban. (I had Katie? Katai? write her name down for me, and I confess I cannot tell whether it is Katie or Katai, but both were very nice and they told me the store had recently been remodeled (hence the pictures of the store’s interior). Since it is the old Marshall FIelds, that might not set well with some folks, but the only complaint I have is that the escalator was not working…but at least it was the “down” escalator. (From which I took one of these photos.)

Somehow, I convinced Katie (Katai? Katwi? Katui?) that a photo of the two of them in men’s watches would be so much more interesting if they used the props (i.e. the 3D glasses and the orange.) Surprisingly. they didn’t need much convincing. They seemed to get into the spirit of “a day in Chicago” and here they are with the aforementioned glasses and orange. I apologize to KatieKatai/Katwi/Katui but I can’t tell what comes after “t” and at this point. weren’t we all bored anyway?

I’ve been putting captions under all these photos and under this one it said, “Macy’s employees go for World Orange Eating record, but the captions are not appearing. (Go figure).

Here are some shots of the interior of Macy’s. featuring their new remodeling and their broken escalator (which I am standing on to take this photo).

And, last. and certainly least, since it is blurry, is a picture of the interior of the bus (#146) I rode back to Roosevelt Road. One girl had very red hair that was clown-like in its color and consistency. Two others were reading books. One was reading “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo.”

The red you see is not a hat, but the actual hair color, layered atop a brunette shade. Very…unusual.

I returned from my adventures at 4:30 and, in preparation for tonight’s Republican debate from Simi Valley, I took a nap. After that, I watched the debate and twittered during it and wrote a piece that you should all go read on Associated Content, which actually pays me for my contributions, unlike THIS blog, which is mine and makes not one farthing.

Tomorrow, back to the IA/IL Quad Cities. I hope you have enjoyed ” a random day in Chicago.”

The locals watch Obama on television from the Wyffels' Seed Factory in Atkinson, Illinois on Wednesday, August 17, 2011.

I took off for Atkinson, Illinois at 10:30 a.m. President Obama was to visit this village of 1100 people at 11:30 a.m. After 2 presidential campaigns, where the time of arrival is usually off by at least a half hour (His 3:30 stop in Alpha, for instance, did not occur until 5:00 p.m.) I was pretty sure that I’d beat the President to the flag-draped town 8 miles east of Geneseo.

I drove past Geneseo on Interstate 80, an approximate 30 to 40 minute drive, in the Grasshopper (my 2005 green Prius) and, at each overpass, I noticed police with police and highway patrol cars above me. At each turnaround there was a large orange piece of heavy duty equipment that would prevent anyone from doing a “turnaround”—even if turnarounds were not specifically prohibited by signage.

Wednesday, August 17, 2011.

So, picture me humming “dum de dum dum” (although I was actually listening to the late, great Amy Winehouse sing “no, no, no” to the idea of going to rehab. )Up came the exit for Atkinson (pop. 1100) and I exited. I made the turn onto the overpass to the left only to have a highway patrolman frantically wave at me to “go back.”

Initially, I began back-pedaling like a kid stung by a wasp, but then I thought, “Wait a minute. How am I going to get into Atkinson if this is the exit and this guy won’t let me use the road?”  (At that point, I had not yet thought of back roads.) I put the Grasshopper into Drive and slowly and cautiously inched forward to ask the nice highway patrolman where he suggested I should go. he didn’t say, “To hell,” but he might as well have, given the level of hysteria he projected.

“You’re on the entrance ramp!” he screamed, quite unnecessarily. “You’re just ahead of the motorcade!”

This was exactly as I had hoped would be the case: me waiting for a brief time, rather than spending my whole morning standing around in the hot sun waiting for a large black bus to breeze by me. One man I spoke to later said he had been outside since 8:00 a.m.

Federal stimulus money helped underwrite the construction of the village's new fire station, currently under construction.

I finally backed up and took the ramp heading east towards Chicago, not quite sure what my next move should be.  As I was speeding along on Interstate 80 to the east, I saw one of the turn-arounds that had, for some inexplicable reason, not been barricaded by large orange trucks. Despite signs suggesting that I not make a turn-around, I was headed in the wrong direction and getting nowhere fast, so I chanced it. Now I was, at least, heading back toward the overpass I was not being allowed to use to enter Atkinson. Since the first Smokey (yes, they were wearing those peaked hats) had been quite set against allowing me access to the delights of the village of Atkinson, I needed to figure out how I was going to access the town. I didn’t expect to be among the 300 people crowded into the Wyffel’s Seed Facility: those seats went fast and people got in line as early as 2:00 a.m. and still got shut out. I just planned to wander around in town and see what the mood of the populace was.
Would there be demonstrators, for or against the president’s visit? Would there be unpleasantness of the sort I had recently been subjected to, where a know-nothing graduate of Jefferson High School (in Independence, Iowa), a Bible-thumping seller of reverse mortgage programs who was “so proud” to be in the industry had called me both “stupid” and “godless” because I was not down with the Republican presidential candidates. I could envision some of these reverse mortgage engineers (think Fred Thompson), driving trucks with gun racks, getting in my face (or someone else’s face who had actually managed to gain admission to the tiny town) and being unpleasant. This was what I hoped to find out: just how unpleasant or pleasant would the populace be? What would the mood be “on the ground.”

I began heading back towards the overpass. It occurred to me that, since the first Smokey the Bear policeman had told me that the motorcade was right behind me, I could perhaps get a snapshot of the motorcade on its way across that very ramp, heading into town (something I was not having much luck doing.)

I drove as slowly as I could drive while on an Interstate and, about a mile from the overpass, while braking sharply, 2 cameras 2 maps, 2 notebooks and my purse all fell off the passenger’s side seat and fell to the floor. Turning on my signal, I pulled over to the shoulder of I-80 to pick up my camera equipment, et. al. By the time my head came up from under the dashboard, I was greeted by the sight of yet another Smokey the Bear look-alike burning rubber while accelerating his highway patrol car in reverse, heading towards the Grasshopper at warp speed.

This conversation took place with the highway patrolman guy, who was as impressed with his lot in life as anyone I’ve met.

“MA’AM! WE CAN’T HAVE THIS!”

“I know. My cheap Canon fell on top of my expensive Nikon!” (me)

(Smokey) “NO! I MEAN WE CAN’T HAVE YOU HERE!”

(Me) “But I AM here. I’m just waiting till the motorcade goes by so I can get into town.”

(Smokey) “WE CAN’T HAVE THAT! MOVE ALONG!”

(Me) “Can I just pop out and take a picture of the overpass as the motorcade drives into town?”

(Smokey) Dumfounded. Incredulous look.

So, I once again drove down Interstate 80, this time driving back to the west, towards Geneseo.  Since I was still laboring under the misconception that Obama had spent the night at the Blackhawk Hotel in downtown Davenport and, therefore, would be coming from the west, I briefly considered staying in the parking lot of the convenience store at the intersection and taking a photo from that vantage point.

Then I remembered that there was a back road to access Geneseo. I reasoned there must be a back highway to access Atkinson and I plugged in the Atkinson Town Hall as my destination of choice. Sure enough, Highway 6 would take me to Atkinson, and I began following the nice lady’s voice to drive town the flag-lined road and roam the small village.

As I drove aimlessly about in Atkinson, I was struck by the small-town look and feel of the boulevard-like main street, which, I noticed, had a corner tap that was open for business.  I parked my car and strolled in to order a Diet Coke and test the waters.

There was a bar stool open at the bar, next to a couple, Mr. and Mrs. VanOpdorp, who lived in Atkinson for years but now live in Rock Island.

“My grandfather came through here on the train when he arrived from Holland. He got off the train at this very bar, which has been open since the 1800′s, and had his first beer in America and he just decided to stay.” So, if he had bought his first beer in New Mexico, Mr. VanOpdorp might have been living in a much warmer climate.

Without asking anyone’s political designation, I asked Mr. and Mrs. VanOpDorp and others seated near me in the bar who they liked in the 2012 presidential race.   “Do you think the Republicans will nominate Romney to run against Obama?” I asked, as the two plasma TV sets behind the bar showed President Obama’s remarks, live, on KWQC Channel 6.

“Naaah. The Republicans don’t have a dog in the fight, so far,” said Mr. VanOpdorp.

“You don’t think the Republicans have any good candidates?”

“Naaah.” Mr. VanOpdorp and his wife both shook their heads no.

“What about Governor Perry of Texas?”

“Naaah.”

Apparently, the crowd inside the Corner Tap in Atkinson was either firmly Democratic or simply disinterested in the outcome of the election, but everyone in the bar was very interested in what President Barack had to say this day. All were listening intently and respectfully.

Later, on the streets of Atkinson, fathers held their young children on their shoulders to catch a glimpse of the President of the United States as he drove out of town in his big black bus, waving to all of us standing on the sidewalks waiting to catch a glimpse of him.

In the wake of Michele Bachmann’s pulling out all the stops, including bringing in Travis Tritt and “meat sundaes” to her tent at the Iowa Straw Poll, is it any wonder that, after 17,000 votes were cast, she was pronounced the winner by a slight margin (200 votes or so) over Ron Paul, who also had his “Dump Bernanke” tank and the “dollar slide” AND the best tent position. Add to that Bachmann’s claims to being “a 7th generation Iowan” and it doesn’t seem too surprising that she won the straw poll, which is about as unscientific as you can get and seldom predicts the winner, anyway.

That is why this line from Matt Strawn, Iowa Republican Party chairman, seems disingenuous:  “I think for the first time in a long time, there’s probably more uncertainty over what the ultimate finish will be in Ames.”  My reaction to that: “Ha!” I wrote a piece that appeared yesterday that pointed all the above out and drew the obvious conclusion that Bachmann would do well. She did. What is Matt Strawn smoking or eating over there in Ames?

If you missed the notice in the Chicago “Tribune” today (Thursday, August 11, 2011), the Securities and Exchange Commission on July 25 requested documents of Deere & Company regarding a possible violation of the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act in Russia. A Deere spokesman told Bloomberg that the company is cooperating with the SEC request and gave no further details.

It would be nice to see what candidates Deere bankrolled in the recent political elections and which they will bankroll in 2012.

Connie Wilson’s Contributor Profile – Yahoo! Contributor Network – Yahoo! Contributor Network – contributor.yahoo.com

Speaker of the House John Boehner (R, Ohio).

As the debt ceiling talks stall, I am reminded of the “Rolling Stone” article I wrote on Speaker John Boehner back in January. If you haven’t read what is essentially a synopsis of an extremely informative article in “Rolling Stone” by Matt Taibbi, there’s a link above. It would be a good idea to read it, in light of the unprecedented crisis he and his party have thrust upon our country with the failure to pass an extension of the debt ceiling, something done 18 times for Reagan and 7 times for Clinton. Bush the Younger, who got us into this mess by blowing through the surplus that President Clinton left and getting us into multiple conflicts worldwide also had the debt ceiling raised several times, whether the leadership was Republican or Democratic.
But our first black president cannot catch a break from the Tea Party tribe recently installed in the hallowed halls of Congress.  I saw the potential for impasse up close and personal in 2008 at the Ron Paul Rally for America in Minneapolis’ Target Center. I remember saying then, “If the Republicans can harness all this energy and enthusiasm and youth, they have a shot at revitalizing their party,” which, let’s face it, was looking pretty old and white and homogeneous across town in St. Paul at the RNC. That harnessing, unfortunately, has led us to the brink of financial ruin, as the group that emerged became known as the Tea Party.

Here’s a quote from today’s (July 28^th) Chicago “Tribune” regarding Speaker Boehner and the current impasse:  “He is the party,” said Rep. Steven C. LaTourette (R, Ohio), a longtime ally.   “If he’s diminished, the party is diminished.” Given the way they’ve been acting, all I can say to that is a resounding, “Good!”

A few more quotes from a different Chicago “Tribune” article by Lisa Mascaro and Kathleen Hennessey of the “Tribune’s” Washington bureau. (And make no mistake about it: the “Tribune” is pro-Republican most of the time and praised Boehner’s bone-headed 2-step tax proposal, which would put “we, the people” through this mess all over again in 6 months’ time…a bad idea in and of itself.)

Page12, July 28, “Nation & World” section, “Boehner Steers A Rocky Path:”  “Earlier this week, the plan was relegated to life support when an analysis showed it would not cut as much as advertised, threatening to take Boehner down with it amid warnings of dire economic consequences for failing to act.  In a quickly changing atmosphere, though, little is certain.”

The “Tribune also said, on the same page, “If the GOP majority ends up falling in line, Boehner will emerge as a cool political operative who found a way to steer his caucus and its unruly freshman class to momentary unity.  If the bill fails, Boehner will have proved the conventional wisdom:  Neither he, nor possibly anyone else on his team can control the rambunctious tea party-aligned GOP ranks that are redefining what it means to be a conservative in this country.”

Later in the article (and at great length in the original January piece. link above), the comment was made:  “Boehner’s hold over these newcomers is fragile.”

Let’s face it: NOBODY has control over the Tea Party loose cannon element in Congress. The nation is pretty sick of it.  Quoting folks who live near the Beltway, Faye Fiore of the “Tribune” papers quoted 66-year-old Warren Cohen of Fairfax as saying, “Lunacy” and announcing his willingness to pay more taxes on his $250,000 in income.  That comment was made “as the country barreled toward a financial cliff.” Noted Fiore, “They’ve (citizens interviewed) had it up to here with politicians who listen to the fringes of their parties, then expound about what ‘Americans want.’”

I just signed a petition authorizing President Obama to invoke the 14^th Amendment and, if necessary, raise this debt ceiling on his own recognizance. He has tried to “lead from behind,” as the pundits put it, being reasonable with a group of intractable Congressmen who act like two-year-olds and putting up with a lot more ridiculous behavior from the Tea Party crowd than any informed, intelligent, dedicated public servant should have to put up with. It seems like most of them deserve a “time out.” This former Senator and Harvard grad , who is now the President of the United States,  is at the mercy in the case of my own district (17^th Congressional, Illinois) of a guy with a 2-year degree from Black Hawk Junior College and not much else on his resume, other than owning a pizza parlor, being firmly in the pocket of big contributors in this area such as John Deere, and having once served his union. He and the man he defeated (Phil Hare) were both staunch Catholic graduates of Alleman High School in Rock Island, but only Bobby Schilling has 10 kids. (Hare had only 2). Only Hare had 27 years’ experience as Lane Evans’ right-hand man until he had to retire with Parkinson’s disease, also, and that, too, shows in this most recent idiocy. Schilling is among 5 first-term GOP House members from Illinois. He was endorsed by the Tea Party when he ran and you can bet your endangered Social Security dollars that he is going to have a real fight on his hands during the next run for office, given his performance to date.

Here is how Faye Fiore in McLean, Virginia put it:  “They (the citizens) want this debt game over.  It’s getting old: rich lawmakers playing chicken with the lives of people who can’t afford it.” Senator Harry Reid has already announced that the plan, even if it were to pass, is DOA in the Senate, and there is also the matter of a presidential veto that would be likely. But getting this group of Republicans to agree on anything is like herding cats, and not particularly bright cats, at that.  Does the old cliche “Lead, follow or get out of the way” carry any meaning any more? The Republican “followers” seem unwilling to “follow” their own leader and the ostensible leader has never been noted for leading much of anything but the group leaving the 18th hole for the country club bar. Ergo, get out of the way seems apropos.

It Came from the ’70s: From The Godfather to Apocalypse Now is on tour in July and August. Here are the book blogs that will be reviewing “It Came from the ’70s” and when they will have information up about the book:

1)  “Under My Apple Tree” – July 11, 2011

2)  “Dan’s Journal” – July 12 Review. Also a Guest Post on July 13.

3)  “She Treads Softly” (Lori) – July 13 Review and Guest Post on July 14, 2011

4)  “Reading, Reading and Life” – Kendall – July 15 Review

5)  “5 Minutes for Books” – Elizabeth – July 13 Review and July 17 Guest Post

6)  “To Read Or Not to Read” – Marcie – July 18 Review and July 19 Guest Post

7)  “Satisfaction for Insatiable Readers” – Gina – July 19 Review and July 20 Interview

8)  “Books, Books, the Magical Fruit” – Sue – July 20 Review and July 21 Guest Post

9)  “Emeraldfire’s Bookmark” – Mareena’s – July 21 Review and July 22 Interview

10)  “Babbling About Books & More” – Kate – July 25 Review

Check out these varied book blogs to see what these book reviewers thought of “It Came from the ’70s: From The Godfather to Apocalypse Now.”

I copied the column below from the archives of www.blogforiowa.com. It will appear within a new Kindle offering that will go up very soon on Amazon and Barnes & Noble. The title of the book is Laughing through Life, and it chronicles funny stories from my first years as a young wife, mother and teacher, on through the following of the presidential candidates in 2004 and 2008 and up to the present. When it appears for sale, I’ll be sure to let you know. For now, enjoy this “sneak preview” of one of the offerings within it. (And if you want to see the original picture of Al Franken and me, check the archives of www.blogforIowa.com.

Keynote Speaker – Al Franken

AND YOU ARE THERE!

Or

”A Mush Mute, a Big Hat and a Plum”

Just a few comments about the October 16th Jefferson/Jackson (2004) annual Democratic dinner at Veterans’ Memorial Auditorium in Des Moines.

1)    The acoustics at Veterans’ Memorial Auditorium suck.

2)    Because the acoustics suck, the large TV screens have captioning. The captioning must be done by a machine. This can lead to much merriment. Especially if you have made it your goal, after at least three hours of waiting, to obtain and consume a minimum of three glasses of white zinfandel prior to Al Franken’s appearance.

3)    “Ed is the Governor of Pencil.” I think the machine MEANT to say that Ed is or was the Governor of Pennsylvania.

4)    The word “Dear” is listed as “Deer.”

5)    The machine cannot make up its mind whether the choir of Gospel Singers is from the Maple or Elm Street Missionary Baptist Church Choir. At this point, the machine is introducing various tree types. Things are very confused.

6)    We are asked to join hands with the person next to us. The person next to me, on my right, is Thomas Fischermann, Economic Correspondent for the German weekly “Die Zeit.” I tell Tom that holding hands in this fashion in America means that we are now legally married. Tom tells me that he knows this isn’t true, as he was raised Catholic. I admit that I lied (which is more than I can say for George W. Bush). Tom turns out to be a delightful seat-mate for the dinner, which we are not eating.

7)    At one point, after the droning of fully two dozen would-be Democratic candidates, none of whom any of us knows, Tom says he might have to go back to his hotel room and watch Al (Franken) on TV. (He doesn’t.) He is disappointed that Sharon Stone isn’t going to appear (aren’t we all?) I ask Tom whether he thinks Vanessa Kerry is wearing nylons. He is too much of a gentleman to comment. Oh, those European men. Especially those who had English teachers from Wisconsin.

8)    After about 2 hours of the droning and bellowing (the sound system is REALLY bad), I say that it is going to be my goal to drink three glasses of white zinfandel before Franken takes the stage. I am actually doubting that Franken will EVER take the stage. This turns out to be a really bad plan. Why? I have taken my college roommate as photographer-in-residence, and, when I put my camera and the wine glasses (small plastic cups at $5 a pop) on the floor, she accidentally kicks a glass of white zinfandel over my camera and it completely soaks it. Thomas rescues the camera from the ever-widening pool of wine. The strap is soaked and the lens is “cloudy.” I do not get one single usable picture from my trusty Canon after the unfortunate wine incident, henceforth known as “Zinfandel-gate.” As I did manage to secure two glasses of zinfandel prior to Zinfandel-gate, I don’t care. Later, I will rue the day. Or night.

9)    To my extreme left is “Jane,” correspondent for “People” magazine. She is covering the candidate’s children for a story. Jane is very nice. She is dressed in black. She would like some food. We do not get any food. We would not get anything to drink, either, if I hadn’t made the infamous “Zinfandel-gate” run. (*Kids: Take note! Do NOT try this at home!)

10)    Other errors on the sub-title machine that amuse me:  “Fill” for a candidate whose first name is “Phil.” “He is a man of grass.” (This may actually be accurate; we don’t know. Perhaps he meant that “W” is an *ss? Or a man of *ss? Very confusing. Don’t know; can’t tell you.)

11)    When someone says, “The future of this country is at stake. The future of the world is at stake,” Thomas leans over and says, “The sky is falling.” I laugh. Perhaps I should write this down? Again, don’t know; can’t tell you.

12)    More machine sub-title errors: for “pirate suit,” (which is connected to Al Franken’s remarks about George W. Bush wearing a ridiculous flight suit with a huge cod-piece on his now-infamous “Mission Accomplished” battleship appearance). The machine spells out: “pie rat.” Perhaps this machine is smarter than anyone realizes.

13)    Other errors that I cannot explain, from the sub-titling machine: “sash and acute” (?) “A mush mute, a big hat and a plum.”

14)    I enjoyed Al Franken’s remark that, after 9/11, the country was very united. “My college roommate even got out an old T-shirt to wear that touted America. Of course, it took him four hours to white-out ‘sucks.’”

15)    What have I learned from this experience? Never trust sub-titling machines. Always trust the German correspondent for “Die Zeit.” He is very knowledgable, very handsome, and we chat at great length about the Diebolt voting machines and the potential for voter fraud in the upcoming election. Please give Thomas a raise; I think he likes Vanessa Kerry, and he will need it to win her heart.

16)    Never try to drink three glasses of white zinfandel while simultaneously shooting film and taking notes. But it’s ok to laugh. A lot.

Three local authors will be signing books in Long Grove during the annual Strawberry Festival, on Sunday, June 12, 2011. The trio will be 2 blocks from the fire station, selling a total of 10 different titles, which range from self-help nonfiction to science fiction to ghost stories set along Route 66.

The 3 local authors taking part in the event are debut author Pauline Marquez, head of last year’s Quad City Book Fair David Dorris, and Connie (Corcoran) Wilson.

Mr. Dorris’ second book, “LIfe Is Too Short” will be on sale, as will titles ranging from “It Came from the 70s: From The Godfather to Apocalypse Now,” “Hellfire & Damnation,” “Out of Time,” “Ghostly Tales of Route 66″ (Volumes I, II and III), and “Both Sides Now.” The authors will also be present at the RME (River Music Experience) on July 30 from noon to 8 p.m. Time frame for tomorrow’s signing is noon to 4 p.m.

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.)

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.