Justice, California-style

I shouldn't be taking the time to do this, but I can't stop myself.

Oh NO! According to MSN.com, Kim Kardashian, TV personality and magazine bimbo, is outraged. Her life has been thrown into a black hole because the California Supreme Court upheld Proposition 8, the recent referendum on gay marriage--with which the people of California said "NO" to gay marriage. "This really makes me sad..." she is quoted, also saying "Shame on you California! We must all continue to fight the h8!" (sic)

She is just so, so wrong on so many levels.

1. Why, why, why is this hate? Apparently resistance to any off-the-wall concept du jour is hateful. Conversely, if one publicly despises time-honored values which have borne us a civilized society and great freedom, that is considered a free and open exchange of ideas by my friends on the left.

2. California is a big state. A lot of people [I have no idea how many] had to have voted against the legalization of a gay marriage there. That being said, this is apparently the will of the people even if only one vote had made the difference at the time they voted on Prop 8.

3. The California Supreme Court is thought to be one of the two most liberal in the nation [equalled only perhaps by Massachusetts] by legal scholars who think about things like that. This decision was 8-1. Not even close, in a state literally percolating with lefties. This really has to frost the libs, who regard court systems everywhere as their home-owned government grocery store.

4. In three thousand years of human history where are references to a union between two [or what the hell, maybe more] people of the same sex? This is a fairly recent concept, a dandelion sitting atop the Mount Rushmore of time. And just about as significant. Gay people are free to live with each other, to do as they please [try that in the ultra-liberal socialist paradise over in North Korea] and are unable only to present themselves as man and, uh, man. Or as woman and woman. They will lack some legal benefits and protections open only to a traditional union, and they may each require their own health insurance. Why is there an assumption that every aspect of society must remake itself to be acceptable to whatever the alternative lifestyles are demanding at the moment?

5. Justice Kardashian is joined in her articulate dissent by such deep-thinking heavy hitters as Elton John, Christina Aguilera, Britney Spears, Heidi Montag [whoever she is] and, of course, that paragon of teenage philosophy, Miley Cyrus. They're probably supported by most of the pop-culture Hollywood icons that can be swept up on Rodeo Drive buying $700 jeans, loitering there hoping the Us photographer will see them out spending someone's money.

6. And lastly, as a matter of curiosity, why would any responsible news outlet pick up on anything Kim Kardashian has to say? Share with me her credentials to publicly critique the actions of the Supreme Court, or perhaps even traffic court. Her TV show makes one yearn for the pithier wit of the late Anna Nicole Smith. What has Kim modestly done, other than to serve as a benchmark for making Paris Hilton look intelligent? Has she guarded the Republic, fed the hungry, praised the Lord, brought in a payroll? Historically her largest concern--at least in my memory--was the size of her ass. Seems appropriate to me.

We hold nothing against gay people who go about their lives like everyone else, just trying to get by, and everything against those who want to remake this nation in their own narrow image. Until that happens, I am satisfied for Kim to be sad, and ashamed of the Golden State.

Road Trip, Part II.

A lot of the interesting things on the Turnpike happened on the "Hoot Owl" [the night shift] but there was one day shift that stands out in my feeble memory. The names have been changed to protect the, uh, perpetrators which I understand are still living.

Only on a few occasions did my 19-year-old self enjoy a solid week of 8-to-4, working days like a real person and able to visit evenings with friends. And remember this was a summer job, not a career, so I treasured these day shifts. One beautiful summer morning I reported to the gate at El Dorado to relieve the "Hoot Owl" man. It was the morning after a storm had powered through, clearing the skies, lowering the humidity and refreshing all with a cool breeze. Truly a magnificent specimen of a day. Into this idyllic setting drove one Fred Grimes, Kansas State Representative for Butler County, Democrat, and lawyer from nearby Augusta.

I had heard of Grimes and seen his pictures around for years. He represented the whole county and had served for some years. Dad knew him slightly through the county Bar Association but we'd never met in person and I'd never given it a thought at all. Until that beautiful morning.

He drove in to my gate to exit from the Turnpike, and handed me his ticket. [The way it worked was you entered the Turnpike at a toll booth, and the attendant would hand you a stiff card with your vehicle class, the name of the point of entry, the time and date, and a chart with the tolls to all the other exits from that one. You would surrender it at the point of exit so the collector would know where you came from and thus how much to charge--it still works like that to this day.] As I recall, he paid the toll from Topeka where he had entered, and then said, "Can I ask you something?" [These conversations are as accurate as I can recall, having occurred almost forty years ago.]

"Sure, what can I help you with?" I replied.

"Can I keep that ticket?"

No one had ever asked me that before. I thought he would be seeking directions to something. I shook my head. "I have to turn it in. It's part of the accounting. It has to stay here so I'll balance with the bank." I wasn't kidding. The auditors checked every collector each day for cash errors and those tickets were part of the audit. I studied his young/old face. "Why do you want it?"

At this point the honorable legislator squirmed uncomfortably behind the wheel. He paused, and I could see he was choosing his words carefully. "It's for my wife."

That really confused me. But he continued, "I'm Fred Grimes. I'm the state representative for this district." He stuck his hand out the window of his car. I gave it a shake. The warm morning sun was in his face and he was squinting to get a good look at me and measure me up. "I worked late last night at the Capitol and started out for home, but I was just too tired to drive all the way back home so I stopped and slept a few hours at the rest area by Emporia. I've been gone all night and should have been home hours ago. My wife is never going to believe me, that I was sleeping in the car."

Aha! Suddenly he looked familiar. Indeed he needed a shave and to run a comb through his hair, and his shirt was rumpled, so his predicament seemed genuine. "But why do you want this?" I asked, waving the treasured ticket. I also wanted to ask him what he had done previously to earn the wife's suspicion, but for once I kept my big mouth shut.

"That has the time printed on it when I entered the turnpike, doesn't it? Look on there, you can see when I went through the gate last night." And sure enough, atop the little card in familiar blue ink, his entry had been preserved for all eternity by Topeka's entry machine at 12:30 AM. "That will prove to her that I was on my way home on the highway, and that I wasn't still in Topeka."

This was my first encounter with an adult who would openly discuss marital problems with me, and it was really more than I wanted to know. And, my training reminded me that the ticket had to be turned in. It was the state's ticket, not mine to give away.

"Oh, I see," was about all I could think to say. I really didn't care to see his marriage suffer, but then automation took over. "I'd like to help but they are clear that I have to turn this in. I don't have the option to let it go."

I glanced behind him, and around to the entry lane behind me. Fortunately no other cars were waiting during this prolonged encounter. He said, "Well how about this: when do you go off duty?"

"At four." Here we go, I thought. He's estimated my character; now he's making a deal.

"If you let me take the card home with me I will bring it back to you before you leave this afternoon." I must have grimaced, because he went on: "Look, I am an elected official and you can trust me to do that. I give you my word you'll have it back before you go home." He was nodding as he spoke, and had the slightest touch of urgency in his voice.

Mr. Grimes had found a chink in my armor. He knew I wanted to help. And I was a little concerned about not helping since he was a state official and I worked for a semi-governmental entity. If I didn't go along with this character could he cause a problem for someone at the Turnpike Authority? His marriage obviously had trust issues; how angry would he be if they were complicated by some college kid following bureaucratic rules? Who did he know at the Turnpike Authority?

So I said, "OK, if you promise to get this back to me before I close out to go home I guess I can trust you." Then I thought to add, "But if I don't get it back I will have a variance and be in all kinds of trouble--so help me out." I reluctantly handed him the card, hoping he would understand that if he crossed me lots of people would hear about this little encounter.

He took the card and asked my name. When I told him he perked up a little because he was acquainted with Dad, and he asked about the family. He once again presented his hand, saying, "Thank you, thank you very much. I will have this back to you before four, I promise." We shook hands again and Fred Grimes, Kansas State Representative for Butler County, Democrat, and lawyer from nearby Augusta, drove out of my life.

By lunchtime the sun had thoroughly warmed everything and the freshness of the early hour was gone. And I had seen nothing of the Representative or his turnpike ticket. "You dummy," I admonished myself. He isn't going to make a 20-mile round trip to give that stupid card back and now you are going to have a variance." I am sure my pulse was up all day in anticipation of my cash drawer not balancing. What bothered me the most was that up until that day I had very few cash variances. That three-dollar toll would stand out like a red-headed stepchild. Talk about trust--I wondered if my employers would trust me after that. Three bucks was a lot to be out of balance back then, and the turnpike people were strict.

One o'clock, two o'clock, two-thirty all dragged by and no one showed. I had resigned myself to having been duped by a minor politician. Finally, at three, an old pickup truck drove up and an even older man, lean and wiry, got out. He wore a western shirt and blue jeans. I can still see him in the mind's eye, walking up toward me, leaning slightly forward as he walked. He had a weathered, deeply lined face. In his hand was the card. The pressure that had built all day vanished. I stepped out of my booth to meet him.

"You the one lookin' for this?" he asked, jabbing the card out at me. I had no idea who he was but at that point I really didn't care. I was just glad that Rep. Grimes had kept his word. And he had.

I took it. "Yes, thank you very much. I'm sure glad to see this."

"Fred said you wanted it." Apparently satisfied his duty was done he began to turn away.

Then curiosity got the better of me. "Hey!" I yelled. "Did it do him any good?"

The old fellow turned all the way around and faced me with his eyebrows raised in shock, apparently surprised that I knew the real reason for the transaction. Then his face melted into a shrewd, wily grin. He shook his head slightly saying, "I don't think so, the poor sonuvabitch!"

He walked away cackling with an emphysematic laugh. I slipped the rumpled toll ticket back into the card bin where it belonged and watched him drive away wondering what kind of day old Fred must have had.

Road trip.

For five summers after I graduated from high school I worked for the Kansas Turnpike Authority as a relief toll collector. Mostly the job was to fill in for the veteran collectors who were on vacation, and also to provide additional help for the summer traffic increase. I worked four different stations, three in Wichita and one in El Dorado. It was interesting work, sometimes. Dealings with the public are always that way. The summer before I graduated I also worked for the KTA, but that time as a guard-rail painter. That was a whole lot less interesting but it was nice to be outside. At least I got a nice tan out of it.

But in the toll booth it was a bit more demanding. You had to know the tolls, of course. And you had to know how to 'class' vehicles as they approached, always by axle count which was checked by a treadle in the lane next to the booth where the car or truck passed. Also you had to be good at handling cash, and a lot of it. Not huge amounts of money--although some days the take was pretty good--but always a weighty volume of coins and one-dollar bills. I spent many afternoons and evenings rolling quarters to send to the bank. And then, you had to be conversant in directions, mileages to everywhere and where to get a good meal.

There were lots of characters out there, besides just the travelling public. The very head of the KTA, the Chief Engineer-Manager, was a tall, grey-haired, distinguished-looking man by the name of L. W. Newcomer, a man with political connections, savvy, and a fierce loyalty to his alma mater, Kansas State University. It was no accident that many of my fellow guard-rail painters were high school kids who had athletic ability and had expressed an interest in K-State. Bill Fitzgerald and I were the lone KU enrollees. I guess L. W.'s savvy was so tuned that he would not discriminate, even against Jayhawks.

Mr. Newcomer often told this story which happened late one hot, still summer night. Much of it unfolded on the highway patrol radios which were also used to communicate to each toll booth. I was not on duty that night but I really wished I had been there to hear it unroll: In the wee hours, a middle-aged couple drove south from Kansas City toward the Oklahoma border. It was learned later that the wife was napping in the back seat. Needing to refuel, they stopped at the Belle Plaine service area a short distance south of Wichita. When the gentleman went into the service station office to pay for the gas, his wife apparently woke up, crawled out of the car and went in a different entrance to the service station to find the ladies' room.

So, yeah, the fellow paid his bill, went back out to his car and drove away. Shortly after the lady comes back out to find her husband and car both gone. She panics a little, and the attendants reassure her that they can call the highway patrol dispatcher and he can radio ahead to the South Haven toll gate to watch for her car. South Haven is the southern terminal and all traffic stops there to pay tolls before heading on into Oklahoma. They tell her the men at the toll gate will advise the husband that she is not sleeping in the back seat and to return to pick her up.

And as good as their word, armed with her description of the car the toll collector at South Haven spots the car in short order. "Hey," he tells the driver, "you left your wife back at the rest area when you got gas."

The man looked up and leveled his eyes at the collector. He said, "Hell, don't you think I know that?" and drove off into the night.

No, we never found out what happened after that, but it was old L. W.'s favorite story. I have no reason to doubt it actually happened because some people do very strange things. This certainly qualifies, and we will revisit the good old KTA another time as we are always looking for something strange to communicate!

Kid Stuff, Part II

Steve and his mom.

I didn't mean to let almost 10 days to go by between posts. It was a real mess at work and frankly doesn't show any sign of improving soon. But again it is Steve, my grandson, who forces me back to the keyboard. Some things must be shared.

Yesterday my wife went to visit at Liz's house. Steve was out in the driveway with a couple of the neighbor kids, and as Mary Ann approached he yelled to her "Grammy don't walk where it's wet. I peed there."

Mary Ann paused; on occasion, his parents have had to direct him to relieve himself indoors--not outside. So she said, "Stevie, why did you pee out here?"

He didn't miss a beat. "Because we needed a starting line for our race."

Apparently urinating on the driveway is more efficient than going to look for the chalk. OK. Good thinking, Steve. But as you get older please ask your Dad to leave some tape handy in the garage.

Wash your hands.

This has been bothering me; if people are ostensibly infected with"Swine Flu" then are hogs that have become ill said to have "People Flu?"

The porcine has unfairly been saddled with the responsibility for our misfortunes. We don't get Swine Flu directly from porkers, or from consuming pork products. Yet there was ABC News in Mexico last week with cameras, standing at the gate of a large swine feed lot claiming that this was where the current round of influenza was born. They interviewed people in the village nearby who had been sick. They gave the name of the evil giant American conglomerate who owned the feed lot, inferring that evil American businessmen and greedy American stockholders were responsible somehow for the conditions here which clearly caused hundreds of Mexican deaths and the world to be held in the grip of a plague. "See! See!" they shout into their microphones, "Selfish rich Americans caused poor exploited Mexicans to die! It's Bush's fault! It's Bush's fault! Bush lied!!"

To know what is occurring is a good thing. To be cautious is wise as well; forewarned is forearmed. Unfortunately ABC and the other mainstream media outlets are almost demanding that we panic. They dash from CDC officials to Washington pols looking for sound bites, the next more ominous than the one before. They look sternly into the cameras and proclaim the uncertainty of public administrators to contain the raging virus. They recall influenza epidemics of bygone decades, with reminders that during one such onslaught more people died of flu than of the Black Plague in the Dark Ages. They counsel us to wash our hands and hopelessly profess beyond that there is little we can do. Some take it up a notch and tell us to stay home, avoid crowds and report to the hospital at the first signs of illness.

Just what the ER doctors want to hear: the Dark Ages media sending every nervous citizen with real or imagined symptoms in to be treated. Other than chicken soup, there really isn't much of a flu treatment. Flu shots are very strain-specific, and even so only work to prevent the flu; once you come down with a case you are on your own. You ride it out at home. Only the more severe cases would require hospitalization. Every ten-year-old knows to drink lots of fluids and rest.

Day after day the news outlets have led with dire predictions of pandemic flu. In Mexico, yes, they are having a rough Spring. Some Americans have developed flu but Great Caesar's Ghost, how many people have the flu at any one time anyway? It seems like drug crime is a much more pervasive threat in Mexico (and here as well) than sickness.

Reporting the news is the media's job. The prudent reaction to the threat of large-scale illness is up to the government but ultimately to each of us. We don't need self-righteous journalism grads out there, steering us idiots through life's maze to good health. We also don't need them attempting to be judge and jury, looking to hang someone for starting the whole thing. The whole drive-by media (look, shoot, drive on) loves a crisis they can use to find additional fault with America in the theatre of the world. Please, why all the guilt? Just report the news.

You want to know what the worst threat is? Network TV reporters and producers, who whip up unnecessary fear and concern. I am all in favor of changing the name of this influenza in honor of them. How about "Katy Couric Flu?" Or, "The ABC World News Flu with Charles Gibson?"

In the end, it seems like the whole thing is an insult to pigs.