The Price of Honor - A Review

If you believe "Honor Killings" (an oxymoron if there ever were one) exists only in remote and socially undeveloped areas of the Middle East and African countries, a watching of this film will tell you otherwise.

http://heliopolis.la/the-price-of-honor-a-documentary-on-the-honor-killing-of-amina-and-sarah-said/

Mike Sledge

Veteran's Day as Bittersweet

From the movie, "The Thin Red Line"...and possibly the book but I haven't read it: "This great evil. Where does it come from? How'd it steal into the world? What seed, what root did it grow from? Who's doing this? Who's killing us? Robbing us of light and life. Mockin' us with the sight of what we might've done? Does our ruin benefit the earth? Does it help the grass to grow, the sun to shine? Is this darkness in you, too? Have you passed to this night?"

Veteran's Day is bittersweet for me. Bitter because of the horrible loss of life everywhere. Bitter because we often accept war as inevitable. Bitter because some people who had rather not fight, kill, and die seem to have no other recourse.

And yet, in my work to do my book, I spoke with servicemen and servicewomen, veterans, and families of those who died and have come away with a deep and everlasting appreciation for the dedication shown by them. Almost to a one, they would have not undone that which was done, even if having to relive the carnage, the horror, the remorse, the sadness of their experience.

If you see a military person, stop and take a moment to honor them. Tell them "Thank you." If you know of someone who was in service in times past, look them in the eyes and say, "I appreciate your service." Even if you do not support any particular struggle or conflict, I would ask that you consider supporting the people who were engaged in such an unpleasant and unfortunate endeavor.

Mike Sledge

Soldier Dead: How We Recover, Identify, Bury, and Honor Our Military Fallen

"I'm Out of Clothes," She Said

  

            "I'm out of clothes," she said one day ("she" being my girlfriend).  She was standing at the doorway to her walk-in closet, one hand on the door and the other on her hip.

            "What did you say?" I asked, coming in from the living room.

            "I don't have anything to wear.  You've already seen everything I have."  She turned and looked at me with that frown on her face.  (We guys know exactly what I mean when I say, "that frown.") 

            After reading Men are from Mars and Women are from Outer Space, I have learned not to use logic in a situation like this.  (What do you mean you're out of clothes?  A whole family in the third world has less space to live in than you do in your closet.)  Instead, I said, "I see."

            "No you don't!  You don't understand at all," she said, closing the door none too gently. 

            At this point, I did what all smart men do...I shut up and sat down on the bed.

            She went into her bathroom, opened and closed a couple of drawers and came out, saying "Why do you say, 'I see' when you really don't?  Why don't you just tell the truth...that you think I've got plenty of clothes?"

            "Well, when I said 'I see' I was really trying not to discount your feelings.  But, yeah, now that you mention it, you're right.  You do have plenty of clothes.  I mean I think you've got a lot of clothes...in my opinion, anyway."

            "Oh sure.  You've seen all my work clothes, church clothes, and jeans.  I've mixed and matched and you've seen all those combinations."

            I busied myself studying the pattern on her bedspread, wondering if there was something I needed to be doing, like getting a root canal or emptying the cat litter box. 

            She strode over to her closet, opened it again, and began sliding hangers back and forth.  I tried to sneak out of the room.

            "What about this?" she said, sticking her arm out of the closet, holding a cute pair of grey tights, turtle neck, and black knit vest.

            "Looks great," I said, turning back quickly.

            "No, I mean have you seen me wear this before?"

            I was stuck.  If she had worn it before and I didn't remember I was in trouble.  And if I said I had seen it, then we were right back at the beginning.

            "I think it looks great on you," I said again.  "You've got the kind of figure that looks sexy in those tights and the top really accents your neck."

            She stuck her head out from the closet and gave me an extremely contemptuous look.  I came back and sat down on the bed again, chastened like a whipped puppy.  At this point, I was thoroughly exasperated.  I was thinking to myself that it really didn't matter how many clothes she had, women were always the same when it came to this...they never have enough clothes.  But why involve me with their personal demons to battle?  I mean, if I'm having trouble with my forehand or if Dallas loses twice in one season to the Redskins I don't whine and moan about it to them.

            Then, while all of this was going through my mind, I realized that it was quiet in the closet...too quiet.  What had she done...hung herself over what to wear to dinner?  I got up from the bed and slowly tip-toed to the closet and peeked in.  I saw her with a finger to her lips, in deep thought.  Without saying a word, she turned, looked me up and down, and said, "Well, with what you've got on I think I'll wear this, and she pulled out a pair of burgundy corduroy slacks and a sweater with a small print that coordinated with the slacks.  

            I nodded approvingly and peeked at my watch, thinking that I had gotten off relatively lucky...her mood had come and gone like a summer thundershower. 

            "Good," she said, smiling.  "Now, how do you think I should wear my hair?"

           

    

Mr. Fix-It Gone Wild

(A little lengthy, but worth it!)

Here's the deal...I'm the kind of self-reliant guy...why pay a repairman $75 bucks for a home repair when I can screw it up and pay him twice that?  But, sometimes, things go right for me...like how I got myself embedded with the Army in Baghdad all on my own without any help from CNN or any other major news network.  (Of course, there was that little incident where the Air Force security crew threatened to strip-search me, but that's another story!)

So, this morning, I see a little water on the kitchen floor.  (Now, listen to the first measure of the Jaws sound track...du dum.)  Don't think much about it...I prolly just spilled some when cleaning up, right?

When I come back from errands, I start to thaw the perch for dinner, and then I see some more water on the floor.  (du dum...du dum.)

I open the sink cabinet door and see that the space beneath the sink is god-awful wet. turn off the sink water, and pull all the fricking cleaning supplies and trash bags out so I can see what's going on, but there is no apparent leak. 

So, I grab a flashlight, turn the sink water on, and stick my head up under the sink.  And then I see it, a steady trickle of water from base of the faucet.  It's not a standard hot water on the left, spigot in the middle, and cold water on the right type; rather, it's one of those all-in-one units.  At first, I figure just put a pan under the drip and call the plumber.  But, then, I decide to investigate further.  (du dum, du dum, du dum!)  

So, I find the valves for the hot and cold water lines and turn them off.  I pull my wet self out from under the cabinet and test the faucet.  Turn to the left, no water.  Turn to the right, no water.  I've successfully cut off the water so I can work to my hearts content.

It is at this point where I reached the MOFU fork in the road.  (Every home repairman knows this Moment of Fuck Up...it's the point of No Return...the point at which you should proceed past only with extreme caution.)  I could have just left things alone and worked with some inconvenience, but, no, I go to the Moment of Fuck Up and bulled right through it...although I certainly didn't think I was.

My trusty allen wrench fit the recessed and mostly hidden retaining screw and a few turns later I was lifting the spigot from it base "just to check" if there was anything I could easily see amiss.  (du dum, du DUM, DU DUM DU DUM DU DUM!!!)  I lift the spigot one inch and nothing happened...so, I started to lift it a little more and...

THE SPIGOT FUCKING EXPLODED IN MY HAND, SENDING A GEYSER OF WATER UP TO THE KITCHEN CEILING.  

I clamp down on Old Faithful with one hand and now the fountain now sprayed horizontally in all directions.  

Next, I grab it with both hands, like I'm gonna choke that fucker.  The water then just gushed out and up, but nowhere near as bad as before.  But, there's one little problem:  IT'S HOT WATER!

I mean, my hands are being boiled alive.  

No choice but to let go and dive under the sink cabinet again, this time looking for the damn third water shut-off valve.  (Who the fuck ever heard of there being THREE shut-off valves, anyway?) 

While I'm fumbling around, trying to find a valve (they are itty bitty little valves that are hardly noticeable), I'm wondering where the fuck is the t-handle so, at worse, I can turn the water off at the street.  

I groping around, hot water is pouring down on me, I know my wife is gonna kill me, and then, BOOM!  The overhead ceiling light explodes because the water has hit hot glass.  

So there I am, boiling hot water pouring on me, glass raining down on me, I'm on my back, barefoot, and stuffed under the sink.  At this point I want my wife to just kill me where I lay and get my torture over with.

But, I find the valve and turn it and, mercifully, the fountain of my despair ceases.  

So, the next thing I did what any self-respecting, do-it-yourselfer does and reach for...

.

.

THE OPEN BOTTLE OF WINE AND POUR MYSELF A BIG GLASS.

Only then do I assess the damage.

Water is fucking everywhere: on the ceiling, on the kitchen/breakfast room/den floors, on the counters, and in the drawers.  Apple computer was drenched, I-phone wet, recipe book soaked...and on and on.

So, I start mopping...THE CEILING.  Can't reach it.  Have to stand on a fricking wobbly stool.  And, yeah, by this time the wine is kicking in.  Imagine a half drunk man, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, standing on a stool and trying to mop the ceiling, all the while trying to avoid the recessed light socket that is hissing and spitting...that's me!

Long story short, I called my wife and said that I would meet her for dinner out.  She asked why and I said that the kitchen faucet was broken...that I tried to fix it but had bad news and good news...the bad news was that my attempt resulted in no water in the kitchen, but the good news was that the den, breakfast room, and kitchen were spotless...and that her interior flowers had plenty of water.

Two wine glasses later for her, she laughed.

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Where Do You Go When You Die?

Years ago, my elderly father sat across the kitchen bar from me.  I figured it was time to broach the subject of how he felt about death, given that his life expectancy was a short measure.

I said, "Dad, you know we've talked over the many years about life and death...are there any thoughts you wish to share about how it is most likely that at some point I will be placing a spare plate for you at the dinner table?  Do you have any concerns?  Like where you go when you die?"

Dad thought for a minute, no words did he say, then he simply stood up and looked at me.

I said, "Ok, I'm supposed to ask you what just happened.  What?"

He said, "My lap.  A minute ago I was sitting and I had a lap.  Now I'm standing.  Where did my lap go?"

After picking my jaw up off the floor at my father's profound and succinct answer to an existential question that has dogged humans since they sat around the campfire licking their fingers after a good meal...an answer that he gave not in words but in action...I said, "'Nuff said."

Then we finished our meal with satisfaction.

Mike Sledge

"Argumext"

An argument conducted via text messages.

Pity the Poor Zombie Actor

Next week The Walking Dead will open its new season. Now, for sure, I really thought the first season was pretty silly, pithy, full of bad lines and off-the-shelf stereotypes (even real rednecks aren't as rednecky as portrayed in this movie), and failing to rise to the level of a good B flick.

Having said that, I'll prolly watch as much as I can stand, most likely while spinning my bike on the trainer. (Hey, when your heart rate is high your brain can't be too heavily engaged!)

Also, I'll try to see what lows the show can reach in a genre that is already intrinsically hampered by an acting arena that is much more closely fenced in than other horror film types.

So, let's compare zombie, vampire, and werewolf films. Certainly, the dream horror flicks (Nightmare on Elm Street), the mutant flicks (The Hills Have Eyes), the sci-fi flicks (Alien), and others all horror films, but the three involving human transformation stand in a class of their own, and within them vampire/werewolf (henceforth, VW) stand on one side of a divider from zombie films, and actors who take on the role of the transformed also fall into clear divides: those you know and those you don't.

VW actors? Bela Lugosi-"Dracula", Kate Beckinsale-"Underworld", Wesley Snipes-"Blade", Michael J. Fox-in the laughable "Teen Wolf", David Naughton-"American Werewolf in London", Tom Cruise-yes, the considered-to-be miscast blonde vampire in "Interview With the Vampire". Hell, even Slim Pickens played a memorable role in "The Howling".

Zombie actors? ................ Anybody? Anybody?

And little wonder why there are no zombie actors. (Well, one could say that there ARE "zombie" actors whose names we know, but they weren't playing zombie roles!) Well, go figure. What can they do?

First of all, once the transformation takes places, that's it. There's no going back, no reverting to human form only to transform again as werewolves and vampires do. Thus, there's no waxing and waning of desire and regret. There's no pleas to help find a cure for the insatiable craving for blood or to chain the beast up until the full moon has passed through its phase. There's only mindless, soulless, and guiltless pursuit of raw human flesh. (Speaking of which, I've never figured this out: How can there be more than one or two zombies? Think about it. First, a person become a zombie and wants to eat someone. OK, so he starts eating. Then, what, he quits eating so the victim can become a zombie too? And then they go off in search of more victims. And, they find one and bite her, start to eat her. So, then what? Again, they quit eating so she can become zombie #3? Apparently, the zombies reach a tipping point where even a bite or two from each consumes the victim so there are no more zombies? Yeah, right?)

Second, zombie actors never really get to try out their dialogue skills. VW can plead, rationalize, express guilt and remorse, or describe the exquisite taste of blood or the thrill of the hunt and kill. Zombie can say only, "Brains! Brains!"

Third, zombies aren't loved, poor things. Even vampires and werewolves find lovers.

Fourth, zombies can't have sex. (Let's leave out the comments by some people that there partner is about as good as a zombie!) Lugosi feigned sex, admittedly, but he sure got to bite on a lot of beautiful necks. In "The Howling" there was a hot hot hot scene by the fireside in which a man and woman began to transform during foreplay and totally morphed into biting, clawing, scratching, and, of course, HOWLING! But zombies? Nope. So, even the last trick of bad actors--that of having sex on the screen--is denied to zombie actors.

By now, you get the picture, zombie roles are relegated to the stand-ins, the wanna-bees, the won't make its.

Having said that, herein lies an opportunity for a truly gifted screenplay writer, a brilliant actor, a visionary director, and a producer with some cojones. Do a truly ground-breaking film for zombies that will pull off a trick of making the zombie somehow more human, sympathetic, and appealing to watch for more than a few seconds. Have the zombie become a creature who has a life beyond walking the streets and looking for brains, brains, brains.

Mike Sledge

Vacuuming: Dirt Sensor vs. Judgment

OK, here's the deal. Sometimes I end up vacuuming my girlfriend's house. Don't get me wrong, we'd both like a good housekeeper but we've been striking out in this regard for some time. So, especially since we have dogs that track in as much dirt and dead grass as Pig-Pen in the Peanuts cartoon, we have to clean ourselves. And, since harmony to me is important, I suck it up and do my part...kinda sorta. So, I figured that vacuuming is better than cleaning the bathroom, right? Wrong! My GF has a Kenmore vacuum with the dirt-sensor technology. What is this? A dirt-sensor? Well, it's a little series of lights that turn from red (dirty) to green (clean) as the dirt is picked up. Sounds simple? Sounds easy? Sounds like a good idea? Wrong again! You see, for a guy I'm pretty clean, pretty neat. For a guy, I said. And, being a guy, I like to rely on my judgment. While I'm the first to use maps and GPS and stuff instead of wandering around for hours, there are some things I like to do by sense, and cooking and cleaning are two of them. I cook by smell and touch. And by appearance. Making pancakes means more or less following the instructions, cause while putting "one egg" in is pretty definite, the cup of milk and mix is a matter of judgment. Just like barbeque, where I cook by sound, touch, and smell. The same applies to cleaning: "Well, that looks clean to me!" But, not so quick. The light hasn't turned green yet! It's still sitting on red! What? It looks clean. It feels clean. So it must be clean. But the light is still red. Here's how that freakin' dirt sensor works:


So man's ability to circumnavigate the vast oceans of the world using only a sense of wind direction and tides is tossed aside? His sense of direction in pitch black darkness is discounted?

Oh, wait, I forgot! These damn cleaners were designed with women in mind. They need "proof" that they've done a good job.

Hmm. Or, there's another thought: these damn, infernal light things were put there for the women to check if their men did a good job!

Mike S.

Marijuana Kills...Redux

I first published this post in 2009 and recent killings in Mexico make a case for me to post again.


LOL! Yeah, haven't we all seen the film Reefer Madness?

Lately, the anti-marijuana ads have gotten a little more, well, hip.

However, both of these films miss the point, because whether grass is a gateway drug or a harmless pasttime, and whether it should be illegal or treated just the same as alcohol are all academic exercises or merely simply excuses to continue current behavior because, save for medical purposes in a few places, marijuana is illegal and, as such, the use of it promotes criminal behavior. (Note: I said "criminal" behavior not "deviant" behavior and not "shiftless" behavior.) With Sec. of State Clinton, now and for the first time I am aware of, shouldering part of the blame for the criminal insurgent activity in Mexico, one of our sister countries, we see that we are, indeed, our brother's keeper and our desire for illegal drugs has spawned a spree of killing on a scale that greatly exceeds even that of the days of Prohibition.

It is important to note that not all of the killings are "bad on bad." Honest policemen, journalists, judges, and politicians have been brutally murdered, sometimes in front of their families.

Illegal drugs are, in many ways, a commodity. They will be supplied at whatever cost the traffic will bear. Sadly, this cost comes not only in the loss of lives and law and order south of the border, it is increasingly clear that it will also carry a greater human cost in our own country. The last, that we will suffer the results of our demand for illegal drugs, does not supercede the first, the pain and misery to our neighbor.

I'm sure there are those who will say, "Hey! MY grass comes from California. I'M not contributing to the killing. However, again, it is clear that the drug cartels are also shouldering their way onto our native soil in areas of production, as well as distribution.

There are others who will say that there is no need for them to put down their favorite vehicle of escape because there are far worse drugs coming across the border and that we need to deal with those serious drugs first. They are absolutely right...in that there are far worse drugs. They are wrong in that there is no need for them to change. If they can justify their behavior with an illegal, non-addictive drug, how can they expect others who are actually addicted to more serious drugs to quit.

I'm no prude. I know, personally, the pleasurable effects of marijuana, having experimented with it many, many years ago. However, my break with it came because I work up one morning, way before the making of the movie Traffic and other films in which the world behind-the-scenes of drugs was illuminated, with an epiphany that my money spent for my fun fostered evilness.

Ultimately, especially during the moment of a relaxing, completely enjoyable, shared high, a look around the circle of close acquaintances tells you how happy you are for such company. At that same moment, in another place of the world not far away, there are those who look around their circle of teary-eyed friends and they are thankful for their support during the mourning for their dead son, father, brother, cousin who lost his life while trying to maintain some sense of law and order in a world gone crazy.

Push for all the legislation you wish to legalize marijuana, but in the meantime think of John Donne, whose message in MEDITATION XVII I shall rephrase to say...any man's loss is our loss.

Mike Sledge

The "SPAM CRUISE"...Please Forgive Me!

Or not!

I'm sorry, but I can't help it. News of the Carnival Splendor becoming disabled have prodded the Imp of the Perverse in me.

If you've been too busy worrying/cheering about the most recent overhaul of Congress (less anyone think that the nation has reverted back to its supposedly conservative roots, keep in mind that Americans tend to move away from extremes and towards the middle time after time), then you may not be up on the news regarding the fire and subsequent disabling of a veritable "floating city" of 4,500.

The Splendor, a California-based cruise ship over three football fields long has floated listlessly, sans power, lights, and, gulp, toilets, off the coast of Mexico for something like three days.

The culprit is a fire in the engine room.

Thank God no one was hurt!

But, let's see...no power means no way to cook food. But, no worry...the U.S. Navy has come to the rescue...with SPAM and POP TARTS. Hmmm...and WHAT are cruises famous for! Yep! Food and people who over indulge, at times grossly so, in food!



Now that we know everyone is safe and sound, I can schadenfreude all I like. Imagine that! Cruise line passengers eating spam and pop tarts.

It's just too fucking funny.

Mike Sledge

PS
Oh, and the passengers say they are bored because ther is nothing to do and they just sit around. Duh! You're on a ship! If they were on a LifeStyle cruise at least they could find another way to occupy their time.

I'm Thinking...WTF?

My woman and I were leaving for a Harley ride south of Dallas (Texas is so big you can circumnavigate the world southward and still never leave the state) and I'm at a stop light and this guy rides by in front of us!



And so I'm thinking he got the mattress for a sunhat? I mean, take a look at the shadow that thing casts...it could shelter a wedding party!!!

Then I think...nope...not a hat.

So, then I'm thinking he's moving? Hell, the Clampetts would have nothing on this guy. And, what would he be riding by with next if I waited long enough? A sofa?

Then I think...nope...not moving.

So, then I'm thinking he picked up the mattress from out in front of a house where the occupants had thrown it away? But everybody already has a mattress, right?

Then I think...nope...not scavenging.

So, then I'm thinking maybe he stole the bike? And, to distract attention he picked up the mattress?

But, no, I can't think that because I'll be branded as stereotyping.

Ok, then so, I'm thinking...and thinking...

All the while, I'm puttering along behind him because I love a puzzle to think about, and this guy is moving along...really pedaling quickly.

So, think I'm thinking he had a long way to ride and wanted to use the mattress as a sail. (He really WAS flying along.) And I'm wondering just how hard it was for him to keep his balance. And, I'm wondering how long before he got hit because cars were honking and maneuvering like heck to avoid hitting him. (He really couldn't see well from under that double.)

But, then I think...nope...can't be a sail...too much trouble when he could just let the tailwind push him along just find without the weight of the mattress.

Finally, I think the first thing I thought when I saw him cross in front of me:

WHAT A GREAT PICTURE!

No more thinking necessary.

Mike S.

When Found and Called to Love, There is a Price

This week, on one of my first nights in a new town and on a new job, I got a call from my girlfriend back home and I instantly knew something was wrong. In a choking voice, she managed to tell me that Lucky had been hit by a car. I know from the sounds in the background she is by the side of the road.

Lucky was a chocolate lab/pit bull mix I picked up off the street a little over a year ago. On the way home in the car from where I found him, he lay down in the passenger seat, put his chin over my arm that rested on the console, let out a big breath, and went to sleep. He had me from that sigh of contentment. Linda suggested I name him "Lucky" because it was I who found him. But really, it was the other way round.




He was 34 lb. and in reasonably good shape. Something less than a year old. Lucky must have lived with a pack of dogs because he loved piling on...in play, but especially in sleep. That was the one thing that particularly endeared him to Linda and me over time...his wedging himself down between us in bed so that he was snuggled up like a hot dog in a bun. I think even Max, my 95 lb. shepherd/great dane mix who is the gentle giant of our pack, looked up when Lucky lay down alongside him for a nap and lay his litle square head on his back and said, "Humph! Oh, well, if it makes him feel ok it's fine with me."

Linda's voice came through the dark almost two hundred miles away. "He was hit twice. And, Michael, I, I don't think he's going to make it."

At that moment, I wanted Lucky dead so he wouldn't suffer. I wanted him alive so I wouldn't lose him. What I didn't want, though, was for him to suffer unduly.

When Lucky found me (I believe that, at times, "things find us." I don't know the reason why this is--whether it be fate, luck, or synchronicity--but I do know that when we are thus found we are called to give our love; and, we when we love, we sign a chit that can be called at any moment.) I had a dog. Or two, or three, depending upon how you figure. I really wasn't looking for another one. But, as I said, I was found and called to love.

Lucky was quite the pimply adolescent: all play, all fun, all smiles, and had only one fault, that being that at times he could and would instantly slip away from you and run free. His free-running could last only a monent or two, or it could last for an hour or more. All during the time he would be loose, the Wheel of Fate would turn. In some regards, his name had been eponymous for more than just us coming together. Until that night, that is.

I hear people talking, I hear Linda, her voice strong, caring, telling Lucky, "Mama's here, Baby. Mama's here." Much as I knew how easy it would be to panic and lose control, she managed to calm Lucky. That's the kind of woman she is. And then there was the high-pitched yelps of pain and fear. Then there was Linda's voice again. Again, I wanted Lucky dead and I wanted him alive.

Lucky brought extra life to Max, who dropped five pounds and toughened up with all the play. Lucky and Mika, Linda's husky mix (another stray that had, strangely enough, "found me" and who Linda had adopted), became swim buddies, working together to retrieve sticks in lakes, ponds, and even the Red River. (Well, actually, Mika would retrieve the stick and Lucky would take it from her as they got close to the bank.) When the three dogs played, Lucky would go back and forth from Max to Mika and back again, playing with each until they were tired out. Finally, all three would collapse in a heap and slip off to doggie dream land where their feet would twitchg and they would let out little barks of dream-pleasure.

Street noise was the background behind the soft whimpering, crying, and tight, unknown voices coming from the small phone speaker. One of these unknowns was a young woman who had stopped to help. She had the Animal Emergency Clinic in her phone...what are the chances of that?...and helped Linda get Lucky there before, like an angel, disappearing. All I can do is to let my chair hold me off my knees that have lost strength and fight off a swirling mass of blackness that surrounds me. My stomach is turning and I feel like I may vomit. I don't want to lose that little boy. He's alive. He's still alive. Maybe only his leg is broken. This I tell myself.

When he first found me, Lucky had proportions that were a little odd: big head and neck and short back. But in a year as he put on weight, his legs grew under him and he lengthened and strengthened to a beautiful build of all muscle, sinew, and bone.

He also grew emotionally so that instead of avoiding our gaze, he would look right at us. In bed, he became the biggest snuggle bunny we had ever seen, tickling us with the walrus-like whiskers set into a wide muzzle. And when we had coffee in bed before getting up, he would jump off, play, but always ended up springing back up and setlling down as we talked.

The phone goes dead. I know they are on the way to the emergency clinic. I know Lucky is in the car with Linda, and I envision her talking to him and reaching back and stroking him while she drives as quickly and carefully as she can. My heart aches for her, having to balance care for driving and care for our little boy.

Lucky loved touching us. when we ate, he settled down at our feet and lay a paw, if not his head, over our feet. He loved watching us. He would sit on the back of the couch and cross his front legs and watch us in the kitchen. Or he would lie on the edge of the bed--again, front legs crossed--and watch us. He wanted to be in the same room we were in. When we had coffee in the morning, he lay stretched out across us both.


Linda needs help. She'll be at the clinic alone. I call Cathy, my ex-wife. We are close in the way that some people can be without sharing house and home, as we had for almost twenty years. She meets Linda at the pet clinic. That's the kind of woman she is.

Lucky didn't make it. This time when he broke loose from Linda, Fortune's Wheel stopped on a bad number. There was no sleep for me that night. Little the next.

It will be easy to Monday-morning quarterback what could/should have done, why the cars didn't see Lucky, why they didn't stop. But as Cathy said, "Shakespeare talked about this in King Lear; he said, "O, that way madness lies."

But, of course, we wonder "what if"? I, for one, am convinced Linda had no good choices and was in the terrible position of having to try to make the best worst decision possible. I love her for her composure. I only wish I could erase the image from her of the final moment. You see, Lucky was hit the first time in the far lane of the road, and we think it only broke his front leg because he instantly regained his feet. Linda said he looked like, "Oh, no, I'm in trouble. I'd better get back to Mama." And he started back across the road to her. Sadly, Fate threw down a black joker because a pickup truck hit him square on. He was merely feet away.

A year with Lucky just isn't long enough. Would ten years have been enough? When it is ever long enough?

We do have Max and Mika, and, at times, Taylor. They seem to be doing well. We aren't. Not yet.

Linda and I look down when we eat and there's no little brown body at our feet. We walk around the kitchen and there's no pair of brown eyes set into a squarish head looking at us from the top of the couch over a pair of crossed paws. In the morning, there's no little warm body nudging itself down between us and stretching out.



We see his toys scattered around, and at times, when we're not thinking about him, feel we get a glimpse of him running through the house on his way to something fun. But now and then we do trade a memory and laugh. I feel assured that Lucky, wherever he has gone, has started a party and is spreading joy. That's the kind of dog he was.

Mike Sledge

Time to Slip HIM a Mickey?

The age-old complaint women give about their male partner is that he, "Won't commit," "Doesn't cuddle enough," "Likes to spend time alone." You can add your own variation to this.

Now, a study of voles, provides new information and, yes, guidance, as how to handle your man.

Basically, he may need more vasopressin.

Tom Insel, a neuroscientist, has studied prairie and montane voles, and found that the two are 99% identical, but it is the 1% difference that, well, makes all the difference.

The montane vole is a sailor, coming into port to mate only to disappear into the swells of the mountain meadows. He may be a great lover, but he's an absent father and is, apparently, emotionally unavailable.

The prairie male vole, though, forms a very close pair bond with his mate, is a great dad (I guess this would mean protecting the little tykes from snakes, taking them with him as he goes to forage), and prefers the company of his mate to others (I guess you could take that to mean he'd rather hang around the nest than scamper through the tall grasses with his buds). He might be more like, well, an accountant.

So what do you do if you think your man tilts toward the montane and is less sedate and dependable than the accountant/meadow mole?

Easy! On a regular basis, offer to make him a drink and slip in some vasopressin. It's not hard to come by. Only a few drops on a regular basis should do the trick.

Surely this is easier than wearing uncomfortable underwear from Victoria Secrets!

Of course, you might wonder what HE is reading if he offers to make YOU a drink!

Mike Sledge

Op-Ed for the Shreveport Times, August 9 "Bone and Spirit"

August 9, 2009


Bone and Spirit


Editor's note: The Times asked Shreveporter Mike Sledge, author of a book on fallen servicemen and women, to offer his thoughts on the recovery of the remains of Navy Capt. Michael Scott Speicher.

The recent discovery of the remains of Capt. Michael Scott Speicher, the Navy pilot shot down in the Gulf War, brings again to mind the significant and poignant body-as-mind-soul-person association that is so commonly expressed, albeit in a manner that often eludes easy observation.

Indeed, President Barack Obama illustrated this conflation of body and person when he recently said, "I am grateful to the Marines who pursued the information that led to Capt. Speicher's recovery so that he can now come home [italics added]." If you didn't know the rest of the story, you wouldn't know the president was speaking about someone who had died.

We know, in our heads, that whatever mind or soul that constituted Capt. Speicher is separate and apart from the frail human vessel that contained his essence — his spirit, if you will — and that the same is true for the ones we love. Yet, despite any ontological argument tucked away behind our foreheads, we have difficulty fully accepting the distinction between the body and the soul of those close to us, and long after we receive definitive proof of death, our hearts still ache for the resolution that a final disposition of remains so frequently offers.

The seemingly insensible joining of body and soul by the survivors of those who have died is most apparent in cases when a body is not available for final disposition, as has often been the case of military deaths. In past wars, the return of the remains of our Soldier Dead ("Soldier Dead" is a phrase that originated during the Civil War given, in toto, to those who died in service of our country) was not a guaranteed event. Mexico City still hosts a cemetery containing the remains of 750 unknown dead from our war with that country.

During the Spanish-American War, the United States built upon its Civil War experience and strove to better improve the accounting and handling for the dead, but it was World War I that brought about an organization specifically dedicated to the recovery, identification and overseas burial of our dead. But, then there was the question: Do we leave our Soldier Dead overseas or bring them back?

Arguments for both alternatives were fierce, with former President Theodore Roosevelt deciding to leave his son, Quentin, buried in France. Interestingly, some argued for the return of the dead not because of patriotism, but because burying the dead would provide needed jobs. However, and again to illustrate the body-person association, a mother wrote to Secretary of State Robert Lansing, saying, "You took my son from me and sent him to war ... my son sacrificed his life to America's call, and now you must as a duty of yours bring my son back to me." (The mother insisted that her son be returned to her, not her son's body.)

This mother's letter settled all arguments, and afterwards (and after WWII), the next of kin made the final determination of burial site, with approximately two-thirds electing to bring the remains of their loved ones home while the rest were buried overseas in cemeteries such as the Normandy burial site so beautifully portrayed in "Saving Private Ryan."

During the Korean War, the United States began a concurrent return of Soldier Dead, which provided family members with much quicker final resolution than was available after WWI and WWII when the dead were not repatriated until nearly two years had passed after the cessation of hostilities. Now, members of our Armed Forces who give their lives are home in days.

However, there are still those missing from WWI, WWII, Korea and Vietnam — nearly 88,000 all total. We still mount missions to recover, identify and repatriate the remains of these missing, and those searching have, at times, paid a heavy price themselves, even the ultimate price.

Why? Why do we search so hard and so long for those we know surely to be dead?

And so we circle back to the beginning of this article, that of the association between body and soul, even when we know that the "remains" that are found are little more than bones. These bones are the ones we loved, and, like the Athenians who provided a public ceremony and burial for the remains of its fallen, we know we will find rest when those bones do.

Mike Sledge is a freelance author who resides in Shreveport. His book, "Soldier Dead: How We Recover, Identify, Bury, and Honor Our Military Fallen" was released in 2005. His Web site is www.mikesledge.com.

Why I Like Dark!

Recently, I was asked why I like "dark." As in dark humor, dark movies. I thought about how to articulate an answer, and realized that this was a feeling thing, not a thinking thing.

I've always liked dark. Robert Mitchum (Night of the Hunter, Cape Fear). More recently, Tarantino (Pulp Fiction).

The thing about dark is that it stands in such startling contrast to light. Well, duh! But, seriously, in light discernment comes with ease, while the dark holds more than is readily visible; you have to feel around, and touch things/thoughts without seeing them beforehand. Sometimes, you never know what you will come up with.

Dark has no easy answers, no platitudes, no gimmicky endings. Dark is thoughtful, dark is dangerous. Dark has a bottom that you can't see and try to feel with your feet, like swimming in a lake. And, like in a lake, you'll likely encounter hidden slimy things with your legs, and sometimes live moving things brush by with a cold touch and disappear.

In dark, good men are bad, and bad men are even badder; women can't be trusted, motives are suspect, and truth is variable.

In dark, creatures move about, looking for something to eat. Early hominids must have been terrified of the dark, knowing that the black veil beyond their campfires was filled with large teeth, sharp claws, and, worse, suckers of souls.

Yet, to venture into the carbon black is to embrace your fears, to know that even thought justice is relative, there is such a thing as right and wrong, and even the good-with-parts-of-bad man or woman will try to swim up to the light one more time...sometimes for personal salvation, sometimes to save others, but always for redemption.

I guess I like dark because I believe in the devil (though certainly not the fallen angel of traditional biblical schools), and the devil lives in the blackness that is always pulled away in a dark story or movie, if only for a little, and we see bad for what it is, and good for what it tries to be.

Mike S.

Sneaking a Peek at His/Her Kindle!

When first considering spending time with another person in a dating situation, we all have ways of making an initial assessment of future possibilities. For instance, when I lived in Boulder, CO, many women would put something like this in their on-line profiles: "If you even THOUGHT about voting Republican (Bush, especially), don't even THINK about contacting me."

But, once over the initial meeting or two and we've ascertained that we won't be arguing over the Stimulus Package and a real date ensues, what other clues are there to use?

For me, when I pick the lady up at her house, my eyes can't help but search her bookcases. If they are full of Nora Roberts or Clancy, then she'd better be really sexy and have a great body. If they have some Camus, Saramago, Updike, McCarthy, or other notable writers, then my mind is definitely involved.

But, now, with Kindle becoming every more popular (I love my Kindle DX), what's a single, avid reader to do? I can't just say, "Hey, honey, I'd like to see your Kindle!" Or, "I'll show you my Kindle if you show me yours!" Or, "Would you like to synch our Kindles?"

Now, I really can't give the woman's perspective on judging a date ahead of time. I mean, I've heard women say, "If he has a job and isn't in jail, he's a good prospect," and I wouldn't be able to comment if a woman cared what a man's Kindle looked like, but I would imagine a full Kindle might be a good sign, maybe especially the newer and bigger model.

Perhaps Amazon (the seller of Kindle), can offer its OWN date site, where you can search for possibilities by books downloaded? Oh, yeah, then I know I'll have a lot of luck. Some of my recent downloads are: Sex, Time, and Power, Beowulf, The Epic of Gilgamesh, books sure to really bring 'em in. (Ironically, there is ONE woman I know who would LOVE my choices: my EX-WIFE!)

Mike Sledge

Where John Wayne Rode...Monument Valley

June 18, 2009

This morning I walked down the street to get coffee while Jes slept in and stumbled into a fantastic café. I booted up my little netbook and sipped from a cup of tasteful and aromatic coffee while sitting amidst a desert garden, listening to the miniature waterfall in a little Japanese pond that three big multicolored goldfish called home.

Our plan was to drive south on Hwy 191 to Blanding, and then cut west on 95 and then south on 261. We bucked a headwind all the way south to Blanding, which is located on a kind of mesa, right at 6,100 feet. We still wore jackets and gloves, but no rain gear needed, thank god.

When we turned onto 95, I knew it was a good choice, because we saw nobody on the road that swooped through the canyons like a hawk. The road required constant shifting, but that was just fine because it was so nice. Along the way, we stopped at some Anasazi ruins. Jes and I both commented how so very exciting it was to gaze upon a place that was bustling with activity 800 years ago.





We turned south and the first thing we saw was a sign that said, “Narrow gravel road 23 miles ahead.” I’m thinking, “Huh? WTF? Two years ago I had driven this same route the other direction, and I just didn’t seem to recall anything special. Oh, well.

But, 23 miles later it all came back to me…we would be driving right down the side of a mesa bluff into the area just north of Monument Valley. Two years ago I had driven toward this wall of red stone thinking, “Where’s the road up?” I think the pictures will show exactly what it was like.



This picture was taken looking over the back...this is the rock wall we had just driven down!



Once down, we stopped in Mexican Hat, shared a burger, and saddled up again, looking forward to Monument Valley, the site of filming for many John Wayne movies.

What is amazing about the buttes of Monument Valley is that the whole valley floor used to be the same height as the top of the monuments. Wind and water subsequently worn down and carried away all the softer rock, leaving the harder stone behind, standing in tall spires.



A traffic accident put us on a detour in Kayenta, a town in the Navajo Nation, and we were stop and go…mostly stop. At one point, when I let the clutch out, a hammer of wind hit us…so hard that it ACTUALLY PUSHED US BACKWARDS ON THE HARLEY. I swear to god we rolled backwards a few feet while I fought for balance. I didn’t want to gas it and go because I wasn’t sure if I could stay upright, so I just locked the front brake and braced my feet on the ground. Then, suddenly as it came, it was gone. I said to Jes, “Shit! That was as strong or stronger than the wind burst we hit yesterday.” (The day before, after the final gas stop while on the way to Moab, we had just gotten back on I-40 when we were hit by a gust of wind that felt solid as a fist.) Later, Jes told me, “Yeah, I was filming and saw the dust storm coming.” I’m like, What? Why the F didn’t you tell me!”

Later, when we reviewed her video recording, it was clear what had happened: a very big dust devil had blown our way and passed over us. Fortunately, we were stopped when it hit, because a Harley is fine when moving right along, fine when stopped, but there is a moment of transition when beginning to roll when balance is a little iffy.

At Kayenta, after we checked in, a group of Harley riders pulled into the Holiday Inn. Turns out they were Italians who owned Harleys back in Italy and who had rented them in Las Vegas and were doing a tour. They even had Italian Harley leather jackets on! One of them said,"Everything is bigger here...even the Cokes." And, yes, ALL of them, men and women, young and middle-aged, were NOT carrying pounds and pounds of extra weight. Go figure.

As usual, supper, download pictures, discuss tomorrow…which, in this case, will our last day on the Harley.

Mike Sledge

Moab, Biblical Burial Site of Moses

June 17, 2009

Once again, I got up and got coffee and checked my computer for email and stock market trends. Then, of course, take coffee to Jes to jump start her. Our plan was to make it an easy 180-190 miles to Moab. Moab is named after the biblical burial land of Moses, who, as you know, did not make it to the Promised Land.

We left Richfield and motored east on I-70. I knew the San Rafael Swell was ahead of us and was looking forward to it. (I had heard much about this geologic formation while living in Boulder but hadn’t had the chance to view it.) The wind/air temp was just about perfect, but we pulled over to don rain gear just in case.



We did a lot of climbing going up the west side of the swell, and reached a great viewing point. The Native Americans were there with large spreads of jewelry. (I wonder if that stuff is really made in Thailand or somewhere.)

Then, we rode the down into the San Rafael Desert. Going up, over, and down the swell presented us with fantabulous sights, and these pictures really don’t do justice to the geography. The scale of mountains, plains, mesas, and other western geography dwarfs what you see in Arkansas, the Hill Country of Texas, and even the Appalachians. You really feel as though you are just a mote when you ride down a cut made through huge stone walls and find yourself staring out at mountains that are 30-40-50 miles in the distance across the high desert.







We got gas just before turning south on Hwy 191 to Moab. Moab, UT, is the setting for a novella I’ve finished (are we ever finished?), and driving back to the town was like going back to see an old friend.

After grabbing a hotel, we went to get a snack, and then rode around some. We ended up taking the road that leads to Slickrock Trail (a famous mountain bike jaunt) but pushed on to where the road turned to gravel and then kept going another ten miles or so. When we stopped to take a break, stretch our legs, and snap some pics, Jes called to me from behind where I was standing. “Hey, Papa, do you think we need to worry about that?”

I turned and saw some dark clouds a few miles away approaching…and it was obvious that they were dumping rain. We were way high above the town and miles away, so I was most concerned about lightning. Fortunately, we missed most of the rain.

After taking a cat nap, we decided to do some more looking around and find somewhere to eat. I had a place in mind, but didn’t tell her about it until we started up a horribly-maintained asphalt road toward a very oddly shaped structure at the top.

“That’s a great dinner place,” I said. “Been there before and it was delicious.”

It proved to be an equally enjoyable experience this time, too, although the rain drove us off our outdoor dinner patio and inside for shelter.




We did our usual TV thing, throwing the remote back and forth, telling the other to try and find a good channel. Terrible TV all week, but that was really just as well.

Lights out at 11 or so.

Mike Sledge

Heaven Is On Earth...Esp. When It Rains In The Mountains

Tues, June 16, 2009


I woke up in St. George and grabbed my neat little Asus Eee PC (a 10.7 in screen, 160 gig hard drive, 7-hr battery life netbook) and headed for breakfast…coffee in particular. The second thing I do is to check the weather. Hmmm…well, today might be a “wet day.” And it was!

By the time Jes got up (“Papa, I swear it’s like a meat locker in here!” is her morning mantra) and we got going it, it was clear that the sky would not be. Rain garments went on top of the items in the saddlebags.

We ran north on Hwy 18 out of St. George, planning on stopping first at the Mountain Meadows Massacre. It was, as before, a gorgeous drive, and intermittent light rain sprinkled us on the road.

Thirty miles later we pulled into the memorial sites, one of which is an overlook that has a memorial marking the names of those killed and several markers that provide the history of the tragedy. To make a long story short, an emigrant wagon train from Arkansas was ambushed by a group of Native Americans and Mormons from a local settlement. For reasons still not exactly clear, a Mormon militia joined in the attack. (This was during a time of the Utah War, when the US decided to assert its authority over the region and the Mormons resisted.)

After a day or so of continuous assault, a few people of the wagon train were killed and a “truce” was arranged in which the emigrants gave up their arms in exchange for a promise of safe escort out of the region. About a mile from the initial camp where the attacks began, the now-unarmed emigrants were slaughtered, save for all children under the age of seven (it was thought that they would not remember the incident).

Eventually, Brigham Young threw his son (one of them…nice to have some spares, no?) under the bus and who was eventually executed for this crime. Over time, the memorials were updated and improved.

The second memorial site was down in the meadows below the overlook and it contained the graves and stone cairn commemorating the burial site. It was really a beautiful place, one worth taking a side trip off the regular travel routes.





We decided to put on our rain pants in addition to our jackets we had already donned. The bad thing about riding a motorcycle when it’s wet is that if you wait till it’s raining to stop and put on rain gear, you’re doing so when the sky is dumping on you and it’s really too late.

Of course, along the way there were the usual stops for pictures. I love these that Jes took.






We made it to Cedar City on I-15 and took a look at the map. What the heck, we decided. We’d take the canyon road, Hwy 14, back to Hwy 89 (the road we had been on leaving Flagstaff.) and then head north. We were thinking that it would be too wet to ride the interstate up to Salt Lake City. On this account, we were truly correct, but we had hell still ahead of us.

As we rode up Hwy 14 heading east, I told Jes, “Well, it’s a canyon road…it might stay down low….unless, of course, the town was the bottom where the river ran out and we would be climbing to the mountains.” My words proved to be prophetic.

We climbed and we climbed. I pulled over and put my heavier pair of gloves on. We climbed. It rained on us…thank god not a downpour but a steady drizzle. Not much traffic. NO MOTORCYCLES coming the other way…definitely NOT a good sign.

Up, up, around and around…really pretty but really cold. By the time we pulled over at the junction between 143 and 14, it was about 40 something. I looked at the map and decided to take 143 where it led to 148 and then take the east turn down the mountains. This would put us up in the mountains a little longer, but drop us back onto 89 considerably further up the road. This decision was a mixed blessing, for we had a very rare view at one overlook, but we spent more time in the rain and cold.

And we continued up. Then, we saw snow alongside the road, which brought laughs. By now, we’re at 35 degrees. We really aren’t cold except for our hands, and it’s kind of important for a cycle rider to be able to work the hand controls, you know.

We stop at a pull out in which there was a viewing area overlooking a part of the mountain that seemed to have just sheared away, much like a tooth will break from the crown down to the root. (I’ve got to look that up on the net later.)




We get back on and continue climbing. We saw one sign that gave the altitude at just below 10,000 feet, but the road climbed for quite some time after that. I had to stop a couple of time just to take my gloves off and blow on my hands.

Once we crossed the summit and started down, the needle on the thermometer mounted on the bike started climbing….we were descending into heaven, I’ll say.

In town, we stopped for an afternoon snack and to get hot chocolate. I checked the map and we talked. It was clear that monsoon season in Utah was going to dump rain on the west side of the mountains we had just crossed, so we decided to go east, stay the night on I-70, then head to Moab the next day.

We saddled back up and motored the next 70+ miles north on 89. The road was nice, we had a wind in our back so I set that little puppy on 70 and let ‘er thunder down the road. A Harley big twin with the right pipes creates such a wonderful sound…not too loud yet you hear those big pistons just pounding away, their stale breath coming out through the exhausts in a steady, muted roar. It’s easy to get into a Zen state where your thoughts wander as the vista unfolds.

We turned east on I-70, got to Richfield and decided to make it an early day.

Great hotel, wonderful pool (it feels so good to get some exercise after a day on the bike...and it is NOT a good thing that I float better than I used to), dinner, movie, talk, bed.

I love my daughter!!!!

Mike Sledge