Life in the Fertile Valleys

Overpopulation

2009-05-23T05:00:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about overpopulation a lot lately. Someone at work recently made an off-topic remark about how not having children was a good thing since "the world is overpopulated anyway." That statement brought back to mind the January 06 issue of the Economist which had a lead article titled "Declining Populations" discussing their impact on economy. I am concerned with the declining population in the United States and Europe and its impact on the economy (and culture), especially in 20 years from now when the current decline has its impact. To summarize the article; the Economist article writhed and twisted uncomfortably around the basic economic principle that population growth is required for economic growth. It began by pointing out the dangers of population decline -- a danger recognized by basic macro-theory -- but ended up somehow making the point that in the end GDP per capita is more important that GDP in numbers. Huh? That makes as much sense as regulating breathing. All of the commentators in the midstream media seem to sanctimoniously preach their Amen's to this article, claiming that population decline is the answer to all of the world's problems -- including environmental and health -- stating that "with population decline we will simply have more for less people." Wait, so now all of us "leftovers" are going to be rich because the people who would have been sharing our GDP are suddenly gone? Yes, but... now the "leftovers" are not only the sole beneficiaries of the GDP wealth-spreading, but also the sole originators. If we are to keep our status as wealthiest nation in the world, then I am going to have to make my restaurant business 211% more profitable than it is now, a concept unlikely when my customers are gone, or in China/India. When the table turns on this economy, then "the customers" (see China/India above) will not be demanding my Turkey Artichoke sandwichi, but cheap -- oh yes, very cheap -- manufacturing sweat-shops to make their 100% cotton T-shirts and North Face backpacks. The GDP will, in turn, reflect the reduction in input/output. So, I rhetorically ask you liberal pundits: when the population is satisfactorily lowered to your concept of "healthy" who will make up for the GDP production that goes lost with the population? Yes, we are going to have more wealth per capita, but this "wealth" will be inexorably tied to a wealth of problems. Not only will it suck that we will be a manufacturing industry, but it will also suck because all of us -- yes, even you, Mr. Pinko-commie-flamer -- although we will be the recipients of "more wealth", we will be having to work more than twice as hard under twice as intolerable conditions. And what does it matter since we will have no one left to share it with? Yes, we will pay for our culture of "more for me, ha ha" selfishness that is limply surfing the tepid waters of immorality. When the wave comes, we will, as Ricky says, "have some 'splaining to do." Let's hope that the empire and emperor who conquers our land is benevolent.

And then there's another issue I take with these independant, "socially liberal" economists: Where is the guiding principle for your theories? Where is the moral philosophy that backs up your hypothesis? Let me answer: it is non-existent -- it is fabricated to match your social creed of irrational atheism. But hey, somehow this untested/far-fetched/amoral economic principle of GDP per capita is is more grounded/realistic than a tested/proven theory of GDP tied to population growth. It's the same way with the Keynesian zombies who roam the streets of D.C. right now. They have it all backwards and upside down: The untested economic theory is your option of choice over the proven/tested theory?? It's probably because you've never ran a boldface. Perhaps if you were more disciplined in your philosophical life, you would be more rational in your economic one. You guys are psycho, and I salute the great sinking ship of America not because of its current Captain, but because of the founding principles, now lost, but great.

Baby Steps

2008-08-24T17:00:00.000-07:00

So they call them "baby steps." What an ironic name. Might I bring to the table that there is nothing small about a "baby" and the steps one takes are not small at all. And if "baby steps" are to signify something small, then I must disagree with the use of the term. I can vouch that baby is a big step. A gargantuan feat that only the brave and selfless can undertake. How selfless the parent must be to comfort crying baby. How brave the parent must be to think they can defend their helpless babe against the onslaught of the world with all of its decisions. Indeed, baby is the most life-changing step I have ever been obliged to take. Much larger than any other -- and I stress the quotation marks -- "baby step" that I have taken before. Before, a "baby step" was a methodical means of arriving at a desired end state. Take for example the adventure of moving to a new town. Getting to know new people, discovering new places to live and work and play, and finding a community are all best accomplished with the mindset of "baby steps." Get to know one person, then another, and so forth. Find a neighborhood, then maybe a street, and perhaps even a house. Find a parish, then parishioners, then a prayer group. It is all about the building-block approach. The truth is that baby is about challenge. It is about how many sleepless nights you can handle. It is about how much patience you have for fussing and crying. It is about limitless love. And there is nothing little about it. I say baby steps should be the new term for taking life-changing, huge, eventful, adventurous steps. With that, I continue the marathon.

Presidents and Pulpits

2008-06-21T05:00:00.000-07:00

I am anxiously yearning for the day when a president will come along who will bring an inspiration that will propel this country onto a new course. Isn't that what the job is about after all? When America heard Kennedy's speech about getting to the moon before the end of the decade, we became inspired. Our boy scouts started building rockets. We began stargazing; moongazing. We competed internationally against our archrivals, the Soviets. I want a president who picks up the energy crisis issue and inspires us to become energy innovative. Our boy scouts would start building hydrogen cars. We will begin recycling; reusing. We will compete internationally against our archrivals, the Europeans. Let's turn our concepts upside down. How we travel. Magnetic-levitation trains, public transit, bicycles. Let's reorganize our cities. Let's build everything around the notion of being able to leave our cars at home. Let's get fossil fuels out of everything we can stand to get it out of. The simple stuff, really. Although it would be great to completely change our commercial transit system and associated lines of communication from being based on highways to being based on rail, it doesn't seem plausible as a solution. Save the fossil fuels for transporting our veggies and our kitchen cabinets until better ingenuity comes around. But electricity? Our TVs, heating and cooling systems, our lights, kitchens, laundries, all of them could be run by renewable energy sources if we had the drive. But conservation is a mindset. It's a perspective. And we need a leader. One that can inspire us to change our perspective. Make it exciting and romantic. Make it a competition and a way into the future. A new course.

Being a Roll Model

2008-06-20T10:34:00.000-07:00

So here I am after the first day on my new job. It's rather exciting! I feel as though I'm on the cusp of a grand future. The world is at my feet. I have only to tread carefully! I work for Pillsbury now. I used to work for a conglomerate of fashion trendsetters like Calvin Klein, Fruit of the Loom, and Hanes. But sadly now I am getting to old to compete in the "Men's" category. With 6-pack abs a dime a dozen, it's time to look elsewhere for appreciation. So after a time of frustration, anxiety, and a good deal of contemplation, I sought out new employment with renewed vigor. Indeed, I found a new home. This time on the set of the Pillsbury commercials. Now I model Rolls. I play the happy father of the family getting the fresh rolls out of the oven. I play the customer in the grocery store excited to be buying the Pillsbury product. I play the whimsical man who tickles the dough-boy. I play the husband grabbing a roll on his way out the door. It is exhilarating. So much more rewarding than trying to stand there being Michelangelo's David in Fruit of the Loom while the papparazzi take shots of everything but my face. I used to convince myself that "hey, someone's got to do it" but now, I see the light. So rejoice with me! I am a roll model. Can I be yours?

How Chinese Checkers came about

2008-06-20T05:00:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there lived a little gamepiece named Joujamais that belonged to a grand old checkers set. He had many brothers and sisters. They were known as the Rouge family. About 30 centimeters or so to the south of where the Rouges lived there lived the Noirs. The Noirs were about equal in number to the Rouges, but nobody was counting, at least not yet. At some point in time, nobody really remembers when, a Rouge that shall remain nameless (and faceless as well) started a little argument with a Noir. Up to this point, the Noirs and Rouges lived peacefully side by side. Usually occupying the whitelands, and not caring much for the blacklands. The blacklands were not very fertile anyway. But the fight ensued over something small, like what was and what wasn't going to be for dinner. Or maybe it was whether or not there was thyme in the stew last night or not... Well, there was a fight and the Noir got so excited that he jumped over the Rouge. It began a frenzy of jumping until only one Rouge and one Noir remained. Eventually, some humans stepped in and decided it was time to settle the score. So for a long time, the Rouges and the Noirs were duking it out on the whitelands, jumping over one another and every now and then electing queens to lead their armies. It was really quite nasty. That's where Joujamais comes in.
Joujamais decided that it was time to stop this nonsenese. So he called up his friend Tao Chin and asked him what he thought they should do to end this conflict. He knew Tao Chin was wise, and so he asked him, "How do I stop this disgraceful violence?"
Tao Chin replied, "Man who jump off cliff, jump to conclusion."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Joujamais asked.
"Woman who put detergent on top shelf, jump for Joy," Tao Chin replied.
"Ah, I get it! You mean jumping should not be a bad thing?" Joujamais asked.
"Indeed." Tao Chin replied.
With that, Joujamais had an idea. He decided to pitch it to the group.
"Rouges, Noirs, listen to me! I have a dream that one day in the whitelands, the sons of former Noirs and the sons of former Rouges will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood. I have a dream that one day even the blacklands, a land sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice. I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a land where they will not be judged by their color but by the content of their character. I have a dream today! I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and jumping, we shall rejoice in the Lord." No more let us be divided!"
With that, Joujamais explained the rules of a new game, a game that still pitted the Noirs and the Rouges against eachother, but one in which every piece, even the littlest would make it home at the end of the day. He named it after his friend and wise man Tao Chin. Soon, the Rouges & Noirs embraced one another and played a happy game of what became known as Chinese Checkers. And if nobody has gotten into an argument, then they're still playing to this day.

The End.

On sleep and the need for it

2008-06-18T05:00:00.000-07:00

If there were a way to control one's REM-phase sleep, it sure would be handy. In the world of that wish come true, I would need 3 hours of sleep. Until I learn how to actualize this wish, I will be relegated to the use of abject means such as adrenaline and caffeine. It has somewhat worked so far in life, however it remains somewhat unfulfilling. Nothing is quite as satisfying as a refreshing nap. Nothing quite lifts the spirit as a good round of horizontal regeneration. In the end it is unavoidable that I need my 8 hours of sleep. All the adrenaline and caffeine in the world can try to chip away at that, but the need remains. Good night!

Sympathy and Aggravation

2008-06-16T05:00:00.000-07:00

Tonight I ask myself exactly how I can have feel both sympathy and aggravation toward one person. Take el presidente, for example. Now there is someone I truly feel sorry for. He seems to me so well-meaning, so simply confused and wronged by his failure to listen to reason and held captive by the sullen notion that he has to stick to his platform which is all but gone. I really do wish that his dream, whatever it was - freedom for the world, democracy everywhere, an end to weapons of mass destruction, open oil shipping lanes - could have worked out, simply because he is such an agreeable human being. Now he seems ridiculed for his dream and his inability to see beyond his mistakes. At the same time, I am greatly troubled by his inability to admit failure of his foreign policy. It frustrates me to no end that he cannot take charge of this country for the better. Instead, we are drifting mindlessly into the same whirlpool of destruction that our forefathers were tempted by. And for what? For freedom? No. For democracy? Who really gives a flip about democracy anymore? Everyone cares about gas prices and how much their grocery store trip will cost them today. A year from now you will laugh when I say that we paid $3 a gallon back at the beginning of the millennium. But gas prices are neither here nor there. They are just a symptom that el presidente cannot begin to address because of the quagmire he has gotten himself into. Had his foreign campaign been a blazing success, then he would seem reasonably believable when it came to domestic campaigns. As it stands he is not believable because he has so aggravated his constituents. He still draws my sympathy, though. He could have done so much better. He could have been the right man at the right time. He could have been a leader of unparalleled preportions. Instead everyone is simply waiting for him to leave. El presidente, I salute you. I really, really wish you would inspire me to stand up to do it.

How I got to shaving my head

2008-06-15T05:00:00.000-07:00

In the grand scheme of things, all is well. The grand scheme is not really a scheme at all. A scheme is a trick, you see. So all is well in the grand. But that makes no sense. So I think I'll shave my head.

Bend

2007-09-06T06:08:00.000-07:00

Population: more than 67,152
Average Commute: 16 minutes
Median Age: 35
Median Income: $29,853
Median Home Price: $351,978

Employers:
St Charles Medical Center
Les Schwab Tires
Sunriver Resort

Statistic:
49% of Bendians have a dog

Best Town in the Northwest, Outside Magazine 2007

Every place has its season - when living there makes you feel blessed. In Bend, one of the country's fastest-growing cities, the showcase season happens to be, well, all of them. Take a midsummer night. It's light until nearly 9:30 p.m., plenty of time to lob woolly buggers into crisp holes on the Deschutes River after work or hop on a bike to catch Pink Martini at the amphitheater. You can ski through May (July with skins) and mountain-bike all year. Some 2.5 million acres of wilderness surround the city; 10,000-foot volcanoes dominate the skyline. Bend's heritage as a flannel-and-jeans lumber town is less in evidence these days. The Old Mill District now hosts an REI, and the locals include surf icon Gerry Lopez (who came for the snowboarding), mountaineer Steve House, and Tony Braun. Bend even has its own brand of diversity: The town's signature race - the Pole Paddle, held in May - requires skiing, biking, running, paddling, and more running for 30-some miles from the top of Mount Bachelor into town, where everyone then drinks beer. And there's a lot of good beer: five breweries for 67,000 people, plus swanky restaurants, art walks, and film festivals. But the town still has its bowling leagues, muddy pickup trucks, and chatty barbers on Bond Street (who also serve you beer during your trim). Best of all, being on the dry side of the Cascades, where the evergreen forest bumps into high-desert sage, Benders have all the fun of the Pacific Northwest without the rain. They bike-commute year-round on 51 miles of urban trails, take weekend trips to surf storm swells banging into the coast, and pick up fresh salmon at the farmers' market. No wonder someone moves here every two hours.

The Perfect 48 Hours:
Rent a bike at Sunnyside Sports (sunnysidesports.com) and ride it to the Victorian Cafe (541-382-6411) early the next morning to beat the crowds who come for the crab Benedict. From there, continue on to the rolling singletrack of Phil's Trail and spin all the way to Mount Bachelor if you like, 2,700 feet up. Kick back at the patio on the patio at the Bend Brewing Company (bendbrewingco.com) for California chicken on focaccia and a Metolius Golden Ale. Take a Turkish-style public bath at McMenamin's Old St. Francis School, a Catholic school turned pub, movie theater, and hotel (mcmenamins.com). For dinner, try the local Kumamoto oysters at Merenda (merendarestaurant.com). Rent gear from the Patient Angler (patientangler.com) and spend the next day casting on the Deschutes. Come evening, head to the Bendistillery sampling room (bendistillery.com) for cocktails. Even guys like the lemon-drop martinis.

-T.N.

Road Rage

2007-07-16T05:00:00.000-07:00

On my way to work today I developed another theory as to why Americans are such poor drivers. My new theory is as follows: Americans are poor drivers because on American roads, much like in its dream, there exists equality. Equality turns what would be a demonstration of the intricate ballet of automotive skill into a dull and plodding traffic hulk. A monster of the here and now; the mine and mine alone; the apathetic and the ignorant. Driving is simply a rough means of transit. Cars full of automatic technology do three-fourths of the work. The experience of locomotion has become a khaki bed sheet listing in the warm breeze of a sepia-colored landscape. Conversely, on European roads, there is a clear hierarchy of vehicular power. Life on the road is a brilliant display of the fine balance between excitement and professionalism or danger and responsibility. Drivers are like individual artists each directing their own brush over curves and angles to the tune of a colorful picture. There are the VW Monets, the Mercedes Gericaults, the Audi Cezannes, the Porsche Dalis, and the BMW Degases. Back in America, we find ourselves in a world of depressive equality. Daily, we face an integrated equality which hems in what would otherwise be a flood of competitive and colorful reality. It is somewhat like the modern education system in the sense that the angel of education is being extinguished by the demon of facilitation. Cars and trucks are leisurely driving in the left lane while others speed by in the right -- Vehicular Natural Law broken. Cars turning onto the highway via the right lane while cars continue to speed by in the left -- desensitization of the automotive conscience at its finest. The passionate adherence to the theory that turn signals are overrated -- the fabric of the road-traffic continuum torn; yet again. Indeed, the same thing that has happened to America culturally during the last 150 years is reflected by the daily life on the highways and byways. The confusion is very simple: Independence means solitary apathy; Entrepreneurism means careless destruction of the fragile continuum of standards; Innovation is the creation of a personal chaos; Diversity means racism; Hierarchy translates into inequality; Power and control are on sale at Walmart. It goes far beyond a simple repression of truth: It is a distortion of it; the prevalent idea that the past is wrong and customs are the past. The tragic flaw lies in the belief that binding ourselves to a regulatory system of rights, wrongs, virtues and morals would deny us the human right to a life of laissez-faire creative impulse where only the ego has say. Today a child can't possibly be lazy -- tomorrow we just might not bother to paint lines on the road. And so we depart further and further from the standards, denying heritage its place, and rowing our personal titanic through the lukewarm waters of the placid ocean of malcontent. Therefore, let us pull to the side of the proverbial highway, and watch the boring mayhem unfurl. But beware, somewhere in that sepia sea, is a beige iceberg. Sadly, the forecast looks like by the time we turn on the turn signal, begin to move our Cadillac Seville into the right lane, and merge correctly, the iceberg will be upon us. And it will be cold. Prepare yourself. You will need two things. A rosary and products from The North Face.

Dog Food & the Sausage Factory

2007-05-21T05:01:00.001-07:00

-- Or: How I fell for a 30-day challenge --

I recently purchased Purina ONE after reading the information on the bag about Optimal Pet Health. I then had to deal with my dog's poor digestion, and had to do some research. This is what I found:

The first ingredient in Purina ONE is a named meat product, but since this is lamb inclusive of its water content (about 80%) and this ingredient will weigh only about 20% of its wet weight once water is removed (as it must be to make kibble) it is unlikely that this is the true first ingredient in the food. It is the sole named meat product in the food.

The next ingredient is Brewers rice - a low quality grain and by-product.

Oatmeal is a decent quality grain, but corn is a problematic grain that is difficult for dogs to digest and thought to be the cause of a great many allergy and yeast infection problems. In it's gluten form, it is also a waste product for which the AAFCO definition is "the dried residue from corn after the removal of the larger part of the starch and germ, and the separation of the bran by the process employed in the wet milling manufacture of corn starch or syrup, or by enzymatic treatment of the endosperm". Corn appears a second time 6th on the ingredient list.

The next ingredient is Poultry by-products, of unidentifiable source. It is impossible to ascertain the quality of by-products and these are usually products that are of such low quality as to be rejected for use in the human food chain, or else are those parts that have so little value that they cannot be used elsewhere in either the human or pet food industries. The AAFCO definition of poultry by-product meal is “a meal consisting of the ground, rendered, clean parts of the carcass of slaughtered poultry, such as necks, feet, undeveloped eggs and intestines, exclusive of feathers, except in such amounts as might occur unavoidable in good processing practice.” Beef tallow is a very low quality fat obtained from the tissue of cattle in the commercial process of rendering.

Many pet foods are made up mostly of grain fragments (the left overs from the human food industry), with a small amount of meat thrown in and the whole thing coated with recycled used (and frequently carcinogenic) fats to make it palatable to our pets. In most cases, these are things we’d refuse to feed our pets if we saw them in their raw state. So why would we feed them when they’re transformed into dry extruded pellets? Why are we feeding carnivores on grains anyway? We wouldn’t try to feed fish to a cow, so why try to feed grains to our carnivorous cats and dogs? The answer is simple – it is far cheaper than feeding meat, and in any case, we can’t make kibble without them (it won’t stick together). But it has nothing whatsoever to do with good or species-appropriate nutrition for our pets. Neither cats nor dogs have any evolved need of carbohydrates in their diet at all, and these are readily converted to fat.

In light of my research, I sent a letter to Purina detailing my frustration. I asked them two questions. First, why do they market Purina One as containing "no added fillers" and being "healthy" when your ingredients list clearly demonstrates the opposite? Second, how can you justify your marketing when you promote health and at the same time produce a product with such low quality? I also told them that I took the 30-day challenge, and now I am sorry I did. I am very dissappointed, especially after my dog consumed the entirety of a 20 lb. bag which I purchased in good faith. I failed to do my research. If I knew then what I knew now, I would have not invested in a follow-on 8 lb. bag. I am still awaiting a response. It's like a hot dog factory: I never sausage a sight before!

-Braun.

It begins again

2007-05-21T05:01:00.000-07:00

Has it been 7 months? Well, soon the wait will be over. Exciting new posts are rapidly approaching. Information on life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness as experienced by Tony Braun will be once again available. If I can only find the words... Ah, sweet words.

Read my mind

2006-11-20T05:00:00.000-08:00

So there I am, standing on the corner of main street and I'm just trying to keep it in line. You walk up and say you wanna move on and that I'm falling behind. Whoa! Can you read my mind or something? No, seriously, can you read my mind? Hey, I never really gave up on breaking out of this two-star town, but I got the green light and I got a little fight. Just watch, I'm gonna turn this thing around. The good old days were all about the honest man and the restless heart, looking forward to the Promised Land. Nowadays, the world is made up of a subtle kiss that no one sees or a broken wrist and a big trapeze. Oh well! I don't mind if you don't mind, because I don't shine if you don't shine. Hey, before you go, can you read my mind? It’s funny how you just break down waiting on some sign! I pull up to the front of your driveway with magic soaking my spine and ask myself, "can you read my mind?" Tell me, can you read my mind? Look at the teenage queen, the loaded gun, the drop dead dream, the Chosen One, a southern drawl, the world unseen, a city wall and a trampoline! Whee! Oh well I don't mind if you don't mind because I don't shine if you don't shine! Before you jump, Tell me what you find... When you read my mind, I feel like I'm slipping in my faith until I fall. I hear you say, "He never returned that call." Woman, open the door! Don't let it sting because I wanna breathe that fire again. She said I don't mind by you said, "you don't mind," because I don't shine if you don't shine. Put your back on me and you'll see that the stars are blazing like rebel diamonds cut out of the sun. But that's only when you read my mind. Give it a try.

Adelaide

2006-10-11T05:00:00.000-07:00

Do you know about Adelaide? So I'm on a plane far from the United States of L.A. Kind of like dropping in from outer space, it takes a day. Now I see the Bogans at the motor race. Here you know the world could turn or crash and burn and you would never know it. I'm going where the air is clear, there's better beer in Adelaide! Charlie L. Smith's forty and someone spiked my rice, so now the rest is history. Now I am a fixture down Rundle Mall watching as the locals pass silver balls. I can see their eyes are round and that they're pointed down as they scan the spanning sidewalks. They're learning that there is no hurry, fuss, or worry in Adelaide. So now it's raining in Adelaide, a face is waiting in a window, and a voice says: "Why Adelaide? You could live anywhere!" and I say, "Because I want to! Because I want to, I really really want to!" And after all, you know the earth could turn or crash and burn and you would never know it. Really got to make it to the finish line, get the record done on time, pack the bags and catch a flight. And you can kiss my rear goodbye because I'm in Adelaide!

Wings

2006-06-15T05:00:00.000-07:00

Esteban

2006-06-08T21:14:00.000-07:00

Stephen's name means crown. He was the first disciple of Jesus to receive the martyr's crown. Stephen was a deacon in the early Church. We read about him in chapters 6 and 7 of the Acts of the Apostles. Peter and the apostles had found that they needed helpers to look after the care of widows and the poor. So they ordained seven deacons. Stephen is the most famous of these.God worked many miracles through St. Stephen. He spoke with such wisdom and grace that many of his hearers became followers of Jesus. The enemies of the Church of Jesus were furious to see how successful St. Stephen's preaching was. At last, they laid a plot for him. They could not answer his wise arguments, so they got men to lie about him. These men said that he had spoken sinfully against God. St. Stephen faced that great assembly of enemies without any fear. In fact, the Holy Bible says that his face looked like the face of an angel.Stephen spoke about Jesus, showing that he is the Savior God had promised to send. He scolded his enemies for not having believed in Jesus. At that, they rose up in great anger and shouted at him. But Stephen looked up to heaven. He said that he saw the heavens opening and Jesus standing at the right hand of God. His hearers plugged their ears and refused to listen to another word. They dragged St. Stephen outside the city of Jerusalem and stoned him to death. The saint prayed, "Lord Jesus, receive my spirit!" Then he fell to his knees and begged God not to punish his enemies for killing him. After such an expression of love, the martyr went to his heavenly reward. St. Stephen, pray for us!

Esteban

"The love that brought Christ from heaven to earth raised Stephen from earth to heaven.. Christ made love the stairway that would enable all Christians to climb to heaven. Hold fast to it, therefore, in all sincerity, give one another practical proof of it, and by your progress in it, make your ascent together."
-St. Fulgentius

A Day of Victory?

2006-06-08T05:00:00.000-07:00

Today, Abu Musab Al-Zarqawi, the top terrorist in Iraq, was killed. Conflicting emotions, ranging from relief to uncertainty, give cause for rejoicing and sadness. There is a sense that justice has been served and the way is paved for democracy to freely establish itself in Iraq. There is also a sense that the future will become even more bloody than the past. Will there be a decrease in violence? Is the air of the invincibility of terrorists shattered?

Terrorism feeds on violence. Death is its triumph. That is why suicide bombings are effective in the eyes of terrorism. Terrorists rejoice in death. They have no use for life. Fear is their weapon, and with it, they kill. The spiritual conviction of terrorists is emboldened by loss of life. For them, their life is worth so little in light of the eternity that awaits. They are so tied to their conviction that death will not stop them. It goes to show the great lengths the human spirit will go to for the sake of an idea.

Al-Zarqawi. He is dead, and the media talks of victory in the war on Terrorism. Is it a day of victory? An enemy's death is cause for reflection. The loss of a human life is always a loss. Zarqawi's chance for knowing salvation through the blood of Jesus Christ was lost.

What compells the enemy to do what they do? How can they be stopped in the future? There will most certainly be a replacement for Zarqawi. Most likely it will be one even more bloodthirsty and unrelenting. That is the nature of terrorism. For every leader that dies, there are 10 others, more deadly than he waiting in the ranks to take his place. The fight is one of ideology, and surrender cannot be achieved with the threat of 500-lb bombs. Still, in some way, victory has been achieved. Or at least retribution.

A boquet for you

2006-06-07T05:00:00.000-07:00

Peace

2006-06-05T05:00:00.000-07:00

There is a peace in my heart that contrasts the world around me. Sometimes I am able to be in situations where peace is reflected in the quiet around me. Mostly, however, I am in a dynamic world, far from quiet. Here I am tortured with impatience and ungratitude. But peace does not equal quiet. And peace is not always found in quiet either.

The Same Thing

2006-06-04T05:00:00.000-07:00

Why is it then that I continue to fight the same battle? It is because I want the same thing that I wanted before. The lines were drawn and I stepped over them again and again thinking that I could single-handedly take on the forces of darkness, and then becoming refined in my failure and God's mercy. I keep fighting the wrong battle. The battle is the Lord's; not mine. My part is to allow myself to be transformed so that my wants are not those of the flesh, but those of the spirit. I need to stop wanting the same thing that I wanted before. That is how I can be alive. I have only to be still.

Fragility

2006-06-01T05:00:00.000-07:00

We took off on a Wednesday afternoon. There were thunderstorms within 10 miles of the airfield, and lightning within five, but our departure route was clear of storms and clouds and the nearest divert airfield in case of a lightning strike was less than 15 miles away; so we took off. Times like these, floating through the clouds to some obscure airspace in the southwest, make me think about timeless truths.

Maybe it's my own fragility that shines through the clouds. Small as I am, full of hopes and fears about things that I have no control over. It is only love that keeps me from diving into an endless spiral of despair at my weakness. No jet engine, no airfoil could keep me afloat in this atmosphere of conflicting emotions; but it is grace that lifts me up, even when I am on the ground, faced with subjective reality that worms its way from complacency into outright negativism. The world would like us to believe that we are hopeless, that we are lost, that we are empty, that there is a finality to our existence. The truth is that our faith in Jesus Christ, the son of God, raised from the dead, and alive in our hearts has given us wings. We are full of hope. The lost is now found. The emptiness that once characterized humanity has been overwhelmed with grace that overflows in our heart and soul. The chains of death have been broken. We are more alive than anything on earth, and our life is merely a passing into glory.

What would I do without you?

2006-05-15T05:00:00.000-07:00

Doesn't it seem so real:
Ceaser and his salad,
Poseidon and his castle now drowned?
But it's not so real. This is:
The peace of Christ and her phone call
to lay me to rest.

Why won't the world let me
experience it without you?
There were the roman noses,
there was the diagnosis,
Borders and Grimm;
but then there was her,
to lay me to rest.

It began with fear of the Lord.
Why try this Monsieur et Madame?
Because une promenade à sa endroite,
and the harmonies of our lives
can bring such peace;
it's our hearts entwined.
now come, lay me to rest.

Chocolate

2006-05-10T05:00:00.000-07:00

This could be the very minute
I'm aware I'm alive
All these places feel like home

With a name I'd never chosen
I can make my first steps
As a child of 25

This is the straw, final straw in the
Roof of my mouth as I lie to you
Just because I'm sorry doesn't mean
I didn't enjoy it at the time

You're the only thing that I love
It scares me more every day
On my knees I think clearer

Goodness knows I saw it coming
Or at least I'll claim I did
But in truth I'm lost for words

What have I done it's too late for that
What have I become truth is nothing yet
A simple mistake starts the hardest time
I promise I'll do anything you ask...this time

-Snow Patrol

Thanksgiving

2005-11-21T05:00:00.000-08:00

Dear God,

Thank you for Turkey.
Thank you for Airplanes.
Thank you for Elijah & Dave.
Thank you for mountains.
Thank you for the sun.
Thank you for the rings around Saturn.
Thank you for my home.
Thank you for Billy & Irmgard Williams.
Thank you for automobiles.
Thank you for the Cathedral of Our Lady of Perpetual Help.
Thank you for Tillamook Cheese.
Thank you for the rain.
Thank you for the drought.
Thank you for Microsoft Flight Simulator 98.
Thank you for the Rosary.
Thank you for Michael Savage.
Thank you for the pope.
Thank you for Patagonia.
Thank you for Andrew.
Thank you for REI.
Thank you for work.
Thank you for health.
Thank you for my cold.
Thank you for Duraflame logs.
Thank you for Orange Juice.
Thank you for Ginger Root.
Thank you for a full stomach.
Thank you for Edgar Leonardo.
Thank you for my paycheck.
Thank you for my telephone.
Thank you for the Post Office.
Thank you for the past.
Thank you for lessons learned.
Thank you for naiveté.
Thank you for blinds.
Thank you for down comforters.
Thank you for Scott's Winterizer.
Thank you for my garage.
Thank you for the garbage man.
Thank you for I-40.
Thank you for mud and dirt.
Thank you for Pledge and Windex.
Thank you for Kleenex and Ricola.
Thank you for furniture.
Thank you for running water.
Thank you for pecan trees.
Thank you for monkeygrass.
Thank you for the stars.
Thank you for Crater Lake.
Thank you for Goretex.
Thank you for the Pacific Ocean.
Thank you for Chestnut-colored hair.
Thank you for the Barber.
Thank you for laundry detergent.
Thank you for the refrigerator.
Thank you for Cranberry sauce.
Thank you for Butternut Squash.
Thank you for the Kalpakgians.
Thank you for the Franciscan University of Steubenville.
Thank you for Frenchman Mountain.
Thank you for the Browns.
Thank you for Lake Almanor.
Thank you for Debit Cards.
Thank you for Lufthansa.
Thank you for Omi.
Thank you for Pearson Field.
Thank you for the Extra 300S.
Thank you for the guitar.
Thank you for Bonaventure.
Thank you for Fr. Weisenburger.
Thank you for John & Robin.
Thank you for Rachmaninov.
Thank you for computer joysticks.
Thank you for Brian & Terri.
Thank you for windows.
Thank you for the Air Force.
Thank you for the USA.
Thank you for St. Joseph's Peninsula State Park.
Thank you for Tim.
Thank you for Lemond.
Thank you for pencils.
Thank you for nail clippers.
Thank you for my life.
Thank you for Switzerland.
Thank you for butter.
Thank you for Imax movies.
Thank you for Miles.
Thank you for my camera.
Thank you for sight.
Thank you for languages.
Thank you for the saints.
Thank you for Clear Creek Monastery.
Thank you for Mt. Lassen.
Thank you for Oregon.
Thank you for mistakes.
Thank you for answers to prayers.
Thank you for Organic food.
Thank you for HHS.
Thank you for Martin & Sue.
Thank you for light.
Thank you for sleep.
Thank you for Mark Shea.
Thank you for running shoes.
Thank you for Fr. John Patrick Bertolucci.
Thank you for Brian.
Thank you for cold weather.
Thank you for the Eucharist.
Thank you for your mother.
Thank you for paper.
Thank you for the internet.
Thank you for tents.
Thank you for the Grand Canyon.
Thank you for the Grand Tetons.
Thank you for hardwood floors.
Thank you for beef tips.
Thank you for styrofoam.
Thank you for my belly.
Thank you for Peter Scholl-Latour.
Thank you for candles.
Thank you for love.
Thank you for mercy.
Thank you for Nick.
Thank you for so much more.
Thank you for the Fertile Valleys.
Thank you for your Son.

Love,
Tony Braun

Little

2005-11-17T05:00:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time there was a little car that decided to go for a little drive. So it took its little driver and went on its merry little way. First, it backed up into the little street and drove to the little intersection. Then it took a little left and went up a little hill where it met a little highway. It decided to go a little west and so it went a little west. A little while later, it literally had a little shock when it came upon a big bird. The big bird was an eagle, or something a little more majestic than that. It thought to itself how little it seemed compared to the big bird. Being scared, it took a little u-turn, pealed out, and made a big streak of rubber on the road.

Whoa.

He stopped. For the first time, he had done something big. What next?

The ultimate optimist

2005-11-15T05:00:00.000-08:00

Thelma & Gene

2005-10-28T05:00:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time in a county not too far from here lived a happy couple. Her name was Thelma and his was Gene. One day, they decided that staying at home was much to boring. The decision was made, therefore, to go out into the wild world to discover what lay beyond the horizon. And so they got into their comfortable Buick and drove into the big city. There they encountered many exciting things. Such as stoplights. Their little town in the country did not have stoplights. They also encountered strange smells. Such as bratwurst. Their nostrils had never smelled much more than the occasional country-fried steak, and so the new smell of wurst was enthralling. Wanting to get a taste, and a closer look at the city, Thelma & Gene decided to visit the Oktoberfest. There they reveled in their newfound love for Bratwurst and stoplights. They also discovered Beer and its effects. Soon they were letting all country decorum, which they had religiously adhered to out in the country, go out the window. Or out the tent, I should say. Thelma & Gene partied hardy. They danced. They ate more bratwurst. But the night grew long, and Thelma & Gene were soon tired. And so they made their way back the Buick and back out into the country to their little home just outside the wild world that we know all to well. And if they haven't passed away, then they're still alive today, basking in the happiness of the yearly Oktoberfest.

The End.

An essay from pumpkin

2005-10-21T05:00:00.000-07:00

I am a pumpkin, and I fear this time of year. They call it "carving" and it is so violent, that I have difficulty explaining this treachery to you. It moves the gourd that I am to tears. Can you believe that in America, human children derive pleasure in taking large knives and plunging them into yours truly, carving mouths of all shapes and sizes into my precious and beautiful orange face? What treacherous humanity! What inconceivable malice! And for such grotesque murder, these little humans are rewarded with sugar sweets of all sorts, including ones bearing my resemblance! Does it not make you mad? Does it not persuade you to revolt? Does it not stir within you a sense of madness? Am I alone in this world? Will no one save me? Maybe make a soup out of me. Or possibly a pie. Such a departure from this world would be dignified. But left to rot on the doorstep of homes across this continent? It leaves me with nightmares. Pumpkins have feelings to, you know. Albeit, they are vegetarian feelings, insofar as a gourd can feel. But we grow, are alive, not quite conscious, not quite cognizant of the world around us, but alive nevertheless. We sit in the store, you know, taking gambles on our fate. We envy our brothers and sisters whose remains are locked away in the cans marked “pie filling”. They gave their lives years ago, but with dignity, knowing that they will not suffer our fate of slow decomposition. There is a legend – or, better yet, a dream – that travels through the community of pumpkins of a home where all pies are made fresh, all pumpkins are happy, and the only thing rotting away in the cool nights are those wretched plastic imitations which blaspheme our name. We can only hope and pray for fortune to shine on us and a international revolution of freshly made pumpkin pie. Perhaps then, the humans will find another effigy to take knife to. Perhaps then, we will be free.

Perhaps.

Happy All Hallows Eve.

Raamses

2005-10-07T05:00:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time there was a middle-aged man by the name of Raamses. He was named after a city in Egypt built by the Pharaoes. One day he decided to go for a walk in the back yard, but because the yard was small, he had to go in circles. Round and round he went, always passing the same stick, the same slab of concrete, the same sandbox, and the same blades of grass. Suddenly, he stumbled over a rock that hadn't been there before, and when he looked down, he saw that it wasn't a rock, but a magic lamp. Knowing what he was supposed to do from the kids stories he heard as a kid, he rubbed it three times and out came a Genie.

"I will grant you three wishes, Master!" the Genie proclaimed.

"Ok, well first I want to be a fly on the wall of the girls locker room at the YMCA." With that, Raameses was transformed into a pants-zipper stuck to the wall of the girls locker room. Frustrated, he tried again.

"No, no, you stupid genie, you've got it all wrong. Never mind, I'll try again." he stammered. "I want to be James Bond." Suddenly, Raamses became a DVD on the shelf above a television in someone's living room.

"Argh!" he shouted. "Forget it! You are a dumb genie! Make me back to what I used to be." With that, Raamses was transported back to the back-yard he was used to. Just this time, he became a little boy. Doing what little boys do in that situation, he stomped his feet and cried.

The lesson learned is if you wish to be big don't belittle.

Bonaventure I

2005-10-06T05:00:00.000-07:00

This is my car, Bonaventure. Allow me to introduce you to him. Bonaventure is a Mini Cooper S Convertible. Jet Black with Chrome around the edges. My garage, which is quite small, is his home when he's not motoring around the countryside. Bonaventure was purchased on the feast of St. Bonaventure, July 15th. Bonaventure's name means "good luck." Bonaventure the Mini was born in May of 2005. Bonaventure the saint was born in 1221 in Tuscany, Italy. He was a franciscan, and with my roots at the Franciscan University of Steubenville, it is only proper that I should have Bonaventure the Mini in my life. It's kind of neat to note that Francis was still alive when Bonaventure was born. Bonaventure the saint was a wonderful writer about the things of God. He loved God so much that people began to call him the "Seraphic Doctor." Seraphic means angelic. One of Bonaventure's famous friends was St. Thomas Aquinas, my confirmation saint. St. Bonaventure pray for us.

Bonaventure.

"It is he who tells me everything. He is my only Teacher."

-St. Bonaventure

Statement of Purpose

2005-10-04T05:00:00.000-07:00

Statement of Purpose
Masters of Arts in International Studies
School of International and Area Studies
University of Oklahoma
by Antony "ACCEPT MY APPLICATION NOW, PUNKS" Braun

Once upon a time there was a Monkey by the name of Edmund who lived on the edge of a grassy knoll in the wild backcountry of a mighty Rainforest. Edmund was generally a happy monkey, enjoying his daytime activities for the most part, but always in fear of the descent of the sun every evening. Every night he would climb to the top of his territorially claimed tree and perch himself in branches that were so high off the ground that they swayed back and forth under the influence of Edmund's weight and the light breeze that comforted the tropical jungle below. Back and forth Edmund swayed, causing many a bout of seasickness when the wind decided to be a bit more frisky than usual. But the mild seasickness that Edmund endured was nothing compared to the fear he had of the dark. It was especially bad on nights when the moon wasn't out or when clouds covered the normally starry sky. On those nights Edmund would rarely get sleep, his mind always occupied with glowing, evil eyes in the depths of the jungle. But every day, Edmund was happy again, mostly happy to have made it through the night. And so the story begins of Edmund's journey to a far off land, one that he had only heard the occasional Canadian Gander talk about during their short rest stops to poop on Edmund's grassy knoll. Yes, there are Canadian Geese in the rainforest.

It was a Monday, but Edmund would have not known the difference between it and any other day. He awoke sharply to the sound of a rustling on the other side of the knoll, and, curious as monkeys usually are, he decided to investigate. Instinctively he knew that the rustling was coming from a particular bush. So it is with curious individuals. Curiosity implies a situational awareness of great magnitude. Scuffling carefully over to the bush, he peeked his little monkey head in and all of a sudden, with a loud swoosh, he was caught up in a net. Letting out loud shrieks in his fear, he jumbled around in the net, seeing sky and ground tumble over and over and over again. There was the sound of a human voice saying "Ha! Nau I have you!" and some other grumbling in a foreign language Edmund did not understand. "Mwanaamke ngose mbuye, mister Deebee!" came a second voice. "Oh, don't bozer, I'll jahst carrie heem to ze jeep." came the voice of what was proving to be Mr. Deebee. "Mbisi nege Swanabebe," shouted a third voice. "Ngose?" Mister Deebee apparently spoke their language. "Ngose mbuye!" the third voice shouted again. "Laissez l'homme avec son macquaqe!" the second voice bellowed, this time in a different language. What was going on, Edmund pondered, still frantic from the twists and turns the horizon had taken just a few moments earlier. "I'll puut heem in de jeep, ok?" Mr. Deebee's voice sounded irritated. "Ouais."

The door slammed shut and all of a sudden it was Edmund's worst nightmare. It was dark. The sound of two other doors slamming soon followed and then the jingle of keys followed by the rumble of an ignition. Soon the darkness was joined by the other three dimensions of a bumpy dirt road, most likely leading away from the grassy knoll, for it was highly unlikely that Mr. Deebee was going to relocate to Edmund's grassy knoll for Edmund's sake. The darkness was bearable with the knowledge that it was still light outside of this cage and the conversation of the men in the front seat overpowered the reality of the night surrounding little Edmund. Edmund listened to the conversation. "Deebee, nous pouvons obtenir 200 francs pour lui au marché, tout vrai?" "300." "Peut-etre, oui..." It didn't take long for Edmund to realize he was going to be sold. But what would anyone want with a monkey from a grassy knoll in the rainforest? Edmund fell asleep. He dreamed of being a monkey-slave in the court of a rich monkey-king. "Fetch me a banana, slave Edmund!" said King Deebee. "And make it a ripe one this time!" Or maybe Edmund was going to be sold as a pet to a rich family in Europe. Wearily, he imagined living in a lavish golden cage, suspended from the floor by a chain attached to the ceiling. Rich little children would no doubt be tormenting for the rest of his miserable life, feeding him peanuts and red wine, entertaining themselves on the drunken monkey.

With a thud, Edmund awoke. The thud was his head hitting the ceiling, except what was once the ceiling was now the floor. Now it was the ceiling again, and now the floor. Something was going on, and Edmund knew it wasn't supposed to be happening. Voices from far away began yelling. "Alors!" "Zut!" "O, mon Dieu, la tragédie!" The voices came closer and Edmund heard feet pounding. "Mbuye! Mbuye!" cried a voice.

Soon Edmund was back in the Jeep, this time strapped down no doubt, but he couldn't tell from inside his box. He fell asleep again. When he awoke, he heard the sound of a much louder engine, coming closer and closer, and all of a sudden, the box was opened, and Edmund got a look at Mr. Deebee for the first time. Mr. Deebee's strong hands reached down for Edmund, grabbing the little monkey and pinning him down on the ground. "Surely they are going to inject me with some poisonous injection," Edmund thought, but much to his surprise, the hand let loose, and Edmund found a loose leather collar around his neck connected to a long leather leash. What cow must have given her life for this precious gift of freedom from the box Edmund now experienced! With that, Edmund crawled out to see his surroundings and the sound of jet noise was soon confirmed by his eyes, when he saw the two-engine propeller aeroplane approaching down the grassy field. Mr. Deebee appeared to a gentle guy, regularly talking to Edmund about how the trip would be great, and the technological details of the airplane. No doubt, Mr. Deebee had previously been talking to himself, and Edmund's arrival merely provided an audience for the monologue. "You see zose tires, monkey? Hubert's company makes zem!" But Edmund was much too enamored by his new surroundings to be closely listening to Mr. Deebee. Soon, the engines died down and the pilot came out, collecting the tickets from Mr. Deebee and 40 other passengers with their goats, chickens, and vegetable baskets. "What joy not to be a vegetable basket!" Edmund thought. Everyone was surely headed to the market, and this aeroplane was the ferry.

On the plane, Edmund saw to whom the other voices from out in the rainforest belonged to. From what he could ascertain, there was Hubert, a fat Frenchman, who followed Mr. Deebee around like he was a Brio train cart magnetically connected to its locomotive. Then there was Yves, a tall, lanky guide, who had probably led Mr. Deebee to the grassy knoll. The other one was Jeje, but Jeje stayed behind with the jeep, probably the local taxi driver. When Mr. Deebee wasn't talking to Edmund, he was yelling at Hubert to keep his hands to himself. Edmund began to feel comfortable with Mr. Deebee and his strange accent. "We're going to Deutschland, mein Monkey! Und you vill have good fun wis meine Kinder. Ei have ze boy und ze two girl. Ze like you much, I'm sure."

"It was coming true," Edmund thought. "I am going to Europe to be tormented by little rich German kinder." Soon the plane landed and Edmund and Mr. Deebee got off. Mr. Deebee said something that sounded like a goodbye to Yves and Hubert, something about "Kaffee", and judging by the inflections, Edmund thought for sure that Mr. Deebee was entrusting Hubert to Yves, instead of the other way around. Mr. Deebee and Edmund got into another taxi, but this one was made of straw and pulled by bicycle. Sights and sounds of the city market soon surrounded Mr. Deebee and Edmund as they perilously made their way through crowds. The air smelled differently out here and Edmund started to notice change in the scenery. The market gave way to residences and the residences gave way to warehouses. Seagulls began swooping down around the taxi and Edmund became excited again. "We're going out to sea, mein Monkey!" said Mr. Deebee.

They boarded the ship just in the nick of time. Mr. Deebee handed the taxi driver a wad of something that the taxi driver seemed very excited about. Soon Edmund was making do with a room on the ship with a porthole out of the starboard side. From there, Edmund could see the occasional seagull swoop down and the rare fish jump out of what seemed to be endless water. Edmund had never seen much more than the occasional stream, and to see an ocean stretch to the horizon was inconceivable to the little monkey. Edmund was used to the rocking of the boat from his adventures at the wisp of many a tree, and so as the ship careened through the Mediterranean Sea towards home in Berlin, Edmund felt naturally comfortable. Not so Mr. Deebee! He was often seen with green face, running into the WC and coming out with a red one.

Soon the boat docked in a port Mr. Deebee referred to as "Hamburg". All around people were speaking in the same accent that Mr. Deebee spoke in, but they weren't speaking English. Edmund had gotten used to Mr. Deebee on their trek across the ocean, so used to him that now he was sitting on his shoulder as they disembarked the ship. The taxis in Hamburg were yellow Mercedes-Benzes, and as Mr. Deebee and Edmund sat in the back of one, Edmund stared silently out the window. He watched the warehouses of Hamburg pass by and change into the apartment buildings. And the apartment buildings soon changed into the Market, and the Market gave way to the Train Station. Excited about his journey on the train, but weary from all the travels, Edmund resumed his place on Mr. Deebee's shoulder. He was indeed a novelty in Europe. People were staring and pointing at him saying "Ach du meine Güte!" and "Ein Affe!" and "Wie lustig!"

Edmund fell asleep in Mr. Deebee's lap and when he awoke, sure enough, he was hanging in a golden cage suspended from the ceiling by a chain. Two children were feeding him peanuts and red wine, laughing at the drunken monkey once known as Edmund. It was a sad existence, but it sure beat being a monkey-slave at the court of a monkey-king. Then Mr. Deebee had an idea. You see, Mr. Deebee was a coffee salesman. His business trips took him to coffee plantations in Africa, where he once decided to catch a monkey and bring it home as a pet. But now Mr. Deebee was getting to old to travel, and too old to grind the coffee beans, and too old to wait for the coffee to be brewed. So, he decided to invent something spectacular: instant Coffee! What joy this would bring to so many people with a serious lack of time on their hands! They would no longer need to brew the coffee, but rather, the coffee would instantly be in their cup when they added water to Mr. Deebee's powder. But what to call the brew? Seeing Edmund flopping around his living room (for Edmund had become so familiar to the Deebee family that he was let out of his cage and allowed to roam around the house) Mr. Deebee had a brilliant idea and so the Funky Monkey Mocha was born.

That is the story of the Funky Monkey Mocha instant coffee drink, and also the reason I want to pursue a Masters in International Affairs. See, I too am tired of monkeying around and becoming increasingly impatient with the brew-time of coffee. Having a strong understanding of what makes the world as a whole tick would allow for a sense of fulfillment like nothing else would. Additionally, I think the story of Edmund has multiple melancholy applications to the state of international affairs today. We live in a world where a monkey can be taken from the wisps of his lonely tree in the rainforest and used as an insensitive marketing technique in what we refer to as the "developed" world. What shame! I too think that the University of Oklahoma would greatly benefit from my insanity and I can assure you that as a graduate of the university I would be a graduate to be proud of. And with the confidence that I would a good job affairing internationally, the world would, unlike Edmund, live happily ever after. The End.

Two Stories, One Story

2005-10-01T17:02:00.000-07:00

Back in good 'ol Oklahoma!! Howdy! Today I felt as if there were two Antonys experiencing the same things. So, I will tell two stories. The first will be of that tender optimist lurking inside this silly boy. The second will be of the raging pessimist struggling to be superficial. And so we begin the stories...

Opto

2005-10-01T05:01:00.000-07:00

Hi there! It's great to be alive!! Today was a wonderful day! Everything proceeded according to plans; even if they were not plans of mine, everything happened exactly as it should. I was awakened to the sound of NPR for the last time in a long while. Knowing that my secondary alarm would ring soon, I peacefully listened to the news and a beautiful musical interlude of piano and guitar. Inspired by this, I got up, turned my cellular phone's alarm off and proceeded into the shower where I mistakenly forgot to take off my T-Shirt. That made for a laugh!

After a pleasant shower, it was time for breakfast. Much to my surprise, I had left the milk out by mistake, making it surely dangerous to ingest. No worries, though. I wanted to go to mass in 45 minutes anyway, and besides, I could pick something up at the airport. I had packed up everything except for my toiletry bag the night before, so the only thing left was to pack up the Chevy Malibu for its final journey to McCarran International Airport.

I made good time, heading out the door just short of 6 am, heading to the lodging office to check out of my room. Finding that they had moved into a new building, I headed over there instead. The new building was quite amazing. It looked much more like a hotel, but it was still under construction. I made a final payment for the room and headed out. It was a strange bill. $666. I knew it was a sign to better hurry up and make it to mass.

The traffic was like every other morning on I-15: slow, but steady. I even had time to do a little Sara parking job when I got to the church... backwards!! Mass was wonderful. The Lebanese priest, Fr. George Chaanine, said mass again. He gives the best homilies, and so having him for my last mass in Las Vegas was a treat. I shook his hand after mass and said goodbye before heading to the airport. On the way I stopped at a gas station to fill up the Malibu and much to my surprise, the gas prices were quite reasonable at $2.77. Prices had dropped since I last got gas. I was kind of concerned about the traffic on the way to the airport, especially because I only had 2 hours to drop off the car and get checked in before takeoff. Everything moved along, though, blessed as it were, by the grace of the Eucharist, and even though I took a wrong turn, I made the best of it, improvised, and ended up right in front of National Car Rental vehicle return. I pulled into row 16 and began collecting my belongings. The National car rental associate was so nice that he even opened the car door for me. There were a lot of returns that morning, and with the pedestrian crossing blocked by returning cars, I had to make a short detour before I got on the shuttle to the terminal. The buses left every 2 minutes, though, so I wasn't too worried. There were only 3 people on the bus when I got on. One was a German couple, but I refrained from talking to them. Checking in was a breeze because I was the only one at the self-checkout counter. I had to hand over my luggage to the Transportation Security Administration to be scanned by the super-sized x-ray machine, an added security precaution since 9-11. Luckily, I thought ahead and rescued my camera bag from inside my duffel. The X-ray machine would have surely damaged the film.

Arriving at the terminal security checkpoint, I had to take off my shoes because the soles were thicker than 1 inch. I wish I could just walk around in socks. That would be so comfortable. My bag was pulled out of the train of bags going through the scanner and searched for a pair of scissors that I had mistakenly packed in my carry-on instead of my check-in luggage. I was sad to see it go, but it was a valuable lesson learned. Never pack scissors in your carry-on bag. My grandmother had made me the gift for Christmas, which made it doubly sad, but I was consoled in the fact that now she would not have to concern herself with figuring out something to give me as a Christmas gift. My grandmother worries about silly stuff like that.

On the way to the gate, I stopped at the Burger King. I know the D-Gates like the back of my hand now. My 2 flights to visit you were also out of the D-Gates. There's a Burger King and a Wolfgang Puck restaurant. Today I felt like a Croissan'wich, so it was the King who got my attendance. I happened to get there during rush hour and had to wait a bit for my coffee cup, but that was ok because the cashier learned a valuable lesson in improvisation by taking a stack of cups from the adjacent register.

Normally I sit toward the front of the aircraft, but today I was in the back, and with the airplane boarded back to front, I boarded fairly early. That was good because I had 3 carry-on items with the addition of the camera bag. I don't like traveling with much luggage, but it was necessary for the 2 months worth of gear I had to carry with me. I sat down next to a very interesting older couple retired in Vero Beach, Florida. She was French and he was Italian. I practiced conversing in French with her for a good portion of the trip and then I just slept.

Dallas is so easy to get around! The Sky Link train makes it so easy to get from one end of the airport to the other. I had a bit of difficulty finding which gate AA 1220 to OKC was departing from, but when I found out it had changed from C11 to C8, I was standing right in front of C8, so that was convenient!

On the way to OKC, a 28-minute flight, I was sitting in the back of the aircraft again. This time instead of a 757, it was an S80. I was able to see Tinker AFB as we approached the airport, and I even tried to take a picture of my house, but I was on the wrong side of the plane for that. I got a great view of Lake Hefner though! Lt Golden met me at baggage claim and I passed on all the Klinger info I had. We had a good talk about Klinger, the Air Force, and life in the West. He's originally from Spokane, WA. Believe it or not, I actually got a lot of work done tonight. I began unpacking and picked up my title too! It's been a great day!! Opto out.

Pessi

2005-10-01T05:00:00.000-07:00

Today should have been according to all prognosis, a simple endeavour as far as endeavours of this adventurous magnitude are concerned. The blasted alarm rang out loudly, blurting the voice of Terry Gross and those horribly familiar NPR-mandated acoustic interludes meant to give accent to the wretched topics that NPR concerns itself with at 5:15 am. The hyperactive guitar ended its absurd strumming and Ms. Gross (whose name describes her voice to a t) began interviewing a random peanut farming sharecropper from the countryside of Georgia on his thoughts on Iraq, car bombs, and the future of our national policy. Irritated with the nonsensical blubber, I arose with the singular motivation to stop the now loud buzzing of my cellular phone as it vibrated along the countertop. "Dem dere terrorishts be purty much like evil. I'd shoot 'em if I'd got the chance, 'sho nuff!" the peanut farmer waxed. "But do you feel that the conspiring of radical Muslim intellectualism can strategically be combated by the appropriation of controlled and targeted violence in limited scope and duration for the pre-emptive cause of establishing surreptitudinous quasi-solutions in the context of profligacy and peace thusly contextually establishing an armistice??" Terry babbled... Struggling into the shower I closed the curtains, turned on the water and then realized that my T-Shirt was supposed to come off before this attempt at cleanliness. Oh boy.

The happiness continued as I began foraging for breakfast, only finding the milk meant for that last bowl of cereal left in the box had been left out on the counter all night. Woebegone, I launched the whole shebang in direction garbage container whose four corners decided to abruptly change shape and dimension, causing carpet to be covered in Muesli. Trudging over to the suitcases, I realized that I had omitted room for the toiletries. Of course. Gleefully, I slammed the room door behind me, burdened by 70 pounds of utterly useless material goods. With the 3 suitcases in the trunk, the journey to first morning mass and then the airport began at 5:54 am.

The lodging office randomly decided to shut down their old operation and open up in a new building hidden in a random corner of Nellis AFB that nobody can find without a 3-day supply of water, food and a GPS. The brand new facility was complete with flaws, including a worthless automatic door that at first attempt proved to be manual and at closer inspection, became alive with movement, unexpectedly opening into the approaching Antony, causing a near miss. I was late to get on the road. The final bill for the room was $666, which cemented the fervor that I had for going to mass.

Traffic on I-15 southbound was a sea of metal and asphalt, lights and horns, carbon monoxide and cigarette smoke. Somehow I made to Our Lady of Las Vegas on time, but I forgot to get gas. After mass, I had to pay $2.77 for each lousy gallon of petrol that I would never use in this car. I got back on I-15 direction airport and much as I had guessed, a wall of brake lights met me. After taking the wrong turn and driving an extra 1 mile, I ended up at the car rental return. After parking all the way down in row 16, I was busying myself with getting my carry-on bags ready when the National car rental agent, clearly irritated with my torpid temporal condition decided he would speed up the process by opening the door. As if that was going to make me hurry up! Mounting the 70-pound pack, I saw that the pedestrian path to the island where the bus to the airport was waiting was littered with cars. Not able to maneuver delicately through the cars with my incredible 20-foot girth, I proceeded to trek the 10 miles around the parking lot. Watching bus after bus take lucky customers to the airport from a distance only aggravated my squalid condition. Finally on the bus to the terminal, I witnessed the ultimate compromise unfold before my eyes. Next to me was the couple flying on United, behind me the guy on Northwest. Then there was Antony, the only one flying American airlines today. Of course, the terminal was ordered alphabetically and the compromise ended up somewhere around Thai Air. But no worries, I hadn't had my exercise today yet. After hauling myself and bags from T to A and checking in, I was directed over to the "special person" security check point where my bags were put through the super x-radiator 10,000 terrorist detector machine. I had to fight to retain my precious film in jeopardy of destruction by gamma radiation. Confident that this fair-skinned, blue-eyed air force officer was now no longer a terrorist, I proceeded to the gate area with my THREE carry-on bags, 1 more than the allowed 2.

Arriving at the terminal security checkpoint I began de-robing myself for the walk through the metal detector that would ensure nobody had to fear my 3-foot plastic sword. Thinking I was clear to move on, I watched as much to my expectations, my carry-on was tagged for search and destroy. Miserably I stood there with my shoes half-tied awaiting the verdict of the Transportation Security Administration on whether I could take my carry-on home. The root of all evil, the vile utensil of extermination, the horrid tool of harm, the weapon of mass destruction, the vicious implement of horrible deeds was found, as the toiletry bag revealed a pair of scissors, lovingly given as a gift to her grandson 2 Christmases ago by Omi Braun. Completely safe now, Antony proceeded to the sky train which was undergoing maintenance and was reduced to 1 train and a wait that seemed like forever.

With cereal still strewn over the carpet back in room 204 and an empty stomach, Antony made his way through a sea of people who found it enjoyable to lounge in the middle of a major pedestrian thoroughfare to the Burger King. Hoping to scrounge together the necessary change to satisfy the monstrous airport prices for a Croissan'wich and a coffee, I had to wait for what seemed like an eternity in line. Finally getting to the register, the supervisor thought to herself that now that I had been waiting, it would be good idea to open a second register. The coffee was a bad idea. This register was out of coffee cups. And so I watched as one, two, three people made it through the other register and picked up their meals while my cashier decided to dig through the mess that was under the counter. Then, all of a sudden, she was enlightened and she took one of the extra stacks of coffee cups from the other register and gave me mine. Let's see. Problem-solution process = 3 minutes. Incredible.

I boarded the plane early, belonging to group 2. I soon found out why luck was manifesting itself. Crawling deep into the cavity of the 757, I sat myself down 3 rows away from the "Lavatory", in nose-shot of the scents that seeped into the cabin. That was ok, though, because the lady who sat next to me was wearing a 1/2 bottle of insecticide-flavored perfume. Yeah, that covered up the smell of poo and blue airplane toilet flush goo. Luckily I was able to order a water during the beverage service which I used to turn my T-Shirt into a smoke screen. Hugging the porthole I created an airtight tent 37,000 feet over New Mexico, swearing that I would hold on to the strands of my life. Maintaining consciousness would apparently be difficult in such an environment, but I think what kept me alert was the fear of never waking up again, overpowered by the effluviumismial haze whose pungent miasma made my nostrils burn and eyes tear.

Finally on the ground I made my way round the confusion that is Dallas Fort Worth International airport, somehow finding a set of departure information screens. Alphabetically, I moved down past Atlanta, Boston, Chicago, Denver, El Paso, Fort Lauderdale, Grand Rapids, Houston, Indianapolis, Jacksonville, Kansas City, Los Angeles, Milwaukee, New York, O... why how convenient! The screen with the O's on it was out of commission. 1 mile down the terminal were the next departure information screens where I found out that the flight was changed from C11 to C8. The flight to OKC was once again experienced in the recesses of the aircraft, just this time I was fortunate enough to have the jet engine next to my head as well as the "lavatory" to my left. Sitting in the back of the aircraft is especially good if you have very little time on your hands because after everyone has taken their time "de-planing" you end up having even less than you hoped for. Ha! De-planing. Whatever. I'd hate to be on a plane during an emergency with these people. I suppose that's the end. Yeah. I'm going to bed. Pessi out.

I must post

2005-09-28T05:00:00.000-07:00

I must post for the sake of getting rid of the horrible dog that adorns my precious Blog. Additionally, it has been many moons since my last posting. I thought I might share another picture:

This is my pet Chameleon, Juniper. His as of now, no color. That is all, good day.

The World's Ugliest Dog Competition

2005-09-27T05:00:00.001-07:00

Sam is a 14 year old purebred Chinese Crested hairless. He is the 2005 winner of the World’s Ugliest Dog, a contest held at the Sonoma-Marin Fair in Petaluma, Calif. This win is Sam's third. One doesn't have to wonder why. His ugliness is hard to beat. His proud owner is Susie Lockheed. She welcomed Sam into her home as a rescue after an animal shelter marked him as un-adoptable.

Lightning

2005-09-26T05:00:00.000-07:00

This storm almost killed me.

But for the thumb

2005-08-25T05:00:00.000-07:00

Three fingers were willing to cooperate but the thumb and forefinger were opposed.

The Meanie Amoeba

2005-08-24T05:00:00.000-07:00

The Meanie Amoeba
bye Tony Braun

Once upon a time, there was a little amoeba named Naegleria Gruberi. Now Gruberi was a nice little amoeba. He loved to swim and play in the warm waters that were his home. You see, Gruberi lived in a warm pool in a canyon far from civilization, all on his lonesome. Gruberi liked being alone. It was the way he was meant to be. All day long he would divide and multiply, divide and multiply. He became quite good at math after a while. One day, however, a bunch of rascal Boy Scouts came by his home and started splashing around in the pool and just making a mess of things. Well Gruberi didn’t like that much so he decided to become a meanie. Now when an amoeba decides to become a meanie, it does not forebode well for any visitors. “I know,” Gruberi said, “I will henceforth cause amoebic meningitis!”
The number of visitors to the hidden treasure now called Boy Scout Canyon grew exponentially. Soon, many of the visitors began to get sick. Some of the smart visitors started putting up signs warning other visitors of the dangers of the meanie amoeba. Soon Gruberi was all alone again. One day, a frog by the name of Cletus jumped up to the edge of a pool where Gruberi happened to be sulking in (all meanie amoebas sulk).
“Hi there, Naegleria” said Cletus.
“Hi” Gruberi answered in a sullen tone.
“What are you up to?”
“I’m alone”
“What did you do?”
“I decided to become a meanie and now they’ve put up signs, and I’m all alone” Gruberi said remorsefully.
“Well, lighten up, old pal. Maybe if you start being a nice amoeba they’ll come back” said Cletus.
“Hey, maybe you’re right.” Gruberi answered. Gruberi watched Cletus hop off into the distance and then he swam himself over to another pool and decided to be nice. Now Gruberi, a once feared meanie amoeba, is the bestest loved amoeba in the whole wide world. The End.
The moral of the story is: The only thing worse than a mecium, is a paramecium. No, wait, that’s a different story. The moral of this story is: Don’t be a meanie, or else you’ll be alone.

Getting your hairs cut

2005-08-23T05:00:00.000-07:00

I am glad that I am not balding. A balding man and his hair are soon parted.

So it always begins

2005-08-15T05:01:00.000-07:00

Life in the fertile valleys. Oh how sweet! have you noticed that the term "blacklist" is one word, and the term "brown list" is two? It dawned on me today! The brown is less serious and thus deserving of a space between the noun and the adjective. The black carries far more dire connotations, and thus has merged with the noun.

I discovered an interesting fact about the microwave in my room today. When you press Start without entering a time, the display reads "Enjoy your oven" over and over again. What a nice machine! You know, you'd expect it to say "Enter a time first", but no. Enjoy it! How nice!

I found some interesting recipes in Backpacker Magazine June Issue. Like Cashew-Ginger Chicken and Rice, Dorcas's Trail Chili, something known as "Traditional Filling Fare," and one called "Light and Lively" that included goldfish, pepperoni, french bread, pear halves, nut butter, malted milk balls, hard candy, cheddar cheese and 1/2 of a bell pepper. Whoa... I think I'll stay away from the Light and Lively, but the others sound great. Oh yeah, the Traditional Filling Fare was hummus, cheese, pretzles, dried peach halves, jerky, fig bars, 1/4 cup gorp and yoghurt-covered raisins wrapped in tortillas...

Carousel of life

2005-08-01T05:01:00.000-07:00

When I got to the airport today I watched all of the bags from flight 855 from Dallas empty out onto Carousel 1, only recognizing 1 of them. Bags were picked up, carried off with their owners to life in Las Vegas while I sat by and watched the empty Carousel come to a stop after even it got tired of going around in circles. There was no sign of my second bag. So I moped over to the lost baggage desk where several discontented people made their irateness known to the Miss behind the lost baggage counter who couldn't hardly do anything but be a sponge to verbal abuse. That must be the hardest job in the airport: working at the lost baggage desk. So after watching enough livid, fuming folks complain, it was my turn to unload a barrage of attacks on the incompetence of American Airlines, the disorganization of Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport, the ineptitude of Miss Lost-baggage-lady, the potential horror of someone spending the weekend in Las Vegas wearing MY underwear, the certainty that my bag has inadvertently been put onto a Congo Airways turboprop currently undergoing a 30-month layover in umm... Sri Lanka, oh, and why did I ever decide to come to Las Vegas anyway? Well, I didn't. And the reason I didn't was because I once heard a proverb that goes something like "The measure of a man is in how he reacts to lost luggage." So I restrained myself from complaining about someone in my underwear all weekend and just smiled and stuck to the facts. Then I waited for an hour near baggage Carousel 1 for flight 371 from Dallas to arrive hopefully with my bag. I met a Mister Rodgers -- "Rogers with a 'D'" as he put it. He was waiting for a Greg C. to arrive from a town called Schenectady, NY I didn't even know existed. Rodgers drove a Limousine and his favourite food was the Double-Double at In-N-Out Burgers. Greg C. did eventually show up and was promptly driven off to some great Resort on the strip, no doubt with room service and a view of the city. I also met three girls who were wearing Lance Armstrong Foundation-type wrist bracelets that had hebrew writing on them. So I asked if they were from Israel. Turned out they were from Montreal and they had Jewish boyfriends. I almost asked if they had curly sideburns. But I didn't. Then my bag arrived and it was time to pick up my rental car. They do car rentals different these days. Once I was assigned the "Intermediate" category, I could basically pick out any car I wanted in that category and drive off. When I got there I was faced with a tough choice: The Chevy Malibu parked over there, the Chevy Malibu parked over here, the Chevy Malibu parked over yonder, the Chevy Malibu parked nearby, or the Chevy Malibu parked at hand. So what did I do? I picked the dark blue Chevy Malibu with Oregon plates.

Braun-man

The origin

2005-08-01T04:59:00.000-07:00

It's the origin, the beginning of a blog.