Human Trafficking

That stupid, immoral war in Iraq has been so distracting that it took a million people in Los Angeles and other cities to get some front page coverage and actual dialogue on the subject and problem of illegal immigration. I've known there was a problem for a long time. But ever since George scared us into starting that war, I've considered our corrupt and immoral leadership to be our worst problem followed closely by the plight of our soldiers being sent to die (and worse) defending Iraq from Iraqi and the freshly hatched terrorists our policy is spawning.

While in the car this afternoon, I listened to a few callers talking to Ed Shultz on Air America Radio. A woman calling from Texas told a tale that made me very uncomfortable because it seemed to be tainted with statements that could easily be branded as racist. I remember thinking that daytime talk sure gets its share of crazy people.

The caller detailed how immigrants are coming to this country, sometimes legally but often not, and in an organized way reaping the benefits of our economy and sending the profits back to their country of origin. She said there were Mexican, Central and South American illegals as well as Japanese, Korean, Chinese and other nationals living, working and going to schools in her state. She detailed the organized ways they arrive and stay in this country after they get here. She blamed various problems on them and I found it difficult to listen to what I heard. She didn't sound like a fanatic but her words did. I think many other talk show hosts would have cut her off and indeed, Ed sounded like he was only letting her talk out of common courtesy.

And then tonight I watched a program on PBS that validated everything she said and went much, much further. The program Wide Angle presented "Dying to Leave." As the introduction on the website says,

"Human trafficking is on the rise worldwide. Many nations are affected --
serving as source, transit, and/or destination countries where human beings
are procured, transported, and enslaved."

I have no doubts that terrorism is a global concern. There have been bombs going off my entire life. I personally feel that our fear of terrorism is worse than the threat and blame that on our inept president and his administration. But from what I learned tonight, I'm now much more concerned about this terrible assault on the human spirit. If ever there was a need for a global war, a global emergency, it's now and it needs to be waged against those who participate in the trafficking of human beings and the corporatists who allow the trades to thrive while doing nothing. The war should be waged on failed global trade agreements that ravage one country and indulge the next.

Our current administration, shamelessly pro-corporation, must not be aware of this sad state of current human affairs or its own "moral high ground" would absolutely behoove it to create a global coalition to bring down this horrible and tragic trade. I'm ashamed of the leaders of California too, from the governor on down to school district administrators, for letting the problem of illegal immigration lapse into such a massive problem. And the government of Mexico hasn't done anything worth noting that I'm aware of to curb this problem. Somehow Mexico has enabled the US to grow their corn and sell it back to them (Read about the history of corn and see if THAT makes sense!) and allow the export of their people to work in our fields. And now they're constructing a new Pacific port and trucker's highway from it to the US border. This is one example of how Mexico is complicit in the global problem, not the solution, and risking its own economy and the economy and security of this hemisphere.

There will always be people who try to get into other countries illegally. But this terrible cancer eating away at the soul of the human spirit is being fueled by the evils of an out of control globalization of capitalism. Corrupt and ignorant leaders either ignore the issue, fail to understand the scope of the problem or are woefully incapable of dealing with the problem.

I lack the stamina to get into the fight for all the causes I believe in and realize that by writing articles here, I may only be helping myself to focus my own thoughts. But to anyone who may read this, please pay attention to the issues. Watch the PBS program! Read about it on their website. Get just a little bit involved and voice your opinion. I believe that by working together to solve the problem of human trafficking, illegal immigration and the ill-effects of globalization, we would also severely reduce the threat of global terrorism. I'm afraid capitalism and colonialism are to blame for this century's biggest threats so far.

And now I have yet another reason to write to Dianne Feinstein and Barbara Boxer. That's how I've chosen to get involved. One thing I've learned from history is the "power of the pen."
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PLEASE view the following web page to learn more: http://www.pbs.org/wnet/wideangle/shows/dying/map.html

Impasse at Creativity Junction

Not too many decades ago I discovered the pleasure of photo manipulation. By that I mean I would take a No. 2 pencil and eraser and make changes to people's photos in the newspaper. Usually blacking out a tooth was funny enough. But adding hair, erasing hair and changing the eyes was also part of my repetoire.

In 1975 (?) I discovered Art Afterpieces by Ward Kimball and in the early 1990's the "Aberrant Art" of Barry Kite. (http://www.aberrantart.com/) His photo collages made me laugh, and I mean REALLY laugh, after a long dry and sad period of time when I did very little laughing.

Not too many months ago, a friend attempted to give me a crash-course on Photoshop 5.5. Liz was my computer-age heroine making a good living as a web designer. I doubted too much that I could ever learn to do what she did so well. But there I sat, nodding my head like a Jim Webb bobble-head doll acknowledging that I understood what she was showing me during my one and only Photoshop lesson.

As soon as she left my apartment I tried using it and failed. I tried again and again, each time failing to do anything more than adjust the photo's brightness.

Fast forward to 2005 when my fingertips were tapping away on the keyboard of a new and powerful computer designed for a whole variety of audio and visual arts. "Della," as I call it (her) is my new best friend; a baby, purchased - I mean adopted - strictly to satisfy my paternal - uh, I mean artistic - urges.

Months went by before I started feeling the satisfaction of an artistic urge made manifest. For this triumph I have my friend Chuck to thank. He introduced me to the http://www.flickr.com website. Besides being a place to sort and store photos, I discovered photo manipulation once again. And this time it was being done by Chuck and thousands of others. And this time I was determined to play too!

So I found a free photo editing program, downloaded it, learned how to use it (often with the help of others) and started creating like an obsessive-compulsive inspired artist. Actually, I probably am an obsessive-compulsive artist. I found acceptance and enough praise to encourage me to keep going for several weeks.

But now I seem to have run out of gas. My mind is blank. I can stare at a photo for hours and not come up with any inspiration. When I do try something, I can't manage the technical end and end up ignoring the project. I'm stuck.

I've completed 4 or 5 in the past few weeks but I had been doing 2 or more per day. It's become a chore instead of a pleasure. And this is how my mind works. That's why it can be fun for a while but difficult to live with over time.

I'm now flying a bit too low. The tops of the trees seem uncomfortably close and yet just a few weeks ago I was so high I couldn't breathe.

Welcome to my life. I take two pink tablets in the morning, two green and white capsules and two white tablets at bedtime. Amazingly this combination keeps me as stable as I am. But this is not a fun life. Depression is a cruel bitch.

Focusing on a single creative effort is, for me, a magnificent way to neutralize all the superfluous wavelengths and let my inner self come through. Being engaged is the key.

Writing is also a way of focusing. And that is why I am sitting here at 2:05AM trying to put my feelings into words. I am at an impasse. I'm letting my thoughts flow through my fingers to the keyboard. The amusement park that is my brain is temporarily closed while the staff looks for the wrench in the gears. I'm having a personal seance seeking help from an unseen influence. If all this works I hope to back in business soon because creativity is life.

When I'm feeling creative, that's when I feel most alive.

And now I can wrap this up without a clever ending because I've just written my own excuse. I will now go to bed, wait for the cats to find their spot wedged into my side or on my feet and then I will sleep, with luck, while my subconscious mind goes out to play in dreamland. If I'm lucky, tomorrow will bring a little inspiration.

Good night.
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-The photo above is a real family photo, manipulated at my request by Liz for a special occasion. It continues to be a source of much pleasure for myself and many others.

-My photo manipulations can be seen in a set called Manipulations and Abberations using the following link:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/the_worm_turns/sets/1809738/ Click the link under each photo to see the original photo prior to being "tweaked."

Forty Years Ago in Third Grade

Ah, cute little me with my buck teeth, buzzed head and little ivory husky dog bolo tie from Alaska.

I guess my lips had healed enough to smile without bleeding by class photo day.

This was my worst year in public education. I don't remember hating the teacher, although she was difficult to look at, until AFTER she taped my mouth shut using surgical adhesive tape and kept me after school for talking in class. When she pulled it off it ripped my lips enough to make them bleed and it hurt like hell. It was impossible to hide the swelling and the injury from my parents. When my mother found out about it she left the house in a rage. She was hysterical. I thought she was going to kill her. But, alas, she didn't.

Mrs. Jacobs was a foul teacher. She scared some of the kids so badly they wouldn't ask for permission to go to the bathroom. I'm not sure now who she was, but a girl sitting behind me peed in her chair. She had been wiggling intensely for some time. I could hear it and I was curious so I turned around in time to see it spilling off her seat onto the floor. And then she burst into tears and I felt bad for her. Of course she ended up with a pile of sawdust under her desk to soak it up.

So I became her friend. But she went on to tell me weird things like "babies come out of their mothers bums." I assumed that was the truth for quite a while.

Luckily I never puked in school. But I seem to remember seeing that odd sawdust stuff soaking up vomit quite frequently. It's no wonder, though, since at that school you weren't allowed to leave the lunchroom until you'd finished everything on your pastel-colored divided tray. And they frequently served cooked, canned spinach. So there was a lot of barfing going on. We learned to load up our milk cartons with what we absolutely couldn't eat.

I was only in this school for one year, thankfully. Besides getting my mouth taped shut, I got into trouble for trying to burn down the school with a magnifying glass. At recess I was outside looking at things and to be fair, I had burned a hole in a piece of paper to amaze my classmates, but I got dragged into the principal's office by my ear and lectured about the dangers of starting fires after some moron saw me looking at the bricks after my hole-in-the-paper demonstration. It was humiliating and I didn't know who snitched or I might have gone psycho on their ass.

I went to the same school for 4th grade too but fortunately it didn't last longer than a few days. There was a huge fight outside during recess and I thought I was doing the right thing by running inside to tell somebody about it. The fight got broken up and I got into trouble for "telling" by the kids AND the principal. I had had enough of that school. My mom had heard enough and graciously took me to Central school where I had gone for a very idyllic second grade and re-enrolled me there.

My primary education was salvaged! I was delighted to find myself in Miss Arellano's classroom with "old" friends. My life returned to normal learning things like The Pledge of Allegiance which I couldn't recite without forgetting parts of to save my life when I was awake but could, according to my grandmother, recite over and over and OVER perfectly in my sleep. Once she told me about that, it gave me confidence and I relaxed and was able to learn it. I stopped talking in my sleep and went back to grinding my teeth.

Hmmm. Reciting the Pledge of Allegiance repeatedly in my sleep; maybe I was just trying to keep away the bad dreams about babies coming out of their mothers' bums.

Like Hitting Speed Bumps in a Big Limosine

The 100-year anniversary of the 1906 California earthquake is coming next month. A hundred years doesn't seem like such a long time to me any more since I've lived nearly half that number already. They just keep telling us that there's a "big one" due any time now, not on just one fault but two or more. It's just a matter of time.

I've experienced two large earthquakes and innumerable tiny ones in my time. After the 1989 Loma Prieta quake there were so many aftershocks that I started wondering if I was having swarms of personal temblors too. Many of us were nervous for quite a while. I was in the Oakland Cost Plus store when I was sure I felt an earthquake starting and I just froze for a few seconds then realized I was in an aisle of pottery and glass. As I was about to run and after not breathing for a few seconds I heard a train horn blasting outside and remembered that the store is right next to the train tracks. Every time a train passes by, all the buildings rumble.

When the '89 earthquake hit, I was working for United Airlines at the Oakland airport. I was out on the ramp away from the terminal waiting for a commuter flight from Fresno to arrive. Just as it landed, the ground started moving. First it shook and I knew it was an earthquake. Then the waves came. Not water, but concrete waves. The concrete below my feet moved as if it had changed into a pool cover. It was extreme movement, bordering on violent, and all I could think about was the huge cracks in the earth I'd seen in Anchorage, Alaska after the 1964 earthquake. I was truly afraid the earth would split and I would fall in.

The Alaska earthquake was surreal. We'd had a few before we moved to Fairbanks, Alaska but they weren't anything I was afraid of. Even though it was milder there than in Anchorage, it was still a wild ride. The doors in the hallway were swinging back and forth. The power lines looked like somebody was playing jump-rope with them and the oddest part was that the house across the street looked like it was higher than ours, then lower, then higher. These were the waves pulsing through our neighborhood.

So why don't we have a preparedness kit? Maybe I want to drink water out of the toilet. Maybe I want to get stranded at the Oakland Zoo without a change of clothes in my car.

The other day there was a swarm of earthquakes a few miles from here. I only felt the biggest one at 1:46PM. It's hard to describe an earthquake. Maybe crank up the stereo volume and hold your hand by the bass speaker. If you feel the shock waves from the sound, imagine that force traveling through the ground. Or try this: It's like being a passenger in a long limosine when it drives over a speed bump. At least that's how the little 3.7 quake felt the other day. It's an odd experience because you don't see what's causing the movement but things like pictures on the wall rattle, the bed moves and makes that creaking sound, glasses standing close together make that "ting" sound and at the same time you might think you just heard a truck hit the side of your building.

The brain has only a couple of seconds to think but it presents your conscienceness with a large number of explanations for what's happening. At the same time you wonder where the cats are, how badly you need a haircut, what's in the freezer and how long it'll stay fresh without electricity and then go on to debate whether to stand in the doorway or run outside. I wasn't wearing pants so I decided to stand in the doorway. But I didn't make it to the doorway because my inner voice said "you don't want to get stuck in rubble without pants" so instead I did neither and sat down at the computer instead to look up its size and epicenter.

I can say that we are somewhat prepared, in all fairness. We have a large amount of camping equipment that would come in handy if the house is wrecked and we could still get to it. If the house survives but we have no water, we have a shovel we could use for digging a hole outside to do our business. But something tells me that the homeowners association would still be issuing citations even after the big one.

Even though it feels like no matter what I do to prepare it'll turn out to be the wrong thing, I'm going to start with getting a water supply. In 1964 storing an emergency water supply was much more difficult than it is today. So that's what I'll do to start. And if the earth decides to give us another good shaking to celebrate the anniversary, at least I'll have clean hair and something to cook my oatmeal in.

I Was a Teenage Illegal Alien

The biggest surprise of my life was on April Fool's day, 1970. My parents chose that day to reveal to me that we were going to Okinawa for two years. I was stunned. And when it turned out NOT to be a prank, I went absolutely giddy. After spending two years in Alaska earlier in my life, I was fully aware that we were going to be transplanted and heading into a great unknown.

My favorite toy in Alaska was a little Pan Am 707 jet. As the years went by, I longed to take a ride on a jet airplane. Moving to Okinawa meant that my dream would come true.

Once the travel bug bites, the sickness just gets worse. After being on Okinawa a short time I decided it was time to travel again and so I went to a little travel agency at the Plaza House shopping center and discussed my agenda with a very nice lady while my mom was shopping at another store.

Somehow I convinced my parents to take a little weekend trip to Ishigaki island. It was close to Okinawa, we could travel by air (the airplanes are shown in the previous post below) and most of all it would establish my credibility as a 13 year-old travel agent.

The trip went well. My dad enjoyed himself and that was the main objective: to loosen up Dad for a greater possibility of future trips.

The second trip didn't go well at all.

Taipei, Taiwan was the next destination. My parents went along with the idea and were impressed that I had looked into things such as what immunizations we would need. The shots we had to get needed to be done a couple of weeks before the commencement of travel. I wasn't crazy about that part but off we went with our yellow "shot books" to a base hospital.

Our shot books already had several stamps and certificates inside because of all the shots we got before leaving home. At the hospital, somebody must have filled the stamp pad with new ink because their certifying stamp was a bloody mess and was barely legible.

On departure day, the Kadena AFB MAC counter agent scrutinized our shot records for some time. He said we couldn't go because the date stamp was illegible. He couldn't verify the date that the shots were administered. They were too blurry. We went back and forth for some time, showing him our arms and the big purple bruises the shots had created two weeks earlier. He seemed immovable in his resolve to keep us on Okinawa.

Then somebody got the bright idea to call the hospital and verify the information. They had started boarding the flight so all my hopes were on this brilliant plan.

It worked! At the very last moment, the hospital verified the date in the shot book and the MAC agent took our bags, checked us in and off we went, boarding passes, shot records, passports and carry-on baggage in hand.

The flight from Kadena to Taipei was fairly short. It was such a rush to be taking off in another plane. After reaching cruising altitude, I pulled out a magazine and was surprised to find a whole lot of information about Taipei including important details about required immunizations and how to get a visa.

Visa? Visa? We had our passports. Surely that's all we needed! They were green official U.S. government passports. I kept reading. Forwards, backwards and side to side. I can only describe the thought that went through my mind in terms I use today. My reaction was "oh shit!" I had royally screwed up.

Actually, three people screwed up. I screwed up by not doing enough research but I was only 13 so I had an excuse.

The MAC agent at Kadena was so focused on the immunization issue that he forgot to do the rest of his job. We never should have been allowed to get on that plane. He screwed up.

My dad screwed up because, well, he's the dad and everything is his responsibility. This part worried me because I knew he was going to have to take the hit for this and it was going to make him hate me even more. I knew I was going to pay for this one big time!

So after crapping my pants and dropping my jaw to the floor, I tried to quietly recover from the effects of my discovery. My heartbeat, however, was beating like it was in an Edgar Allen Poe story. I just didn't know what to do.

After landing at the base in Taipei, I dawdled and hesitated getting out of my seat so that everybody else would get off first. Then as we walked into the building, everyone holding their passports and shot records out for inspection, I created another diversion claiming to want to see a big 747 take off in a couple of minutes. Mom and Dad obliged me, knowing how much I enjoyed watching planes. I never once let on that I knew we were going to be in big trouble.

Finally it was our turn to go inside. We were the last three people. I was behind my mom, probably hiding behind her dress and big hair.

This is where my memory blurs a bit, possibly to keep me from remembering something painful. But I do remember being escorted into a small room by two Chinese military guards holding guns with knives sticking out the end. The room was unlit but had a large window looking out toward a larger waiting room.

As our eyes adjusted we realized we were in a children's play room. There were some beanbag chairs and sort of a rocking horse thing with springs. An adult would not have been able to find a comfortable place to sit. The lights didn't work. There wasn't a water fountain or rest room. And we were held in there for a very long time, the guards with the guns and knives standing outside the closed door.

The atmosphere in that room was tense. I could see the blood vessels in my dad's head getting larger as he went to the window, surveying the scene outside. Again, my memory is hazy but I know I was compelled to confess that I had screwed up and only learned about the visa requirement after we were in the air on our way.

There wasn't a clock to measure time but it seemed we were in there for hours. And we didn't know what they were planning to do with us. Sending us home seemed like the most optimistic option.

Then my dad realized that he had a personal friend who worked somewhere in the local government and he wanted to contact him for help. I guess if they weren't going to torture or kill us they would surely just send us back to Okinawa on the next flight. The next flight, though, wasn't for another day. That's what made being locked in that little room so terrible. Plus, none of us had ever been held captive by guards with guns and knives before. It seemed so "Mission Impossible" but we had no fancy gadgets or rubber faces to help us out of our predicament.

Dad bravely knocked on the door and opened it which startled the guards a bit. I didn't overhear the conversation but one of them took him away. I really didn't expect to ever see him again at that point.

But after he'd been gone for quite a while he returned with a positive outlook. He didn't share the details but we were able to gather our things, quickly leave the room, pick up our luggage and leave the air base by cab for a hotel downtown.

On the way to the hotel, Dad explained that his friend was able to speak to a General Fung, an important government figure who understood our dilemma and gave us permission to enter Taiwan as long as we, and this is the important part, as long as we wrote a letter thanking him for his kindness, detailing the beauty of the country and describing the pleasures of our trip.

Really. That's all? That's great news! It seemed extremely, extraordinarily odd but hey, we can do that!

We went to a lot of places, shopped, traveled a bit and even changed hotels. We were only there a couple of days but we managed to get around. And so did the strange guy with the camera that seemed to follow us everywhere. By the time we got to the National Palace Museum, we were waving to him and even posing for him. He was so obvious about following us we decided to just go with it. It helped make the fact that we were being followed and photographed less creepy and more fun.

My dad got a typewriter from somewhere; maybe the hotel office, I don't know. But I remember the three of us in the hotel room trying to help him compose that "thank you" letter.

"Dear General Fung" it started. "Thank you so much for allowing us to enter the country and visit the many beautiful, interesting and historical sites Taiwan has to offer."

I don't remember the real content of the letter but that was the gist of it. And it took a lot of work to come up with a letter of sufficient length so that we would please General Fung and have no more problems. The thing was, though, we weren't sure what we were supposed to do with that letter. I think Dad understood that we were to mail it back to him once we got home.

What a strange trip. And on our last day, the man who had been photographing us contacted us at our hotel. We met him in the lobby, a little apprehensive about the situation. We don't know why he followed us, if he was working for someone or just what the deal was but when we met him, he showed us the photos he'd been taking and we were aghast at what we saw. He had been taking pictures of us long before we noticed him. And now he was trying to sell them to us! Well, my dad thought he'd just better buy a few, at least, just in case - in case - well, he didn't know why. It just seemed like a very good idea.

When we left we tried getting on MAC flights but they were too full and since we were flying on a stand-by basis, it didn't look like we were going to get on. So Dad decided we would buy tickets on Japan Air Lines and fly into Naha. I'm sure he just wanted to get the hell out of that country by then. So we took a cab to the commercial side of the airport and proceeded to buy tickets and check in.

That's where the trouble started again. Yes, we had legitimate tickets and reservations. Yes, we had passports. But the passports didn't have an official entry stamp in them. This, as world travelers know, presents a problem. It can be a big issue. All we had to offer was a typed letter to General Fung thanking him for letting us into the country. Nice but no dice.

That just wasn't going to fly with the JAL people. Talk about "aghast!" They had the most serious, incredulous expressions on their faces. Some laughed. We were embarrassed and we'd had just about all we could take. We were, in essense, quarantined at the check-in station while a big discussion ensued between various JAL agents. They made phone calls. My dad tried to explain but it just sounded SO stupid that he just gave up. And to my horror, a friend from Pacific Middle School checked in with her family while all this was going on. She was looking at me like we were some kind of criminals. Everybody was.

Soon it was past departure time. The plane was being held, presumably for us, and finally, to our relief an agent who had been on the phone for some time, hung up and came running over to say we could go. He kept the letter, checked our bags and off we went. Just like that.

The passengers already on board knew the plane was late and as we made our way to our seats we were acutely aware of their curious faces glaring our way wondering, I'm sure, what kind of problem we had.

The plane finally departed and to say the least, it was a relief to be going home. It was a lovely airplane with beautiful Japanese flight attendants serving snacks, beverages and even a warm moist towel to freshen up with.

There was just one more issue, though. And that was the contraband which was packed away inside my luggage. I still don't know what gave us the courage to smuggle banned items in our luggage. We'd purchased bootleg records (of dubious quality) for just a few dollars and a few books including a dictionary and thesaurus, also just for a measley few bucks. And my mother decided to bring along a big bag of mangoes that she coddled much like a precious sleeping baby. This too was prohibited, as we would soon learn.

And so I was back in the air taking another ride on a big ol' jet plane. It couldn't be better for a 13 year-old kid. I loved every moment of the flight but as we arrived, I started getting nervous about the immigrations and customs problem. I had become a smuggler in addition to an illegal alien on this trip and was about to do my best at getting my contriband past the inspectors.

But that's the subject of the previous story titled "I Was a Teenage Smuggler." That's a story all by itself. And it's just one of many from that exotic, exciting two years I spent living in the Far East. General Fung, if you're still out there, thanks again. We really did enjoy our trip and we sincerely appreciated your influence getting out of that makeshift Taiwanese prison.

I Was a Teenage Smuggler

We arrived at the Naha, Okinawa airport twice. The first time was on a plane like the one pictured above from a weekend trip to Ishigaki island which I had planned. Except for the hotel restaurant spaghetti incident, the trip was pleasant and uneventful.

The other time was on a Japan Airlines stretch DC-8 from Taipei. The whole trip to Taiwan was the strangest and most thrilling adventure I had with Mom and Dad during the time we were all together. However, here I'm only going to tell about the voyage home.

Just before flying home, my mom purchased a sack of delicious mangoes that she enjoyed so much while we were there. She carried them on board the plane. (The plane they held back from departing while we had that terrible scene in immigrations where we tried to get OUT of the country without an entrance stamp in our passports and only a typewritten letter to General Fung thanking him for allowing us to visit his fabulous country. See what I mean?)

The mangoes were prohibited from entry into Okinawa, something I discovered later, but since our departure was so unconventional, to say the least, we didn't notice any signage and nobody mentioned it to us. Besides, all I cared about was getting through customs with contraband in my suitcase!

We had cleverly packed several bootleg copies of record albums we bought for pennies in my suitcase. At the time Taiwan didn't honor any copyright laws so music albums and books were reprinted without fear of the law. The US, though, didn't allow these items and were confiscated at customs if discovered.

The records were all cleverly packed inside a round cookie tin my parents went out and bought expressly for the purpose of smuggling. They even bought extra pieces of paper and twine so that after we ate most of the cookies we could put the records in the bottom, replace the remaining cookies on top and then wrap it all up again. Devious, huh? It was my idea. I had seen the tins and thought they might be the right size and suggested it when we were in the hotel room conspiring.

The plan had an excellent chance of working as long as a customs/immigration/agricultural inspection agent didn't lift the package. Otherwise they'd never know that instead of cookies inside there were actually about 30 vinyl records.

It wasn't my idea to pack the contraband in MY suitcase. But that's what happened since, as my dad explained, I had the most room. It weighed a ton and my poor, skinny little arms strained to lug that suitcase along.

When we arrived at US Customs in Naha I was so nervous and let my mom go ahead of me, clutching a mesh bag of fresh mangoes with both hands held behind her. I remember seeing a sign saying that all fruits and vegetables had to be surrendered due to agricultural reasons. Mom knew about that too, by then, but that didn't stop her from trying. And she got away with it too until I got really nervous when one of the agents started fussing with my suitcase and appeared to be on the brink of discovering my filthy little secret.

To save my own ass and distract the agent I said, "Mother, you can't bring MANGOES into Okinawa!" Their attention went straight to her. In fact another agent came out of the back room where he'd been reading the newspaper. I wasn't sure they could see the bag so I pulled it out from behind her. She gave me the look of bloody murder and immediately I felt relief that the spotlight wasn't on me!

I shut my suitcase and left while she was in there trying to save her fruit. But it didn't work. She walked out with a big bag of nothing, fuming.

She reminded me of that situation many, many times afterwards. She was never again to taste a mango as sweet as the ones the Naha airport officials undoubtedly sat and ate after we were out of sight.
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The very first time we went to Naha airport was to meet my sister who was arriving from the US after her first year of teaching 2nd grade. She couldn't pass up the chance to come and live with us on Okinawa for two years.

I remember seeing her walk in across the tarmac from the observation deck and wondering why her hair was totally straight and wet-looking and hanging down like she had just washed it. I laughed out loud. I'd never seen her look like that in public before. I was too young to make the connection between straight hair, curlers and humidity.

The second time was when we went to meet my brother who was arriving after a long trip from France via Tehran, Delhi and Hong Kong, among other stops. He didn't show up and so we eventually went home, not sure what to think or do. There weren't any reports of planes being shot down over Vietnam, at least not commercial jets. Later he called from a Hong Kong hotel saying his flight had misconnected and Pan Am had put him up for the night.

We returned the next night for our reunion after not seeing him for two years. To my delight I was much, much closer to being able to look straight into his eyes. And he said he wouldn't have recognized me because I had grown so much.

Ah, Pan Am. The assumed airline for everyone and everywhere for so long.

The Most Amazing Photo I Have Ever Seen

Flickr.com photo by Billy Law
You've heard about a cat's tongue and you've felt it. But I'd be willing to bet that you've never really seen it. My jaw dropped when I saw this amazing photo. People are taking such fantastic photos with "macro" lenses. Take a moment to see something truly remarkable.

Click on the photo for a larger view.

The photo has been viewed well over 5000 times and nearly 400 people, including myself, have marked it as one of their favorites. To see his other photos, you can use the link below.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/alliwantforxmas/

Growing Pains

In the spirit of self-promotion, I thought this would be a good place to add the link to my submitted photo for the Jones Soda Co. label contest.
My main goal in life isn't to have my photo (taken 34 years ago) appear on a soda bottle label but it seems like fun so why not try? Click on the link and cast your vote! It could only boost my sagging ego.
http://www.jonessoda.com/gallery/view.php?ID=565930&offset=6

By the way, I don't recall ever drinking a Jones Soda so I have no idea what flavor this would be. It might have a warning, though, "May Cause Growing Pains."

Up But Not Running

Wouldn't you know, just when I begin writing my first entry, my cat, Pewter, takes a big stinky dump in the litter box. His are abnormally awful and I'm working with the vet to see what can be done about it.

Just like with people, the pretty ones have all the problems. My other cat, Cootie, is just a normal black cat. He never pukes, his poops are normal and he'll probably live to be 40.

Pewter, on the other hand, is a gorgeous silver tabby and people always gush on him when they see him. I think "yeah, he's pretty, but he has problems."

He's supposed to be making solid stools that stink less since switching to the expensive prescription cat food. So far, it's not working. The dump I just dumped wasn't even formed. They're getting worse. I'm not about to quadruple my cat food expense for these kinds of results. It looks like we'll be visiting the vet again.

When we got home from the last visit, we had to deal with a new issue at home. Cootie, his lifetime friend and constant companion, smelled "pet hospital" on Pewter and wanted nothing to do with him. He'd hiss and swat - a behavior I've never witnessed except when asserting himself with Brad. After a couple of days he calmed down but for a while I was on edge never knowing if I was about to be caught in the middle of a cat fight.

So once again the cat does something annoying but loveable. This time doing what comes naturally in the next room and then running away, downstairs, as fast as possible without covering it up. Why, oh why, didn't I teach them to do it in the toilet? I can't count the number of times I've just settled down in a hot bath when suddenly that smell permeates the air. Or there's the mad dash upstairs during dinner when my ultrasonic hearing detects digging in the cat box and guests are present. Or not.

It's just too late at night to try and get this blog up and running. I thought this would be totally simple and now it appears I'll have to learn some new tricks in order to make it work right. It's too bad I don't have a spare 4th grader handy to answer my technical questions.