Blogcritics Author: dietdoc

Announcement: Short-content feeds

Phillip Winn — Sun, 26 Aug 2007 12:00:00 EDT

Sunday, August 26, 2007, marks the switch of all Blogcritics.org article feeds from full-content to short-content. This is the result of several converging factors, and is unfortunately a permanent decision (as permanent as any decision can be on the web, that is). We are aware of all of the reasons that this is a Bad Idea, and we are aware that some of you will be quite upset about having to click on something to read the free content, and we're sorry. Unfortunately, despite great effort, full-content feeds are not currently economically viable. Two other factors are involved: full-content feeds have resulted in an unprecedented level of content theft, with BC content appearing on many websites, usually spam sites, without attribution or permission. This duplicate content causes a cascading set of problems, not the least of which is that search engines generally aren't favorable to duplicate content, and don't always guess correctly. Finally, our RSS advertising partner is strongly in favor of short-content feeds. We hope that you'll continue to subscribe to BC via RSS, and when an article grabs your eye, it's only a click away, still free on the BC website. Thank you for your understanding.

One Last Blog and Adieu

dietdoc — Thu, 18 Aug 2005 12:20:58 EDT

It saddens me to see America in its current state. And it takes a great deal to bring about this particular emotion and this singular decision. I have lived a lot of years and seen, firsthand, how a country can be torn apart by a divisive war. But, this time, the division, I fear, is deeper, more contentious and more fractious. America, a great people, have been cut apart in a fault line approaching a critical depth and width. I am not sure we will ever be as strong as we once were. That overwhelming feeling of something truly great, possibly forever lost, is the reason for this very personal affection.We are involved in yet another war where young men are dying and the American people don't understand why. Some think they do and believe it a noble cause; some are equally confident in their belief but feel, with matching fervor, it is one man's crusade and a useless Quixote-esque crusade. They are both right and they are both, sadly, very wrong. It is, as all wars ultimately are, an exercise in futility. Wars never solve anything. If history has taught us anything - and the lessons are always taught but poorly attended - today's enemy is tomorrow's ally. What seems right and reasonable instantly blurs when the bullet start flying and the blood starts to flow. The "fog of war" remains a term both descriptive and philosophical. War fogs both the minds of those in its midst and those at home, who vainly try to understand war's horror and impact.What troubles me is not that the country simply has differing opinions but that we are beginning that freefall into the unresolvable and unreconcilable chasm we have seen but a few times before. We are being slowly and irretrievably torn apart by our differences. And, this time, I can not imagine an end to it. It took us decades to recover our moral compass after the Viet Nam War and now we are on that heart-wrenching course, yet again. But I, for one, fear we may be lost in the political and cultural wilderness this time, perhaps, forever. The dogs of war are tearing at the gates and the gatekeepers are fighting among themselves.I have been reading and, occasionally, participating on BlogCritics for almost a year now. During that time, I have found myself - as if anyone else would notice or care - posting fewer and fewer articles on that site. And it is for a very simple reason: everything - save the occasional innocent movie or CD review - immediately degrades into the most mind-numbing exchange of vitriolic commentary one can imagine. It has become painful, at least to me, to read. The cycle is completely predictable. A writer posts his or her view of some seemingly benign event and, regardless of the topic being proferred, those of the two polarized and distinct political views - for simplicity, we will fall back to the usual labels of liberal and conservative - begin their venomous exchanges. Lest you think I am against the informed discourse that has made our country great, I am most certainly not. Debate and the intelligent exchange of ideas is always enlightening and has been the very lifeblood of our country's great strength. But, what I am observing, is not debate. What I see is purely disjointed, acerbic, hate-filled writing that is exchanged with deafness and blindness to dissent. This is not debate. This is a collection of people shouting at each other, in a virtual world, without any actual exchange of information or any chance of middle ground. There is no give-and-take, there is only hate. All civility is dispensed with and the only thing that stops the name calling and caustic and, often, incoherent exchange is that a new posting occurs. The two armies break camp and move their raging hoards of hyperbole off to attack on the battleground of a new thread. Our country, the home - once - of reasoned, measured debate has fallen into something far different. As in another plague, the "reality show," it is as if American has been neatly and precisely divided into two groups and sealed into opaque, muted boxes. In each box, everyone is in agreement. They shout at the top of their lungs with every ounce of enmity available as if trying to scourge the evil from those in the other box. And that box, with its collective voices, shouts back with equal vigor and antipathy. The goal, in this game, is not to sway opinion; the goal, in the new reality, is to suffocate and silence. This is not debate. This is pure, unbridled, discordant chaos. I am reminded of a famous definition of a fanatic as "one who will not change his mind nor change the subject." I no longer have the stamina to read fanaticism. I tire of the tedium. I see no hope for any remedy. I am too old and lack the energy to watch the gulf of savagery into which the commentary inevitably recidivates any longer. It is my weakness and I will live with it as I can. With this tiny withdrawal, I seek no comments for they, inevitably, will produce more of what I have come to dread most. I will continue to read what and where I can on BlogCritics but, as the comments drift into mindless bedlam, I will turn away. If I want to read unrestrained malevolence, I will go to a place I hold with less respect. It is no loss to the content of BC and it is I who will be lessened by my aged timidity and cowardice. The challenge to contribute something enlightening or thought-provoking - that is to say, something that "measured up" - to a place I held in inestimable regard is what I will miss most. BlogCritics will continue to thrive because it allows what Americans seem to need most in our current time, namely, a forum to be heard. It's just that, for me, the right to be heard carries with it the obligation to listen. And I feel that reciprocation is no longer de rigueur. It is a my heartfelt loss.

Old, incurably conservative - insult to injury- and insufferably opinionated.

Juvenile Jihad

dietdoc — Mon, 25 Jul 2005 13:19:09 EDT

In the July 11, 2005 edition of the Christian Science Monitor (CSM) online, there was an interesting observation regarding Islamic recruitment among the young people of England. The article observes that "one leading analyst of the Islamic diaspora even compares the lure of extremist Islam to 1950s teens listening to Elvis in an attempt to shock their parents." Apparently, some recruits to radical Islam have tried other ways - the example used was a Pentecostal preacher's son who first tried to get attention by "being a rapper" - to shock their parents. With today's insanely "understanding" (is that an oxymoron?) parents, children apparently will go so far as to be a suicide bomber to have their parents' full sedulity. Has it truly come to this? Far beyond window-shattering sub-woofers, sexual promiscuity and unprotected intercourse, drug abuse and alcoholism, tattoos and piercings and, most recently, choking each other for kicks, children now must declare their independence and "adulthood" by blowing themselves and, more tragically, others up. Well, that completely tears it. Apparently, we have achieved a spirit of aloof, isolated procreation that mimics the guidance and supervision given to the offspring of the sea turtle. We fertilize the ovum far out in the murky, detritus-filled waters that are our modern world, swim through the 9 months of gestation in our own preoccupied and distracted lives, and leave our eggs on the beach and in the hands of whoever and whatever may befall them. That beach, with it's clutch of unattended hatchlings, is a breeding ground of despair, false prophets and hateful, racist, shallow thinking. These forsaken and abandoned children are, for all practical purposes, on their own, lest we - collectively, the parental units - "interfere with their process of discovering themselves." The pendulum of parental detachment and "Nanny 911" mentality is now, irrevocably, off its natural path. Pushed forward by the children of the 60s and 70s - regardless of ethnicity, religion, or race - the bob has swung wildly off its course.We are far past the apogee of the bell curve that plots the rise and, inevitable, fall of our civilization. In reports from ABCNews.com, there were the following descriptions of the bombing suspects: "Every week, 22-year-old Shahzad Tanweer joined friends for games of soccer and his beloved cricket. Hasib Hussain, 19, was a charmer who liked to flirt. He wore blue contact lenses and hair so long that one friend said it "fell like a curtain" atop his lanky frame. Thirty-year-old Mohammed Sidique Khan worked as a counselor in a youth center. He seemed to spend more time in the gym than the mosque." Elsewhere, I read that Tanweer often cruised the streets of Leeds in a red Mercedes. I see a patten that I hope is merely an aberration - a mirage - that only I see. Youthful rebellion - be it against parents or society or governments or religions - has become much more than a simple pursuit of getting an inattentive parent's or peers' attention; it has become murderously de rigeur. The rich, materially-privileged but parentally-rudderless lives of many of the current generation has bred an infestation of discontent and ill-fated behavior. But, among a small number of advantaged - through the sweat of the preceding 2 or 3 generations - Muslim children, apparently this restlessness has transitioned to deadly, self-annihilating jihad. My generation may have rolled lawns with toilet tissue, or egged homes or even bashed mail boxes down a rural road. The latest generation begat the madness of drive-by shootings and now, cross-culturally, become even more murderously inventive. Now, no longer content with self-mutilation or strangling each other, these lost youths must make a horrific demonstration of their religious fanaticism. Blog Bloke on BlogCritics.org calls it "Death by Stupicide." He couldn't be more correct.The youth of today - be they Christian, Muslin, Buddist, or Jewish or Druids - seem to be desperately seeking a higher purpose- a calling. When they can't find it within the superficial, vain, materialistic society in which they live - and is anyone surprised by that? - they turn to fanaticism. They may be as actors on our traditional stage of life but, when they remove their makeup, they are monsters. "The boy next door" has taken on a whole new meaning.

Old, incurably conservative - insult to injury- and insufferably opinionated.

Just Another Tribute: Lance Armstrong

dietdoc — Mon, 25 Jul 2005 13:04:40 EDT

Many people, far more articulate and knowledgeable than I, have already written about the phenomenon that is Lance Armstrong. So why should I, someone who is not a cyclist and one who freely confesses to know very little of the sport or its history, write about Lance Armstrong? It is really a simple reason. I am in complete and utter awe of what he has overcome and accomplished. Not just this weekend but over the past 10 years of his life. Lance Armstrong comes as close to anyone I can think of in our world today who is worthy of being called a true miracle. Perhaps, though it sounds unintentionally cruel, we could easily call him a "freak of nature." I think he really is. I don't think there has been anything built like him - body, mind, desire, and fire - and I doubt there will be anyone like him any time soon.He was born to be an athlete. That we know from his youth and his competitiveness. Somewhere, somehow a pilot light was lit in this young man that never went out. I am not even sure it has even flickered. He was running distance races against older men - and winning - at age 10 or 11. He became an age-category champion tri-athlete in his late teens. But it was only when he made the fateful decision to concentrate on cycling that the full burner kicked in. That flame hasn't gone off since.He was on the path to being a world-class cyclist in his early twenties. He was known as a bit of a cocky...alright, obnoxious jerk as well. Well, maybe not "a bit of" either. Just like everything else about Lance, he was a complete cocky, obnoxious jerk. Then, the great equalizer came to visit Mr. Cocky. He was diagnosed as having widely metastatic testicular cancer. Mets to the lung and brain. He had, according to even the optimists, a 25% chance of being cured. That was the doctors' opinions. Mr. Cocky had a different opinion. Like the cycling challenges that lay ahead, he kicked the cancer's ass. And, then, much to the bewilderment of the world cycling community - and, especially, France - he decided to kick some more ass. After this weekend, he has accomplished something no one has ever accomplished. The Tour de France is a 104 year old event. There have been several multiple winners (even American Greg LeMond, someone Lance admits inspired him, worn 3 times) but no one has won the event more than 5 times. Lance Armstrong has now won the event 7 consecutive times. The man is not of our planet. He has handled all the notoriety and adoration of the world and his country with grace and dignity. He has championed cancer research and has raised millions of dollars for the Live Strong Foundation. He is a walking, talking inspiration to everyone who confronts the horrors of this disease. I can't imagine anyone who would be a better answer to any young person who, after being diagnosed with cancer says, "Why should I fight this? What chance do I have?" Here kid. Read this guy's story.I can't imagine what may lay ahead for Mr. Armstrong now that his racing days are over. I hope he, unlike so many other athletes, can enjoy his time away from the peloton (see? I did know that word!). I have no doubts, though, that he will accomplish more and, quite possibly, even greater things to add to his resume. He would be a natural as a politician, whichever party he would chose to represent. I can't bring myself to think of anything this man would fail at (except acting; I have seen some commercials) if he applies himself with the same passion he has used in his sports career. He is one of those rare people who are driven to succeed. And, regardless of the pursuit, I would not bet against him. So, despite my lack of knowledge of the sport and my inadequate skills at expressing what I really want to say, I say this: Lance Armstrong, you amaze me. I have seen a lot of things in sports and the "real" world but I have never seen anything that left me in total, unadulterated awe of a single person's physical abilities. You, sir, are awe-inspiring. I wish you well, no matter what you might decide to take on as your next challenge. You have given all of us a reason to believe that anything is possible. After all, if our human gene pool can make you, it can make people capable of truly great things.

Old, incurably conservative - insult to injury- and insufferably opinionated.

America's Hannibal

dietdoc — Mon, 11 Jul 2005 08:07:10 EDT

Had he been killed in one of the numerous military encounters of his career as a Revolutionary War patriot, he would have gone down, undoubtedly, as one of the 3 or 4 greatest heroes of the Cause. But, surviving - though crippled from his wounds as he was - he instead became the most reviled soldiers in American history. The journey from the most celebrated of patriots to the very name his countrymen use, even to this day, to condemn the most vile acts of cowardice and betrayal is one that, unfortunately for those seeking the truth of his motives, will forever be shrouded in mystery. But, far from a story of simple villainy, it is a prism that, when subjected to the light of scrutiny, emits a spectrum of light that commands deeper inspection and scrutiny. As his infamy lurks even in the scant treatment of history in our schools today, all should appreciate by now I am referring to Benedict Arnold.His ancestors can be traced back to 1635 when his namesake sailed with other Puritans, led by Roger Williams, and settled in Rhode Island in the Pawtucket River region. While the first iteration of the name Benedict Arnold rose to succeed Williams as governor of Rhode Island and served several terms until his death in 1678, subsequent Arnolds found progressively less prosperity. By the time of the birth of the fifth in the line of this once-esteemed name, fortune and esteem had passed from the Arnold family. Benedict V, the subject at hand, was born on January 14, 1741 to Benedict and Hannah Arnold in Norwich, Connecticut. He was the second child to the marriage; the first, also christened Benedict, had died in infancy, as so many of this time did. Tragedy seemed to reside in the lives of the Arnolds, steadfastly anchored with the death of their first male child. Its dark cloak, all told, took three (Mary, Elizabeth and Absalom King) of the four children born subsequent to young Benedict. Only his oldest sibling, his mother's namesake, Hannah, remained in the once-happy Arnold home by the time Benedict reached the age of 13. The psychological impact on the oldest child was clear to those who knew and wrote of Benedict in adulthood. Young Benedict's parents instructed him in the Calvinist doctrine, specifically, a vengeful, omniscient, but sometimes-capricious God whose wrath was not so much directed against the sinner but to those innocents whose death might serve as a more powerful warning. For if God will take an innocent, what might He do to those who would truly offend? With the tragedies of his siblings, the eldest child of the family disavowed any such arbitrary power, heavenly or earthbound, and continued to challenge it as an adult. Adding fuel to his personal fires, was his father's subsequent alcoholism and fall from social grace after the death of the majority of his offspring. Shunned by the church (whether or not he was formally excommunicated is unclear) and in financial ruin, Benedict's parents were both disgraced, dead and penniless by the time the boy reached 20 years old. Witness, as he was, to the Norwich community's abandonment and dismissal of his parents in their sorrow, one might see how the young man would come to despise those who were so unforgiving of human frailty.With a little insight, one can imagine the anger the young man could harbor for those he would encounter later in his life. Those who, holding themselves aloft - buttressed only by artificial social or, more relevantly, political status - could abandon those of lesser standing with such sorrowful consequences as befell his parents. These are the experiences of youth that so often, for good and bad, chart the path of the adult life.As he sought to salvage his family name, young Arnold rose from apprentice (with his late mother's brothers) to a prosperous New Haven merchant and owner of his own small, but active, West Indies merchant fleet. Driven by a passion to reclaim his family name from indignity, he became a true American success story. As available history recounts, he suffered no man impugn his name and was not one to avoid confrontation if honor was in question. As fate and the times would fall into place, Arnold was among the first to challenge New Haven's loyalists "old guard" when British taxation and disregard of the New World's colonies' began to boil in the late 1760s.But, even with the demands of a growing mercantile and his constant feuding, driven by Benedict's disdain for the "establishment," a young man's nature will find its way through all distractions. Benedict married Peggy Mansfield on February 27, 1767. The young couple had three children before tragedy again fell at Arnold's doorstep. Peggy's untimely death in June, 1775 set her widowed husband on his fateful path in American history. At the word of the disastrous day in April, 1775 of the confrontations at Lexington and Concord, it was Benedict Arnold who organized 64 men into a militia company in New Haven. Arming and supplying themselves, they were, through the exhortations of their leader, formally established as the Governor's 2ns Company of Guards. Allowed to vote on their own officers, the group elected Arnold, known throughout their ranks as a champion of American liberties, as their Captain.Later in the month when Arnold proposed to march to Massachusetts' aid, the loyalist "elders" forbid the Footguards access to the town's magazine and arms store. Arnold delivered the retort, "None but the Almighty God shall prevent my marching." Delivering a 5 minute ultimatum, Arnold and his men were promptly given the keys to the armory and, weapons secured, his band were off to help the Bostonians confront His Majesty's General Gage in Boston.That is was Arnold's idea to confront the British at Fort Ticonderoga and secure the precious cannons there is of little historical dispute. That the idea was also acted upon by Vermont's Ethan Allen and his Green Mountain Boys virtually simultaneously is also a matter of historical record. Regardless of the timeline, Arnold's idea was accepted by the Massachusetts Committee of Safety upon his arrival in Boston and he was granted a colonel's commission. He left his new Haven Footguards and rode west in early May, 1775, recruiting his assault forces as he went. Within 10 days, joined by Ethan Allen's forces, the audacity and boldness of Arnold's plan was substantiated. Fort Ticonderoga fell in less than 10 minutes.The some 200 artillery pieces captured there were subsequently part of the grand saga of Henry Knox and his amazing caravan of the precious cargo eastward to the Boston. The story of their "miraculous" appearance of these same cannon on Dorchester Heights in March, 1776 led to the British evacuation of Boston, retreat to Nova Scotia, and their triumphant reappearance in New York harbor months later. As the rebels took command of the Fort and it's surprised British forces, he took one of the first of many steps in defense of his principles of honor that would bring him continued confrontations with others less chivalrous. As Ethan Allen's rowdy mountain men began to loot Fort Ticonderoga, Arnold stood against this unmilitary and most ungentlemanly behavior. He was, standing with a much smaller force of troops, roundly and aggressively shouted down, to the point of being shot at by drunken Vermont troops at least twice. It was Arnold's first but not last experience with louder voices and higher placed civilian patrons. While Allen and his 'Boys dispersed back into the hills that were their homes, all the way telling all who would listen including the Continental Congress, how it was their initiative and bravery that conquered the British, Arnold had grander plans. His eyes were on Lake Champlain and, ultimately, the British fortress of Quebec. He moved decisively onto Quebec not knowing that his initiative was frowned on by the tentative Continental Congress who disavowed any offensive actions, especially into Canada. Though Arnold's name was bandied about as a renegade, a "loose cannon," he forged ahead. His disregard for his "betters" in the civilian sector were to be the seeds in Arnold that grew his doubts in the incompetence of those who would lead the new country.Arnold, unaware for the most part of those working behind the scenes (including Ethan Allen) to minimize his martial talents, wrote a letter outlining his proposed campaign on Quebec to the Congress in June, 1775. After several months of personal lobbying, not the least of which was dedicated to convincing George Washington himself of the worthiness of the northern assault, Arnold was given command, from Washington, of around 1000 volunteers and set off across the treacherous wilds of Maine for Quebec. The journey would earn Benedict Arnold the title "America's Hannibal." The "famine proof" force of Arnold has lost too many men from disease and dissertion to attack the city when he finally scaled Abraham's Heights outside the city in November, 1775. Nevertheless, Arnold, wisely, steadfastly laid siege to the city and its military leader, Sir Guy Carleton. He effectively bottled up the city and the British forces it contained, even though commanding an inferior (in almost all senses of the word) force, for nearly 2 months. With the arrival of General Montgomery, flush from his conquest of Montreal, the combined forces finally assaulted the city on New Year's eve, 1775. It was a disaster. Montgomery was killed in the first charge and Arnold was shot in his left ankle soon after. Leaderless and thoroughly undisciplined, the assault forces retreated. The great northern adventure was eventually abandoned. As he retreated from the failed Quebec campaign, Arnold further claimed widespread fame at the Battle of Valcour Bay where, with little more than canoes and rowboats, he kept the British fleet on Lake Champaign from proceeding south to trap Washington in New York.Of course, in the halls of the civilian leadership, there must be someone to blame, as it always must be. And, as it would be throughout the remainder of his career as a citizen soldier - one not in leadership by wealth or land but by commitment and passion - it would be Benedict Arnold. Those who served with him - the honorable and the truly patriotic including Washington - would speak only of his passion and leadership. Those who would bring him to heel, the infant government with its petty power struggles and inconstant purpose, would constantly deny Arnold the recognition and acceptance he so passionately desired. It was to remain so even after he almost single-handedly saved the day at the Battle of Saratoga for General Gates by leading the charge at Bemis Heights, Arnold was to still find no glory or appreciation. At the very moment the pompous Gates (who would, later in the war, be recalled from South Carolina by Washington himself for incompetence at the Battle of Camden) accepted British General Johnny Burgoyne's sword in surrender, Benedict Arnold lay near death in a field hospital with a left thigh completely shattered by British grapeshot. He would never physically nor, as history infamously reports, psychologically recover.I do seek to change history. One cannot dismiss the significance of the act of ultimate treason Arnold committed. However, neither should we dismiss the life of Benedict Arnold as one of simple treachery and betrayal. His truly is one of the most complex and fascinating lives ever lived. It deserves all Americans' inspection. The contradictions - fervent patriotism versus heinous treason, military genius versus self-serving egotist, endurance through immense personal tragedy versus greedy perfidiousness and deceit - are many and will remain inexplicable in the haze of 250 years past. However, he - and the lessons his life teach us - cannot be simplified as some would have us believe. He suffered much for the Cause of Liberty and he cannot be dismissed, simply, as a ungrateful traitor.Ironically, when all is examined, the name and fate of Benedict Arnold lay solely with a single misplaced bullet on the scorching fields of Saratoga. For if the bullet had been true to its mark, the death of its recipient would have undoubtedly secured his place in the esteemed pantheon of Revolutionary War heroes. But, striking as it did, sparing life but securing infamy, it did it's victim no service. I wonder if Benedict Arnold, as his lonely final years passed in London's exile, ever wished the bullet had been truer to the mark? I suspect, in my heart, he did. On the Saratoga battlefield there is a monument consisting of only the left boot of an unnamed officer. The inscription, which fails to identify the boot's owner, poignantly reads:"In memory of the 'most brilliant soldier' of the Continental army, who was desperately wounded on this spot, the sally port of Burgoyne's 'Great Western Redoubt', 7th October 1777, winning for his countrymen the Decisive battle of the American Revolution."

Old, incurably conservative - insult to injury- and insufferably opinionated.

Reflections on an insignificant shred of humanity

dietdoc — Tue, 5 Jul 2005 13:30:42 EDT

I don't expect this entry to get much attention and probably even fewer comments - none deserves fewer. I am the first to admit this is not about any significant socio-political issue that dominates recent conversations here and elsewhere. But, as is true of about half the BLOGS I write, this one is for personal ventilation. The kind of of exhalation required for no nobler purpose than to rid one's self of stale, acrid air and to breathe in some that is fresh. In a sense, it falls in the "rant" category but in a kindler, gentler way. It is a topic that I think of often as it befits a simple mind. At the same time, if I would allow it, the thoughts would birth one of those irrational, passion-filled diatribes we occasionally witness on Blogcritics that does no one - including the author - any good, whatsoever. A little background may shed some light on the murky waters upon which this discourse, uninteresting as it is, floats.I have an office in a "professional office complex." It borders some woods, an area that stretches about 100 yards deep behind our building and a half-mile or so down the parkway behind several buildings, moving west. The wooded area and a 8 foot chain link fence separates our complex from Highway 59 which runs on higher ground behind my clinic.After I moved into the office, some 6 or 7 years back, I would get occasional early morning (I get to the office between 4:30 and 5:00) glimpses of feral cats. These hearty creatures have, I assume, been living in those woods long before I got here. They are the most feral animals one can imagine: avoiding all human contact and at any cost. Undoubtedly this is a learned response, sensing - as only animals can - that humans are not to be trusted. They know, perhaps firsthand, the capabilities and tendencies of our species.It is a useful survival trait. For, if they were to be tamed, they would dare to approach cars, moving or not, to beg for a handout from their mortal enemies. They would, if they were so naive, be crushed in the parking lot or on the street, or, if they were lucky, just have someone throw rocks (or anything else handy) at them. Being the intelligent creatures there are, they have learned and they surely learned quickly. They scurry back into the woods and safety.I have been here for some years now and I see their ghostly images in the predawn hours. I can sometimes see them observing me from the safety of their woods, their eyes reflecting the fading morning streetlights or in the headlights of my car. They know that potential evil and even death lurks out on the pavement.I think, often, about where they once might have been. In the lap of their former owner or curling, figure eight-style, between their owner's legs while at the sink or opening up a can of cat food. Perhaps, they once purred that motorboat purr that signals sheer contentment. Maybe once, they actually kneaded their claws into a rug (or some soft, unfortunate furniture), as, I understand, this is how they display ultimate feline bliss. But, for these cats, the days of purring and curling up in a warm lap are long over. Now, they run with the speed only a "flight-or-fight" adrenalin rush can fuel.Last winter, I started feeding them. I couldn't stand, as an old man with all the sentiment that entails, to see their starvation-ravaged frames skulking about in search of birds (that had long since flown further south) or rodents (who were hibernating), the staples of their usual scant diet. I would place a bowl of cheap, dry cat chow and a bowl of water at woods' edge in the predawn hours. It would be completely gone a mere hour or two later. It cost me about 10 dollars every couple weeks; the reimbursement to my heart paid in full, many times over.I have heard the arguments against my behavior: "You'll only allow them to bred more cats!" "You're not doing them any favors; they'll stop hunting." And the laughable, "You'll make them tame." My brain initially agreed with the naysayers. But, fortunately, in retrospect, my heart had a stronger voice.A few cups of dry cat food a day is certainly not going to change their miserable existence. They are only a salve to the heart of someone who has seen too many animals killed on roadsides everywhere. Maybe, my heart tells me, if they have a regular - if meager - source of food, they will not be forced progressively nearer the roads, desperately trying to avoid starvation in the leaner times. My heart always wins the argument.The first of the admonishments mentioned above, though, did come true. One of the female strays had a litter of kittens this spring. I saw them, following their mother one early morning, as she showed them where the "emergency rations" were placed. The kittens, a marvel of evolution and strength of breed, were beautiful, typically-curious and playful. That was in March and, while I don't see them chasing behind their mother much any longer - their time as adolescent cats give them leave to hunt alone now - I do know they are all still alive. I saw them all, for the first time in weeks, last Saturday morning, playing and chasing each other at the edge of the woods. Kittens are kittens, wild or domesticated.Their mother, who is about as domesticated as she will ever be, does greet me most mornings. She keeps a distance of about 20 feet but she lets me know she is there and that it is time to serve breakfast, her only sure meal of the day. She watches, at a safe and unwavering distance - she is and never will be, tame - and sits. I trudge up to the woods, a plastic drink cup full of Purina, and we exchange greetings. When I turn and walk back to my office, I glance back over my shoulder and she, incessantly cautious, approaches the food. I smile and I go back to the work of the day.Sometimes, I am amazed at their strength and will to live. With the southern summer come fleas, ticks, biting flies, fire ants and other plagues on the animals of the wild. But, somehow, they manage to survive. I know several generations of these ferals have died. A couple years back, there was an orange tabby who, I presume, was one of the earlier generations. He was truly a splendid specimen. I am guessing about 12 pounds and with an impressive bearing. I have to assume he was the patriarch of the current clan during his (probably) brief time. I don't see him anymore. I also haven't seen his sidekick, a smaller male, a white tabby, either. I don't think of those two much anymore as I suspect they died from the elements or were killed on the highway in a lean time of distance foraging.At least for now, "my" mom and her kittens live. I am realistic enough to know that they probably will not all last through the brutal summer and, certainly not through the coming, inevitably more brutal winter. But, for their time, they will take what life gives them and, even if they could, probably not complain.While I try and avoid it, sometimes I let myself think of the original owners of these animals. The ones who originally took the parents (more likely the grandparents or great grandparents) of these animals home as kittens and gave them a home. They fed them, petted them, maybe even took them to the vet for shots and the like. I wonder, when I am calm enough, what changes occur that allows then to accept the abandonment of their pet - any pet? When there are so many - admittedly strained to capacity and beyond these days - facilities willing to take in unwanted pets, what goes through someone's mind when they leave a pet to the wilds or the side of the road? When animal shelters go so far as to place cages outside their buildings for anonymous, no-questions-asked nighttime drop-off of unwanted pets, what can these individuals be thinking? Do they actually have that capacity? What mind can rationalize this? The more I dwell on the subject, the more cynical I feel. So I don't allow it often.Please, before you fire off your missives of censure and castigation for the audacity and superficiality of one who dares complain about the plight of dumb animals when people are suffering worse fates elsewhere in the world, I understand your prioritization and your point. The thoughtlessness and cruelty of mankind knows no bounds. Clearly, it is not species-specific. People, certainly, do come first in our thoughts and our concerns. Starvation of people is worse, exponentially, than starvation of animals. Yes, my $10 every couple of weeks could theoretically (at least, according to the commercials) feed a starving child somewhere in the world. Yes, yes, I do understand, more than I might have led you to think. Many may think, but be polite enough not to write, what a piteous, misdirected, and egocentric - yes, even eccentric - old man I am. After the recent "Live 8" concert, I realize this sort of writing, anytime, is merely a flyspeck on the enlarging blot of humanity's indifference. Truly, there is no need to waste your time telling me that which I already know.Perhaps, on the other hand, it is all interrelated. If we don't give a care for the millions of refugees dying around the world of starvation, abandonment, and displacement, why should we even spend a few minutes of thought about stupid pets? Well, maybe we shouldn't. If we have reached the point in our decline that we won't do anything about starving people, we shouldn't expect any concern, whatsoever, for lesser creatures. And, sadly, most don't.However, I will do what I can for the unfortunate orphans in my woods. Nature will, as nature always cruelly does, take care of the rest. Despite the inevitable I will not begrudge myself this simple, selfish and very personal pleasure. In a world where indifference and callousness grows exponentially everyday, I will enjoy my own minuscule and meaningless stand against apathy. It is a reminder that life will find a way, even in the face of - and in usually in spite of - its greatest enemy, humanity.

Old, incurably conservative - insult to injury- and insufferably opinionated.

What Makes a "Chick Movie?"

dietdoc — Fri, 1 Jul 2005 08:49:57 EDT

While I will be the first to admit to the strangeness of the inquiry, particularly from a guy, I can only say that I ask the question only after my personal research failed to produce a definitive answer. The question is, simply enough, what are the shared qualities of a "chick movie?" Are there certain characteristics or common threads that distinguish movies that appeal, almost completely, to the feminine viewer? I know there must be, before I ask, because there are some movies that are only viewed by men when required by their significant other. [There are, it goes without saying, certain benefits that, the man hopes, might befall the man after paying these sorts of "dues." However, these are not the subject of this discussion.] I speak of movies that men never talk about (or even admit to actually seeing) with other men but, after their initial viewing, are the topic of female discourse for weeks afterwards. I ask about movies that women take other women to see as a group experience. Movies that women often view multiple times and keep count.I have spent the past week or so investigating the question from a guy's point of view. It seems there are common themes that make a movie a "chick flick." My viewing consisted of several movies that I, from past experience, have come to think of as "chick flicks." The specimens, certainly not inclusive, I chose to specifically name include:Steel Magnolias (1989) Ghost (1990) Pretty Woman (1990) Fried Green Tomatoes (1991) The Notebook (2004)First, we have to propose some basic rule about what constitutes a "chick movie, hereafter to be denoted as "CM." The assumption I offer are as follows:Rule 1: There is no such thing as a sci-fi or horror CM. While fantasy can certainly be used in the storyline (see Ella Enchanted and Princess Bride (I and II), movies that are dominated by technology and, certainly, gore cannot be, by my definition, a CM.Rule 2: A CM cannot earn the label if the female goes to the movie to see her favorite male star, regardless of the content of the movie. Undoubtedly, female fans of Brad Pitt sat through the interminal "Troy" because he was all muscled-up and showed lots of skin but "Troy" is not, for our purposes, a CM.Rule 3: While ladies truly love a good romantic comedy, a true CM cannot be a full-on comedy. Take for example "How to Lose a Guy in 28 Days." It fits many of the criteria of a CM (no guy would see it with a group of guys - unless they have a full-throttle Kate Hudson thing going, and no guy would certainly ever discuss the movie with other guys or admit to having seen it). The same may be said for Legally Blonde I and II. I do not, for my purposes, include these in my sample. So, what are the characteristics of a CM?1. The female lead must be a strong woman who faces adversity and overcomes it, usually by pure force of will. (Pretty Woman, et al.) 2. There most be significant tragedy (or tragedies) that the woman must overcome to reach her ultimately-stronger self. In its simplest form, someone has to die (Ghost), often the lead female, herself (e.g. Steel Magnolias). Pretty Woman is the exception that does not prove this rule. 3. There must an overwhelmingly-strong, idealized love interest, not necessarily of a male (et al.). I say not necessarily a man because the love interest in "Fried Green Tomatoes" is one, primarily, of female love - alright friendship - shared between Idgy (Mary Stuart Masterson) and Ruth (Mary-Louise Parker). 4. There may be no "guy violence." That is, there is no graphic, prolonged war violence. Glimpses of war (The Notebook) are permissable. Fisticuffs between alpha males is allowed but they are not drawn-out, slow-motion, blood-flying-through-the-air visuals. 5. There must be at least one (and, preferably, more) heart-wrenching moment when tears flow. The shedding of tears may be of sadness or elation, but there must be crying.Before feminist readers begin their attack on this piece as a chauvinist exercise, let me clearly state it is not meant to be interpreted as such. It is a simple request for personal edification and for the female perspective on a topic about which I know (obviously) very little. It goes without saying that there are "guy flicks" (e.g. Braveheart, Gladiator, Goodfellas, ad infinitum) that one could similarly stereotype. This is an attempt to understand what makes a classic female-oriented movie. Feel free to add to my list of characteristics and correct me on which are wrong. In apology, I only offer that I find movies, in general, and the whole genre of "chick movies" (and "guy movies"), in particular, a fascinating subject.

Old, incurably conservative - insult to injury- and insufferably opinionated.

Review: "Oil Storm"

dietdoc — Sat, 11 Jun 2005 07:49:45 EDT

Television Review: "Oil Storm," on FxI was very interested in the teasers shown on Fx for this original production. The catchphrase was "America's Lifeline Has Been Severed!" After all, I have Fx to thank (blame?_ for some of the best television (and lost sleep) this side of "Deadwood" over the past couple of years. Their boundary-stretching series "The Shield," "Rescue Me," and "Nip/Tuck" are, for me, must-see TV. I was intrigued at the premise for the story, at least, as it was presented in the teasers. I was terribly disappointed in the actual production, "Oil Storm." It was a story set in the hurricane season on this (2005) year. It follows the domino effect of a category 4 hurricane hitting the Houston port and refineries and knocking out our oil supply. As the sequence of events follows - rising oil prices, rising food prices (related to trucking and transportation costs), job loses - the story fell, progressively, apart. The dominos - supertanker crashes in the Gulf of Mexico, increased troop requirement to shore up the security of Saudi Arabia, a Russian immigrant (naturalized to U.S. citizenship) being appointed our "Oil Czar," striking a deal with Russia and Vladimir Putin for oil and, then, being outbid by China for the oil, etc. - became less and less tenable. To make a long story short, America fell apart, went through a full depression and recovered fairly well over the space of 3 or 4 years. But, "we were never the same."I really didn't mind the "pseudo-documentary" (think "War of the Worlds" TV-style) format. I did find it amusing that, after each commercial break, they would should the obligate "This is an entirely fictional account...." as if anyone, at least those who claim to reside on the proper side of the sanity gap, would think what they were seeing on television was actually happening. The acting was extremely poor and the characters - the family who owned a gas station and lost a son protecting the Saudi pipeline, the Russian-born U.S. "Oil czar," the farmer who went to jail protesting loss of farm subsidies ("food not oil!") and his wife - were all unconvincing and mediocre actors. Even the fake newscasters were not believable. The riot scenes (yes, there were riots in America's streets) looked like film jacked from riots over the World Bank or the G7 conferences. Then, again, it was my little inner voice saying "this could never really happen." And, in my blissful naivety, I am pretty sure it couldn't. It did make some significant points about our reliance on foreign oil and the extent to which we base our - at least according to this story - entire economy. Hopefully, it was a success in convincing a few folks to park their SUVs and get smaller, more efficient cars. Equally optimistically, maybe it made a few viewers more aware of the house of cards the oil industry has put in place. But, it could have done those jobs much better and with more conviction. I expected more from Fx.

Old, incurably conservative - insult to injury- and insufferably opinionated.

Where Would Your "Trip of a Lifetime" Go?

dietdoc — Fri, 10 Jun 2005 07:29:46 EDT

I understand, full well, that a post of this nature belongs on a travel site, such as Fodor's, but I have become so impressed with the folks here at BC, I thought I would float this balloon and see if anyone cares to comment. The editors' can feel free to toss it in the waste basket if they choose. I am hoping to take that one "trip of a lifetime" this fall. I spent two weeks in London a couple years back and enjoyed it thoroughly. That was a trip of a lifetime. I am looking for the trip. I have considered many places. First, I thought of doing the "Lord of the Rings-thing" and New Zealand. I think the scenery (I'm big into scenery) would be stunning. Then, I considered A week in Australia and a week in N.Z. I guess the only misgivings I have is the hugeness of the terrain and getting about to see it all - or the best parts of it - in so short a time.My thoughts also drifted to south African (not necessarily the country but the region). Big game safari, photo ops, and the like. However, with the world's relatively negative outlook on Americans right now, I have reservations. China - Hong Kong, Beijing, and maybe a pop-over to Japan would be interesting as well. I have also given, as part of my inclusive list, the Italy-Greece combo. It would be great to see these ancient civilizations and all the treasures they hold. I have "done" Mexico, the Carribean, and "the beach/cruise thing" to death long ago. I really haven't thought seriously about South America. I have come to trust and enjoy the well-traveled, culturally-diverse and intelligent folks at BC so I thought I would ask here first. If you could spend two weeks in any part of the world (other than the comfort of your own sofa; I know that has its own attraction), where would you spend it? The "why" would also be appreciated but I am just looking for opinions here from people I know to be knowledgeable. I am not a widely-traveled sort and London was my first trans-oceanic vacation. I will be traveling solo, am in fair physical condition, and am over 50.Again, I apologize for cluttering up BC with this personal drivel, but I wanted to see if anyone could give me some ideas for a October-ish (kids back in school, parents not traveling, etc.) sojourn outside the country. Thank you, in advance for, any help.

Old, incurably conservative - insult to injury- and insufferably opinionated.

The Joys of Age

dietdoc — Mon, 6 Jun 2005 08:08:51 EDT

"At sixty, a man has passed most of the reefs and whirlpools. Excepting only death, he has no enemies left to meet....That man has awakened to a new youth...Ergo, he is young." George Benjamin Luks, American painterI have reservations about posting this on BC as it might only be appropriate for a personal blog, but what the heck. As to what category it should it go under, I will defer to the editors' judgment to place it (or misplace it) wherever they may chose. Satire? Culture? Whatever. Here is a Sunday afternoon's quiet reflections.There are myriad wonderful benefits of middle age. It has taken me many years to come to this conclusion. In my younger days, I raged. I fumed. I ranted. I rebelled. I have pictures of me in my youth, when I had more hair, fewer wrinkles, and seemed to always have a serious expression on my face. I was attuned to every slight, every ill-mannered comment, every question of my knowledge or judgment. Even the slightest sense of a challenge to my omniscience - a lowly pharmacist questioning my dosage instructions on a prescription - would be enough coal to keep the fires of indignant outrage burning for the rest of the day.I remember the daily annoyances that used to drive me absolutely berserk. Just the drive to and from work would toggle my buttons just the wrong way for the full 24 hours, usually every day. People parking their oversized SUVs too close to my car. Drivers pulling out in front of me, quickly and just in time to cut me off, and then slowing to a crawl. Or, as I approached a red light, pulling up on the side street, with perfect timing, there would be an oil-burning "hoopty" that would trip the traffic light and force me - ME! - to stop for their smoke-spewing, back-firing entrance onto the throughway. One lousy car - probably a minimum-wage dolt at that - and I have to stop for them! Or some politician giving a speech on television and saying all the wrong things. That would give me enough righteous outrage for days. A teenager with his car radio booming with those horrendous bass acoustics rattling his and, more importantly, my car windows.But for the past few years, I have become aware of quite a change. Driving home has become an almost welcomed comic ending to the day. I like to drive without the radio and in the peace and solitude of my little car because the entertainment lies outside these comfortable confines. Watching the helter-skelter drivers, forever jockeying for position and all ending up together at the next red light with hardly a change in their starting position brings a wide smile to my face. The young pharmacists, fresh out of school and equipped with the knowledge - or at least their computers are - of every known side-effects of every drug on the market, still question me about prescriptions. They call to tell me that my recently prescribed Drug X has been shown to cause diarrhea in 2 percent of patients when used with Drug Y the patient is already on. They ask, with their best phone voice, if I really want to use this combination? As I suppress a laugh, I switch to my deepest, professorial voice and reply "Yes" and thank them for their well-researched, current information on the subject of these possible drug interactions. I assure the well-intentioned, young graduate that I think the patient will be fine. I thank the pharmacist again and hang up with a whimsical smile on my face. I think, briefly, of the pharmacist making a note in his log that they warned the prescribing doctor of the possible interaction and the physician accepted the risk. "CYA" and all that, at its very best.I come to my empty home - I am divorced and my children are grown - and I, maybe to some, selfishly, revel in the tranquility. I have probably always been a bit of a loner but, like so many things, I fought against it. I married and stayed married for almost 25 years. I had three great kids. I grew up, for all practical purposes (a much too long a story), as an only child, but I thought it would be a good thing to have kids. I served 12 years as an Army doctor - this, after growing my hair long and vehemently protesting against the military and Viet Nam, Kent State, and the assorted missteps of the 1960s. Now, after all the rage and the indignation, I have finally had a soulful, spiritual exhale.But lest you think I am some bitter, complacent, aged shell of a man, resigned to living on the edge of society for my remaining few years on this planet, I assure you nothing could be further from the truth. In my heartfelt solitude I have found an immense sense of peace and comfort. It is a oasis in my heart where resides a calm. There is a sensation that one must feel when, after fighting upstream against the rapids of a raging river, you reach a tranquil pool. Here, at the top of the headwaters, the current no longer pulls downward at you. There is no struggle and only minimal effort keeps you afloat. After the long swim, banging against rocks and scrapping against the shallows of the raging torrents called life, there is a respite.I have a recurring mental picture of the salmon swimming upstream from the ocean in the northwest rivers. They fight against the river's torrent to spawn. Then, from starvation, trauma and exhaustion, they die. We spend most of our lives in the same sort of struggle. Fighting and clawing against the currents of daily life is our youth. And, as we age - doesn't "maturing" sound better? - we realize that, despite all our fighting, kicking and screaming, we ultimately reach the same tortuous end. Some sooner (like my son, Danny, 1980-2002) than later.After over a half a century of fighting the good fight, I have reached a sense of contentment. I have achieved far more than was rightfully mine to achieve. The only son of a mail carrier in a family that never went farther than high school, I was the first in our modest history to go to college, much less medical school. My family could never afford medical school so I accepted a free-ride from my old nemesis, the good old U.S. Army. I have published 3 books, spoken to the American Medical Association and the American College of Physicians. I have published medical research papers. The whole nine yards. I am proud of what I have accomplished. More importantly to me now is that it has made my parents proud. Now as they slide onward toward octogenarian-hood, they can still talk to their neighbors about their son, the doctor.Truth be told, there have been many (many, many, many) failures and regrets along the way. I was never much of a father and an even worse husband. But I have made peace with these glaring imperfection and defects. Now, instead of regret and discontent for the errors and missteps, I am unabashedly happy. I have taken the conscious and innermost decision to rest in the backwaters of whatever remains of my life. Lest you get the idea I have given away all my worldly possessions and have gone to live in an Oregon commune, you couldn't be more wrong. I have all intentions to live life to it's fullest and enjoy whatever time I am given on this earth. It's just that I am, at long last, happy and contented. I am, in the trite old (is it?) phrase, "in a good place." Surely, it is not the absolute cloudless calm that I know death will be, but a conscious, deep sense of the sudden lack of conflict. It is a fine place to be.I can speak, with some degree of experience, about the sensations of death. I recall, with great clarity, the "time I almost died." I venture that many have had similar claims to the almost-afterlife, but mine remains quite vivid with me. During a heart catheterization prior to my quadruple coronary bypass (it sounds more dramatic to say "quadruple" than simply a 4-vessel bypass), I had what pop culture would call a "near-death experience." [Why does no one refer to it as a "far-life experience?"] During the procedure, shortly after I threw up from the nausea induced by the dye injection, I remember what can best be described as simply falling asleep. But unlike the sleep of fatigue or after a day's work, it was a sublime drifting off into unconsciousness. I don't remember the "feeling" of dozing off in any of the many thousands of naps and nocturnal rests in my life. All I recall is laying down and, then, waking up. But this particular sensation was exquisitely unique and most memorable.Before you roll your eyes, it really was a sensation I had never felt before and I have not since. There was no "light at the end of a long tunnel," no voices calling for me in the distance, no angels, none of the things I have heard from near-death survivors. No artistic beams of light whisking my vaporous soul away as in the movie Ghost or dozens more. This feeling was something entirely different. It was an overwhelming sense of calm, of peace, of solace. It was a deep inner sense of tranquility.I noticed later, in the cardiac care unit, that I had some very painful circular burns on my chest. When I asked the nurse what they were, she nervously informed me that my heart had "stopped" (specifically, I went into asystole) during the procedure and I had to be "defibrillated" 6 times to resume an effective heart rhythm. The burns, I was informed, were from the haste of the cardiologist to apply the paddles to my chest with inadequate conductant gel and the increasingly higher voltages used in the attempt to get my heart back into a functional pulse. When I discussed the episodes with my cardiologist, a good friend who I had actually trained during his Internal Medicine residency, he told me he "was scared to death" he was about to lose his former Chief Resident and friend. [More truthfully, it was probably that he would have to explain the death of a Staff Doctor to his superiors] His exact words were that I was "dead for about 60 seconds."Since that little heart stopper, when I was the ripe old age of 42, I have lost all fear of death. Death, in my mind, body and in the innermost depths of my soul, is nothing to be feared. It, I am convinced, will be an almost orgasmic peace. Perhaps not in the circumstances in which one dies - car wreck, gunshot, heart attack - but, when the heart pumps its last, I am convinced we will all have this peace. When those last few red blood cells deliver their last molecules of oxygen to the last living brain cells and we have an "irreversible end of consciousness," we will experience a final, ultimate, overwhelming sense of placidity.With apologies for the diversion, I return now to the point of all this rambling: whatever lies ahead, it's all OK. Through all the aches and pain of waking up each morning, all the alopecia, all the wrinkles and blemishes, the daily loss of neurons, it's all going to be just fine. And when people question my judgment, drivers cut me off on the freeway, the power goes off in a storm, or I forget to record my favorite TV show, I will try to remember that lesson. I wish, as we all do, that I could go back and visit myself when I was 18 and scared to death of starting college, or when I was 24 and marrying for all the wrong reasons, or when I was 39 and leaving the Army for the alien and increasingly competitive world of private practice, or even just 3 years ago when my son died. I would smile, knowingly, and whisper "you will get through this, too."Age does have some unique advantages and I like find that I like them very much.

Old, incurably conservative - insult to injury- and insufferably opinionated.

Men of America: Rise Up!

dietdoc — Wed, 1 Jun 2005 13:49:57 EDT

If you didn't catch the May 31st episode of Real Sports with Bryant Gumble on HBO last night, you missed one of the entertaining segments of television ever to fill the airways. It seems there is this horse, Storm Cat, proudly owned by Overbrook Farms in the Olympus of thoroughbred racing, Kentucky. When Storm Cat was born, there were great hopes for his racing success as his bloodlines could be traced through many of the greats of racing history including the legendary Secretariat. Unfortunately, Storm Cat proved to be a mediocre race horse. He won a few, he lost a few more. He made a couple hundred thousand and then was retired to stud. A common story you say? Lucky he is not dog food, you demure? Ah, but this is where the story really begins. Initially, the asking price for Storm Cat to "cover" (see, I learned some racing terms, educational TV and all that) was $25,000 for the subsequent birth of a live colt. If Storm Cat fathered a live colt by the mare, regardless of whether the colt had 6 legs or 4, the fee was $25,000. There were so few takers, Overbrook Farms dropped the fee. They started asking $20,000 and started having a few takers. I mean, for Heaven's sake, the gene pool is the thing, right? Strange things started to happen in the sand and clover of race tracks around the country. The kiddies sired by Storm Cat started winning - and winning big! Generation after generation of Storm Cat's colts have run roughshod over the horse racing world. To date, according to Real Sports, colts fathered by Storm Cat have won $90 million at the tracks of the world! They should change his name to "Daddy Warbucks!"Now the fee for having your mare have a date, not with Tad Hamilton, but with Storm Cat is the highest in the horse racing industry - $500,000 per live colt. That's a 125,000 bucks per hoof - assuming you get a four-legged colt. The closest rival for breeding rights is a sire that can ask for - well his pimp can ask for it - a paltry $200,000 per live colt. While that ain't hay, no one is in Storm Cat's stall, playa! However, the economics, while staggering, was not the entertainment of the segment. Watching the almost religious nature of the equine dating game was where the knee-slapping and horse laughing began. While I won't go into all of the precautions they go through for the sake of, primarily, the safety of Storm Cat's money-maker, I will bring an issue to the attention of P.E.T.A. While not generally a sympathizer for the causes championed by this august organization, as an upstanding male, I would certainly be a supporter (pun intended) for this one. It begs for an immediate press release and, at the minimum, a 30 second spot from an outraged Pamela Sue Anderson. Perhaps, due to the issue in hand, Tommy Lee could stand erect for this particular abuse, as well.Here's the horror of it all. Once they (the veterinarians and equine Dr. Ruths) have determined that the mare is in estrus and in the mood that day for receiving His Majesty, Storm Cat, they have one additional step that is sometimes required if the mare might be a bit bashful. They bring into the bridal chamber a surrogate stallion. This poor chap apparently has terrible genes but is a sex pistol and "ready" at the swish of a tail. And, soon, we find out why he is constantly ready for romp in the hay. This stud-ette's unenviable task is to test mount the mare to see if she is the kicking sort. Apparently, if some mares are not entirely satisfied with the prospective suitor (be it the his weight, the way he nibbles her mane, or the barn's decor) the lady will unceremoniously kick the suitor in a frightful location. A $500,000 per-pop location!The good folks at Overbrook Farms will not let even the possibility of this happening. They humiliate the would-be-stud by putting an apron around the business area of his anatomy (apparently, they do not make horse-sized condoms, but there begins a whole 'nother set of jokes) and let the test mounting begin. But, and this is where PETA needs to get involved, once the mare has proven she's got that lovin' feeling that day and at that very minute, they pull Mr. I-Wish-I-Could-Have-Known-You-Better off the mare, lead him out the back door and bring in Mr. Right with his hoity-toity genes. But not before they fit the blushing bride with padded booties for her hind hooves (you can't make this stuff up, folks) in the off-chance that she whinnies "No." For mares, just as for humans, no means no, especially when you can so strategically and powerfully kick at such a vulnerable time. Storm Cat does his $500,000 love thing which, as if you were interested, lasts approximately 5-10 seconds.Now, for PETA, it's high time the abuse of this pinch-hit (and miss) stud is stopped! When asked during the segment how often this unfortunate stallion actually gets to have actual intercourse with a mare, the Overbrook executive's reply was a flaccid "Never." It seems they want to keep him...well...horney. Thus, as soon as he achieves liftoff with the prospective bride, the handlers pull the horse off - a cruel, forceful form of equine interruptus. That, gentle reader, is just wrong. There you have it. Far more than you ever wanted to know about breeding in the kingly world of thoroughbred racing and a call to arms for PETA. If this is not cruel and inhumane treatment of animals, I have not seen it. It's certainly time to get involved. Men of the world, RISE UP!

Old, incurably conservative - insult to injury- and insufferably opinionated.