Charity

I don't make a secret out of the fact that I loathe this war with every fiber of my being. But I will always love the Corps. I think of those kids over there, and I know that most of them didn't go with a hard-on for revenge (GWB) or to kill Iraqis (again, GWB). They went, they go, because they are KIDS who have HIGH IDEALS and believe to the skin of their souls that they can make a difference, they can protect democracy and they aren't afraid to try. And then they meet IED's or mortar rounds or suicide bombers. Or friendly fire. And in a burst of muzzleflash... it's over.
I am a Former Marine married to a Marine, fathered by a Marine. Most of my old friends are, or were, Marines. Tonight I received an email from a friend who's still in, out in Hawaii. He had a simple request and asked that I pass the information on to all of you. He recruited this kid a couple of years ago. And now he's asking for our help. Here's an excerpt from the email he sent me:
When the spirit is willingWounded
Ellenville Marine determined to overcome his injuries
By Paul Brooks Times Herald-Record
pbrooks@th-record.com
Gallery: Photos from this story T
he first bullet struck Cpl. Eddie Ryan above the right eyebrow and bored through the frontal lobes, the seat of personality and memory in his brain. Traveling at about a half-mile a second, the bullet generated a shock wave that widened as it went. The pressure crushed brain cells into jelly. The hunk of metal slammed into the left side of his skull and shattered. A second bullet came from the opposite direction. It sliced through the back of his lower left jaw and burst out his chin. Ryan collapsed on the Iraqi rooftop in Ramadi where he and two fellow snipers crouched. The Ellenville native was bleeding, unconscious, and bullets rained down around him. It was 7 a.m. April 13. Eddie Ryan was as good as dead. He was 21. Brown eyes. Eddie Ryan has brown eyes, and he stares hard with his eyes wide open, unblinking, straight at you. He has a pale blue scar shaped like a Y, an inch or so high, on his right side of his brow. His forehead is otherwise smooth, unblemished. Two small scars dimple his chin and the back of his left jaw. A longer scar, pencil-thin, runs through closed-cropped brownish hair from ear to ear. Eddie's 6-foot, 1-inch frame is cradled in a wheelchair. He is still slim. He has trouble standing or walking without the aid of a machine. The fingers of his right hand, his trigger finger, too, curl tight to his palm. He holds a small toy dog in his left hand. "Chesty," as it's named, is the Marine mascot. It comes from World War II and has the name Germans had for Marines: Devil Dogs. A dog is tattooed on the Marine's chest; "Ryan" is written in ink across his stomach. He has other tattoos, including a sniper's cross hairs on his right elbow. "Welcome Sgt. Ryan," reads a sign on the wall of his room in Helen Hayes Hospital, in West Haverstraw, a first-class physical rehabilitation center about an hour's drive east and south from his home town. A flag knitted in red, white and blue yarn, made by the hospital staff to greet Eddie, hangs over the sign. Letters and pictures, cards, even a wooden cross, cover a bulletin board. Some are from friends and neighbors, some from total strangers. The Marines promoted him to sergeant on Sept. 1. Sunlight pours into the spacious, private room. Eddie's hospital bed is its center. An ample padded chair sits in front of the window. It opens into a bed and Eddie's mom, Angela, sleeps in it every night. Staffers call her an angel. She has been at Eddie's side constantly for the past six months, from hospitals in Germany to Maryland to Virginia and now Rockland County. Her job as a cafeteria monitor in the Ellenville School District languishes. She lives out of a single suitcase tucked behind the chair. Eddie's only sister, Felicia, quit her job at Gander Mountain and dropped out of SUNY Orange to be with her brother, too. She has been there every day. His father Chris, after nearly four months at his son's side, had to return recently to work as a heavy- equipment operator in Westchester County. Now he drives to the hospital every day as soon as he can. "Our mission," Felicia says, "is to get Eddie better and work with him every day." Eddie shouts. It's reminiscent of a bird cry. Angela says it means his mind is working on something or he wants something. Eddie cries out again. Then his face calms. He pauses, as his brain searches for words. In a low voice, barely audible, he says, "Good to go. Staying motivated." "He's in there," his dad says. EDDIE HAD WANTED TO BE a Marine since he'd been 12. His dad was a Marine. In his senior year at Ellenville High School, Eddie knew he was destined to join the few, the proud, as the Marines advertise themselves. He had gotten more intense after the terrorists attacks on Sept. 11, 2001. "He had tunnel vision," Angela said. "He lived on working out and staying in shape." Eddie said he could bench-press 225 pounds. In June 2002, he graduated high school and immediately enlisted for a four-year hitch. One month later, he hit boot camp. In September that year, he left for Iraq, manning a machine gun. He fought in Nasariya and Ramadi, 70 miles northwest of Bagdhad. He saw buddies killed. "He would say, 'Mom, I can't wait to get out of this God-forsaken country," Angela said. He came home, but he wasn't done with Iraq. "His goal was to be the best. He always told me he wanted to be a sniper," she said. The sniper training went well. His years of hunting deer and squirrel in the woods around Ellenville paid off. Eddie was one of the top three in his sniper class of 100. He excelled at both pistol and rifle. A picture sits in his hospital room. It's of "Reaper 6," the team of snipers to which Eddie belonged as part of the 3rd Battalion, 2nd Marines. They are dressed in camouflage and grip the heavy rifles of their trade. Eddie's mom did not want to give their names. In March of this year, the unit shipped out for Iraq, Eddie with them. Why? "To make us free," he said. ANGELA SAID SHE HAD A horrible feeling something was wrong. There had been some bad fighting in the area where Eddie was. Chris had called to say it was OK, that Eddie's unit had moved out before that. "But I felt something was up, something was not right," she said. A Marine officer called. He asked if he could stop by in five minutes. When he and another officer arrived, Angela opened the door. "Tell me, is my son dead?" "No, but he is severely injured. We need to get you to Germany." Within hours, she and Chris and Felicia were on a flight. It was April 14. Eddie's buddies pulled him from that rooftop April 13 to safety. They did first aid and saved his life, Angela said. Military officials said last week that fellow Marines accidentally shot Eddie. He was tough, rock-solid at 200 pounds. On leave at home, he used to load his pack with rocks and go on long runs. The body in the American hospital in Germany weighed 250 pounds, swollen from wounds. It was strapped upright to allow the fluids to drain. "The only way to tell it was my son was the tattoos," she said. "They told us he wasn't going to make it. I slept in a chair for a week, just hoping and praying he would pull through. It was bad." Two-thirds of his brain had been affected by the bullet damage, including bruising. Doctors cut away part of his skull to make room for swelling. Surgeons removed as much of the bullet fragments as they could. Some they left behind. It was less damaging that way. They put Eddie in a coma for nearly four weeks. The first word he said when he came out of it was "Mom." SOMETIMES A SHUDDER runs through Eddie as he sits in his wheelchair in Helen Hayes. His family sees it as a good sign. "The doctors say the brain is like a river. It will reroute. What his brain has been doing is reconnecting," Angela said. Dr. Glenn Seliger, a neurologist at Helen Hayes Hospital, said Eddie's injury could have been worse. If the bullet had entered lower and traveled through the brain stem, he probably would not have survived. Yet a slower moving bullet wound have caused less collateral damage. The family says he hasn't lost his memories or his personality. The tray on his wheelchair has carefully chosen pictures under a clear plastic top: his home, his cherished Toyota Tacoma pickup and four-wheel all terrain vehicle, his family. He can name them all. Felicia arrived one morning, She threw her arms around his neck and told him, "I love you." He burped and laughed. He smiled at her when she made funny faces and blew kisses to a female photographer. In halting fashion, he answered many of a reporter's questions. "He is amazingly better than he was," Seliger said. "He is still very impaired from this injury, but I do expect continued significant improvement," Seliger said. "The big challenge is to become independent again and resume his life. He is doing a great job up to now ... but he has a very long haul ahead of him." THERAPY AIMS TO PUSH him down that road faster. Most days he has double sessions of physical and occupational therapy. A speech pathologist works with him as well. His days run from 8:30 in the morning to 4 or 5 in the afternoon. It is hard work. Two therapists pulled at Eddie to get him upright in a machine. Yelps spilled from his mouth until they settled his feet on footpads and hooked up the safety harness around his hips. His forearms rested on a shoulder-high shelf. "Stand up straight," one therapist said and pushed his shoulders back. Eddie did. The day before he had walked down the hallway outside his room with the help of a machine. Like a good Marine, he has set himself a goal to walk. How long, Felicia asks. "Ten weeks," he says. The family support makes a difference, much as the support and prayers from Ellenville and other places buoys the family. They even got help from Rep. Sue Kelly, R-Katonah, who pulled a few strings to get Eddie into Helen Hayes, Angela says. "Faster," Felicia and Angela urge Eddie as he turns the handle on a video game, part of his occupational therapy. The faster he twists it, the higher his score. The more they clamor, the faster he twists the handle. Behind the closed door to the office of speech pathologist Christina Zacharopoulos, Eddie works to shorten the pauses in his speech. It's working. "He's in there. His comprehension is intact," she said. "He remembers what happened (in Iraq), but he does not want to discuss it." He says he wants to put his uniform back on. "When are you shipping me back?" he asks. He means Iraq. "He wants to be with his boys," Angela says. Right now, it's one day at a time. Maybe six or eight weeks more at Helen Hayes. Then home to Ellenville, Angela says. "This kid is my hero," said Eddie's father, his voice soft. "I said to him, 'Eddie, your mission is not over. God's got a plan for you.' It's a long road, but Eddie's got a lot of determination. He knows. He's going to keep trying till he gets back."
Eddie could use some help along the way. He's getting the therapy he needs. Hospitals and Recuperation centers get lonely though, even with Mom there 24 hours a day. His sister comes as well and Dad is now coming right after work every day.... it's about a 2 to 2 and 1/2 hour drive depending on traffic, each way. The thing is, Eddie loves to hear from people. He loves to see pictures drawn by kids. Eddie loves to connect with people in this way.If you could send Eddie a card, a drawing by a child, a note, I'm sure he'd appreciate it! He loves getting mail!!!You can mail Eddie at this address:SGT. Eddie Ryan4A Room 12Helen Hayes Hospital Route 9WWest Haverstraw, NY10993

This is an oppurtunity to be charitable where it counts the most. No money required. As a matter of fact, shoot me an email for him, I'll print them all out and mail them myself. Or drop a note off at my house. We all know what it feels like to be lonely...

I Get all the Cool Stuff from SuperRob

20 years ago I was:Nine years old. In love with my horse and a boy named Hank who thought I was a human bowling ball.
15 years ago I was: Dating a boy six years older than me who just about sent my soul packing for the underworld until a guardian angel swooped down and saved me from the clutches of hell. sigh.
10 years ago I was: A hard charging US Marine, running, shooting, playing war and headed for Kosovo (almost)
5 years ago I was: Realizing that after UMaryland and UMass, I was never going to actually finish an engineering degree, but was still struggling at it anyway, wondering what I wanted to be when I grew up.
1 year ago I was: Realizing I wanna be a writer when I grow up.
Yesterday: Chilled with Mamaw, my mother in law, went to Acapulcos, my most favoritest restaurant and stuffed myself like a sausage full of beef chimichanga.
5 snacks I enjoy: Apples with cheese, peanut butter with spoon, chips with salsa, mediteranian style yogurt, chocolate
5 songs I know all the words to: American Pie, Entire Phantom of the Opera (you can call an opera 1 big song, you know) Roxie, I gotta man, Marines Hymn
5 things I would do with a million dollars: Invest for my future, set up a trust fund for the kids, Pay off my mortgage, Buy a summer home in Scotland, add on to my house
5 places I would run away to: Scotland, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland
5 things I would never wear (unless someone was holding a gun to my head... or it was for a show): lederhosen, anything lycra, a bikini, that skin suit from Silence of the lambs, a wolverine hat
5 favorite TV programs: Lost, Craig Ferguson, Desperate Housewives, 2 1/2 Men, Ellen
5 bad habits: Reading Delta Hotel's mind, Smoking, Staying up too late, drinking too much coffee, thinking I am the alpha and the omega
5 biggest joys: My BABIES, Writing, reading, hope, feeling like I've got a grip on things
5 favorite toys: Computer, I don't have any toys. That I can mention. WAHHHHHHHH
5 fictional characters I would like to have dinner with: ERIK (Phantom) ,Walter Mitty, The Connecticut Yankee, Mma Ramotswe, Tom Buchanan
5 people I tag to do this: Do, or do not. There is no tag.

Why I HAte the Dusk

When I was little, about 4 or 5, my mother was dying from cancer. She went in and out of the hospital, nine times in all, and when she wasn't dying of cancer she was working three jobs. I missed her. An only child with no family but my grandfather, I was shuffled around when she went sick. This particular time I was staying with my grandfather. My grandmother had recently died from cancer, ironically, and the two of us, both grieving the people we loved the best, were in a world of shit. I hated staying with my grandfather because most of the time he was a cold, loathsome, boring German WWII vet. The rest of the time he was a manic, entertaining German WWII vet, but not this time, when he'd lost his wife, was losing his daughter and was saddled with me. I wanted my mother so badly, and after waiting and waiting for her to pick me up I asked in frustration when she would arrive. My grandfather waffled and hemmed and hawed and finally told me, "Your mother is zeek, she ist in zee hospital, she vill come for you vhen she can." I remember being so angry that I had to stay at that boring stinky house that I screamed, "I hate her!" My grandfather picked me up, put me on the cold, scratchy polyester sofa diagonal from the window and quietly said, "Zen I hate you." and he walked away. I sat on the couch as the sun sank down the sky until the treetops were lonely sillhoutes against the dusk and the house was completely dark and silent but for the soft clucking of the clock on the wall, until finally my grandfather came back. "I like you again." he said.

Recap and Discovery of New Species

Thanksgiving at the Asylum was, in a word, GREAT!! I'd rank this at one of the, if not the best in a long time. I only set one fire, very early. But I like to think of that as tradition. Kind of a T-Day kickoff. It's not really Thanksgiving until the smoke detectors go off, and besides, creole turkey is tres chic.

Everyone got along great. There were no pissing contests, no hurt feelings, no crying and the night did not end in vomit. Perfection.

Today we took my MIL to Honeypot in Stow because she loves it there. After we'd had some cider and donuts and apples we went to weave our way in and out of the early Christmas trees over to the animals. We fed the demonic goats, the roosters, the bunnies and the .... Hmm. What was that animal? It was a bird, black feathered and web toed like a duck, the size of a turkey yet it had a crown like a rooster. Very ugly creature indeed. I've tried to find a picture of it on the net but I can't. If you google "ugly goose" that's about as close as I can guide you. It wasn't till I was leaving that I realized what we had seen. A real live turducken.

In a nutshell...

I don't really get it. But that's ok.

Gearing Up For Thanksgiving at the Asylum

Lo I have retreated to the depths of hell and faced the sulfurous breath of the great demon himself, handed him a curiously strong mint and emerged tempered by the eternal fires. And now it's time to cook dinner for the following cast:
1. Logarrhea afflicted mother-in-law
2. Emerging-from-catatonic-fugue state father
3. Recently burned friend
4. Hopelessly confused and lethargic undecided husband
5. Assorted ferile children
6. Zen like mother and almost step-father (both black belts)
7. Emotionally needy mastiff

A drunk woman called me tonight. She'd found my number by calling the operator and asking for my father. Once, I recieved mail addressed to my paternal grandmother who died when I was but a wee ovum. My therapist told me that I am an earth mother and attract people who need nurturing. Really, I think all roads to insanity end here. But that's ok. WHat I learned in hell is this: Make peace with yourself. You are truly only resposible for what goes on inside your own soul. When you're ok, and you can look around the Thanksgiving table unconditionally, peacefully, grateful for the motley crew assembled before you, then you can really start to live.

Why I Haven't Posted

Delta Hotel is back to vacillating, so I am on a hunger strike and far too weak to post. Delta Hotel is famous for outdoing me. If I am sick, he has walking pneumonia. When I was pregnant with middle, he managed to lodge a kidneystone into his miniature ureter and explode in hydronephrosis. I cut off the tip of my thumb, a week later he practically lacerated an artery. I'll tell you, this is one time he WON'T WIN. I am going to outdepress him, AND be a size six to boot.

Answer:

Not Yet.

T-17 hours

Tommorow is D-Day. Between the hours of 1 and 2 PM, Delta Hotel will announce his decision. The polls are closed. SO, please, cross your fingers, legs, toes, anything you can manage to cross. Pray, chant, meditate, if you have a voodoo doll of Delta Hotel, please use it. I'll tell y'all how it goes just as soon as I know.

Today I learned

That I can no longer do a headstand. I'm not sure where the miscommunication is, but something in my body just does not follow orders and thusly, I am now suffering from whiplash, six slipped disks and a bruised brain stem. OK I made that up, but the fact remains, there is a mutinous group of muscles inside me somewhere. I'm reminded of this past spring when it seemed like a great idea to do a handstand in the front yard. I executed perfectly, but once I reached the pinnacle, my legs thought they should keep going and I ended up flat on my back with the wind knocked out of me staring up at a group of stunned and slightly amused neighbors. I think I will sign up for an adult gymnastics class at the Y.

Hormones have settled

Like a blanket of nuclear fallout. I am seething at Delta Hotel right now. Tonight is the ball. As you can see, I am not at it. I am eating a king size Reese's Peanut Butter Cup instead. Delta Hotel is not the only one with issues. I have some too. It's time for me to pull them bad boys out of the closet, dust em off and slap em down on the table. Take that, Delta Hotel, I'll take your avoidance and raise you one Reverse Oedipal Complex. I'm tired of sweeping my feelings under the rug. Delta Hotel picked the wrong time of the month to hold out on decision making. When he comes home from Peoria tonight, I won't be alone. I've invited my good friends Estrogen and Progesterone along. Us and Delta Hotel are gonna have a little chat. (sound of cracking knuckles)

Gotta Give Props

To my Alma Mater. I would be nothing without having lived this....

Happy Birthday Marines

Oohrah

Apparently

Business trip = eating festival. Delta Hotel has been gone for 3 days and has eaten at 7 different restaurants. There are over 124 restaurants in Peoria. I figure he can cover a third of them if he keeps going at this rate, eating his way across Peoria like a mutant caterpillar. You know, Peoria does translate to "Place of fat beasts". Earlier on the phone he gleefully informed me that tonight would be a smorgasboard of beef. Delta Hotel is apparently in hyperphasia. Ah well. Maybe if he stuffs himself as full as a strained bratwurst he'll be forced to decide in my favor. Eat baby, eat.

Patriotism

I went to an art show this weekend and bought two pieces. The same amount of money at WalMart would have bought me a new set of dishes, a mat for the front door, some tulip bulbs to plant for spring, an eight pack of socks, a couple of outfits for the offspring, laundry detergent, a whole mess of nasty lunchbox snacks and the new People magazine at the checkout line. (I really do want to know how Britney lost sixty punds in thirty days.) ANd maybe I could have thrown in a couple of cheap watered down prints to overcompensate for the art I'd have left behind.

But, aside from some self-indulgent escapist hoarding, what would I have gained? Cheap rolled back prices are instant gratification. Goods are goods, cost is cost, and I'm thinking somebody has to suffer for the smiley face. Who makes the stuff on the shelves of WalMart? What can they possibly be paid per hour for a hand painted door decoration that costs $4? And what's the impact of the fact that nearly any item you flip over is stamped "Made in China?" Would I have supported the job security of the dozens of employees inside? I think not considering the average salary of a WalMart employee is below America's poverty line and half of their full time employees are without health care. I'd say those jobs are ripe for the picking...with all the money WalMart saves from their employees paychecks they can afford to stay in business. But really what I;m thinking about today is the small, local merchants that can't compete with WalMart's bottom line, so they either fold or never get the chance to open.

The art that will hang on my walls after the show is over is a small triumph for true, local talent. I could only afford to buy two pieces, but I will savor them. I will be proud of them. I would rather have two beautiful examples of local culture than a dozen bags of cheap imported junk. Besides, if we don't reward our artists, our photographers, our writers,painters, craftsmen, the record keepers of our culture, what will become of them? Only sweat-shops work for free.

Evil Lurketh

I have this great friend. 99% of the time, she is an angel on earth. She's an accomplished, super accomplished nurse. She's saved kajillions of lives. She's so good that now she's in charge of all the nurses in the world. She's a philanthropist. Next weekend she is going to feed all the homeless people in Boston Thanksgiving dinner. She's a great mom. Her kids are well-adjusted, smart, compassionate. But. BUTBUTBUT. SHe has a mean streak. SHe KNOWS Delta Hotel is out of town for the week. She knows my narcissistic family has an obsession with dangling mirrors on every otherwise unoccupied inch of wall. Her own husband helped Delta Hotel install the porn star closet doors in my room. SHe KNOWS I am deathly afraid of little boys in the mirror. So what does this saintly Mother Theresa of moms do?

"Tell the boy in the mirror I say hi, DiDi."
"Cover the mirror up with a sheet. Oh, never mind, that'll just make you wonder what's really behind them."
"Don't look in the mirror."

And every possible variation on that theme that you can think of. NIce, huh? So, when my body is found, hunched in the corner of the bathroom floor, frozen stiff with rigor mortis because I have died of fright, CALL TIARA.

And for the record, I want my epitaph to read :
I Told You So.

Ah Well

Delta Hotel is off for a week's worth of business in Peoria. Peoria. Sounds like a venerial disease. "Don't mess around with Bruce, he's got Peoria. I hear he's on pennicillan, but still, it's REAL catchy." Really, this is what it means. Well, that's a little American nugget. Any city that can boast having the words "fat, beast, butt and Nixon in it's official entymological definition is pretty damn special if you ask me.

Another interesting American Nugget is something I learned from TeeDubya. Do the following:

1. Go to Google

2. Type in Failure

3. Hit I'm Feeling Lucky

4. Laugh your arse off at the ironic fellow who came up with this one.

Cheers!

The Surreal (PAST?) Life

Yesterday I was discussing Delta Hotel's dilemma (using code words of course!) with two friends on two seperate occasions. First was my dear friend ElEn. She gave me the sage, but somewhat out of context advice, "When the student is ready, the master appears." Interesting, but as it had little more than nothing to do with my tirade of complaints, I didn't give it much thought. Later, during Gee Dubya's rude interuption of Rosa Park's funeral, I was reminded by EmEl that I had not yet consulted a higher power. Pray, meditate, dance around a tree stump nekkid, whatever, I hadn't done it.

While the offspring were at school today I wore myself out with so many errands that I found myself in desperate need of an obscenely priced latte. While I was in Starbucks, searching for a place to sit, a man slid a newspaper away from his face and said,
"Hey there, Didi."
It was our great mystical philosopher friend The Jackamaniac! So, I sat down with him and prepared to listen, as one who sits with The Jackamaniac will surely recieve an education. He told me some of his latest theories on child raising and Genesis v. Big Bang, then I slipped in some hints about Delta Hotel's decision. (or lack thereof) After a moment of stony faced introspection, The Jackamaniac came up weith the most beautiful and profound theory, likening Delta Hotel to the king on a chess board. Every life is a story, he said. Delta Hotel's story might include this decision, but he must be careful how he weaves the tale for his daughters. He said that Delta Hotel must decide whether to be part of the few for the good of the many, or part of the many for the good of the few. Suddenly, a woman neither of us had ever met came and sat down beside us. She fit into the conversation as if she'd been there all along, and neither The Jackamaniac nor eye even raised an eyebrow at her presence, which is wierd enough alone. But then she looked at me with eyes as startlingly blue as the November sky and she told me to operate from a feeling of unconditional acceptance. She stood up, thanked us for including her and handed me her business card. As I put it in my wallet I looked at it and read "Divine Intervention." Now, I don't know if that would wierd you out or not, but two prophesies from the day prior had been fulfilled at Starbucks, no less. I stood up to leave as well, I had to pick up the girls and the milk and eggs I had left in the car were in frantic need of a refrigerator. I said, "It was really nice to meet you again," gave The Jackamaniac a hug, and turned to leave.
"You just said 'again'", said the stranger.
And so I did. Have we met before? Hmmm.

Later, Delta Hotel and I went to "mediation" to help him make up his mind and to help me to keep myself from choking him before he does it. Really, it's therapy. I am so freaking happy to have a therapist I could do cartwheels. If I'd known how great it is to tell all your problems to someone whose sole purpose is to listen patiently then fix them, I'd have been in therapy all along. My friend ElBee said that I better not like therapy too much or I will turn into Woody Allen. Let me know if you see this happening, okay?

Today

at noon I watched the funeral for Rosa Parks. I was baffled, at first, that none of the major networks were carrying it. I saw The Price is Right and The View and Ellen, but the funeral for the catalyst of the civil rights movement was nowhere to be found. "Only on CNN," my dear friend EmEl lamented. "One of the most profound historical moments in American history, and it's only covered on CNN."

So we watched. And suddenly, in the middle of a old Negro spiritual, Gee Dubya burst in. Breaking news. He's having lunch with the future King of England. They're shaking hands!

Rosa Park's funeral and not only is the most prominant Republican on the planet not there, but the only network covering the event considers news of his lunch date far more pressing.

If that's not an illustration of the degradation of society, then I just don't know what is.