Today I had the yearly skin check at the doctor's office. It seems to be one of the requisites to living in Arizona and since I spend a lot of time outside, I'm pretty conscientious about having this done.
I'd already been to this doctor before, but of course there is always some sort of paperwork to fill out. Just a couple of signatures and is anything new with my health these days. I looked over the form and did find a new data entry.
Under the Date of Birth line was something I'd never seen before: Date of Death. Very nice. Thanks for offering me the opportunity to ponder my own mortality for a few minutes, Dr. Lin.
Fortunately mine read 00/00/0000.
I returned the form to the receptionist and went back to my seat, thinking how nice it is that my heart is beating.
As I waited for them to call my name, I quickly forgot about mortality and flipped through an issue of Sunset magazine. That is, until an old-guy patient sitting across the room with his own paperwork exclaimed to everyone: "Date of Death?? Hey, look at that. All zeroes! Guess I'm still alive!"
I'm certain that was the first time I've ever seen a room full of people waiting on a doctor laugh together at anything.
The exam went fine. Everything normal. Hopefully me and the old guy will be seeing those zeroes for a long time.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Saturday, July 14, 2012
Yellowstone's Fireworks
I'm standing on top of North Americas largest active volcano. It last blew up 640,000 years ago, and some day, will again. But I'm only in this area for three days, so I guess you'd say I like the odds. Besides, it doesn't look anything at all like the textbook pictures of a volcano. Far from it. Beautiful mountains, lakes, rivers and meadows are everywhere. Wild animals do their wild things under the strict protection of federal laws. Boaters, hikers, fishermen and just about anyone who loves being outside come to this place in numbers over 3 million each year. I arrived here in Yellowstone National Park by motorcycle yesterday.
This trip began two days prior out of Portland, Oregon. I rode interstate for 3 hours along the Columbia River where wind generators spin high above and remind me of war of the worlds aliens. Their invasion stops near Pendleton and I turn northeast for a few hours into the striped farming hills of Washington state and into the city of Clarkston - my first overnight stop.
The next morning I cross into Idaho and join highway 12 where I trace the banks of the Clearwater river for nearly 300 miles. This is a land of outdoorsmen and the timber industry. Trucks loaded with fallen trees pass me opposite on this cool morning and in their wake, the long sweet final breaths of of douglas fir, larch, and sugar pines.
I rejoin the interstate near Missoula, Montana by afternoon and finally turn directly toward my destination. My rest stops get shorter and my speed, a little faster through the hills of western Montana. I would like to get to entrance with at least an hour to spare before sunset. I know that it is another 40 miles along the park road to the area within Yellowstone known as Canyon where I'll spend the first night, and I would very much like to avoid the combination of a motorcycle, nighttime and wildlife along the parkway.
In two days, I've covered nearly 900 miles. When I finally arrive at the Canyon Lodge of Yellowstone, I'm tired and stiff but anxious to start my first hike of the trip: a five hour walk up Mt. Washburn. But that is for daylight and on this evening I am very content with a shower and a comfortable bed.
Lodgepole pines, meadow grass and wildflowers are everywhere below the timberline along the path to the top of Mt. Washburn. The stiffness in my legs from two long days on the motorcycle is gone soon after I start up the trail.
It's busy here on this day. But I remember it's a holiday and Washburn gets great reviews for hiking in Yellowstone, so I'm not too disappointed. I know this is an enormous park and Ill have time to find solitude later in the trip.
The wind howls at the top, but the lower level of a fire observation post has been adapted for hikers to step inside and admire stunning views of much of the park. It is still and warm in the room at 10, 500 feet, and most of the park is in view. Yellowstone Canyon and the Grand Tetons are visible to the south. Montana to the north and the forests of Central Idaho that I rode through the day before are to the west.
On the second evening I decide to camp overnight, somewhere. All the established campgrounds are full, so that is not an option. The park service map comes out and I spot an unpaved road in the north part of Yellowstone. It looks promising so I check it out on the motorcycle.
There is some car traffic in the area, but very little. I find a nice pull-out for the bike and start walking up the tallest hill in the area. The climb is very easy compared to the days earlier hike. The hint of a path leads me to the summit. It looks perfect, and I unroll a pad and sleeping bag for the night.
On this 4th of July holiday as twilight becomes evening, there is no sound or splash of fireworks above. But I've learned a little about Yellowstone since arriving here, and I know that there are fireworks around. They're not far from this small camp I've made on the Blacktail Deer Plateau of Yellowstone National Park.
The sun has just drifted behind a soft wash of clouds over the hills to my left. It disappears briefly but will soon ignite those vapors in a warm orange glow that announces dusk. The light will not give up quickly at this time of year and the the blueblaze of skylight stubbornly remains on the horizon well past 9 pm.
The fireworks of Yellowstone exist in the form of an angry molten slug of earth just a few miles below the surface. It is this 'hotspot', as it is known by geologists, that influences everything above and makes Yellowstone unique in the world. Surface water succumbs to gravity through cracks in the earth, then to the fires of magma from the old and buried volcano below. What happens next gives Yellowstone it's character - the return of heated water to the surface - at infinitely different rates. From gentle steam to spectacular geyser to hellish boiling streams, water rejoins the atmosphere, only to begin its tortuous cycle once again.
"More visible thermal features than the rest of the world combined," as the brochures say, and they are everywhere. Clouds of warm vapor hover above pristine meadows and rivers throughout the park's caldera - the boundary of collapsed earth that remains from the last volcanic eruption.
They bubble like witches brew. They churn like open washing machines. They frighten like hidden dragons in scalding water-filled caves. The most famous, Old Faithful erupts almost every two hours to hundreds of cheers and smart phone clicks. Many others are accessed by planked walkways and to view these amazing features is like visiting nature's geo-thermal carnival. Step up, stroll through and be amazed.
Later that night on Blacktail Deer Plateau, a full moon rises, liquid silver on the horizon. It is clear and bright and fools the birds into announcing the start of a new day. But there is no warmth from that reflected light and their songs fade quickly.
A hard chill breeze rolls up from the valley and I draw the sleeping bag closer to my neck. The sky is clear now. It's well past midnight and I wake for just a few minutes. Branches on the lodgepole pines shiver across the small meadow before I drift off again. One last look up into infinite black and ancient fires overhead.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
The Backward to Dad Compass
The teenage years. A time when everything accelerates. Height, emotions, independence, intelligence, physical abilities, the need to establish a unique identity. When it happens, no young person seems ready and for some reason parents seem even less prepared.
I've wondered, at times, how the son of a revolutionary would rebel against his dad. Do Alice Cooper's kids turn the music down when they want to aggravate him?
I saw a documentary the other day on George Harrison. He is gone now, of course, but old interviews and comments from family and friends gave a great portrait of the "quiet Beatle."
It was over three hours long, but what fascinated me most was a part that focused on George's teenage son. A thoughtful young man, handsome, well-spoken and a musician himself. Longer hair and tattoos embellished his own laid-back musical persona and I found myself drawn to the story of his relationship with his father. Specifically, in his early teen years, before he became a good guitar player on his own, and at that age when many of us want to express our own opinions.
How does a 14 year old push back against his world famous musician father? The older Harrison was a man who experimented. He checked out drugs, exotic varieties of music, political ideas. He could question authority as easily as any figure that ever emerged from the 1960's, and when his son began to understand and appreciate it all, how difficult it must have been to show his dad and the world that there was a brand new Harrison in Liverpool.
Of course he found his own way: He told dad he wanted a haircut and wished to join a military academy.
The father must have been astounded and probably didn't take it well. Arguments ensued but the young man got his chance to leave the rockstar world for a little more order and discipline.
That version of a crewcut and starched younger Harrison apparently didn't last long. In the end, like many father - son relationships, there came a healthy resolution. It just takes a while.
And so I try to remember that the most I can ask of my son these days is to be himself. Not a leaner and smoother skinned version of me. But a unique young man, coming up with his own ideas about the world that may be completely right, or wrong, or in-between, but discovered and shaped in his own way. Even though I'll swear sometimes he's using some sort of backward-to-dad compass to navigate the first portion of his very long journey.
He's smart, and I know he will sometimes listen. I'll try to gently remind him that adventurers are willing to set off into the wild being prepared but never certain. Because turning completely around happens at times, and the best of navigators always keep careful track of where they have been.
I've wondered, at times, how the son of a revolutionary would rebel against his dad. Do Alice Cooper's kids turn the music down when they want to aggravate him?
I saw a documentary the other day on George Harrison. He is gone now, of course, but old interviews and comments from family and friends gave a great portrait of the "quiet Beatle."
It was over three hours long, but what fascinated me most was a part that focused on George's teenage son. A thoughtful young man, handsome, well-spoken and a musician himself. Longer hair and tattoos embellished his own laid-back musical persona and I found myself drawn to the story of his relationship with his father. Specifically, in his early teen years, before he became a good guitar player on his own, and at that age when many of us want to express our own opinions.
How does a 14 year old push back against his world famous musician father? The older Harrison was a man who experimented. He checked out drugs, exotic varieties of music, political ideas. He could question authority as easily as any figure that ever emerged from the 1960's, and when his son began to understand and appreciate it all, how difficult it must have been to show his dad and the world that there was a brand new Harrison in Liverpool.
Of course he found his own way: He told dad he wanted a haircut and wished to join a military academy.
The father must have been astounded and probably didn't take it well. Arguments ensued but the young man got his chance to leave the rockstar world for a little more order and discipline.
That version of a crewcut and starched younger Harrison apparently didn't last long. In the end, like many father - son relationships, there came a healthy resolution. It just takes a while.
And so I try to remember that the most I can ask of my son these days is to be himself. Not a leaner and smoother skinned version of me. But a unique young man, coming up with his own ideas about the world that may be completely right, or wrong, or in-between, but discovered and shaped in his own way. Even though I'll swear sometimes he's using some sort of backward-to-dad compass to navigate the first portion of his very long journey.
He's smart, and I know he will sometimes listen. I'll try to gently remind him that adventurers are willing to set off into the wild being prepared but never certain. Because turning completely around happens at times, and the best of navigators always keep careful track of where they have been.
Monday, May 28, 2012
The Flags That Are Not There
It's Memorial Day today and I'd rather be at work. If this doesn't sound like me, I can assure you it is, and this normally doesn't happen when I'm off the job. I like my days off and vacations as much as the next guy. But today is different and it began with the message from the captain.
Normally I hear the greetings from a captain while sitting in the right seat of my airplane. They talk about the weather, the arrival time, all the usual stuff you hear sitting on an airplane. But today I'm on a 964 foot boat in the Pacific Ocean. And today that message from the captain is heard through the vessel's public address system.
I'm writing this from an internet cafe on the fifth deck of this beautiful cruise ship. It's a 5 day voyage up the coast of California that began in San Diego, yesterday. Beautiful weather, a fine crew, and excellent service. We are having a great time.
At precisely 10 AM this morning, Captain Zisis Tarames provided us with greetings and excellent information regarding our voyage. He updated us on the exact latitude and longitude, outside air and sea temperature, and weather forecast for our first port of call tomorrow. Everything you would expect from the captain's daily informational address, and I was very impressed with his precise tone and tenor transmitted through the ship's speakers. I feel good knowing that my family and this ship are in very capable hands.
One thing I missed though: no mention at all of Memorial Day.
I know this is a foreign registered vessel. The captain and many of the crew and passengers are not American citizens and there is certainly no obvious reason to expect mention of a US Holiday. But this morning at breakfast I spoke to a passenger with a World War II Veteran cap. He was in a wheelchair, and as we talked, I did the math. Every vet from that conflict is over the age of 80 and we are quickly reaching a time when the living reminders of that important point in our history will be nearly gone.
After speaking to the man, I wanted nothing more than the ability to hack into that ship's public address system, and say thank you to every veteran on board. Doesn't matter their nationality, because there are still many out there from other countries who have also sacrificed.
So today I will enjoy myself aboard a beautiful cruise ship. I will stand outside on a bright blue day, a steady strong breeze from the southwest across the deck, and I'll look above for the flags. Flags that distinguish this cruise ship as a peaceful vessel of commerce, transporting free citizens to wonderful destinations across the sea.
But I can also picture flags that are not there: rising suns and swastikas that once filled our national nightmares and fluttered above steel and barbaric ideas. Flags that could be there on this morning, but are not because of men and women who demonstrated courage and sacrifice in a manner that the average citizen can today hardly imagine.
That's why I wouldn't mind being in an airplane right now, nearly ready to pushback, microphone in hand addressing my customers. I'm very proud knowing that on over three thousand flights today that my airline will operate, the crew will begin each journey with a thank you to some very very special people on board.
Normally I hear the greetings from a captain while sitting in the right seat of my airplane. They talk about the weather, the arrival time, all the usual stuff you hear sitting on an airplane. But today I'm on a 964 foot boat in the Pacific Ocean. And today that message from the captain is heard through the vessel's public address system.
I'm writing this from an internet cafe on the fifth deck of this beautiful cruise ship. It's a 5 day voyage up the coast of California that began in San Diego, yesterday. Beautiful weather, a fine crew, and excellent service. We are having a great time.
At precisely 10 AM this morning, Captain Zisis Tarames provided us with greetings and excellent information regarding our voyage. He updated us on the exact latitude and longitude, outside air and sea temperature, and weather forecast for our first port of call tomorrow. Everything you would expect from the captain's daily informational address, and I was very impressed with his precise tone and tenor transmitted through the ship's speakers. I feel good knowing that my family and this ship are in very capable hands.
One thing I missed though: no mention at all of Memorial Day.
I know this is a foreign registered vessel. The captain and many of the crew and passengers are not American citizens and there is certainly no obvious reason to expect mention of a US Holiday. But this morning at breakfast I spoke to a passenger with a World War II Veteran cap. He was in a wheelchair, and as we talked, I did the math. Every vet from that conflict is over the age of 80 and we are quickly reaching a time when the living reminders of that important point in our history will be nearly gone.
After speaking to the man, I wanted nothing more than the ability to hack into that ship's public address system, and say thank you to every veteran on board. Doesn't matter their nationality, because there are still many out there from other countries who have also sacrificed.
So today I will enjoy myself aboard a beautiful cruise ship. I will stand outside on a bright blue day, a steady strong breeze from the southwest across the deck, and I'll look above for the flags. Flags that distinguish this cruise ship as a peaceful vessel of commerce, transporting free citizens to wonderful destinations across the sea.
But I can also picture flags that are not there: rising suns and swastikas that once filled our national nightmares and fluttered above steel and barbaric ideas. Flags that could be there on this morning, but are not because of men and women who demonstrated courage and sacrifice in a manner that the average citizen can today hardly imagine.
That's why I wouldn't mind being in an airplane right now, nearly ready to pushback, microphone in hand addressing my customers. I'm very proud knowing that on over three thousand flights today that my airline will operate, the crew will begin each journey with a thank you to some very very special people on board.
Saturday, May 19, 2012
Cherokee People
There's an interesting race for a US Senate seat going on in Massachusetts.
Incumbent Scott Brown is in a close race against Elizabeth Warren and by most
accounts the campaign has been fairly civil. At least by today's standards. It's
taken an interesting twist, though.
A couple of weeks ago it was revealed that Ms. Warren has reported on some job applications that her race is American Indian, specifically Cherokee. Not every application she has ever filled out or even the ones after she found out that she has distant Indian relatives. Just some. Which means that on certain days, she considered herself American Indian, and on other days she did not.
This "minority status" apparently got her get hired onto the faculty of Harvard as a law professor. Years later, she seemed to have abandoned that claim to being a minority because there are records where she lists herself as Caucasian after being hired for this position. The University itself seems to have played along with this game, because for a while it pointed to Warren as an example of its "diverse" teaching staff.
I have more than a little interest to this side story in an important election. Let me say first, I am not an American Indian. I am not what anyone would consider a minority. I am, however a member of the Cherokee Nation, and I have been for many years. I've voted in every Oklahoma tribal election since 1994, but since I'm not a resident on a reservation in that state, I've never received any benefits to this membership. Whenever I fill out paperwork asking my race, it is and always has been: White or Caucasian.
When I was a teenager, I found out that my own grandmother was part Cherokee. She possessed a card issued by the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma that certified her to be 1/8 American Indian. This is an official and sanctioned tribal government document and it is referred to as a CDIB card: Certified Degree of Indian Blood.
As I learned about about my grandmother's heritage at a fairly young age, I thought it was kind of cool. Having always considered myself an average white kid, and born into an era when being caucasian was going out of out of style, the idea of Native American heritage was instantly appealing. Sure the white folks could be made fun of on 70's TV shows like "Good Times" and "Sanford & Son." But I didn't feel so white any more, and I was able to gin up a respectable amount of indignancy toward the oppressors of American Indians, past and present.
The famous commercial of the 1970's where Iron Eyes Cody sheds a tear over an American landscape riddled with garbage seemed a little more personal to me. Paul Revere and the Raiders song "Cherokee People" spun endlessly on my turntable. I revealed this trivia about my bloodline to a few friends and being smart friends, they were not very impressed. Typical back and forths between us eighth graders would go like this: You don't look Indian. Well it doesn't matter, because I am, sort of. Is this why you have no facial hair? Are you going to end up dead drunk on the reservation?
Undeterred, I acquired the same CDIB card as my grandmother. It was a simple matter of paperwork with the Cherokee Nation. Factoring in two generations, and with no other part Indian relatives to add to the soup, my Cherokee purity ended up 1/32 on the card. Really - right around 3 percent which coincidentally is what Elizabeth Warren claims to be, also. A fraction like this should be plenty reason to laugh at anyone who claims minority status or significant Indian "heritage." But there is more. One big difference between myself and Ms. Warren is that she apparently is an undocumented Indian. That is, she does not have a CDIB card. She says she found out about all this through relatives. If you really want a chuckle, search for her comments about having "high cheek bones" as further proof of being Cherokee.
Another major difference exists between myself and US Senate Candidate Elizabeth Warren. I never once, claimed to be an American Indian on any official application. Not for college, the military, employment, anything, ever. Can't say why, and it's not because I'm not that cynical - because I certainly can be. I just never did the same thing as Elizabeth Warren, and I feel pretty comfortable knowing that the job I have now came about simply through good qualifications and a good interview.
Ms. Warren almost became head of the new agency designed to protect all US consumers. She wants to be a US Senator. I wonder how comfortable she is with the choice she made to treat heritage and the label of "minority" like a garment. To be worn like an attractive interview suit as part of the process of advancing a career. Then closeted away until next time.
Finally, I wonder if she thinks of the other applicants who did not claim to be a minority, but maybe were just as or even more qualified. The ones who thought they were playing fair. The ones who didn't con anybody. You know, the ones who got rejection letters.
A couple of weeks ago it was revealed that Ms. Warren has reported on some job applications that her race is American Indian, specifically Cherokee. Not every application she has ever filled out or even the ones after she found out that she has distant Indian relatives. Just some. Which means that on certain days, she considered herself American Indian, and on other days she did not.
This "minority status" apparently got her get hired onto the faculty of Harvard as a law professor. Years later, she seemed to have abandoned that claim to being a minority because there are records where she lists herself as Caucasian after being hired for this position. The University itself seems to have played along with this game, because for a while it pointed to Warren as an example of its "diverse" teaching staff.
I have more than a little interest to this side story in an important election. Let me say first, I am not an American Indian. I am not what anyone would consider a minority. I am, however a member of the Cherokee Nation, and I have been for many years. I've voted in every Oklahoma tribal election since 1994, but since I'm not a resident on a reservation in that state, I've never received any benefits to this membership. Whenever I fill out paperwork asking my race, it is and always has been: White or Caucasian.
When I was a teenager, I found out that my own grandmother was part Cherokee. She possessed a card issued by the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma that certified her to be 1/8 American Indian. This is an official and sanctioned tribal government document and it is referred to as a CDIB card: Certified Degree of Indian Blood.
As I learned about about my grandmother's heritage at a fairly young age, I thought it was kind of cool. Having always considered myself an average white kid, and born into an era when being caucasian was going out of out of style, the idea of Native American heritage was instantly appealing. Sure the white folks could be made fun of on 70's TV shows like "Good Times" and "Sanford & Son." But I didn't feel so white any more, and I was able to gin up a respectable amount of indignancy toward the oppressors of American Indians, past and present.
The famous commercial of the 1970's where Iron Eyes Cody sheds a tear over an American landscape riddled with garbage seemed a little more personal to me. Paul Revere and the Raiders song "Cherokee People" spun endlessly on my turntable. I revealed this trivia about my bloodline to a few friends and being smart friends, they were not very impressed. Typical back and forths between us eighth graders would go like this: You don't look Indian. Well it doesn't matter, because I am, sort of. Is this why you have no facial hair? Are you going to end up dead drunk on the reservation?
Undeterred, I acquired the same CDIB card as my grandmother. It was a simple matter of paperwork with the Cherokee Nation. Factoring in two generations, and with no other part Indian relatives to add to the soup, my Cherokee purity ended up 1/32 on the card. Really - right around 3 percent which coincidentally is what Elizabeth Warren claims to be, also. A fraction like this should be plenty reason to laugh at anyone who claims minority status or significant Indian "heritage." But there is more. One big difference between myself and Ms. Warren is that she apparently is an undocumented Indian. That is, she does not have a CDIB card. She says she found out about all this through relatives. If you really want a chuckle, search for her comments about having "high cheek bones" as further proof of being Cherokee.
Another major difference exists between myself and US Senate Candidate Elizabeth Warren. I never once, claimed to be an American Indian on any official application. Not for college, the military, employment, anything, ever. Can't say why, and it's not because I'm not that cynical - because I certainly can be. I just never did the same thing as Elizabeth Warren, and I feel pretty comfortable knowing that the job I have now came about simply through good qualifications and a good interview.
Ms. Warren almost became head of the new agency designed to protect all US consumers. She wants to be a US Senator. I wonder how comfortable she is with the choice she made to treat heritage and the label of "minority" like a garment. To be worn like an attractive interview suit as part of the process of advancing a career. Then closeted away until next time.
Finally, I wonder if she thinks of the other applicants who did not claim to be a minority, but maybe were just as or even more qualified. The ones who thought they were playing fair. The ones who didn't con anybody. You know, the ones who got rejection letters.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
The Talented Mr. Waze
Last year I received a letter from the US Postal Service to confirm a change of
address order. The type we normally fill out when we move and want our mail
forwarded to a new address. Trouble is, I haven't moved for several years and
don't plan to.
The name on the change order had my address on it but the last name was spelled Waze. Close - but not quite my last name.
I called the post office immediately and had the forward order stopped. Since the name was a little off, I did not lose any mail (that I know of) and I had nearly forgotten about it - until a couple of weeks ago.
The name Waze re-appeared on a piece of mail in my box the other day. This time it was on a letter from Capital One Credit Card - regarding my account! I like their commercials, but have never been a customer and my wallet does not have a Capital One Credit Card.
After an hour on the phone with their fraud department, the situation is now somewhat resolved. They did have an account under the name Tim Waze, with my address, my social security # and my date of birth. However, in one year, nothing had ever been charged on it. The account is now officially closed. Next step, of course is the big 3 credit reporting companies.
Experian 1st: Yes, the fraud account was on my credit record, thankfully with no adverse information. As reported by Capital One, no balance had ever appeared on the account. Also, Tim Waze was listed on the credit report under personal information (versions of my name, an alias?).
Using the formal dispute process, the record has now been cleared up. No more Capital One. No more Waze, at least on Experian. Now I just have to clear things up with Trans Union and Equifax.
I've also filed a report with Scottsdale Police Department and the US Postal Service mail crimes unit. Although, this has turned into a minor hassle, I have lost no money, and my credit is undamaged by the appearance of Mr. Waze.
While talking to Capital One, I asked them how in the world could you do a credit approval on someone and not catch this? The very polite service representative from Cap One mumbled something about a typo and couldn't explain any further. She did offer to refer me to a credit monitoring company who would be happy to have me as a customer. For a monthly fee, I bet they would.
This got me to thinking that the CC companies and Credit Reporting Agencies do have an interest in this type of fraud. Not only by preventing it, though. Credit monitoring is a growth industry, these days.
Like it or not, we all have an ID# and it is on our social security card. If a government or private entity stores false information under that number, at some point you will be harmed. We live in a world of easy credit, easy access to data on computers, and a government, with each passing day, that seems less interested in our privacy.
Our best defense is to look through all the mail that shows up in the box. Get a copy of your three credit reports. Once a year, they are free and can be accessed easily (maybe too easily) on the Internet.
The name on the change order had my address on it but the last name was spelled Waze. Close - but not quite my last name.
I called the post office immediately and had the forward order stopped. Since the name was a little off, I did not lose any mail (that I know of) and I had nearly forgotten about it - until a couple of weeks ago.
The name Waze re-appeared on a piece of mail in my box the other day. This time it was on a letter from Capital One Credit Card - regarding my account! I like their commercials, but have never been a customer and my wallet does not have a Capital One Credit Card.
After an hour on the phone with their fraud department, the situation is now somewhat resolved. They did have an account under the name Tim Waze, with my address, my social security # and my date of birth. However, in one year, nothing had ever been charged on it. The account is now officially closed. Next step, of course is the big 3 credit reporting companies.
Experian 1st: Yes, the fraud account was on my credit record, thankfully with no adverse information. As reported by Capital One, no balance had ever appeared on the account. Also, Tim Waze was listed on the credit report under personal information (versions of my name, an alias?).
Using the formal dispute process, the record has now been cleared up. No more Capital One. No more Waze, at least on Experian. Now I just have to clear things up with Trans Union and Equifax.
I've also filed a report with Scottsdale Police Department and the US Postal Service mail crimes unit. Although, this has turned into a minor hassle, I have lost no money, and my credit is undamaged by the appearance of Mr. Waze.
While talking to Capital One, I asked them how in the world could you do a credit approval on someone and not catch this? The very polite service representative from Cap One mumbled something about a typo and couldn't explain any further. She did offer to refer me to a credit monitoring company who would be happy to have me as a customer. For a monthly fee, I bet they would.
This got me to thinking that the CC companies and Credit Reporting Agencies do have an interest in this type of fraud. Not only by preventing it, though. Credit monitoring is a growth industry, these days.
Like it or not, we all have an ID# and it is on our social security card. If a government or private entity stores false information under that number, at some point you will be harmed. We live in a world of easy credit, easy access to data on computers, and a government, with each passing day, that seems less interested in our privacy.
Our best defense is to look through all the mail that shows up in the box. Get a copy of your three credit reports. Once a year, they are free and can be accessed easily (maybe too easily) on the Internet.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
"Dispatches" by Michael Herr
Michael Herr published "Dispatches" in 1977 and it remains one of the most
significant books about the Vietnam War. Herr was a correspondent for Esquire
magazine and compiled his stories from several months of close contact with US
Marines beginning in 1968. An 'embedded journalist" in today's terms. If you
are a fan of the movies Apocalypse Now or Full Metal Jacket, this book is a must
read. The author contributed to the scripts of both of these films.
An early line from the book that features many vivid descriptions of men at war. The "Lurp" was a Long Range Recon Patrol Marine. He is nameless. Like many characters within the book, his story is told in brief, controlled bursts of blunt and gripping combat prose. I've talked to other readers of this book over the years and the story of the Lurp, even though told in only three sentences, remains vivid with them, too.
Herr's experiences are jarring, bloody and described in a new, raw combat journalist style for a new kind of war. Leveraged by a modern electronic media, fueled by drugs - the references come early and often - and bound by a Hemingway-like fascination with combat and near-death experiences, the author speaks directly to those of us wondering just what the hell went on in Vietnam. His language is blunt. He tells the stories of "kids who got wiped out by 17 years of war movies before coming to Vietnam to get wiped out for good."
The book is not as much anti-war as it is anti - people making stupid decisions in war. The best parts (the middle two sections) describe the Tet Offensive -"the week we lost the war"- and the siege of Khe Sanh -"the Western Anchor of our Defense one month and a worthless piece of ground the next..."
There are passages in the section on Khe Sanh that jarred me as an 18 year old reader and still do, today. Herr and other journalists lived among the Marines on that base for weeks, then ask the right questions of military leaders who put young men there to be mortared and rocketed from the surrounding hills. Casualties on the base slowly mount as artillery rains in from Laos (only 7 miles away) and everyone is expecting the big attack. Are we dug in enough? What if they come in huge numbers and overrun the camp? Will this be our Dien Bien Phu? Westmoreland and division commanders seemed to simply think we were smarter than the French. But nobody who spent a lot of time at that combat base ever seriously believed this to be true. Looking back now, decades after the war, using words like arrogant only begins to describe our mistakes in Vietnam.
The last third of the book trails off to a uncertain conclusion. Then again, could it end any other way? One section - "Illumination Rounds" begins with Herr's first experience being under fire. He is in a helicopter attacked at 1000 feet. Someone is banging on the side of the chopper and men are beginning to bleed around him. His description reads like some vague nightmare: "It's just some 'thing' they are going through that isn't real..." From there, the stories keep coming, a paragraph to a few pages long. Brief periods of light on a very dark battlefield.
Herr's tribute to fellow correspondents is also in the last section of the book. He talks about fellow reporters such as Sean Flynn (the handsome son of actor Erroll) and others like him. Many were looking for an adventure, answers to why we were at war there, or simply earning a living through writing and photography. Some colleagues were killed, others wounded. Flynn disappeared in Cambodia in 1970 and has never been seen since.
To get through this book, a reader needs reference to nuts and bolts descriptions of the Vietnam conflict. Military abbreviations and nicknames of hardware, for example, are everywhere. If you dont know NVA from ARVN from Vietcong or what a deuce and a half is, the book will become muddled. Read the wiki references on Tet Offensive, the battle of Hue, and the siege of Khe Sanh before attempting to get through Dispatches.
A last word on the drug use in Dispatches. Herr casually relates using marijuana with the people he is reporting on and being stoned every night in Vietnam. He was under the influence of opium on the plane ride home. He blends in references to music from the 60's from artists like Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix. One reviewer from the New York Times called Vietnam our first "rock and roll war." True I guess, but you could almost add the words "on drugs." That might not blurb as well, but it would really nail it.
There seemed to be a certain revolutionary style to drug use by musicians and authors during the 60's and 70's. Earlier in the century, Hemingway, London, Fitzgerald and others all loved their drink and were exceptional writers. Is Herr updating or remaking the stereotype of brilliant writer / heavy substance abuser? It didnt seem like it when I read the book 30 years ago. Now I think maybe. Still, it's an amazing collection of war stories even if experienced or recounted through chemically altered states.
Dispatches, Fields of Fire, Letters from Vietnam, We Were Soldiers Once and Young. All great books for anyone interested in this difficult American war experience. There are hundreds but these are a few of my favorites.
"Vietnam Vietnam Vietnam" is a phrase used twice in the book. A radio call? A prayer? A weary lament from a young reporter who aged very quickly along with the men he chose to write about? Its not very clear as you turn over the last few pages of Dispatches. Then again, it all wasn't very clear in 1973, when the last US troops left Vietnam. Nearly four decades later, it still isn't.
- "I knew one fifth division Lurp who took his pills by the fistful, downs from the left pocket of his tiger suit, and ups from the right, one to cut the trail for him and the other to send him down it. He told me that they cooled things out just right for him, that he could see that old jungle at night like he was looking at it through a starlight scope. 'They sure give you the range, he said."
An early line from the book that features many vivid descriptions of men at war. The "Lurp" was a Long Range Recon Patrol Marine. He is nameless. Like many characters within the book, his story is told in brief, controlled bursts of blunt and gripping combat prose. I've talked to other readers of this book over the years and the story of the Lurp, even though told in only three sentences, remains vivid with them, too.
Herr's experiences are jarring, bloody and described in a new, raw combat journalist style for a new kind of war. Leveraged by a modern electronic media, fueled by drugs - the references come early and often - and bound by a Hemingway-like fascination with combat and near-death experiences, the author speaks directly to those of us wondering just what the hell went on in Vietnam. His language is blunt. He tells the stories of "kids who got wiped out by 17 years of war movies before coming to Vietnam to get wiped out for good."
The book is not as much anti-war as it is anti - people making stupid decisions in war. The best parts (the middle two sections) describe the Tet Offensive -"the week we lost the war"- and the siege of Khe Sanh -"the Western Anchor of our Defense one month and a worthless piece of ground the next..."
There are passages in the section on Khe Sanh that jarred me as an 18 year old reader and still do, today. Herr and other journalists lived among the Marines on that base for weeks, then ask the right questions of military leaders who put young men there to be mortared and rocketed from the surrounding hills. Casualties on the base slowly mount as artillery rains in from Laos (only 7 miles away) and everyone is expecting the big attack. Are we dug in enough? What if they come in huge numbers and overrun the camp? Will this be our Dien Bien Phu? Westmoreland and division commanders seemed to simply think we were smarter than the French. But nobody who spent a lot of time at that combat base ever seriously believed this to be true. Looking back now, decades after the war, using words like arrogant only begins to describe our mistakes in Vietnam.
The last third of the book trails off to a uncertain conclusion. Then again, could it end any other way? One section - "Illumination Rounds" begins with Herr's first experience being under fire. He is in a helicopter attacked at 1000 feet. Someone is banging on the side of the chopper and men are beginning to bleed around him. His description reads like some vague nightmare: "It's just some 'thing' they are going through that isn't real..." From there, the stories keep coming, a paragraph to a few pages long. Brief periods of light on a very dark battlefield.
Herr's tribute to fellow correspondents is also in the last section of the book. He talks about fellow reporters such as Sean Flynn (the handsome son of actor Erroll) and others like him. Many were looking for an adventure, answers to why we were at war there, or simply earning a living through writing and photography. Some colleagues were killed, others wounded. Flynn disappeared in Cambodia in 1970 and has never been seen since.
To get through this book, a reader needs reference to nuts and bolts descriptions of the Vietnam conflict. Military abbreviations and nicknames of hardware, for example, are everywhere. If you dont know NVA from ARVN from Vietcong or what a deuce and a half is, the book will become muddled. Read the wiki references on Tet Offensive, the battle of Hue, and the siege of Khe Sanh before attempting to get through Dispatches.
A last word on the drug use in Dispatches. Herr casually relates using marijuana with the people he is reporting on and being stoned every night in Vietnam. He was under the influence of opium on the plane ride home. He blends in references to music from the 60's from artists like Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix. One reviewer from the New York Times called Vietnam our first "rock and roll war." True I guess, but you could almost add the words "on drugs." That might not blurb as well, but it would really nail it.
There seemed to be a certain revolutionary style to drug use by musicians and authors during the 60's and 70's. Earlier in the century, Hemingway, London, Fitzgerald and others all loved their drink and were exceptional writers. Is Herr updating or remaking the stereotype of brilliant writer / heavy substance abuser? It didnt seem like it when I read the book 30 years ago. Now I think maybe. Still, it's an amazing collection of war stories even if experienced or recounted through chemically altered states.
Dispatches, Fields of Fire, Letters from Vietnam, We Were Soldiers Once and Young. All great books for anyone interested in this difficult American war experience. There are hundreds but these are a few of my favorites.
"Vietnam Vietnam Vietnam" is a phrase used twice in the book. A radio call? A prayer? A weary lament from a young reporter who aged very quickly along with the men he chose to write about? Its not very clear as you turn over the last few pages of Dispatches. Then again, it all wasn't very clear in 1973, when the last US troops left Vietnam. Nearly four decades later, it still isn't.
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