Pet Wisdom

 By Mark W. Danielson

For humans, life can be stressful.  Most of us have too many things to do and never enough time or money to do them.  But to our dogs like Maxx, waking up is blissful.  This is one reason we love them so much.

For us, life has been trying ever since we listed our Colorado house last spring.  Selling it quickly was a blessing, but building our dream home has been a challenge.  The recession made our loan process extremely difficult, and there always seems to be some new problem in seeing our plans come to fruition.  Add to this our sometimes inability to communicate via cell phones or Internet due to service-related problems and our frustration increases.  My job takes me on the road for a week or more at a time, which frequently compounds our problems, but all our little dog cares about is curling up to us on the sofa.  Regardless of whatever pressing issues we may face, Maxx always wakes up smiling, wagging his tail, telling us everything’s alright.  Thank God we have him.  No doubt, pets like him are why dog is God spelled backwards.  (Cat lovers forgive me, but this is a dog article.  Your pets are equally important.)

Having the holidays behind us gives us more reason to learn about love from our beloved companions.  If we could see the world as they see it, our problems would seem smaller and our happiness would be greater.  With 2013 upon us we should realize that most of our stress is self-induced, so we should do all we can to minimize it.  Let’s only worry about things we can control and take pleasure in the meaning of Christmas by treating people as we wish to be treated.    

Clearly, none of these things come easy to humans, but they do to our pampered pets whose only mission in life is to love and spread joy.  I hope your pet’s hearts touch each of you as we all welcome the new year. 

Harvest Moon

          (Photo of 2012 Bay Area Harvest Moon, photographer unknown) 

By Mark W. Danielson

In layman’s terms, the Harvest Moon is the full moon that is closest to the fall equinox.  I have many memories of them.  As a kid, I once pedaled my bike over a hill at sunset and unexpectedly came face-to-face with a huge yellow one that was at least a gazillion miles wide.  Petrified, I raced home and hid under my bed until my heart slowed.  Many moons later at age seventeen, my fifteen year old buddy and I were camping under the wing of my rented airplane at a small airport near Mount Shasta.  Since we had the only airplane on the airfield and it was quite dark, Dan and I swapped lies while star gazing and munching on the Kentucky Fried Chicken Momma June got for us earlier that day.  Suddenly all was quiet as a red glow appeared over the Sierra Nevada, silhouetting the mountains.  As the glow intensified, we anxiously spoke about fire season and how quickly fires spread this time of year.  Just as we were about to slide out of our sleeping bags and notify the authorities, the top of the full moon peeked over the ridge.  Relieved, we laughed and swapped more stories as the moon made its Heavenly ascent.

Like the sun, the moon also has a dark side.  On October 29, 2012, the full moon’s high tide, a cold front, and Hurricane Sandy created a perfect storm that bulldozed New York City and the New Jersey coast.  Soon after Sandy made landfall, the Manhattan skyline went dark, making technology on every level worthless.  Granted, this storm’s path was a fluke, but it should always remind us that our frail existence is far too dependent upon energy and outside help. 

On September 29^th, the east and west coasts both enjoyed the beginning of a Harvest Moon.  This particular moon will forever hold special meaning to my family.  On this night my father and mother admired it from the deck of their Napa, California, apartment.  For two hours they held hands, sharing memories of their sixty-four wonderful years together.  The next morning, the actual date of the 2012 Harvest Moon, Dad was gone.  He passed in seconds and never suffered.  We are all grateful for that.

Four weeks later, we celebrated my father’s life under another near full moon.  As fate would have it, this was the same moon that wreaked havoc on the east coast, yet in Napa, it shined as a beautiful reminder of my father’s life and his last evening with his bride. 

Heaven does not recognize east or west, political boundaries, war, devastation, bloodshed, or sorrow.  It is a peaceful place where Dad now lives.  I feel his presence every day, and in time I hope to join him.  Until then, Dad, God bless you, and thanks for everything.  I miss you dearly.

Playing God

By Mark W. Danielson

Mystery writers all play god. A non-denominational god, mind you. Throughout our stories, we decide who lives and who dies. That’s what makes writing them fun. If we don’t like a character, we can bump ’em off with no repercussions. What other job gives you that kind of fulfillment?

Over the years, I’ve gained a great deal of therapy from my writing. In fact, many of my stories have been conceived out of frustration. Give me a disturbing event and I can wrap a tale around it in no time. The more personal the story, the more emotional my characters become. But while it’s easy killing off evil characters, sometimes the good must also die. Those are the most difficult deaths to write about, but their demise replicates the real world. Suicides excepted, none of us can chose our fate. The same rules apply to our characters.

I once wrote a story about vigilante justice. Since I’ll never publish it, I’ll introduce it, but first a little background. Many years ago, the US Navy was developing a stealth bomber called the A-12. Even though it never got past the mockup stage, millions of dollars still poured into it. I decided to capitalize on this by creating a story that skimmed funds from the A-12 money pit to finance a government sponsored vigilante group that erased undesirables. I’m not talking about assassinating potential terrorists – I’m referring to ridding the corrupt politicians who rape this country. (Remember, this is fiction.) I was pretty happy with my story until a movie called Swordfish came along. Believing my plot similarities were too great, I decided not to pursue publication. In spite of my disappointment, it was rewarding to know I wasn’t alone in my feelings over the bribes and double-dealings in Washington DC. My story was called The Patriot. How ironic that Mel Gibson later chose that title for one of his movies.

What made my version of The Patriot even more interesting concerns an Air Force general that I bumped off in the story. Made to look like a suicide, his vigilante murder was successfully covered up. By coincidence, two weeks after I wrote that chapter, Admiral Jeremy Boorda, the Chief of Naval Operations, actually did commit suicide. His death was a blow to the Navy because he was the first enlisted sailor to ever reach the rank of admiral. I remember him well because I had retired from the Navy the previous year. Unlike in my story, no foul play was involved, and out of respect for him, I won’t discuss the circumstances that lead to his fateful decision. However, his death did prove that my fictitious general’s “suicide” was indeed plausible.

By trade, murder mystery writers are killers, but that doesn’t mean we’re bad people. We just identify misdealings and try to set things right. If you’re an author and have ever disliked someone or are upset with someone’s actions, don’t get mad, get even. Base your characters on them and then send them straight to Hell. Bumping off bad guys is fun, and it always makes for happier endings.

Aging Pilots

By Mark W. Danielson

This formerly classified May 22, 1939 letter from Maj Gen “Hap” Arnold to Brig Gen Krogstad recently surfaced, and I think it’s worth sharing.

“The Chief of the Air Corps is deeply concerned that senior and older pilots take no unnecessary flying risks and thus jeopardize their valuable experience to the Air Corps.

To this and he has directed the classification of all pilots over forty-seven years into a group where they will not be required to pilot at night, to lead or drill with pursuit formations, to fly single seater aircraft, or to do any other type of particularly hazardous piloting where the mutual and understandable depreciations coincident with age may render them less fit than men of younger age. He believes that there should be absolutely no evidence of any competition in piloting among men of higher rank and older age. There is no necessity and no justification for the feeling on the part of a senior officer that he must continue to pile up as much pilot time, or to pilot as skillfully as he did in his earlier years, or as well as younger pilots do.

Your particular attention is directed to the revision of War Department Circular 26 and to the minimum requirements set up in Circular 50-12, O.C.A.C. Every senior Air Corps Officer must use the soundest judgment at all times as to the types of flying performed and as to when, how, and where to fly, after a careful analysis of tactical situations and weather conditions. Officers in the command pilot group may fly as co-pilots or command pilots in meeting their flying requirements.

It is desired that you be accompanied by another pilot on all military flights.”

While I empathize with General Arnold wanting to protect his leaders, I’m not sure I agree with his assessment of aging pilots. After all, I taught air-to-air combat in the A-4 until we retired the aircraft a year before I left the Navy. With age came experience. Why else would have taken me so long to realize that if I just kept my opponent in front of me, I wouldn’t have to contort my body to keep him in sight? And who would you rather have as an airline captain? An “old” experienced pilot, or a “young” inexperienced one?

Recently, the FAA upped the airline pilot retirement age from sixty to sixty-five, provided the pilot can still pass the FAA medical. Today there are plenty of “over-sixty” pilots flying, and they are far from being “over the hill”. Most may wear glasses now and have gained a few extra pounds, but when bad things happen, their experience is invaluable. As much as I’d like to tell my chief pilot, “Sorry, but I can’t fly tonight because it’s dark”, or “Sorry, but there’s a line of nasty clouds out there. No can do,” I don’t think he’d buy that. So in that regard, I have to wonder if General Arnold ever regretted sending his letter to General Krogstad. No doubt it spurred a lot of chuckles among his Air Corps pilots.

Flying is inherently dangerous, and every pilot knows the risks. Clearly, younger pilots take more chances than older ones, hence the saying, “There are old pilots and bold pilots, but no old, bold pilots.” (Actually, there are a few, but you get the point.) Regardless of its risks, no other job provides the elation a pilot gets from being airborne, slipping the surly bonds, and touching the face of God.

Addicted To Jim

by Ben Small



Have you ever been addicted to a program you hate? I know, that makes no sense. If one has an injection phobia, does one volunteer to give blood weekly?

I have a hard time explaining to people why I used to be addicted to the PTL Club and why I now record and watch some of the Jim Bakker shows. But the explanation is simple: Bakker is so outrageous, I just cannot turn him off. First with PTL, Jim was selling partnerships in Heritage USA, a huge family oriented ― or so it was claimed ― project, now in ruins. Now it's Morningside, which I predict will be in ruins in a few years.

Heritage was fraudulent, and rubble is often what happens to hopes and dreams that are based upon fraudulent claims.

Morningside? Tune in and you be the judge.

Jim’s good at selling. He lays down a façade of ministry, a cover, when what’s really going on is a sleazy sales pitch. After an eight year stint in federal prison ― it would have been much longer but his appeal resulted in a reduced sentence ― Jim’s back doing what he did before, selling what looks to be cheaply made condos under cover of providing a religious program. It’s called the Jim Bakker Show, and this time, instead of the now deceased Tammy Faye to laugh at, we have Jim’s wife, Lori, a busty blonde with a lurid past, and a brain that might fill a thimble.

This time, Jim’s selling units at Morningside, a five hundred sixty acre development in Branson, MO, owned by his friend Jerry Crawford. Jerry brought Jim and Lori out and put him up and on the air, so Jim could sell his cheap Bibles, tiny swords, Jesus pictures, “partnerships” and CDs at inflated “Love Gift” prices, and so Jim could spend most of his programming hour pushing Morningside units.

My wife and I were in Branson, and we drove by the complex. We laughed out loud. The “village” had a roof, a big one. Long, black I-beams provided a three story structure that stretched for several hundred yards. So what now looks like a strip mall is Jim’s Village of Morningside, which is nothing more than a television set, a few shops selling trinkets and plastic or coated religious stuff at inflated prices, a bakery, a general store, maybe something of a restaurant, and of course condos, apartments, a hotel and building sites. If you want to watch the Jim Bakker Show from the tiny balcony of your postage stamp condo, one or two stories above a fake street, you’d like Morningside.

I’m sorry, but Jim’s show is so outrageous, I just cannot turn it off. So I watch, angry, cussing, seething inside at all the old people ― the group Jim’s always victimized ― who fall for his blather.

And you should see Jim beg. He’s got all the tools. I don’t think a show goes by where Jim doesn’t cry. Or pretend to do so. Jim’s lip will quiver, and he’ll talk about how much money he needs to do one more program, and then he’ll beg. And after the beg, comes the threat, that God won’t like you if you don’t support Jim’s church. And Lori just nods, a hollow look in her eyes, like someone’s just reached in and scooped out her brains.

It’s better to give than receive, you know? So says Jim, as he encourages everyone to feel good about themselves by giving to his ministry.

Oh sure, Jim mentions Jesus once in a while, usually in a loud, practiced stretch-syllable Southern Baptist way, like speaking the name Itself will provide enlightenment and salve all his sins. “Yes,” he’ll say, “Jeeeeeezzz-us loves us,” as if this makes the sales pitch a holy one.

But while the guy can sell, he’s not very smart. Jim’s a preacher, right? I thought it was enlightening, and not particularly bright, when Jim said during one sales pitch that he’d never read the Bible until he was sent to prison.

Huh? Never read the Bible? Then what was PTL all about? You don’t think PTL was just a money grab, do you?

Of course it was. And so is Morningside and the Jim Bakker Show.

Recently, Jim announced that Jerry Crawford, the Morningside developer, had called him in to say development [read sales] was slowing, that Crawford would have to forgo a promised million dollar payment to Bakker. Jim took the high road, at least he appeared to, and instructed folks on the need to be altruistic. Then he asked for special love gifts.

C’mon, you knew that was coming.

And Lori’s a peach, too. Tammy Faye, at least, could sing, and her eye makeup was always entertaining. But Lori just sits there and makes inane comments, comments that are so right field that Jim turns and stares at her, as if he’s a catcher and the pitcher just rolled the ball to home plate.

No, Lori doesn’t have much to say, but that doesn’t stop her from saying it. She’ll say something like, “Oh, Jim, everyone should know that God is always with us.” And Jim will turn, and he’ll stare.

Like me. I’m dumb-struck, too.

But then they’ll talk about Lori. Jim loves bringing up Lori’s sordid past: how she was addicted to any number of drugs; how she slept around, trading sex for drugs; that she had a number of abortions. And Lori will sit and nod and grin.

This is great soap opera.

My wife thinks I’m nuts to watch this stuff, and of course she’s right. But my sister watches Nancy Grace, just because she finds Nancy Grace so irritating. And it’s the same with me. I cannot stand what Jim Bakker does. I think the guy is a crook, and that he’s bilking little old ladies. And he infuriates me so, I have to watch his show a couple time a week. That’s how mad he makes me.

I mean the show is so obvious. How could anybody be fooled? If there’s any mention of the Bible or Jesus at all, it’s usually connected to a pitch for money. The Bible says we must support the church; Jesus wants our support, he needs our support, and Jim needs our money to spread this message.

It should come as no surprise that The Jim Bakker Show has almost no audience. It’s on at various times during the wee morning hours, at about the time teenagers are painting the old water tower. In fact, when I tell people that Jim Bakker is back on the air doing the same old thing, they’re shocked.

But Jim looks good. He’s had so much plastic surgery, he looks about forty-five, although his face has that certain smooth and shiny plastic texture that comes with having skin stretched too tight across facial bones. I can’t tell if Lori’s had plastic surgery. I can’t get past her lipstick. With Tammy Faye, it was the eyes one laughed at. With Lori, it’s the wind blowing through her ears and the spooky high gloss clowny lipstick.



Despite the title of Jim’s book, it’s apparent from comments Jim's made that he doesn’t think he did anything wrong at Heritage USA, and that he was persecuted by those who were jealous of his success. And to prove his point, Jim’s doing many of the same things he did before. Just no Jessica Hahn this time, at least not yet.

I mean, the gall of this guy.

And that, my friends, is why I watch. I just cannot believe the ever-loving gall. The mystery is how Jim Bakker gets away with it, over and over again.