REVIEW: THE HATEFUL EIGHT

Already nominated for three Academy Awards, The Hateful Eight, directed by Quentin Tarantino, is a nominee for Best Cinematography, Best Actress in a Supporting Role and Best Original Score. “In The Hateful Eight, a few years after the Civil War, a bounty hunter is taking in a female outlaw in Wyoming when their stagecoach is stopped by a former Union officer and a Southerner. The quartet is then forced to seek shelter from a blizzard at a waystation, where four more travelers greet them, and as tensions rise, the eight realize that they may not all survive.” That’s all that needs to be said.

If you're not familiar with Quentin Tarantino movies, this might not be the best trainer, but for those familiar with his style this movie will not disappoint. First, there isn't a single character in the movie worthy of the label human. That’s only a small point considering the underlying plot.

The movie brings Tarantino’s dark humor tied together with graphic violence leaving the viewer unsure of who to cheer for if anyone at all. Of course, I cheered for Samuel L. Jackson, but he was just as rotten as the rest.

I’ll leave it at that and say, if you like Tarantino movies you’ll love this one. For those unfamiliar with his work—stay home and wait for it on pay-for-view or pick it up at Wal-Mart.

A THOUSAND WORDS

Relationships! Who the hell needs them? Years ago, I swore I'd never get involved in another because the cost was just too high in terms of emotional extermination, financial depletion and plain old bad feelings. It had been ten years since my last steady relationship with any woman and I don’t feel bad about it in any way.

Some would call me selfish, afraid of living or even hostile to women, but that would be far off the course. Beautiful women surround me nearly every day because I'm a fashion photographer and if I wanted, I could have a different woman in my bed every night, but that's not something I need or want.

Being a sought after photographer has it benefits and being around some of the most beautiful women in the world was just one of them. For me, my job it was the worldwide travel it afforded me. I have been to some of the most exotic and beautiful places in the world. Today, I was in perhaps my favorite, the Bahamas.

When breaks in shooting came, I retired to my beach bungalow to relax. Feeling the soft Caribbean breezes drift over my skin. The thin linen drapes blew with breeze and revealed the multi-colored blues of the ocean ranging from pale aquamarine to deep indigo where the ocean bumps the sky. Who couldn’t enjoy this? I was about to take a sip of my Cuba Libre when a troubled voice shattered my peace.

"Jake!" "Jake!" I heard someone calling my name. It was Rubio.

"What's up now," I asked.

"We got trouble on the set," Rubio said.

"Who," I asked.

"Petra and Zoe," he said.

I should have guessed it before he told me. Both of them had been a pain the ass since we arrived in the Bahamas. Although, I'd already sold the photographs I would shoot there, I also had real expenses including my time and rental for a small island for the shoot.

By themselves, each was sweet and personable, but putting them together was fire and gasoline. Zoe was from Argentina and had a flare of sexuality about her that radiated from her pores. She knew it, I knew it and so did everybody else on the shoot. Raven hair flowed to the middle of her back. She was the kind of girl I might have pursued ten years ago.

Petra, on the other hand was a striking Romanian beauty standing 6' 2" tall with nearly white blonde hair. With me, she was always sweet and fun, but she didn't get along with the other girls. That makes it especially difficult on a shoot when time is short and money slips away with each hour. She was a general pain in the ass with the other girls who tended to ignore her, but it was her attraction to me that caused me concern especially knowing the personalities I'd be dealing with.

With that in mind, I shook off my relaxed state and got into my business costume, which also doubled as my daddy costume as some of the girls were barely past twenty. After slipping through the sand, I finally made it too the shoot site, which was less than 200 feet from my bungalow. Though I always tried to keep temper neutral, this shit was getting on my last nerve.

"What the fuck is going on," I shouted. "Just what the fuck is going on," I asked. "You start acting like fucking children the minute I go. This fucking shoot is costing me and you're costing me. I don't give a shit if you hate each other, get your shit together and act like professionals." No one said a thing as Ii stalked off fuming and cursing under my breath.

When I came back a few minutes later, all was well in the Garden of Eden. I finished the shoot and packed up ready to get the hell off that island, but I should have known it wouldn't be that easy. It seems that Miss Argentina and Miss Romania decided to get my interest. They already had my interest or they would not be here, but rarely did I ever mix business and romance, especially when there were indications that a casual fling was not the intent.

For a moment, I thought about making them a permanent part of Roving Eye photography studios, but one woman is tough enough for me as far as I'm concerned and two would be untenable. They would stretch my nerves to the breakage. Besides, how many times could I shoot the same models? There were plenty of clients who would be willing to use them for everything from hand modeling to expensive jewelry neck shots. I’m sure they could pay their keep. It was inviting them into my life that gave me pause.

Fifteen years passed since then and life has changed. I live in the Bahamas permanently with my three teenage children. It is an idyllic life that suits me well. Zoe and Petra live here too, just not at my house. They have their own homes and lives. Both come by to visit the kids often just as the kids go to visit them, but in the end, those children belong to me.

"Poppi," It was Raul. All of my teenage children call me Poppi and always have. They are the long-term relationship I was seeking.

PARTY OVER HERE!

"I can't believe you're going over to Miss Turner's house for the lawn party with me," Pete said. "There will be a bunch of girls there and some from out of town."

Pete was my best friend. He was always there when I needed him. It's trite to say that he was there through thick and thin, but it was the truth. I tried to live up to being his friend, but I think I failed miserably. Still, we did everything together, including going to parties where I danced with the walls.

"I don't know why I continually let you talk me into going to these parties even though I want to go, but sometimes I wonder, what for? All of my relationships end up in the funny papers or leave me feeling like someone shot me in the stomach," I said.

"Man, you have to let that shit go. I know Janna slammed the door on you and so did Tanya, but that doesn't mean you have to stop living," Pete encouraged. "Those were just bumps in the road."

"Yeah, I guess you're right, but it still hurt nonetheless. But, in some ways, I'm glad Janna is gone. There's no more guessing why she's mad. No more jealousy about any girl that speaks to me and best of all, no more crying about nothing," I said.

Pete saw me driving down the road of self-pity and quickly changed the subject. We were headed to a party and I was actually looking forward to it. I just got off track thinking about a couple of past relationships, which now after some quick reflection I actually found some humor in them.

"Man, they've got lawn decked out," Pete said. "I came past Miss Turner's on my way to get ready. It was barely dark and there were plenty of people there already."

Yard parties were fun and curious. Young and old attended with kids as young as five mixing with their elders of 70 and older. Whoever held the party would hang up strings of colored light bulbs mounted on poles above the ground and arranged in a square or rectangle in the backyard. The grass would be freshly mowed and raked. Usually, just outside the square of lights a 45-rpm record player sat on a card table to provide music. The table was also the same place that held the punch in a five-gallon crock. Some adults brought their own punch.

"It looks like we've got a nice crowd," Pete said.

That was good for Pete because he was a talented dancer and even better conversationalist. Everyone liked Pete. When we showed up at a party, everyone our age flocked to Pete. He tried to include me in the fun, but no one is attracted to a corpse.

"Jimmy Lee. You lookin' awful dapper this evening," Wilson Henderson said to me. Wilson was also a good friend. He wasn't as close as Pete, but I still counted him as a staunch ally.

"That's about it for me," I laughed at myself. "But, I swear I'm getting out there to dance tonight. Someone is going to know they danced with Jimmy Lee Washington," I said, and laughed to myself knowing it wasn't going to happen.

Wilson disappeared and I stood by the punch bowl and protected the record player. I stood there for nearly a half an hour before I noticed a young woman off to the side of the dance area at the edge of the light. I couldn't see her plainly, but decided to watch her. Several young men approached her, but they left almost as soon as they got there. I kept watching until I made up my mind to introduce myself and see where it went from there. I knew it could be a real short trip.

"Hi, I'm Jimmy Lee Washington," I said.

She jumped as if I had scared her, which was not out of the question considering the party was held in darkness except for the colored lights. I had already started on the wrong foot.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to startle you," I said.

"You did give me stir me for a moment, but I'm alright now," she said.

"Would you mind if I started over," I asked.

"I don't see how that could hurt," she smiled and laughed.

She had me at that moment. For me, her smile was electric. Nut-brown skin and gleaming white teeth almost made it difficult for me to break contact with her hazel eyes.

"As I was trying to say, I'm Willie Lee Washington, but most of my friends just call me 'Wash'," I said.

"Well Wash, I'm Sarah Hampton," she said. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

I had no more words. I spent them all just making my introduction. Thinking quickly I asked lamely,

"I haven't seen you around here before. Where are you from."

"I'm from St. Paul," she answered.

"What are you doing here besides coming to a party," I asked.

"I always come to see my aunt every summer," she said. "At first, after you introduced yourself, I thought you came to ask me to dance."

"I never made it that far. That's something I thought I might ask you after standing here boring you for a few minutes," I said. "I saw those guys coming over here and leaving so quickly, I figured you weren't dancing."

"That's about right, but it didn't have anything to do with them personally," she said. "It's because this is the very spot where my uncle was killed. Every time I come here in the summer I always stand out here and hold a private moment for him."

We stood there in silence standing on the slight rise and looking at the dancers. For some reason I felt totally comfortable with this girl that I'd known for all of 20 minutes. As we stood there watching the party below we inched closer together until we were touching. Without looking down, I took her hand and held it lightly.

"Would you like to dance," I asked. Then I heard the Flamingos singing "I Only Have Eyes for You" playing and immediately wished I had kept my mouth shut. Women rarely danced with men they didn't know on a slow song.

"Why not," she said.

We walked down the slight incline and joined on the newly mowed grass. She held me like she'd known me for years and I did the same. I remember wrapping my arm around her and touching myself feeling swept away in the moment. We danced several more songs and went back up to the knoll.

We stood there watching until she squeezed my hand tightly. I was hoping I didn't read that signal the wrong way, but taking a chance I leaned forward a kissed her softly.

That was the beginning of a great summer and a romance that continued for 30 years until cancer took her away from me. I was sad, but I was also grateful to have had so many years with her. Sometimes, I walk into the closet just to smell her perfume. Memories of that night on the hill still pleasantly haunt me.

Always Ever

"You need anything before I go in the back," Tasha asked. 

"No. I'm just about finished," I said. "Maybe we can have a little fun before I fall asleep."

"No maybes. That's what I enjoy doing," she said. And, it seems you enjoy it too."

I don't know what I'd do without Tasha. She was my partner, my friend and my lover. If had known it could be like this, I would have brought her into my life a lot sooner. She was highly intelligent, personable and beautiful. 

I often wondered if she stayed around me because I was an easy touch or because she felt obligated. Whatever the case, she made me extremely happy and I was pleased. 

The next morning I awoke refreshed and pleasantly energized. Of course, Tasha was already in the kitchen with breakfast ready. She was amazing. Sexually, she did things I only read about, not that I cared as I was the beneficiary. 

She was extraordinary. She got things done and helped me with my research. She never slowed down, but that was fine with me because I operated pretty much the same way except I always ran out of steam. 

"So, what's on the menu today," I asked. 

"I thought you might want to see the Great Pyramids," Tasha said. 

"I've been there, but never with the tools I have now to examine it," I said. 

It didn't take us long to prepare and get to our travel ports. If there is an invention that came just in time for me, it was port technology. Being able to get from here to there in seconds changed my life and those of so many others. 

"Tony, do you want me to pack something for lunch," she asked. “You know how you are once we arrive.”

"Yeah," I said. 

Travel ports always made me hungry. I'd no sooner arrive and I'd be starving to death. So, I'd eat as soon I got my feet my feet beneath me. It didn't seem to bother Tasha, but she'd eat too, just not as much as me. 

"Do you know where we are," I asked.

"We're about two miles away by taxi," she said. "We could go by camel."

Tasha had a wicked sense of humor. Sometimes, it slipped past me in its subtlety, but it was always a killer when I figured it out. 

When we finally arrived, the pyramids seemed even grander than I remembered. We stayed all day admiring the workmanship that we could only guess. After a pleasant day, we hit the ports and went home. 

"You getting in the shower," Tasha answered. 

"Yeah. I got dessert sand in my ass," I said and laughed. 

"I bet. You want some company," she asked. 

Of course, I wanted her in the shower. First, it was fun. Secondly, it was fun and third, it was highly sexual. It wasn't just sexual, we had romance. True romance. My feelings for Tasha ran deep, much deeper than I ever planned. 

We dried off together and rubbed bodies intimately. It would have been difficult for me not to do so. From her hair to her toes and everything in between, she was made just for me. 

I wasn't ready for the evening to end so I asked, “Do you want to get some dinner and maybe go dancing later?"

"I'm a bit run down right now," she said. "Just let me switch into something and I'll be ready to go."

I put on my tuxedo, poured myself a drink and parked myself in front of the 120" screen. I don't think I'd been setting there more than five minutes when I noticed my bow tie didn't match my cummerbund. No big deal, I'd just go back to the bedroom and get the right one.

When I came in Tasha stood there in a carmine gown with diamonds about her neck. As always, she took my breath away. 

"What's your rush," she asked. 

"I got the wrong bow tie," I said. 

"Third drawer on the left in the second cabinet," she said. 

I'd lose my ass if I didn't have Tasha. As I pulled my tie from the drawer, I couldn't help but look at my Tasha's lined neatly along the wall being rejuvenated. 

As I stepped from the walk-in closet I asked, "Are you ready."

Ain’t it a Bitch

by Don Barbera, ã1999

Derrick McGee was a genuine tough guy and had the credentials to prove it. He had a short temper and was a brawler by nature. Standing over six feet tall and weighing a solid 220 pounds, not many people wanted to fight with him.

He was the worst type of bully. It wasn’t enough to intimidate and belittle; he needed to hurt physically. He had a record with the police that was a mile long but he had no convictions. His parents put him out of the house at 16-years-old. With no place to stay and no money, he stayed alive by strong-arming people on the streets.

It was enough to keep him in candy bars, beer and potato chips. Robbing convenience stores didn’t make him happy. In fact, robbing a store was a blow to his enormous ego. Derrick McGee was meaner than a boot-stepped snake but he wasn’t a real criminal. He was just a kid who grew up doing whatever he wanted simply because he was bigger than most people.

Out of frustration, Derrick gave up his criminal activities and joined the Army. It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to do but it beat running from the police and sleeping on the street at night.

His first day in boot camp was uneventful. Stand in line. Get out of line. Hurry up. Wait. Eat. Stand up. Sit down. Derrick thought he had made a big mistake if this was a preview of military life. It was boring and uninteresting. Just the type of thing he despised. He had a drastic change of opinion later that evening when he slipped outside the barracks for a smoke.

Before he could draw two puffs into his lungs he felt himself levitate from the trash can on which he was sitting, fly through the air and land roughly on his back, kicking up dust in all directions. All the air rushed from his body like a rat leaving a sinking ship. Instantly, his temper flared. There was going to be an ass-kicking and Derrick McGee planned on handing it out. As he struggled to get his feet under him the heel of an Army combat boot landed solidly against his throat cutting off his air.

“I suppose you want to get your ignorant ass up and do something about it,” a voice said.

McGee wanted to answer but all he could manage was an indecipherable croak. Suddenly, the boot was off his throat but before he could raise himself the ebony face of Sergeant First-Class Maceo Parker appeared about two inches from his nose.

“Boy. I catch you out here again and it‘s going to be me and you. I don’t fuck around soldier. You want to get yourself killed, then go somewhere else to do it, but if you stay here, your ass and everything else belongs to me. Do you understand?”

McGee said nothing.

“I don’t hear you son. Do you fucking understand me?”

McGee nodded.

“Does that mean something or does your chin itch. You answer me, ‘Yes drill sergeant’. Now, what did you say?”

“Yes, drill sergeant.”

“Again!”

“Yes drill sergeant,” McGee shouted.

Sergeant Parker stepped back and turned to walk away. McGee scrambled to his feet and attacked, but Sgt. Parker easily sidestepped the wild rush and buried a nerve paralyzing blow under McGee’s ribs which sent him to the ground gasping for air.

“I told you boy, do not, I repeat, do not fuck with me. I will flatten you before you have time to stink. I make my living putting tough guys like you out of the service and if you ever attack me again, I will take you to within an inch of your life before you can spell no.”

With that, he walked away turning his back on McGee. McGee didn’t move. He thought about getting up but he was afraid to do it. Finally, he got up and staggered back to the barracks. Nobody had whipped his ass since he was a little boy. No one dared challenge him once his growth spurt hit. When he reached the barracks, he was crying tears of anger and shame. Still, he went to sleep easily.

At 4:30 AM the sound of rattling trash can woke the entire barracks. For the next 20 minutes, it was a mad scramble of assholes and elbows as the new soldiers prepared for reveille. In those few moments, all the men shaved, showered and dressed in freshly starched fatigues standing at the ready. “Fall in,” came the command. “Attention.” You could hear the stomp of boots and the swish of starched fatigues as they stood to attention.

There were six drill instructors positioned strategically around the platoon. Standing on the rostrum was Sergeant First-Class, Maceo Parker, all five feet seven inches of him. His boots glowed and his fatigues looked custom-made as they hugged his body in neat military fashion. His drill instructor hat sat at a perfect rakish angle that was far enough down to be intimidating but not far enough to look foolish.

“Gentlemen. I’m Sergeant First-Class, Maceo Parker. I am,” he paused, “the head drill instructor. I have served two tours in Vietnam. I have been shot, stabbed and tortured. I have escaped from two prison camps, eaten snakes and killed three men with nothing but my hands. However, of the more than 900 men I’ve had the privilege of leading, only nine were wounded and three were killed. You people are my responsibility now. I won’t be going with you but I’ll do my damndest to make you people keep my good record intact.

I will do everything I can to push you to your limits. Then I will push you even further. You will hate me if you survive this training, but those of you who survive will have a good chance of seeing me again. Now, we’ve already had two attempted AWOL’s and an attack on a drill instructor. Those people are still part of this unit. However, as of this moment if it ever happens again—you will be gone.

Today is your first day. Some of you will be leaders but most of you will be followers. More importantly, you will know how to work as a team when you leave here. The man standing next to you or any of these men in this platoon could be the difference between staying alive or coming home in a body bag. That’s all I have to say this morning, but we’ll have these cozy little chats every day until you leave. Now each squad, prepare to fall out to your drill instructor. Attention! Dismissed!”

If McGee didn’t know he was in the Army last night, he knew it this morning. To McGee, all the DI’s hollered at the top of their lungs and directly into your face. McGee didn’t mind. He found the hustle and bustle to his satisfaction. This morning after seeing SFC Parker for the first time, he was embarrassed that such a small man had taken him out so easily, but after hearing of Parker’s military exploits he felt the tension drain. That man probably had more medals and awards than he could put on his chest, McGee thought. After thinking about it all, he considered himself lucky that he survived his first day.

McGee graduated at the top of his platoon and left for Vietnam about a month later. Unfortunately, he didn’t keep Sgt. Parker’s string going. He received a field promotion to sergeant after displaying his bravery and intelligence on the battlefield. He received the Silver Star, Purple Heart, and a Bronze Star for his performance. Still, after enlisting for a second tour in Vietnam, his luck ran out. Now he was on Sgt. Parker’s casualty list. Although two men died on hill 117 and four were wounded, including himself, McGee’s actions saved at least 40 men and helped the infantry grab a crucial foothold. It also won McGee another Silver Star.

As he rode the plane back to Hawaii for a little rest and relaxation, he thought of Sgt. Parker. It was the letters he and Sgt. Parker had exchanged during his time in Vietnam that had kept him going. As the plane started its final approach, McGee looked out the window and chuckled aloud,

“Life is really a bitch sometime.”

Looking Back

It’s been 20 years now, but the weight remains on my shoulders and, if nothing else, it has increased with each passing year. I don’t know if there are others with similar stories and, frankly, I don’t care. This story belongs to me and I take full ownership. This is the story that haunts me to this day.

I knew Delores liked me and I liked her. With straight black hair and dark eyes, I thought she and I would become boyfriend and girlfriend and we did. It lasted as long as it could because I got a greetings letter from Uncle Sam letting me know I was to report for duty to serve in the United States Army. I knew then the relationship was done and I said so.

“It doesn’t have to be over,” Delores said. I’ll write you every day. I love you.”

“Sugar, these things just don’t work out. I’m not trying to be mean, but the chances of this continuing are almost none. I love you too, but I have to be real. Your life is just starting and mine may be taken away. Either way, I have to say goodbye.”

Saying goodbye was one of the hardest things, I had to do in my life. I remember her dark eyes looking at me in pain, but I couldn’t go back. As I walked away, I held back the tears that would later release themselves as anger in combat.

I thought of Delores often and just as she promised the letters came every day, but soon they began to trickle away until they stopped. When I got out of the Army and returned home, she was gone. Her family moved and of course, she went with them. I was hurt but pleased in that I didn’t have to dig up old emotions that held me captive for a year of my life.

I saw her about 15 years later at a café. She was sitting next to a man, which I assumed to be her boyfriend or husband because the way they laughed, held hands, hugged and smiled that secret smile that only lovers know. I didn’t acknowledge my presence. Instead, I Ieft quickly and before I could be seen or recognized.

Strange enough, five years later she and I were at the same business meeting. This time, she saw me before I saw her. I was standing talking to other attendees from my company when I felt a pair of arms around my chest from behind. I figured it was one of my friends from the office, but when I turned about, it was Delores.

“Where have you been all this time,” she asked with a smile.

I looked into those dark eyes and felt the same feeling I felt when we first started seeing each other.

“I’ve been on the road with this company almost from the day I got out of the Army,” I said.

“Why didn’t you call, she asked."

I thought long and hard before I answered. “Because I didn’t want to see you. I thought to see you would only make me hurt more. When the letters stopped coming, I knew we were done and I didn’t blame you for it and still don't. I just knew it that's what would happen.”

“I guess I knew it in a way too, I but I never stopped loving you,” she said. “I still love you.”

That caught me totally off guard. Of all the things, I expected her to say that was the last one. I had plenty of relationships since Delores, but I never married as all of my love affairs never seemed to work out.

“About five years ago, I saw you in Kansas City with a man at a café downtown. You looked as if he was special to you, so I decided to leave before you saw me," I said.

"You were really there," she asked. “Where? 

I described the cafe and immediately she recognized it from my description.

"When?”

"Like I said, it was about five years ago, but I don't know anything other than it was summer time. That's it," I said. I just remember seeing you and you looked so happy.”

“You should have come over and said hello,” she said.

“That would have been rude,” I said.

“I guess so,” she answered.

“Is that your husband,” I asked.

“Almost,” she said. He was my fiancé, but I found out he had outside interests.”

“So, he was a skirt chaser,” I said.

“In a way,” she said. “He chased men. I was nothing but a cover for his business.”

Well, Delores and I married and have three children, two boys and a girl. Family life agrees with me and I love Delores more than ever. She fills those gaps in my spirit that had been open for so many years. Now, that’s a happy ending, but there’s more to the story. As I mentioned earlier, a weight still sits on my shoulders and with good reason. Though I married Delores, I didn’t mention when we were boyfriend and girlfriend I was 21-years-old and she was 14. Having sexual relations with a 14-year-old girl still bothers me even though we wound up marrying.

When we started seeing each other I knew she already liked me and used that to my advantage to lure her into a sexual relationship. Even though it later turned to love, I have never let it slip from my moral memory and I don’t know if I ever will. Delores and I have spoken about it and she says she is just as much to blame as me, but what does a 14-year-old girl know about a grown man’s lusts? I can only say that Delores is the love of my life and I so glad to have her love.

Believe Half of What You See and None of What You Hear

“We got the bubble headed bleached blonde comes on at five, she can tell you 'bout the plane crash with a gleam in her eye. It's interesting when people die, give us dirty laundry.” Dirty Laundry—Don Henley

Recent reports of terrorism and stories of terrorism have been greatly exaggerated, but that has not stopped Americans from buying guns, forgetting religious freedom and buying into a media-fueled frenzy that has a terrorist hiding in every closet. However, the fear of terrorist attacks in the United States is largely a media and political construct. Media outlets repeat the same stories day after day and make mountains from molehills. Meanwhile, politicians use the disaster to advance their standing and help promote more fear. Is there any reason for fear? Absolutely!

However, the clear fact is the chances of dying in a terrorist attack are about 1 in 20 million. A person is more likely to be killed by his or her own furniture, and more likely to die in a car accident, drown in a bathtub, or in a building fire than from a terrorist attack. In fact, the chances of a person dying because of an asteroid strike are 1 in 200,000.”[1]

“Despite propaganda to the contrary, the odds of any given person being killed by a terrorist attack are incredibly low. While terrorist attacks, in the end, are a near certainty, the odds of “you” getting killed are very low. It’s like the lottery: someone wins every time (eventually), but chances are it won’t be you. Worrying about preventing a terrorist attack is a good idea, but (unless you work in a high-risk job) worrying specifically about dying in one is not. Incidentally, you have about the same odds as being killed on an amusement park ride.”[2]

Today, the media uses an “If it bleeds, it leads” philosophy, which is part of a fear based reporting that constantly keeps the viewer or reader worried or in suspense about the reality of the news reports. Staying tuned into the televised news or newspapers keeps consumers on edge and picks at the viewers anxiety about current events. Most people forget that newspapers, television and radio are for-profit enterprises, with the key word being “profit.” One way to maintain profits is to keep a large readership or viewing audience, which directly translates into advertising dollars and ratings continuing the cycle.

“Well, I coulda been an actor, but I wound up here. I just have to look good I don't have to be clear Come and whisper in my ear, give us dirty laundry” Dirty Laundry—Don Henley

Today's television news is geared to look to the spectacular, the stirring and the controversial as news stories. It's no longer a race to break the story first or even get the facts right. Fact checking comes in second to ratings. The race to be first and right are only Clark Kent and Jimmy Olson stories long ago swept into the fantasy trash can.

Even the annoying crawler across the bottom of the screen are designed to promote anxiety and raise viewership by increasing fear, which brings the subject of terrorism back to the forefront. Again, 1 in 200,000 people stands a chance being struck by an asteroid while persons expected to be killed in a terrorist attack is 1 in 20 million.

Then why the concern? Sadly, because of the nature of our political and media system, it is difficult to get any honesty in the news. Today, reporters are not the “muckrakers” of old where corruption and unfairness were exposed. Instead, the news works on a celebrity system, which is the same as having no news. Some media outlets are little more than propaganda machines for various political views, regardless of Party or their multinational owners. The United States’ political system is a collection of self-serving, rich and entitled men and women who bark at when their masters in big business or their lobbyist pull the leash.

The current posturing by politicians talking about banning “Muslims” from the country is premature and harmful for international relations, especially considering that of the more than 300 American deaths since 9/11 only 33 came at the hands Muslim perpetrators.

In addition, it dishonors the 14 people killed in the San Bernadino terrorist attack on December 2 of this year. Words are a poor comfort for the family of those killed that day, but their deaths is not a time for political haymaking and media speculation.

---

^[1] 2010 lifeinsurancequotes.org

^[2] Phil Plait, Death by meteorite, Discover Magazine, October 13, 2008, http://blogs.discovermagazine.com/badastronomy/2008/10/13/death-by-meteorite/#.Vm-MrkqDGkp