I was rather excited and anxious to tell my friend Max about my discovery. I was just back from a few days in Las Vegas during which I ran across the notorious fugitive, Ilsa of the SS.

Max sneered at me, dubiousness oozing from every pore , and growled, “Ilsa of the SS was the invention of a softcore porno movie maker. You couldn’t have run across her.”

“Oh yes,” I insisted. “The years had not been kind to her, but it was her. She was six feet tall, a build reminiscent of the late Bronco Nagurski, with generous breasts added of course, a haughty sneer, the attitude of merciless command, ice-blue eyes devoid of humanity and a predilection toward clicking her heels in the presence of a superior.”

“What was this refugee from justice doing when you discovered her?” Max asked, somewhat curious.

I answered, “She was dealing blackjack at the Mirage Casino.”

“Oh for crying out loud!” Max muttered.

“No, really,” I said. “I sat at that table for half an hour and she never uttered a word, never smiled nor displayed an iota of human emotion. I started calling her ‘Chuckles’ but even then, she wouldn’t react. Finally a lady came up to the table and started chewing on the poor clown on my left, wanting to know where he’d been and what in hell he’d been up to. Boy! Was she ticked. She called him everything but a Sunday school teacher. That was when Ilsa smiled for the first time.”

“I think you dreamed that, or you were bombed out of your gourd,” Max said.

“You don’t believe that could happen at a blackjack table?”

Max’s eyes narrowed as he thought a moment. “Well, I
suppose stranger things have happened. I ran into a strange thing at a blackjack table in Lovelock, Nevada one time.”

“Lovelock?” I asked. “Is there such a place?”

Max just gave me that strained tolerance look of his and told me this story:

“I was sitting in a rundown little wannabe casino just off US 80 at the edge of Lovelock, Nevada, a wide place between the Trinity and West Humboldt mountains. Don’t ask me what I was doing there; it doesn’t matter to the story anyway. I had to kill some time before a meeting so I was playing a few hands of single deck blackjack, minimum bet two dollars. A pleasingly plump young lady who looked as if she might be of Zuni extraction was the combination cocktail waitress and bouncer. She brought me a bottle of the local beer, which tasted as if it had just been voided by a puma, and I had played a few hands when this strange little fellow walks in. He was about twenty-two or three, five nine, kind of innocent looking, blond, dressed in jeans and a red flannel shirt. He hesitated at the door for a moment then headed in the direction of my table. When he walked up I saw he was carrying a fancy brass urn that looked an awful lot like a container for cremated remains. He put the urn in the seat next to me, took the seat on the other side, and pulled out some money to exchange for chips.

“He looked at me with innocent blue eyes, smiled real big and stuck out his hand. ‘Boyd Singleberry,’ he said.

“I told him my name and he turned to the dealer, who is the only other person at the table, introduced himself then said, ‘Beautiful day, ain’t it?’

“The dealer looked at him, raises one eyebrow, nodded at the urn and asked, ‘Who’s your friend?’

"Boyd Singleberry smiled like he’s about to bust. ‘That’s my mom. I’m taking her on a little pleasure trip.’

“The dealer didn’t even change expression. He states, ‘If she’s going to sit there, she’s got to play a hand.'"

“’Oh, why sure!’ Boyd said and placed a two-dollar bet on the space in front of his mom, er, the urn.
“The dealer was about to deal but the stops and says, ‘One more house rule. If we get crowded and someone wants that seat, your mom will have to give it up.’
“’Oh?’ Boyd said with a frown.

“’Yeah,’ the dealer answered in a monotone without so much as a changed expression. ‘House rules, live people take precedence over dead people at an open table.’

“’Oh, I get you,’ Boyd said, smiling real big. He looks around the room and seeing no one but the cocktail waitress, grinned again and said, ‘Fair enough.’

“The Zuni girl came over and asked Boyd what he’ll have. Boyd told her his name and asked for a beer. He pointed at the urn and says, ‘This is Momma, she don’t drink.’

“The cocktail waitress looked at the urn then back at Boyd who was grinning. She looked back at the urn, shrugged and said, ‘Hi Boyd’s momma.’ Then she left to get the beer.

“The dealer dealt the cards and we played a few hands. Boyd sipped his beer and began to play his cards like a wild man. He was totally unconventional. He’s playing two hands, his own and his mom’s. He hits a sixteen when the dealer has a three showing and draws a five. He has two face cards for twenty, splits ‘em and makes twenty-one on both. His mom blackjacks on the third hand and he turns to the urn and says, ‘Now see there, Momma. You’re gambling and winning and it didn’t hurt a bit did it?’

“’I must have looked a little funny because he leaned over and explained, ‘My mom always hated gambling. Said it was the devil’s game. She hated drinking liquor too, said it was the devil’s brew. So I’m taking her out drinking and gambling.’"

“The dealer just raises that eyebrow of his and shuffles the cards.

“‘Showing your mom what she missed?’ I asked.

“’Damn tootin,’ Boyd replied. ‘She never would let me do jack. Hell, she even bitched about the girls I tried to date. If I got to likin’ one, she’d call her up on the phone and scare her off, tell her I was born with a tic that made me twitch and foam at the mouth when I got excited, stuff like that. She wanted me to date them flat-chested gals down at the church that wore glasses and needed to have their adenoids out. Well sir, I fixed her.’

“The dealer stopped shuffling and listened to Boyd.

“My curiosity piqued, I asked, ‘How did you fix her?’

“’I got me a hundred-dollar whore down at Tonopah last night, paid her an extra fifty to give me an around-the-world. When she made it around the world and got down to the grand climax of the tour, I yelled, ‘Momma, look what this bad gal is doing to me now. Wahoo!’ That whore raised up and said, ‘Who the hell are you talkin’ to?’ I pointed at the urn up on top of the TV and said, 'I’se talkin’ to Momma.'

“’That whore says, 'You are one strange son-of-a-bitch!'

“I said, 'I ain’t paying you to talk dirty, girl! Now get back to work, girl. Earn that extra fifty! Well, she did and I whooped and hollered till the motel manager came down and rapped on the door and told me to shut the hell up ‘cause I was scaring the rest of his customers. I did cause I’se about wore out anyway."

“The dealer shook his head and said, ‘Hell’s kitchen, fellow. I can sure understand why you’d scare people.’”

“’When did your momma die?’ I asked.
“’Week before last,’ Boyd answered, grinning again. ‘I got all the business took care of, got Momma put in that urn and we hit the road. I’m doing all the things she used to bitch about.’

“I started to get the drift. ‘Where’s your Pa?’

‘Oh hell, he’s been dead a long time,’ Boyd replied. He looked serious for a moment then said, ‘Got hisself shot in a poker game when I was a little tad. He’s buried up to Tuscarota. That’s where I’m taking Momma.’

“’You’re going to put her ashes over his grave, huh? That’s a nice gesture,’

“‘A nice gesture?’ Boyd cackled. ‘It sure is. Momma hated my Pa somethin’ terrible. Said he warn’t worth a dog turd on his best day. She cussed his memory every day of her life right up until the time she gurgled a couple times and died.’

“’Why are you taking her up to Tuscarota, then,’ I asked, a little nonplussed.

“‘Why I’se goin’ to dig a hole in the top of Pa’s grave and pour Momma’s ashes into it. Because it’s so dry up there, I figure she’ll seep down real slow all around Pa’s corpse, bitchin’ every inch of the way. I’ll have both of ‘em right there in Tuscarota then I’ll head for Las Vegas and get me a job and I won’t be able to hear that bitchin’ and moaning ever again. But my old man, who never did shit for me, will have to listen to it till God hisself gets tired of it and blows this planet all to hell.’

“Glancing at my watch, I told the dealer to cash me out. To Boyd, I said, ‘Enjoyed meeting you, son. Hell of a story!’

“Boyd cashed out as well, picked up his momma and said he'd walk out with me. As it happened he was parked next to me.

“I said, ‘Good luck to you, Boyd. I hope you get all your ghosts exorcised.’

“Does exorcised mean thrown out?” he asked.

“It does; exactly that,” I answered.

“The boy looked at me kind of funny for a moment without replying. To my surprise, tears welled up in his eyes and he said, ‘I hadn’t thought about it, but I reckon that’s what I’m doin,’ ain’t it?’ He wiped at his eyes with his cuff, smiled real big again and said, ‘I just didn’t know what to call it.’

“I said, ‘Good luck in Vegas, Boyd. And good luck with the rest of your life.’

“‘Thanks, mister,’ he answered. Then, with a dreamy edge to his voice, he said to no one in particular, ‘Gosh, the rest of my life!’

“He climbed into his old faded red pickup, belted his mom into the passenger seat, cranked the engine, waived and headed northeast.”
Max poured himself another cup of coffee and said, “That’s the end of that story.”

Max stopped talking and sipped his beer. Neither of us spoke for a while. Finally I said, “Your story was better’n mine, Max.”

He just nodded.

In 1993, the supreme religious authority of Saudi Arabia , Sheik Abdel-Aziz Ibn Baaz, issued a fatwah declaring the Earth is flat. The fatwah declared anyone who believes that the Earth is round does not believe in God and should be punished.

Carl Sagan
The Demon-Haunted World
1996

Max came in the back door, grabbed a Shiner Bock out of my fridge and plopped down on my sofa. Taking a big swig, he asked, “D’ja hear about Obama wanting NASA to do some good will spreading for him.”

I hit “save” and turned around. “Wanted NASA to do something for him after he trashed their budget? What’s the punch line?”

“No punch line,” Max said, smiling. “I’m serious as ebola, man. He wants the head of NASA to make nice-nice with the Muslim world and encourage them in their technical achievements.”

I wasn’t sure of what I’d just heard and it must have shown on my face. Max chuckled and said, “You heard me, he wants NASA to help the Muslims develop modern technology.”

“The last time the Muslims made a technical advance,” I said, “they started using AK-47s to slaughter the infidel instead of scimitars. What in hell does he mean, their technology? They don’t have any technology! The Saudis have to bring in Asians, Americans and Brits to do their technology. They can’t even keep the lights on without outside help. Is this a colossal joke?”

“It may be a joke on the NASA people who are losing their jobs, to provide a chuckle to cheer them up, perhaps,” Max said sarcastically. “After all, they wo't be doing anything else so the ones that are left will have time on their hands.”

“What a colossal insult to our space people!” I muttered. “I wonder if this speech made something run down Chris Matthews’ leg.”

“I think that was a thrill running up his leg,” Max said.

“Oh. Well, in any case, that’s easier to clean up,” I observed.

We were having a cup in Max’s den when he asked me if I had read the book that Obama’s science czar had helped write.

“John Holdren you’re talking about? What book is that, Max?”

“Human Ecology Problems and Solutions is the title,” he replied. “He wrote it with two other eggheads, Paul and Anne Ehrlich.”

“No, I haven’t had the pleasure of reading something that sounds so terribly exciting,” I said with a hint of sarcasm. Then remembering where I had heard the name Ehrlich, I said, “Is that the Ehrlich guy that said hundreds of millions of people would starve to death in the 70s and 80s?”

Max grinned and nodded. “A true and dedicated Malthusian,” he said. “He started off in life as a lepidopterist and later wrote The Population Bomb.”

“Oh, God yes!” I exclaimed, “Population control! The Earth can’t support all of us! Now I remember! So what you’re saying is that Obama’s science czar is a co-conspirator with those idiots?” I laughed.

“He has been questioned rather closely by members of congress on his beliefs about forced population control and involuntary sterilization,” Max said soberly.

“I guess so!” I snorted. “What did he say about those things?”

“He carefully distanced himself from the involuntary population control that he and his buddies talked about a few years ago. He said a government didn’t have any business in population control.”

“Didn’t have much choice I suppose or he would have come off like Joseph Mengele or another one of Hitler’s master race,” I sneered.

“But he can’t distance himself from his basic collectivist mentality,” Max said, pulling a book from a shelf. “This is his human ecology problems book he wrote with the Ehrlichs.” He opned the book to a marked page and started reading:

“A massive campaign must be launched to restore a high-quality environment in North America and to de-develop the United States . De-development means bringing our economic system (especially patterns of consumption) into line with the realities of ecology and the global resource situation. Resources and energy must be diverted from frivolous and wasteful uses in overdeveloped countries to filling the genuine needs of underdeveloped countries."

“The need for de-development presents our economists with a major challenge. They must design a stable, low-consumption economy in which there is a much more equitable distribution of wealth than the present one. Redistribution of wealth both within and among nations is absolutely essential, if a decent life is to be provided for every human being.”

“Quelle surprise!” I exclaimed. “The same old tired egalitarian baloney about redistribution of wealth. You know, they really believe in that stuff, that it’s going to solve the world’s problems.”

Max chuckled. “And after we rob the rich to give to the poor, our tax money ends up in a black dictator’s Swiss bank account and the poor people keep on starving. These clowns like the Erlichs and the Holdrens are all stuck in the same rut. They never suggest solutions for rescuing these poor people from the despots that keep them poor. They never talk about educating the poor wretches in modern agricultural techniques. They don’t talk about re-engineering food crops to be genetically resistant to the insects and fungi in those unfortunate lands. All they can talk about is the same old thing that doesn’t work and never will work, “take from the rich and give to the poor,” and when that’s used up, everyone goes back to being just as hungry as they were to begin with.”

“Max,” I said, “the biggest laugh in the whole thing is the line about the economists with a major challenge, designing a low-consumption economy. Do those poor stupid, academics really think that economists can design an economy in the first place? If we did leave it up to those yahoos, we’d all starve to death.”

Max shook his head and said, “It speaks poorly for our establishments of higher learning, doesn’t it? Those people have big degrees from big schools and get big awards and they still have no earthly idea of how anything really works.”

“You mean to tell me that studying butterflies doesn’t teach you how human effort and personal ambition builds economies and creates wealth?” I asked in mock horror.

“They sure as hell haven’t up to now,” he replied.

In the light of the tempest raised over the Israelis operating a naval blockade to keep munitions out of Gaza, I thought the following would be enlightening. It's a very brief study in cultural contrasts.

In 2005, the Israelis decided to unilaterally pull their presence out of Gaza and to turn control for its administration over to the Palestinians. It presented an opportunity for the Palestinians to show the Israelis and the world that they could govern themselves and pave a path for prosperity and peace for their people. The world knows the story of what happened after that withdrawal, but I want to tell you two stories associated with that withdrawal, a contrast between two cultures that speaks volumes about the choice the world must make.

As preparations for withdrawal went on, there were questions about the 3,000 greenhouses that Israelis had built and were operating in Gaza . They had all been built on barren empty land by the Jews who where living in Gaza and making use of formerly unused land. They sold fruit, vegetables and flowers to a ready European market where their products were enjoyed but also reached as far as Russia where the out-of-season flowers brightened that dark corner. The producers turned out their products year-round and the owners prospered.

But what was to be done with the greenhouses in the withdrawal. They were state-of-the-art agricultural marvels with their own sophisticated temperature and humidity control systems, they turned out millions of dollars worth of produce yearly. And importantly, the greenhouses employed 12,000 Palestinians in a land where unemployment was 40%.

Should these marvelous structures be destroyed? Moved? Abandoned?

And then a wonderful and heartwarming solution was found. A small group of wealthy American Jews decided to buy the greenhouses from Israel and donate them to the Palestinian Authority.

One of the donors was former World Bank president James Wolfensohn who put up $500,000 of his own money. All in all, $14 million was collected, the deal was done and appreciative Palestinian spokesmen announced that the greenhouses would become the cornerstone of the future Palestinian economy.

But in a culture of blame, problems never seem to get solved because they are always someone else's fault.

Just an hour or so after the Jews left Gaza , thousands of Palestinians swarmed into the empty settlements. The Palestinian police watched the mob demolish the abandoned synagogues and set them on fire. They also watched with interest as part of the crowd turned on the greenhouses – breaking windows, taking plates of glass, wiring, computer and electronic parts and irrigation pipes and timers. It didn't take long -- after a few hours or so the greenhouses that had taken years to build, produced millions of dollars worth of fruit, vegetables and flowers, were just so much junk, never to be rebuilt.

The Palestinians will not export flowers to Holland or fruit to France . The Palestinian economy, such as it is, will continue to be mired in corruption, hatred and violence. They will suffer but they'll never admit that it was their own fault. anyway, soon the Palestinians were embroiled in a civil war, killing each other, until the terrorist group Hamas gained the upper hand in Gaza . Next on the agenda was smuggling in arms and shooting missiles into Israel .

Meanwhile, as result of the Israeli political decision to withdraw from Gaza , 8,500 Israelis that were living there were evicted from their homes and forced to move and build new lives elsewhere. A group of these families picked up and moved several miles inland into a barren patch of arid desert along the Gaza/Egyptian border. They used the funds the Israeli government paid them as compensation for their property to invest and build a new agricultural community in the middle of nowhere. They named it Halutza, Hebrew for “pioneer.”

There are now 180 families living in Halutza . They pipe in desalinated water from the Mediterranean coast, fertilize the sand, and grow produce. Today, five years after being evacuated from Gaza , they are exporting $50 million dollars a year worth of organic potatoes, carrots, and peppers from their new community.

But what of the Palestinians who keep saying that all their problems will be solved if Israel is wiped from the Earth. My friends, we are witnesses to a tragic and historical result of national leadership perpetuating a culture of blame, entitlement, and hate, a treadmill to nowhere. It is small wonder that Pervez Musharraf, tenth President of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, once said:

“The ummah (the Moslem world) is the poorest, the most illiterate, the most backward, the most unhealthy, the most unenlightened, and the most deprived and weakest of all the human race.”

Is there hope for peace in the Middle East while Israel exists? Perhaps. Back in 1957, Golda Mier, who was to become prime minister of Israel, spoke at the National Press Club in Washington . She said, prophetically, "Peace will come when the Arabs will love their children more than they hate us."

Muslims of the world, we are still waiting.

I walked into Max’s place and yelled, “Is anyone home?”

“Not just anyone!” came the shouted reply. “The one and only Max Gross is home! Who in hell did you expect, Lawrence Welk?”

“Sorry, forgot where I was,” I murmured apologetically.

Max walked into the kitchen as I was pouring a cup of coffee. “The people in Seattle are my kind of people,” he said, apropos of nothing.

“Why is that, Max?”

The newly elected mayor of Seattle, Mike McGinn, decided he wanted to hear from the people what they wanted from the city so he set up a website for them to make suggestions.”

“And?”

Smiling, Max said, “The most popular requests were for better mass transit, legalized marijuana and nude beaches.”

“Wow,” I exclaimed. “Those folks are on the leading edge of tomorrow, aren’t they?”

“Verily,” Max replied. “There must be something about living on that Pacific coast that make people shake off the shackles of moldy tradition.”

“And send loony women to Congress,” I added.

“You bias against the left coast is showing,” he growled.

“Everyone must have a position, Max. Mine is securely in place.”

“By the way,” he said, drawing a cup for himself and gesturing toward the den, “Speaking of loonies, Sestak must be a leading contender for slip-of-the-lip man of the year.”

“Over the story of the attempted bribe?” I asked.

“Indeed,” Max replied, settling into his favorite chair. “And since the administration had sent Clinton to make the deal, he provided the cover story.”

“He didn’t succeed in the deal but I assume the cover story was clever enough to allow Obama to dodge the federal statutes against bribery for a quid pro quo.”

“Absolutely. They released a carefully crafted document that said Bill Clinton was sent to talk Sestak out of running in the primary against Arlen Specter and give up a shot at a senator’s slot in return for a cushy unpaid seat on a presidential advisory board.”

“Of course, Clinton says it’s all true?” I asked.

“But of course!” Max replied, “and the same number of people believed him that believed it when he said, ‘I did not have sex with that woman.’”

“That makes no difference,” I observed. “In the absence of a tape recording or eye witness, I don’t think the Republicans can inflate the thing into an impeachable offense. Once again, Slick Willie saves the day.”

“But the odor of the thing lingers,” Max said, shaking his head. “They didn’t need another black eye right now.”

I said cheerily, “But Obama promised to change Washington ’s culture. And it appears he’s succeeded.”

“You talking about the pronounced Chicago tilt?” Max asked, raising an eyebrow.

“What else?” I answered.

Max laughed and changed the subject. “How about a shot of brandy in that coffee?”

“That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day, Max,” I replied.