I submit that we abolish the IRS and go with a 10% national sales tax. If you tithe to GOD, he asks only 10% of your money. And he's GOD!!! What the %$^& did the Federal Government ever do to deserve 40% of my money?

Well, the wind keeps a-blowin' me
Up and down the street
With my hat in my hand
And my boots on my feet
Watch out so you don't step on me

- Bob Dylan, Bob Dylan's Blues

This kind of twisted legal logic is destroying our country. Two thugs STEAL a gun, go on a murderous rampage with it, and somehow THEY aren't responsible for what happened. The gunmaker and the store from which then gun was stolen ARE. Yeah, I can see the sense in that... as long as I keep my head firmly implanted as far up my ass as I can poke it.

St. Martin de Porres, a man of mixed blood and culture, is a most appropriate patron of the Dominican house of Kisumu, Kenya. Actually situated in Swahili Village in an area called Mkendwa, the Dominicans live amidst Muslim descendants of the East Africans who built the railroad from Mombasa to Kampala, Uganda. It is not uncommon to be praying the Divine Office or to be celebrating Mass, while the local mosque is calling the local Muslim community to prayer and chanting verses from the Koran. The Swahili people mix with the largely Christian members of the Luo, Luhya, Turkana, and Kalinjin tribes in their daily activities. The scene is a generally peaceful one; but there are some underlying cultural and religious tensions grounded in history.

20040923 Thursday 16:23

Wazungu Warriors Reporting In
From the Indian Ocean to Lake Victoria

Since our last email episode we have traveled from the magnificent shores of the Indian Ocean, where our Oscari (bodyguards) carried poison-tipped arrows, we treaded on ancient coral reefs, and explored Fort Jesus, learning about its 500 years of bloody history. The stones over which we passed have been marked with the blood of countless Christians and Muslims as they fought the same fight we fight today. [http://www.museums.or.ke/regftjes.html]

Fort Jesus controls the Indian Ocean, and looks out over Mombasa, which is the gateway to East Africa. Our Muslim guide took us through the streets of Mombasa, which is almost entirely Muslim. As we walked in the shadow of the mosque, he warned that we would do well to leave this hostile area before dark. Above every doorway was written a passage from the Qu'ran that said "Verily we have come, and clearly shown great victory." It was eye-opening, and luckily our mortar-dodging skills had been honed, and we kept safe.

From Mombasa we traveled back across Kenya to Nairobi, or Nairobbery as it is sometimes called. Our tour guides for the Safari that we were about to embark on, two more Kenyan scouts, were waiting for us in a large vehicle. We had brought adequate supplies of Tusker from Mombasa, and thus were entertained (and were entertaining) on our ride out that night.

Soon we were driving down the Eastern wall of the Rift Valley. The Italian road, constructed by Italian POW's that the British had put to work in their then-protectorate of Kenya during World War II winds its way to the valley floor. A Catholic church, which we stopped and visited, stands alongside the road, calling out to the pagan Maasai that live and work on the valley floor.

For the next several days we were riding through the vast plains of the Maasai Mara and the Serengeti, within Tanzania. We got as close as humanely possible to four male lions in the wild: about twelve feet. They only ate one of us. (Sorry, Mr. Mcglaughlin.)

We also saw several prides of lions, the females and cubs and young males. We observed cheetahs in the heat of...nevermind. We saw male and female cheetahs.

We also saw the game animals. We drove through the wildebeest migration, where there were an estimated 2.5 million wildebeest. We also saw Topi (big gazelle), huge buffalo, Thompson gazelles, thousands upon thousands of Zebras -- so many that we got bored with them, herds of elephants, giraffes, hippos, crocodiles, ostriches, hyenas, warthogs, gnu's -- you name it, we saw it, except for rhinos (of which there are only twenty left in the Mara because of poaching), and leopards, which don't like to be seen.

After our safari adventures, we drove back to Nairobi. After one more night in our mansion on the hill, the Highpoint Hotel, we flew to our new home with the Dominican fathers in Swahili Village, above the city of Kisumu, just West of the Nandi hills, on the banks of that famous expanse of water, the world's second largest inland body of water, Lake Victoria: the source of the Nile.

God Bless,
Don & Hud

...Fr. Martin's extremely busy, as you can imagine. Gareth and I have been living with the Dominicans for the last week and working with him and for him, as well as doing our own projects. I've been working using my computer skills doing stuff, and Gareth has been working on Catholic Apologetics. Eventually we hope to be giving talks in the schools and youth groups around here.

Africa is so different from anything else that it is hard to explain. There is so much to be done that you can pretty much do anything that you want... Gareth and I have been helping an old lady to retrain her legs to be able to walk, as well as bathing and cleaning a whole ton of kids and such, treating their various ailments as best we can. We walk over pretty much every day, and every day the number of kids double. Everyone calls us "Doktari" which means doctor in Luo, (most of the people in the Kisumu region are Luo, who don't speak Swahili; the Dominicans actually live in what's called Swahili villiage, which is mostly- Swahili-speaking Muslims), and we have all kinds of patients that come to us. It's really pretty crazy, cause we don't know much aboutwhat's wrong, but we do our best. And every little bit we do is way more than they would ever get without us, so we take some comfort in that.

I can answer a few of the questions that you have for Fr. Martin. Kisumu is an easy 10 or 15 minutes down the road from the Dominican's house. They have cars going down into town all the time, and it is generally easy to arrange a ride in. Sometimes all the cars are taken, but it is an easy few minutes walk down to Mwimbi Moja, the Mutatu stop, and it is only 30 or so shillings to get down into town. We are actually down in town right now; the girls came back from Nybondo for the weekend, and we all went down to Kisumu and ate Chinese for lunch, in between hospital visits. A girl we've been working with is going in
for appendix and kidney surgery this afternoon, so please keep her in your prayers.

People are continually coming to the Dominican's doors looking for assitance and medical treatment. While they try to help as best they can, they cannot help everyone. That is a theme of the African Experience... You have to pick your battles, because you cannot help everyone. You can walk five minutes away from the Dominicans and be "in the bush." Gareth and I walk every morning somewhat "into the bush."

As far as working goes, there is so much need that you can work pretty much anywhere you want. G and I have been living with the Dominicans, and attending most of their prayer hours and mass and whatnot (they do all the hours), and participating in their lifestyle. We have been concerned about imposing on them, but we are working for them directly (I am helping with their various computers) and we are plannign to make a donation to help comver the enormous amount of food that we have been eating. Africa makes you hungry. Two nights ago I had three helpings at dinner. (G and I have been working out every day, as well).

Basically, as far as I understand you can be as close to the Dominicans as you want. They have facilities which they use fairly often that house up to 11 guests. Gareth and I just moved from our little cell into the main guest house (which used to be the main Dominican house once upon a time) because of various guests that were coming to stay. It worked out conveniently, because the girls came back this weekend to visit, and there are five beds in the house.

Ambulances are unheard of in this country. Medical supplies are always in short supply, and people routinely die here from things that can be fixed over the counter in America. Malnutrition and extreme dehydration are present in the vast majority of the people, especially those who live in the bush. These conditions compound the problems caused by various diseases, and the combination of them and Malaria is the biggest killer, with AIDS a close second. Westerners living healthiliy and staying hydrated do notneed to fear malaria so much, and so far our medication has worked to prevent any of us from getting it. Fr. Martin has had it twice in his four years here (he stopped taking medication), but it always ahs been a mild form (walking malaria)...

If you want to get in touch with us, you can text us at
Don's mobile: xxxxxxxxx
Or call internationally to our
local cell phone: xxxxxxxxxx
the country code for Kenya is +254, which you will need. Call an operator to ask how to place an international call. You may need to remove the leading 0 from before 720.

Please forward this email to anyone we left out (especially you, Sean DiNiCola). Thanks.

Jambo sana!

This is the first broadcast from the Wazungu Warriors [which means bad-assed white warriors], a title we have self-applied. Since we are pressed for time, we are just going to give you an somewhat comic outline here...

We were met by our two Kenyan scouts, Josephine and Antony, who know the land and the people, and are lethal to the touch.

This morning we all woke up to the sound of the Indian Ocean's breakers smashing against the coral reef. We are in beautiful Mombasa, on the far south-eastern side of Kenya. Yesterday we drove across most of Kenya, from Nairobi to Mombasa.

To tell the tale lightly, we have been driving like fiends over most of eastern Kenya. Driving here is "like playing high-speed chicken for hours" (quoting Jackie). Instead of speed bumps, there are speed mountains. Instead of curbs there are cliffs. Instead of potholes, there are caves or canyons or oceans. All of these are lethal: they could end your life. Jagged, decayed concrete lines the edges of the road, which seldom has comfortable space for the immense number of cars which travel at breakneck speeds in both directions.

The day after arriving we met with Stan, who was our personal Masai warrior. He took us to his tribe's traditional land, the Ngong Hills, his home.

Steve, Josephine's brother, showed us her family's homestead, which covered 10 acres, which was located outside a small African village. We were the first car this year to travel along the road, and the kids were amazed to see us whities [Mzungu]. He pointed out which leaves and trees to use to cure wounds, and other illnesses.

[ok, we're in a hurry now... people want to kill us... We are risking our lives to send you this email.]

We have travelled through the markets of Nairobi, which are nuts.

Our palace in Mombasa is guarded by bodyguards, who follow us around. Since guns are restricted, they carry arrows poison with Ouaban tree poison, which kills instantly upon contact.

[Let's go Let's go]

Our scout has warned us to move on.

Further bulletins as events warrant.

Their were guards at Antony's family's house, were we went to dinner. They were Masai, and we did not see or hear them. However, if we had been thieves, we would not be writing this email.

Hudson is running for the car. A mortar just took out the electricity, but we have 4 minutes of battery backup. It looks like the machine guns will lull us to sleep tonight again.

Gareth and Don, out. God Bless. We are praying for you.

I was born with a ragin’ thirst
A hunger to be free

Kerry operates with a finger in the wind. He HAS no convictions. Like Bill Clinton, he could stick a dog turd in his mouth and grin while he ate it as long as the cameras were rolling, catching that smile. George Bush would say, "That's a dog turd. I ain't gonna eat THAT!" and he wouldn't. That's the difference I see between those two men.

The sky is lightening --

The cowboy singing to himself,

A woman cries, a lover dies;

The dude abides.

I'm living in heaven / I'm floating in a fairy tale.

JUST ACCEPT IT: SOMEDAYS YOU
ARE THE PIGEON, AND
SOMDAYS YOU ARE THE STATUE.

Amy woke with a start. Immediately her hand went to her belly, reassuring herself that her babies were safe.
As always, when she was sleeping alone she was vigilant, and a bit nervous. She collected herself for a
minute, analyzing the last minute. A car had pulled up outside, slamming into something, causing a racket.
The garbage can. She raised herself on one elbow, checked the clock that sat on the cluttered nightstand.
1:15 am. Mark wasn't supposed to be home till the afternoon. She panicked, and was out of bed in a flash.

She grabbed the mag lite from the floor, the glock from the drawer -- checked the chamber -- grabbed a leather
jacket from behind the door and threw it over the wife-beater she was wearing. Her heart pounded in her
throat. Her gut told her something was very wrong.

As she passed the window she saw headlights of a car shining in, and she could see in their glimmer liquid
spraying in the air. The car was facing the house, half ways up on the curb, high beams shining askew. It was
Mark's car.

She rushed outside.

***

As she dashed across the lawn she heard the phone ringing inside, the emergency line. She ignored it.

Smoke was coming from the hood of the squad car, and bullet holes and score marks lined the side and hood of
the car. Half the front windshield was spidered, half was missing. She could she Mark inside, his head
lolling to one side.

She stifled a scream, and pulled at the passenger door. The handle came off in her hands, and, losing
control, she tore the rest of the door off the car and dove inside.

Mark's hair was matted with blood, his badge was missing. He was wearing his seat belt, but it, too, was
covered in blood.

She gently held his head; brushed the blood out of his face with the palm of her hand. His eyes flicked open
and shut. She carefully undid his seat belt, and pulled open his jacket. She gasped. She saw burn marks,
bullet wounds, and blood. Bits of bone protruded from his chest. His shirt was wet with blood. His body began
to quiver, and his arm moved, jerkily.

As the tears streamed down her face, she held him close. His body shook again and then was still.


***


"It's okay," she whispered, between sobs. "I'm here, Mark. I love you."

"We're here," she sobbed again, indicating her swollen belly. "We love you."


***


She was still holding him when the screaming of the sirens ceased, and turned into doors opening and
slamming.

"Mark was pronounced dead at the scene," she heard some say. "They shot him eight times..."

"He was doing his duty, he died in the line of service..."

"Mrs. T, come this way, please."

She looked helplessly, dumbly, at the hands moving toward her.

She kissed his forehead, and surrendered to the darkness.


***

Well the Swiftboat guys have another take on this. We got the Doc who treated Kerry’s first Purple Heart. He fired a grenade launcher at some rocks that were too close, caught a piece of shrapnel in his arm… left it there till the next day when the doc pulled it out with tweezers and put a Band-Aid on the boo-boo. The next one was him tossing a concussion grenade into a basket of rice and got an ass full of rice. Nice. His third one was a bruise. In no instance was there any enemy fire. He got a bruise when he stumbled on the deck of his boat, and told the boat to take him to the LST so he could get medical treatment. The only enemy Kerry had to fight was John F’ing Kerry! I just wish he tried harder!

LD: Hello mumble-mumble, blah, blah?

Me: Yes? I'd like to make an appointment.

LD: I'm sorry, the office is closed. It's closed for lunch until two o'clock.

Me: Oh. Thank you.

LD: 'bye.

CLICK

blink.

blink.

Me [to myself]: If the office is closed, how come you ansered the phone?

Somewhere a blues guitar
Plays echoes in the alleyway
The Tijuana dawn
Claims another day
The golden sun
Rises on the runway
The pilot understands