Rambling, Incoherent Thoughts

The markets are beginning to gyrate again, with the S&P falling back to 2750 today, but the naysayers who are out in full force tends to have me believe the "Big One", that is crash mind you, is not quite here yet. Tech is holding up nicely, and while the DOW is looking anemic, we've made it to the Solstice without the usual "sell in May and go away" tendencies of the past, so methinks the market is okay for now. It should continue to churn around a bit though, and the volatility should keep things interesting. Many financial pundits are warning that the Fed's continued rate cuts and dollar's strength will bring a bloodbath to equity prices, and phony trade wars aren't helping either. It remains to be seen if the Fed will deviate from its long trend of telegraphing its moves well ahead of time, and actually morph into "the Fed has got your back!", ala Jim Cramer.

The NSA is moving data into a top-secret "cloud" while cloud security is still up in the air due to design flaws in modern chips running the hypervisors. Call it tech insanity if you will, as single points of failure abound in many companies infrastructure today, and to have Uncle Sam be on the same teetering bandwagon is hardly reassuring. While investors are getting defensive, and buying stocks that better weather a storm and moving cash into treasuries, the question now becomes what happens when online banking and ATMs go belly up, for even a short period of time? I can't shake the feeling that a "bank holiday" of some sort may be in our future here in the States, and we'll be "Cyprus-ed" into having some serious wealth trimmed from our holdings afterwards.

In other news, the employment landscape continues to change, with mobile workers in corporate camps replace traditional housing in places like Silicon Valley. Seattle should soon follow, and based on the homeless populations and mild climates, the West Coast should maintain its home of young tech companies for the foreseeable future. The political landscape is consumed with the stories about illegal migrants being separated from their children, but it doesn't seem to get mentioned that often it's because a parent is tossed in jail, and that these policies have been around for well over a decade. Trump responded this week with a couple of executive orders to "fix" things, but time will tell how effective the repairs will be. The Supreme Court has ruled online shoppers should pay taxes on purchases, and along with their recent ruling on sports betting just confirms my view that the .GOV's thirst for "revenue", err taxes, is getting worse.

The environmental news is a bit scary, as drinking water studies across the country indicate that many are contaminated with man-made substances, and some of the these are quite hazardous to your health - and at lower does than current EPA regulations. Seafood consumption is tied to more frequent sex, but that trend goes away as seafood becomes more scarce. The NYC subway system is crumbling, and you don't have to look very hard to find numerous examples ANYWHERE that the infrastructure maintenance in this country is well behind schedule. Just part of the Decline. Most disturbing is the news from Russia where the FIFA World Cup fans are drinking up all the beer. Egads! A world without beer is sad, indeed.

Scene # 2.3, draft # 1
*****************

It was cold the next morning. Benson didn't have enough time to have breakfast or even make coffee or tea, but he was so keyed up it didn't matter. He hurried out the door, and made his way down the dark streets, the four block walk to the bus stop over wet pavement. He waited five minutes for the bus, which was running on schedule, and not crowded. Boarding it numbly, Benson sat down near the middle door, putting his suitcase out of the aisle, and maintaining a firm grip on his backpack, cradled it in his lap like a mother holding a child.

Downtown near the transfer square, he caught a trolley to the train station. It was depressing for Benson, always, as he entered the old Union Station, now officially called Portland West District Main Junction. He recalled the days of the shiny marble, bustling crowds, the echoes of movement like in a cathedral, masses in motion, and the clean and friendly facility. Now it was dark, quiet, crumbling and bleak, the central waiting area long ago carved up into sections for military and commercial use, the wood and plastic dividers muffling the noise. Mold and cobwebs were in the corners. Boxes of junk and broken chairs littered the narrow aisle that passengers traveling by rail were funneled through, where their identification papers and travel vouchers were checked. The tile floor was chipped and filthy, but not so hard that numerous vagrants weren't using it to catch some sleep, out of the rain.

Benson made his way through the security check rather easily, his government credentials being good for at least that one perk. Considering what was in his luggage, that was a nice perk indeed. He made his way to the last of four passenger cars, which contained the passenger compartments at higher class levels. He peered down the tracks, where about two dozen freight and tanker cars and a diesel engine in the distance comprised the rest of the train. He managed to find his way to the second class seat, where he was pleased to see that he was sharing the compartment with only one other person. He stored his suitcase, his backpack, and his jacket and hat in a small closet and then sat down on the bench seat on his side.

He nodded at the other man, who was middle-aged and somewhat younger than Benson. “Good morning.”

The other man nodded curtly and replied, “Good morning.” He opened his newspaper, covering his face, discouraging further conversation.

Benson smiled to himself. These days, you never know who might be sitting or standing next to you, so was always a prudent and preferred path to pretty much say nothing to anyone. He sat quietly, looking out the window of the train, waiting for it to depart in the darkness and mist, and the first gray light of dawn. He held a book in his hand, a government regulation on raising chickens, unopened.

Within a few minutes and with a sharp jerk, followed by a smoothly accelerating clickety-clack, the train got underway. Benson knew that the main route was going to be cars that were pulled by a diesel electric engine, and relatively quick and smooth. After Spokane, however, the local line further north would change to a rickety steam locomotive, using wood for fuel. The tracks would be maintained at a lower standard, and the going slower.

An hour later the train passed through Hood River, briefly stopping for passengers, and the continued traveling along the south side of the Columbia River. The landscape was changing quickly now, from the green Willamette Valley and tall firs to the drier scrub of the lee side of the Cascades. The sun was up, the rays slanting weakly through the trees, the fog and low clouds giving way to clear blue skies.

The man seated across from Benson finished his paper, folding it neatly and placing it on the seat beside him.

“Do you mind if I read that paper? I forgot to get one in the station.”

The man looked annoyed for a moment, then remembered he and Benson were traveling in a coach reserved for government officials. He nodded and said, “Sure.” He handed it to Benson.

“Any interesting news?” Benson figured it was best to be polite.

“Not really. The weather looks pretty good this week, though a bit cooler than normal. The Southern Forces are putting down some skirmishes east of Las Vegas, and southwest of Denver, near the old Four Corners area. I'm sure that won't take long.”

Benson grunted as he opened the paper. He had his doubts, since it was two years ago the “skirmishes” between the well-equipped Army and Air Forces of the government were taking place near the Rio Grande river further south. The ghost of Pancho Via was alive and well.

“We could use some good weather this spring to allow for a better crop this year, and bump up the food reserves. Prices are going up.” Benson put a perplexed look on his face. “Not sure why, since the numbers have been pretty steady. I work in the Audit Division by the way, so I see the numbers on a regular basis.”

“I see,” replied the other man. “I'm a professor over at Reed Institute, and I'm heading up to a meeting in Spokane. My specialty is cultural analysis, specifically concerning the ongoing impact of some of the religious groups, or cults, in the Outland, including their raids on government supplies.”

Benson felt an ice cold pang streak through the pit of his stomach. He looked closely at the man, but didn't detect a smirk or knowing look. He held out his hand. “The name is Benson, Arthur Benson.”

The other man, surprised for a moment, shook his hand. “Professor Wolfgang Frederick. Perhaps you've heard of my work concerning the Branch Davidians or the Jasmine Breeze movement. My analysis was a significant factor in eliminating that threat.”

Benson nodded politely. “Yes, I do recall your name associated with that uprising.” Benson actually knew just the basics of the event. “That was back in the fall of 2029, right?”

“Late summer, actually. Two skirmishes in August, and then the stand-off in September. Brought up some memories of Ruby Ridge for the old timers, and the old border wars for the locals in North Platte. It didn't take long to squash them.”

Benson needed to know more. “I didn't realize there were religious groups causing any trouble, though I know the black market trade has picked up recently.”

Frederick nodded grimly. “These groups are difficult to stamp out, even after the loss of a charismatic leader. The rank and file tend to get sucked into another group soon after, as there's always someone who in the midst of a power trip thinks they can rise up, drive changes and be great.”

The train clattered along, the dry brown landscape in sharp contrast to the deep blue sky and waters of the river. Benson glanced out the window, and then thoughtfully asked, “Do these groups represent a real threat?”

“From a military or security perspective, no. But the long-term effects of the underlying messages can create problems, since they're chasing dreams of a supposedly better life.” Frederick shook his head. “In spite of evidence to the contrary, these fools think that self-determination is some sort of right, and don't grasp the benefits for full support of the State.”

Benson nodded, inwardly grimacing. Not that the State really cared about the Outlanders, he thought. “So what groups are we talking about, and how do they stay organized with so few resources?”

“Good question.” Obviously Frederick was warming to the task, being a man who enjoyed hearing himself chatter on. “They have a very strict need-to-know personal relationship among the members, with most knowing only one or two others in the group - for sure. They maintain communication with a very flat organizational structure, meaning there's only a couple of hops in the chain of command from the leader to the foot soldiers.”

Frederick stretched on his bench seat, now more relaxed. “Many of the groups are local, and are just sub-splinters off a church group, like the Voyagers or the Burning Redwoods. They'll most likely never amount to much, but will maybe will start a local labor strike or something. But others, like the Mentors or God Loves Only Warriors are larger, and have a central control structure that keeps them in touch with rebels and criminals, government workers, enemy agents and other key figures. These groups are the ones we need to keep an eye on.”

Benson felt another cold pang of fear, but Frederick didn't seem to imply any hidden meaning in his words.

The train made a scheduled stop in The Dalles, and then slowed again when crossing the Columbia further up the river. Benson and Frederick continued their conversation, changing topics now and then, but Benson learned nothing more about GLOW, or the level of intelligence the government had on the group. Frederick talked about his work, thinly disguising his egotistical bragging as an informative life story. He remarked how in his paper on the Branch Davidians, it was a breach in operational security that had provided warning about the raid, and the standoff and tragedy could have been completely avoided with a change of tactics. Frederick had then made a career out of consulting with government security forces, and implementing changes to ensure more effective removals of the threats.

The train continued on for a couple of more hours on the north side of the river before arriving in Pasco. There another pair of passengers joined them in their compartment, and the conversation was limited after that. By mid-afternoon the train arrived in Spokane, and Benson and Frederick exchanged business cards while gathering up their belongings.

“I've been directed to identify problems like we had in Pocatello a couple of weeks ago, and your expertise may help with that,” said Benson. “I may have some more questions for you, or want to attend one of your training sessions, if that's possible.”

Frederick nodded. “We're always looking for another set of eyes and ears.”

Scene # 2.2, Draft # 1
******************

Benson left work after several hours, caught the bus to the Tabor Mountain neighborhood in the rain, and darkness was falling when he arrived back home. He had barely stepped inside the door when his home telephone rang. He rarely used it, and suspected it was one of his neighbors, probably Maggie.

“Hello,” he said, trying to be polite though still hungover.

“Why hello there, Mr. Benson. I saw that you just got home, and was wondering if you'd like to join me for some tea?” The voice was old, dry and cracked, but still firm and lucid. It was Maggie. Benson thought about begging off, but was so tired maybe it would be nice to have someone else fix a hot beverage and maybe a snack.

“Sure, Maggie. Give me five minutes to change, and I'll be right over.”

He said goodbye, hung up the phone and changed out of his damp clothes. He sat down briefly, thinking he might vomit again, but the queasiness passed. He put on some old tennis shoes, high tops, with thick rubber soles he once found useful for hiking. Rummaging through his kitchen cupboards, Benson found a sealed tin of black tea, government issue, and a small box of sweet crackers. Maggie liked her tea, and went through her monthly ration quickly, so Benson liked to routinely provide her with an extra package or two - he always had plenty since he preferred coffee, when it was available.

He put on a jacket, opened the front door and locked it behind him. Maggie lived in a small house across the street, run down, with moss on the shingles and siding, dirty windows, and rotting under the rainy Portland winters. Benson strode up her driveway, now clogged with weeds growing from cracks in the concrete, car traffic long gone. The yard too was clogged with weeds, untended flower beds, and the remains of a vegetable garden Maggie used in the summer, coaxing green beans, basil and mushrooms from the earth. Several small raspberry bushes thrust their forlorn bare branches towards the sky in one corner, while a huge holly bush guarded the front walk, its spiky leaves sharp. It was quiet, with no wind and no sound, except for the dripping of rain water off the plants and roof.

Benson stepped up to the front porch and knocked on the door. Maggie opened the door, and smiled at Benson. She said hello, motioned for him to sit in the living room, and shuffled off to the kitchen, her slippers rasping almost silently on the worn wooden floor slats. Benson hung his jacket on a peg, and placed the tin of tea and box of crackers on a low table in front of a lumpy couch, the leather splotched and split in some places, covered with an old quilt. He sat on the end of the couch nearest a rocking chair that Maggie liked. The house was as quiet as the outside, with the sounds of dripping water muffled, and an occasional creak of the wooden frames.

From the kitchen sounds of metal banging and then a loud crash as something made from glass was shattered. “Oh no!” Maggie's cry of anguish echoed through the house.

Benson stood up and went to the kitchen. Maggie stood above a mess of broken glass and some preserves, probably blackberry, splattered out in a circular pattern from where the jar had hit the tile floor. Maggie looked up, saw Benson in the door frame and said, “I can't believe I'm so clumsy. That was the last of the blackberry jam Tiffany gave me last fall.”

“Not a problem,” said Benson, soothingly. “I've still got a jar she gave me. Let me go home and get it. By the way, I've got some tea and crackers for you on the table.”

A few minutes later, Benson was seated back on Maggie's couch, listening to her chatter on about her life. She had poured hot tea for them, and had some scones to go along with the preserves and crackers. Maggie was pushing 90, and had been through a lot in her life, starting out on her own as a wide-eyed optimist in the late 1960s.

“I went down to the market today, hoping some of the farmers still had some fresh vegetables leftover. I can't believe they want 15 Ameros now for a head of cabbage.”

“Yes, unfortunately everything is getting expensive,” said Benson. “I can tell you from the numbers I been working with through our office, that it's not going to get better any time soon.”

“Do you remember how it used to be, back when we had grocery stores with everything that we would ever want, and at prices that were so cheap considering the money most of us were making?”

“Yes, I hear a lot of that in my field. Many of the farmers in the Outland and even some of the production workers here in the city remember the good old days. I think it's still a shock to most of us older folks at how quickly things change.” Benson sighed, and took a sip of tea. He thought back to his childhood, when Reagan was president, and the United States was still whole.

“So how is work going?” Maggie knew from her years of living across the street from Benson, that his job could be chaotic and very stressful. He had withdrawn even more so from the neighborhood, above and beyond the natural shunning he received as a government employee, after his wife had died.

“Well, in some ways things are about the same. We don't have enough manpower, and some of the things were trying to do are not well received by everyone away from the cities.” Benson glanced around the room and then added, “But lately it's even been more stressful, as there have been numerous crimes of violence since we're experiencing food shortages again.”

“Yes, I read about an incident in Pocatello in the state paper a couple weeks ago. I think you were out of town then. You might not have heard about it, but there was some rioting going on down in the Pearl District, when the authorities came in to evict some homeless people from a vacant building.” Maggie fought back her emotions, as she was still angry.

“I didn't hear about that.”

“It started out as sort of a sit in, and then it became a protest. It wasn't unlike the 1968 Chicago Democratic convention. When it turned ugly, it turned fast. My nephew was in the crowd and he got tear gassed, and then arrested.” Maggie looked up from her teacup, her eyes moist. “As you know, our family doesn't have too much money, and virtually no political connections. James has been sentenced to a year of hard labor down at the retraining camp in Klamath Falls.”

Benson was surprised. He had no idea one of his neighbors was going through this drama. He also knew, being pretty much politically unconnected himself, there wasn't anything he could do about it.

“Ah, that is just terrible Maggie. I don't know what else to say. These days are options when dealing with the justice system are so limited.”

“James had been working at that warehouse in the same neighborhood for six years now. It wasn't much, but it was steady work and a steady paycheck. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not unlike some of my friends in Chicago. He's been told that his job will not be available for him when he gets back, and so he'll have to start all over again, probably as a day laborer picking fruits and vegetables at the truck farms.”

Benson was silent for a few moments, and then asked, “So how are you feeling, Maggie? How's the hip?”

“Getting worse, I'm afraid.” As if the question reminded her, she shifted in her chair, wincing with pain. “I've asked the nurse down at the clinic for some pain medication, but she says it'll have to wait until it gets worse. Like, I can't get out of bed level of worse.”

“Can you get any salve from your sister?”

“Not right now. The ingredients needed for a good St. John's wort are difficult to come by, and of course the cannabis alternative is all being used up by cancer patients and stoners.”

“Hmmm, I don't know what else to suggest. Maybe I can ask around at the office, or pick up something on my trip this week.” Benson felt rather helpless.

Maggie lowered her voice. “You know, if it gets too bad, I might have to seek out the folks in the Hemlock Society. They're still around you know, underground and all.”

“Yes, I've heard that.” Benson also knew it for a fact, as his wife requested a little extra help for her final exit.

They talked for a while longer, and then Maggie's electric light flickered at 9 PM, and then went out. She had a candle lit, but couldn't afford to waste it, and so Benson said goodnight. It was time to go to bed, for them both.

It's been a hectic few weeks, but I've got this scene done, another half written, and a few more rattling around in the old noggin. Taking a little time out now to gather some notes, but not worried about plot, arc, motivations, etc., at the moment. So far I'm surprised how it's developing. Some other writers I've followed have made comments about how their characters and storylines "surprised" them, which makes much more sense now when writing in "pants", or rather "seat of the pants" mode.

Scene # 4, draft #1
*******************
Their scarves, previously crusted with white frost, now hung limp, damp around their necks.

Snowsuit guy, whose name was David, followed behind Benson and Brian as they headed down a muddy path through the snow to a long, low building just under the trees. Entering, Benson was greeted by a welcome punch of warm air, heavy with the smell of cooking oil and wet socks.

“Sit down over there, Mr. Benson,” said Brian. “We'll get Charlie to hustle up some vittles for us.” He pointed to a table near the center of the room. David sat down across from him, saying nothing, his eyes fixed on a large stone fireplace at the end of the room. A small fire burned dimly.

Within a couple of minutes, Brian returned from the next room, the sound of clattering pots and curses drifting faintly across the room. He poured out three cups of hot tea. Benson gratefully grasped his cup in his hands for warmth, and began sipping it loudly.

“Hope you like chow mein. Charlie is from Taiwan originally, so he likes to cook a mixture of vegetables, noodles, and whatever fresh killed critters we might have. His rabbit egg foo young ain't bad.”

Benson nodded, his throat still constricted with the fear of what he thought might be a life ending experience. He shivered again though he felt his body, especially his feet, now warming up.

“David, did you check the charge on the radio's battery pack for tonight's broadcast?”

David nodded. “Yeah, it was windy enough yesterday we got it to just over 90%, so it should be good for the rest of the week.”

Brian looked at Benson. “We received your transmission and confirmation code last night from the cabin. You're not too fast on the keypad, but we got it. Oh, and by the way, the deer population is booming!” He and David laughed. Benson grinned meekly.

The chow mein wasn't bad, but considering how hungry Benson was he thought beef gravy served over old shoe leather would've been great. The long tiring walk had taken its toll, and he involuntarily began to nod off.

“Wake up, sleepyhead.” Benson awoke with a start, the piercing eyes of the man in the black checkered shirt looking at him. He was smiling.

“Are you Theisen?”

“Well, that's one of my names. Most of the gang just call me Boss. My real name is unimportant. And of course at this point, you don't have a need to know.”

Benson considered that for a moment, couldn't argue and replied,“So what's next?”

“First, while we start our meeting in 20 minutes, we'll have Charlie send up some of his world-class coffee to give you a jolt and keep you awake.” Benson nodded.

“We have an operation planned for next week, and again – you have no need to know at this point.”

“At 20:37, we'll be tuned into 41 kilocycles, to listen for a message from central. They're located in the Midwest near an old quarry, with a railroad spur and grain silo. It's a good location for their antenna. Hopefully atmospherics will be favorable.”

Benson nodded again. “What directions or orders will they be transmitting?”

“Not much tonight. Just some estimates of supplies in our area. That's where you come in. We need your help validating those numbers. We're planning to track them for a while, maybe six months or so, and having them be accurate will help us plan the offensive in the fall.”

“Why in the fall?”

“We have our reasons, and assuming you check out over the next few months, you'll probably be pulled in to help plan that.”

Benson didn't have to ask what would happen if he didn't 'check it out'. “So that guy Peters, last summer in Boise – I imagine he didn't check out?”

Theison looked down. “He approached us through a different but similar channel as you. He had a daughter in one of the retraining camps that he thought we didn't know about. So we knew from the first but there was a big potential for him to be compromised.”

Benson let that sink in. “How did you tell he was trying to infiltrate?”

Theisen grinned, a grim, barren grin. “He was caught taking notes on our facility at Sandpoint. After some persuasion, he confessed and gave up a small radio and codes he had.”

“Didn't seem like a whole lot of effort was made to have his death look like an accident,” said Benson casually.

“True. We came up with a rather elaborate scheme for that, but our local guy in Boise got impatient and just bulldozed him right after he arrived. Actually, since Evans was such a loose cannon and a liability, it worked out okay.”

Theisen smiled again. “Evans thought he was a much bigger wheel than he really was, which is why we were cutting him out of the picture anyway. Your security forces just needed to pointed in the right direction.”

Benson's eyes grew wide.“You're telling me an awful lot, considering the stage I'm at.”

“Once again, correct,” replied Theisen. “But we need your help now. Consider yourself fast tracked, accelerated, whatever. The Feds are growing weaker every day, and it's only a matter of time before Chavez moves up from old Mexico. If we don't come to power before then, we'll all be speaking Spanish, or dead, two years from now.”

Benson sighed, a bitter remorse passing through his thoughts. Committed now, he thought. “When do you need those numbers confirmed by?”

“That's what I want to hear. You'll be back in Portland in three days. So about five days from now I'll expect Hilliard to be given the green light to arrange a pickup of the data.”

“That's a quick turnaround, but if that's what you need, I'll get it done.” Benson tried to speak with conviction, but he had his doubts.

The remainder of the evening was spent listening for what turned out to be a two and one half minute message, repeated once with the coded supply numbers for the Northwest district. Benson was amazed at the speed with which a small man, Williams, handled the transmitted code. About ten seconds of fade out occurred during the first transmission, so Williams use the repetition to confirm all the characters and fill in the blanks. Benson figured he would've missed more than half the transmission.

“Here ya go,” said Theisen, handing Benson a copy of the decoded message. “Our estimates of oil, gas, diesel, ammunition, and a few other items in your district.” Benson took it in hand, glanced over the numbers and then carefully folded it up. The ball, as the old saying went, was now in his court.

The weekly cup of news bytes runneth over, so here we go....

The U.S. dollar continues to fall, the stock continues to go up (S&P up nearly 100 points over the last month), and “all is well!” proclaims the night watchman. Except in Argentina. Where the peso continues to fall, and the Central Bank is faced with rolling $30B of paper this week, after $2B in intervention on Friday failed to halt the decline. If the canary in the coal mine, the U.S. could face this same scenario - perhaps sooner rather than later. Some bond pundits say the jig is up when you can no longer pay interest on your debt, and others say just PRINT, baby, PRINT! Bloomberg, like the night watchman, declare that the U.S. economy is not overheating. Well, that makes me feel better. (oops, forgot the /sarcasm hash tag). I believe a more accurate picture of things can be found on my favorite pod caster, Quoth The Raven. I share his twisted sense of humor, although....

I listened to a podcast on QTR from early April in which Tesla, the company, was discussed, with Ross Gerber (bullish) and Adam Spittler (bearish) along with host Chris Irons (very bearish). It became obvious to me, a person who wouldn't know the first thing about reading a company's financial statement, that Tesla is not the kind of company that shareholders value based on traditional metrics. So much of the bearish arguments were invalid. On the other hand, putting all your faith in Musk The Magician is risky too, as Gerber pointed out. He believes that global warming is real, and a transition to electric vehicles is a must. With that kind of opening, I was disappointed to see Spittler and Irons leave that little morsel on the table untouched, as both those assumptions are clearly - and I mean very clearly, erroneous. Global warming may be real, but it's the least of our worries when considered alongside of overshoot, pollution, peak (cheap) oil, and the decline of the American Empire. Furthermore, perform a few calculations on using up lithium reserves solely for Tesla's future production quotas (per Chris Martenson of peakprosperity.com), and you end up stiffing the cell phone industry with their battery needs. Hmmmm. So, as far as debates go, I'd award Gerber the win (although points off for his constant interruptions ) because he clearly stated his case for a risky venture, and Irons/Spittler (points off for bad-mouthing the opponent after he hung up ), while bringing up good points about financial numbers and the mass exodus of executives, did a poor job refuting that strategy.

In other news, the U.S. opened an embassy in Jerusalem, which apparently resulted in violence and death of 52 Palastinians protesting in the Gaza Strip (1700 injured). It's difficult for me to be interested, as I've been seeing these same stories, different verses, since the early 1970s when I actually started watching the news. I am numb. I've got my own problems. I feel for the poor people of the world, as the elites continue to support regimes bent on violence, but there appears to be no solutions in this particular part of the world. We've got about 3000 years of history to back that claim up. On a lighter note, the hubbub over who gets invited to the Royal Wedding (Harry and what's her name) continues, and again it's difficult for me to be interested. Though I must admit, this Lady Amelia, whom I've never heard of before and is dissed from an invite, is quite a dish.

The recent volcanic eruptions in Hawaii have “raised concerns” that similar processes could occur in the chain of volcanoes that run down the west coast of the U.S. The article (from AP mind you) goes on to state that Kilauea, the volcano on the Big Island, sits in the middle of the Ring of Fire (true) of volcanoes around the Pacific, but then points out the volcanism is different in the Cascades, which of course are caused by plates being sub-ducted where the Pacific ocean side plates go under the continental plates of North America. Since Hawaii is located over a geologic “hot spot”, in the middle of oceanic plate, I don't get why concerns have been raised. When it's raining outside my house in Vancouver, WA, USA, I don't think it raises concerns of local flooding in San Diego. But I could be wrong. Since I'm sitting less than 40 miles away (as the whooping crane flies) from Mt. St. Helens as I type this, I'm already concerned - and get more so if the wind shifts to the NNE. But the recent eruptions on the Big Island just makes me want to postpone my next vacation to paradise.

A man from (ironically) Paradise Valley, Arizona, has a problem with a stalker. Apparently, a 31 year-old woman he met on a dating site showered him with no less than 65,000 texts after a first date, sending up to 500 per day. No details on when this first date happened, but my quick-back-of-Lincoln's-gettysburg-address-letter-calculations show it to be around August 13th or so of last year. Apparently, with such dittys as “Don't ever try to leave me...I'll kill you”, “I hope you die...you rotten filthy Jew”, “I'm like the new Hitler...man was a genious”, it still took this guy 8.5 months to come to the conclusion she was a little (to be kind) off? Accused stalker is now in jail, without bond, and declaring this fine gent is her soul mate. It would be funny, if it weren't so tragic. Ah, who am I kidding? It's still funny. An example of the alternate reality that technology can shape. Sending 65,000 telegrams would have sent her to the poor house and ended the drama so much sooner. While this gal looks semi-normal in some photos online, we get the obligatory bug-eyed mug shot, just in case you weren't paying attention to the details, and had any doubts.

***Dr. Hooves' 2018 Kentucky Derby Analysis - Free!***

May 3rd, 2018

Derby Time! A better than average field, with the usual half dozen or more that could win, Baffert with the chalk, and a shipper from Dubai that handicappers love or hate, and the usual aspect of being able to make a strong case, for or AGAINST, many of the top contenders. Should be a good race, though almost impossible to handicap, so I'll be investing a token amount on my favorite longshot and waiting for the Belmont. After 32 years of watching and betting on the Derby live, I'll also be taking a break for a writing workshop in Portland on Saturday afternoon. Oh, the humanity!

Another thing that strikes my curiosity is the morning line odds, and how they differ from what bettors will actually put their hard-earned cash down on. If I was running a sportsbook or racebook, I believe it'd be an interesting play to come up with future bets related to closing odds. I'll taking a closer look at horses who's odds are well under what I predict, and determining if there's any hot money coming in on them. But I digress, and now to go 2 for 33 in the Derby if I pick the winner.

Here's my free analysis, and it's worth every penny. Good luck to all! (but especially me)

Projected order of finish with (Morning Line Odds, My Predicted Odds) and comments:

************************************************************************

# 12 Enticed (30-1, 19-1) When I look at the connections, I see a horse that's been pointed for the Derby since before he was conceived. Probably not cranked for the Wood since he had enough points to get in, up close in fast pace, not persevered with in stretch after getting bumped, and forced down to the inside - not the place to be that day at Aqueduct. Grinding runner finished behind Vino, but now offers much better value in the Derby. Looked good in Gotham, ran down longshot while getting clean trip wide, eased up near the wire, still green. Big, gangly and needs clean trip, and has won at CD. Sire Medaglia d'Oro has had some fine runners, including horse-of-the-year Rachel Alexandra, Songbird, and Violence - a promising young sire in his own right. I actually believe some others more likely to win, but he offers the best value - so, today he gets my dough.

# 7 Justify (3-1, 5-2) Baffert's newbie looks like the real deal. A Derby winner that's not raced as a two-year old hasn't won since Apollo in 1882. Umm, that'd be 136 years ago. However, horses that don't run at two usually have health issues, but Justify looks like the late blooming star, with three triple digit Beyers to his credit - the one to beat, in spite of his small field wins in California. He's fast, and the clocker at CD is impressed. If you just want to cash a ticket, bet him to show.

# 6 Good Magic (12-1, 9-1) Working like a champ, son of Curlin and BC Juvenile winner could run big. Bred for the distance, his mommy by Hard Spun who loved CD and ran second in the Derby, and for what it's worth gets my favorite jockey Jose Ortiz, and almost guaranteed to get a good trip. Should be right there.

# 9 Hofburg (20-1, 15-1) bred well, looks better for Belmont, BUT moving forward, will need luck closing. Training like a machine, and another horse with only three starts. Plenty of upside possible, but others will argue not enough seasoning. Conservative trainer expressing confidence with this one, wise guy horse should have him lower odds, but still decent value.

# 5 Audible (8-1, 7-1) - doesn't work like much, but just likes to win. NY Bred should make the distance - just keeps chugging, probably not another Funny Cide - Jockey JV picks Vino Rosso over this one, so gives pause, but certainly has a better post than VR. I thought he'd be chalk until Justify freaked in the SA Derby a week later, Clocker says he looks better in morning works than before FL Derby.

# 20 Combatant (50-1, 90-1) 4th in Arkansas Derby, very slow pace, closed a bit in Rebel off even pace, bred for the distance, could clunk up for a piece, looks like he could step forward. Wide post doesn't hurt as much with his running style. Along with Enticed, I have a small futures wager on him (57-1 in pool 3), so I'm a bit prejudiced here. And should not have made that bet.

# 10 My Boy Jack (30-1, 25-1) Got warm in morning work, some concern. Seasoned with 10 starts, and should be last entering the first turn. Jocky Kent D. will give him a good ride late, but not sure he's quite good enough, as on paper he looks like he's peaked.

# 15 Instilled Regard (50-1, 80-1) Very sly trainer Hollendorfer, interesting longshot. Bred for the distance, and if he gets some pace to shoot at, he could clunk up for a slice at a huge, huge price. Finished 10 lengths behind Justify in last - but if you like the top pair from California, it's not much of a stretch to have him around at the end.

# 17 Solomini (30-1, 24-1) Baffert's “other” horse, which has enough breeding to get there with the right trip, since he's by Curlin, and sort of looks like him too. Prat is an awesome jockey, and I would not be surprised to see him hang around off a middle of the pack trip for a slice.

# 18 Vino Rosso (12-1, 10-1) Wood, wide, out of trouble, closed well off fast pace, and bumped Enticed in the lane. Good inside trip in Tampa Derby, nothing left on turn to go with leaders, came back on a little in lane. Working well in the mornings. JV picked him over Audible, but got a much worse post. He's not much value, but appears to have some upside.

**************Mendoza Line goes here******************

# 4 Flameaway (30-1, 25-1) - speed, bred for the distance and plucky in his races, but may fall victim to plenty of pace pressure up front.

# 11 Bolt d'Oro (8-1, 12-1) Owns second highest average of speed figures - either it means he and Justify are really good, or time is measured differently in California. Very consistent, and appears to be a slight overlay - except Clocker mentions he's taking a while to warm up in the morning. Unusual characteristic may not bode well for a horse running in the huge Derby field, with huge crowd. Prefer others that are more laid back and relaxed. Another son of Medaglia d'Oro, but breeding offset by low profile connections.

# 2 Free Drop Billy (30-1, 40-1) bred for the distance, but hasn't shown much recently. Almost crashed in the Bluegrass, suppressing his speed figure. Move forward quite possible, as he'll be closing from the clouds, one of many longshots that could get 3rd or 4th, though warm in morning works, and two hole is enough in this field to ensure enough trouble - to keep him under the Mendoza line.

# 8 Lone Sailor (50-1, 60-1) Nice horse, but just 1 for 8 lifetime. Not bred for the distance, and looks like the kind of horse that finishes mid-pack. Stunning work a couple of weeks ago, but not sure it's going to be enough to get there in this field. Toss.

# 13 Bravazo (50-1, 88-1) decently bred, but will need some miracle juice from D. Wayne Lukas to be around at the end. Will want to be forwardly placed, won't get that, and won't like it. Toss.

# 14 Mendelssohn (5-1, 6-1) Will not be surprised if this horse wins by five, or runs last by 25. Huge visual win in UAW Derby when inside speed favoring HUGE bias, but the TF rating of 80 by second place finisher Rayya (and a filly at that) screams he didn't beat much. Let's see how Rayya runs in the Oaks. Foreign horses shipping to the States for two-year and three-year old races ON DIRT don't have a high rate of success, regardless of connections or breeding. Has shown ability to ship and run well twice before, but the word quarantine related to a 3YO is the kiss of death. Also leery of the camera work at Dubai distorting things. Back in 2006 when Discrete Cat crushed foes in the UAE Derby, I thought that horse was really something - but he couldn't run past a mile here in the U.S. It's the old adage about streaks - you can win many times, and only lose once. Or in this case, keep tossing the foreigners until one actually wins the Derby. Horrible underlay, and Clocker not impressed today by his appearance on track. Toss with some risk, and may regret. But hey, I'm one for 32 in the Derby.

# 3 Promises Fulfilled (30-1, 55-1) poor breeding for the distance, speed horse quite likely to get burned up and quit, even if the track is speed favoring. Leaves Derby dream unfulfilled.

# 1 Firenze Fire (50-1, 80-1) poor breeding for the distance, looks like he peaked last year. Hasn't moved forward, will likely get traffic problems from the inside - toss.

# 16 Magnum Moon (6-1, 14-1) In Arkansas Derby, got to lead in very slow pace, drew off wide in lane, Quip hung on for second at the rail, crushed foes in Rebel just off even pace. While he's undefeated, his last two he's drifted in the stretch (read tired), and not crazy about his breeding for the Derby. Another that may blow up my tickets, but he's an underlay in this field. Toss.

# 19 Noble Indy (30-1, 60-1) Speed horse, wide post, poor breeding for 10 furlongs - no thanks. Toss. My choice for last.

Potential Wagers:

***************

$20 Place,Show on # 12 ($40) (I have a couple of small future bets already on him to win)

$2 Exacta Key Box 12 with 5-6-7-9-20 ($20)

50 cent Trifecta P/W 12 with ALL with 5-6-7-9-20 ($45)

$1 Superfecta P/W: 12 with 6-7 with 5-6-7-9-20 with 5-6-7-9-10-15-17-18-20 ($56)

Total Investment: $161

Scene # 3, Draft # 1
********************

Outside the laundromat, the temperature was almost freezing, the sun shining brightly off the snow. Benson paused, rummaging around in his jacket for his sunglasses, and started at a brisk pace to the north. Twenty minutes later, the town out of sight behind him, he left the road and struck off between the trees one hundred yards past the railroad culvert.

The first two miles weren't much of a struggle, but then the path became steeper. Rounding a slight bend, Benson stepped between a cleft of two pieces of gray granite. He heard a bark as a black Labrador retriever appeared, tail wagging. He bent down to pet him, stroking the dogs smooth oily coat.

“How are you boy? Good doggie.”

Benson heard a metallic click.

“Keep your hands out, and don't move partner, unless you want that to be the last thing you do on this earth.”

Two men, one dressed in a white snowmobile suit, the other in camouflage fatigues, blocked the trail.

Both wore scarves across their faces, crusted with white frost. The barrel of the semiautomatic rifle looked as big around as a soda pop can thought Benson, especially when you're on the wrong end of it. Snowsuit guy held it carefully.

“Okay, friend. Not moving. Here's my hands.” Benson stood frozen, arms outstretched.

Camouflage guy moved toward Benson. He carried his pistol out, casually, as with practice. Benson noted it was a Browning Hi-Power. He patted Benson down, relieving him of his own nine millimeter compact pistol, wallet, backpack and sheaf of papers including the flyer.

“I hear the deer population is booming.” Benson nervously stuttered. He thought that pass-phrase a bit odd considering a large rifle was pointed at his head.

“We're not concerned about wildlife partner,” said Snowsuit guy. “Take off the jacket and tie his hands behind him.” No counter sign, thought Benson. Did I take the wrong trail? Out here in the Outland, private property and bandits were everywhere.

“Umm, so the deer aren't booming?”

“Nobody cares about deer, brother. You got a problem with that, you take it up with our boss.”

A canvas hood came down over his head, and Benson panicked as it was tied tightly. Lack of vision and difficulty breathing reminded him of his problems with claustrophobia.

Several hours went by as Benson was pulled along by a rope wrapped around his waist. Falling repeatedly, the snow was wet and cold, and eventually invaded every crevice in his shirt and trousers. Damn that rat bastard Hilliard, thought Benson. That old man never indicated the God Loves Only Warriors group were so paranoid.

They stopped twice to rest, but Snowsuit and Camouflage guy remained silent. Finally, Benson heard other voices and smelled smoke. They stopped, and Benson was backed up against a pole.

The hood was yanked off and Benson gratefully breathed in several deep lungfuls of air. The sun was just setting, filtering through the coniferous trees at the other end of a clearing, the rays striking sharp shadows and light. His hands had been untied but then re-tied around the pole and he stood with his back to it. He was colder now, not moving, and began to shiver.

Five minutes later a man walked up, dressed in a red and black checkered shirt, his short hair dark, and beard speckled with gray. He had the air of command, piercing eyes. He looked over Benson carefully and walked around him once slowly.

“Tell us why we shouldn't put a bullet through your skull.”

“Ummm, because if you do, I'll file a complaint about being suffocated by that damn hood you put on me. If you were going to whack me, why the secrecy about where your camp is located?” Benson tried to sound brave, but was compromised by a quavering voice.

For several moments, the man stared Benson in the eyes, then grinned and laughed. “Well, ain't you the spunky one, ya old coot.” A statement, not a question. He motioned to the man in the camouflage jacket. “Untie him Brian, take him over to the mess hall and get him some food and let him dry out. Our new recruit passed his first test, and deserves the guest treatment.”

“Do you want him at the meeting at 20:00?” Brian moved behind Benson and began to untie his hands.

“Not at the beginning. We've got some items on the agenda that's no concern of his - but we'll need him during the latter half.” He met Benson's eyes again. “I know you've got some questions. We'll talk before the meeting, Mr. Benson.” He strode away quickly, heading towards a small cabin near the edge of the clearing, a wisp of blue smoke trailing from a rusted chimney on its roof.


**************************

Scene 2.1, Draft 1

Benson woke up to a pounding headache. The room began spinning as he sat up, and he stumbled into the door frame of the bathroom bounced off and then threw up in the toilet bowl. He had come to the conclusion the evening before that among other things Hilliard was an alcoholic.

It'd taken him almost 6 hours to negotiate the information from Hilliard, give him the money, as well as some of the ration coupons before he would provide the contact information and the initial pass-phrase. Benson knew before long he would have to make a critical decision that would affect the rest of his life.

Splashing cold water from the sink onto his face, he gathered his thoughts. Tomorrow he would take the train and embark on possibly the most dangerous journey of his life. Realizing that he was still somewhat intoxicated, Benson grasped his phone and dialed the attendance clerk at work. He informed him that he wouldn't be coming in this morning and that he was feeling under the weather, and would get back around lunchtime to determine whether or not he would miss the whole day. Of course rather than admit that he had overindulged in alcohol, Benson merely mentioned he had a fever and thought a cold might be coming on.

After sleeping several more hours, he was able to get up take a shower and get dressed. He felt it was important to talk to his boss at least once that day about the upcoming trip. He would try to put a spin on his activities during the trip, trying to make it look as normal as possible. He shuffled down to the corner through a steady drizzle, and waited for the bus. Since the morning rush was over he wasn't exactly sure how long he would have to wait, but he thought that the buses ran it still ran at least once per hour in the afternoon. In about half that time, the lumbering machine appeared, belching out black smoke from the bio-diesel fuel, and surprisingly crowded for that time of day. Benson wedged his way into a seat near the back, hoping he didn't throw up again in the twenty minute trip it would take to get downtown.

Around him was the usual cast of characters found in the city. Some of the more wealthy or well-connected government officials dressed like him were easy to spot, while the rest of the lower class workers often displayed their mended trousers, torn shirts, dirty jackets and unpolished shoes.

Getting off the bus, Benson encountered the drizzle that had now turned to a steady cold rain, and grimaced because he realized he had forgotten his umbrella. He removed his glasses, and put them inside his jacket hoping they would stay dry. It was making him shiver. Only two blocks to his building, but in that time several rivulets of cold water found their way inside his coat.

Benson entered the building and reported to the attendance clerk, and then ambled up two flights of stairs and down the hall to his office.

After a plummet below 2600 in late March, the S&P 500 has zig-zagged its way back above 2700 over the last couple of weeks, with the VIX falling from over 20 back to the mid-teens. Apparently the mis-adventure of a declining empire tossing around a 100+ cruise missiles is good for the economy. Until it’s not. The leaders of the United States continue with a policy meddling and not making friends in the world, and there comes an inflection point at some time when that will be a problem. How many of us held their collective breath, waiting for a Russian or Chinese cruise missile to be tossed back for fun?

Meanwhile, employment data a couple of weeks ago continue to show a very tight jobs market, with the unemployment number irrelevant, and hours, pay, and participation numbers showing more of the real story. Take away the crazy “paper-pushing” jobs being added in health care, and the American employment numbers would be a horror story going on a decade now. Dig deeper into the reports, and part-time, non-technical and service jobs are the ones propping up the numbers – not the good, family and middle-class lifestyle supporting jobs of yesteryear. Retail is showing stress, and reflects the weakness of the “real” economy, and not the proclaimed strength of Trump’s (and wealthy people in general) world. Oil is inching up near $70 now, and more theater in the Middle East would tip much of the economy, already teetering on the edge, over and into the abyss.

The gun control furor has died down a bit, and it remains to be seen what the next news incident might be that triggers the non-nonsensical knee-jerk reaction to a complex issue. When people “demand” changes that defy logic and undermine what little freedoms we have remaining in our society, it makes me reflect on our poor education system. Did outlawing drugs work? Did outlawing alcohol work? If we want to get to the root cause of mass shootings, shouldn’t we look at how mental health services in this country approach the problem? The Parkland incident involved a young man who’d been suspended from school for bringing a gun, had been reported to have pointed a gun at someone’s head, and was considered for a mental health facility for threats to others (Baker Act), and unfortunately with all these warning signs, his specific case was not addressed properly.

The other big issue over the last couple of weeks has been the Facebook story, and how the big Internet interests track you, analyze you, categorize you, and monetize you. I’ve even experienced getting an unsolicited call from a assisted care facility “finder” service, after mentioning that phrase on a cell phone call with my brother. Everything done electronically is scanned, swept, sliced, diced, spindled and mutilated for economic gain. Privacy is non-existent. Data security is anything but secure, and therefore participation should be questioned. It’s beyond belief that some find it worthwhile to have active microphones in their home to facilitate shopping or obtaining the weather forecast.

And yesterday, an exploding engine on a Southwest Airlines flight from NYC to Dallas resulted in the first passenger death since 2009 on an American airline. Kudos to pilot Tammie Jo Shults who parlayed her Navy experience and pilot training into getting the plane safely on the ground in Philly. Since I fly later today back to Portland, I’m hoping my pilots are equally skilled.

So I've got another scene, which is not in chronological order, but I'll just keep plugging away. I've done a minimum of clean up, as this was was transcribed from long hand in a notebook to electronic format via voice recognition s/w (Dragon). It's pretty accurate, but a few errors are introduced. I've got another scene written out, and will post that next, and I've got to note a few things in a prologue.

*****************************

Scene # 2, Draft # 1

Benson locked the door to the cabin, turned around and strapped on his snowshoes, in the dim morning light. There was no wind, and no sound except for his breathing, creating small clouds of steam in the icy air. He shouldered his backpack over his parka, and started through the woods. The silence kept his nerves on edge, and his eyes constantly darted to and fro, side to side, and even a furtive glance backwards now and then to ensure he wasn't being followed.

After almost an hour, he came across a hard-packed trail created by other humans, an occasional sled or toboggan, and some game animal animals. Benson stopped, catching his wind and decided he could now get along without the snowshoes. While on unstrapping the right shoe, he lost his balance and fell, sliding off the elevated portion of the trail, down a short slope, and into an evergreen. The world turned topsy-turvey, and snow filled his neck and arm openings in his parka. The branches were heavily laden with snow, and Benson was caught in a mini-avalanche of white. Sputtering and cursing under his breath, Benson stood up and brushed himself off. "Could've been worse," he thought, remembering the outcome of a Jack London story read as a kid. But it wasn't that cold today, here in the Kanisku Mountains, which had formally been part of the Idaho Panhandle before the Great Die-Off.

Now it was just a remote section of the Northwest Province, encompassing all the terrain between the Pacific Ocean and the Continental divide and north from the deserts of the mid-continent to the Arctic Ocean.

He trudged along, thinking over the plan for today, and the dangers involved. Another half-hour found him at the edge of town, Bayridge, on the eastern shore of Lake Pend Oreille. Sounds from the town drifted down the trail and became louder as he made his way into town. The smells of wood smoke and breakfast cooking were in the air, and the white crunch of snow on the path gave way to the squishy mud and brown slush of the street.

Benson made his way through the cold muck, heading towards the multi-purpose supply store/hotel/restaurant, a three-story brick building which stood at the corner of Main Street and the town square. Like many small burgs now, the building represented the concentration of scarce resources, energy and activity for the few dozen inhabitants. It also served as the train depot for the bi-weekly freight hauls, which allowed it to boast a slim network connection to the rest of the world.

As Benson entered the Bayridge General store, he felt the gaze of the half-frozen regulars around the wood-burning stove, and the beady eyes of the town clerk, Marge, fell upon him.

"Say Mr. Benson, did you sleep well last night?" queried Marge, in her dry, raspy old-maid voice.

Benson looked up, annoyed at her emphasis on the word sleep, and briefly thought about a retort concerning Marge's appearance and stopping a clock, but simply smiled and replied "Like a rock, honey – how about you?" He added a wink, hoping the locals would get ever more confused, but knew he didn't want to make a scene. He was pretty sure his boss had Marge as one of his many stringers, informing not only the townspeople, but the government workers traveling through as well.

Benson shuffled across the floor and went up the steps to his room, ignoring the snickers and snide remarks behind him. In his younger days, as a resource manager of the newly formed North American alliance, he could've ruined the day of the riff-raffs around the stove, but now pushing 60, he was no longer in the mood for confrontation.

He entered his room, and stood for a few moments wondering who might be listening in on the other side of the microphones which surely bugged the room. Benson was sweaty, and so he took off his parka and wool shirt, hanging them on wooden pegs by the door. He poured some water from a pitcher into the wash basin, took a bar of sludgy soap, and washed his face. The water felt good. The grime on the towel looked good. Today's mission was at hand.

********************
Benson pulled the note he had received yesterday from an inner pocket of the parka. He re-read the directions to the meeting place, the pass phrases, and the list of supplies he was supposed to bring. He carefully packed the small automatic pistol, two boxes of precious ammunition, two transistors for a shortwave radio, and a few other miscellaneous items into a sack, and stored that in his backpack.

He glanced at the clock on the wall, and noted it was time to leave. He put on his parka, opened the door to his room slowly, and peered out into the hallway. Seeing no one, he stepped out, locked the door, and went down the back steps and outside. The day was now bright, though cloudy, and the air had lost its early morning chill, though he could still see his breath. He walked briskly down the street to the end of the block, turning the corner and looked for the meeting place. It was the local laundromat. It was at one end of a shabby, single-story building which stretched for half of the block on the other side of the street. He crossed the muddy track diagonally towards the entrance at the far side.

As he entered the deserted facility, a gust of warm steamy air hit them in the face. The floor was covered with dirty linoleum, peeling in numerous places. Several of the machines, both washers and dryers, had missing doors on the front - they were broken and couldn't be used. A radio in one corner was tuned to a news talk station, the host droning on about the efficiency of the provincial government, and the war in the south.

Benson noticed a counter towards the back of the room, near the middle of the building, a candle burning in a brass holder. A hand-bell was on the counter and he tapped it lightly to see if anyone was around. He noticed some flyers posted up on a board of cork on the wall, one in red and black advertising a "good old-fashioned Christian revival". There was some movement, some scuffling, in the room behind the counter and then footsteps. A young girl, in her teens, appeared. She had short black hair and dark eyes.

"May I help you?" she asked.

"Yeah, I've got some clothes that I'd like to wash."

"Sorry. We're only open for public washing two days a week, Tuesdays and Thursdays. We also wash in-house on Wednesdays. You can leave your clothes here, if you'd like us to wash them." Her voice was even, her eyes looking intently at Benson. He figured now or never.

"Really? I heard it from the grapevine that this facility was open on Mondays and Fridays. I'm the regional resource manager. I need some clothes washed today."

"Sorry. Rules are rules. If you want to change the days for washing, take it up with the town council. The generator only runs during the middle of the week."

"Such poppycock." Benson's voice was a half octave higher than normal, now three quarters of the way through the pass phrases.

"Perhaps you'd like to talk with one of the council members, sir?" she suggested. "I'm sure they'd be open to hear your complaint."

"Nah, not right now" Benson tried to add an inflection of dejection in his voice. "I'll just leave my clothes here for now and come back for them later in the week. I'll be here for a few more days."

He swung the bag of dirty clothes up on the counter and pushed it across to the girl. He opened his knapsack, took out the other small bag and pushed it towards her, nodding slightly. She filled out a receipt, and along with another small slip of paper and handed it back to him.

"Thank you sir. Have a nice day" She remained cool, like a rock.

Benson left the laundromat, and stepped outside and back into the bright day. He could feel the sweat, now cooling, running down his forehead and neck. Getting his bearings, he started off on foot to the north,. He had a couple of ranches to visit today, as part of his official visit. But the hard part was over, at least for today.

So as I lurch around the house this morning, groggy and waiting for the coffee to kick in, I wander over to the news sites to see what's going on. A 24 year-old man, apparently behind the recent bombing attacks in Austin, blew himself up and is dead. Looks like more fodder for the conspiracy web sites.

Trump has another woman claiming a past affair, this time former Playboy model Karen McDougal, who I must say looks quite fetching in her photos. Wow. I see a trend here, not unlike that of Tiger Woods when he took his fall. Curious on the timing - perhaps a diversion from all the turnover of Trump's staff?

Illinois now has a Democratic billionaire running for Governor. (/sarcasm_on) Now that's a nice switch (/sarcasm_off). Can't say as I miss living in that state, which gets my vote for most corrupt in the nation.

On to the markets. Could have been more wrong about the direction of the S&P last week, but I don't know how. Instead of zooming up, it grinded down, and Monday took a 50 point swoon, before recovering some of the losses late. My options expired worthless, and I also took it on the chin on a couple of futures trades, trying to catch the falling knife.

Now the S&P is forming a wedge, below the major wedge defined by the bigger move down starting back on January 29th. Most of the market analysts are still bearish, and predicting a pattern similar to 2008. Seems like a crowded trade, so naturally I'll zag and go with a move higher. If the S&P can break back above 2760 or so and hold, then it looks like it's off to the races. If the index bounces off the bottom of the major wedge, then look out below. As always, the markets are at a "critical juncture".

As for the real economy, the grind continues for those of us in the bottom 90 percent. Cost of living continues to rise, pay is stagnant, and the spectre of bad debt provides for a gloomy outlook. We surpassed $21T the other day, with no end in sight. Fortunately, it's only bits and bytes at this time.