Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Spoilers, Spoilers Everywhere

 

I am as mad as a hornet!  I could spit nails.  Think of any cliché that means being angry beyond all measure and I am that angry.

As I sat typing on my laptop, my Microsoft Outlook email manager flashed an incoming message.  It was Breaking News from the New York Times. I have it set to flash that way in case I decide to write a post about some breaking news story and I want to be the first to do so.

As I glanced at the pop up containing the headline, I realized it was the results of a major event in tonight’s lineup:  women’s gymnastics.  Unfortunately, it only took that one glance to ruin my evening.  Now I know how things end up.

Damn!

The two weeks of the quadrennial Summer Olympic Games have always been among the most exciting television viewing for me.  The whole idea of the entire world gathering on neutral ground to showcase each country’s elite athletes in civil competition is even more appealing now that the world has become tiny and the world’s problems humungous.

The first week has all of my favorites: Tennis, swimming, beach volleyball and my number one love, gymnastics. 

I love the tension leading up to the moment the pistol fires, the digital signal beeps or the first ball is served into the opponents’ court.  I thrive on the back and forth of a close competition.  When things go the way I wanted them to go, I actually jump from my seat, clap my hands and yell “Yessssssss!”  And when things don’t go the way I’d hoped, I feel the disappointment almost as much as those courageous young athletes do.

Not tonight.  I won’t be a spoiler here for anyone reading this.  I won’t be the one who ruins it for you.  If you can manage to dodge the tweets, the Facebook status updates, the emails and the TV results that even NBC insists on showing on their screen (without sound, but still…) maybe you can still ride the roller coaster of emotions.

In this day of social networking instantaneous coverage, with tweets and photos from even Prince Harry himself, is almost impossible to evade.  The television networks have failed to anticipate the effect these “new” ways of finding out what’s happening would have on their wall-to-wall coverage.  The window for news is measured in seconds and characters, not hours and tape delays. 

I am so bummed!

Monday, July 30, 2012

Just Did It!

 

Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning I wake up and start an argument. 

Maybe I’ll just skip the cardio dance class today.  My hair looks too cute to sweat.

Think Nike, Lezlie.  Stop your malingering, you twit.  Get your ass up!”

That teacher at the senior community center seems to forget how OLD we are.  So what if she is running marathons every month  and she is in her 50s. Big whoop!

“Just do it, you wimp.  You know how good you feel after you’ve done the last stretch and stagger out into the searing sunlight toward your hot car. 

Today is a weight training day.  I hate those *$&%&#* weights.  My shoulders get so tired and she just keeps counting.  50 – 49—48 –47-- 

“But look how much easier it is getting for you to keep up.  And look how much looser your waistbands are fitting.  Knock it off, old lady.  Get up!”

And so I did.  I dressed in my oh-so-sexy (NOT) workout clothes, tied a bandana around my head to catch the copious amounts of sweat that come pouring out of my forehead and the nape of my neck and walked the dog to warm up my rickety hip joints. No sense in putting on makeup; it just ends up running down the sides of my face.

One of the reasons I push myself to go each time is because it is so good for my ego.  I mean, let’s face it, there are a lot of old people over there!  It’s hard to say just how old they all are.  Several are recovering from strokes and have visible issues of facial distortion and limited physical movement. But the age minimum is 55 to even use the facility, so, at 67, I’m definitely where I belong. 

Don’t shoot me for saying so, but for an old broad, I’m really in pretty good shape.  The first 15 minutes of our class are devoted to walking around the gigantic multi-purpose room where we convene.   Each time I find myself aching to zip past the bottleneck created by people walking at a pace a snail would find frustrating.  I don’t want to seem rude by blowing past them like a speed walker on speed, so I just go wander around the building for 15 minutes.

Any sense of superiority I might briefly entertain is quickly squelched by the pace and rigor of this sadistic teacher’s aerobic and anaerobic regimen. With my 3-lb. weights in hand, I am drenched in sweat and gasping for breath before Michael Jackson (rest his soul) can finish “Billie Jean.” 

The pushups, I can do like a champ.  They are the old people’s version – using the back of a chair instead of the floor, but I can do all 50 without stopping.  But YOU try sitting and rising out of your chair without using your arms 40 times at a rapid pace.  My quadriceps start burning around count 15.  I think about Jane Fonda yelling feel the burn! 

Just Do It!

Around count 25 my thighs are sending smoke signals into the air.  I glance over at the woman next to me who appears to be well into her 80s.  She is bouncing up and down like a toddler on Skittles.  My competitive spirit is screaming at me to stop my whining. 

By count 35 the burning has stopped.  In fact, everything has stopped in the tops of my thighs.  No burn, no pain, no MOVEMENT.  Nothing.  I have hit what my son the ex-personal trainer calls muscle fatigue.  Miss 80-something is still bouncing up and down.

Mercifully, that’s the last set with the weights.  Ordered to stand behind the chair, I rise too quickly or something and feel my head lighten to the point I fear I will faint.  That’s why the chair is such an integral part of the exercise – it catches woozy seniors whose heart rates have exceeded safe levels.

I mop my face, neck, chest and arms with the towel I always bring, take a long quaff of my chilled H2O and hold on to the edge of the table until my head stops spinning. 

Shoulders back, with an effort, and towel draped around my neck, I strut – okay, I stroll to my car, pull open the door and fall, still panting, into the driver’s seat. 

Free at last!  And I Just Did It!

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Who are “The People?”

 

Bill of Rights

All this talk about the Second Amendment to the U.S. Constitution has caused me to do a little research.  No one would ever accuse me of being well-versed in the constitution or any of the specific rights affected by the Bill of Rights.  I can now understand how someone could spend an entire career in the law dealing only with the interpretation of those august documents.

I like to break things down into consumable parts,using everyday language and as few words as possible.  As I read the Wikipedia entry about the Second Amendment, I made mental notes about the things I was learning for the first time. (Or, more likely, re-learning, since I studied such things in school – not that I particularly enjoyed it then.)

1) The Second Amendment does not establish the right to bear arms as a right.  The right already existed, carried over from the same right in English law.  What the Second Amendment prohibits is the ‘infringement’ of that pre-existing right.

2)There has been confusion and debate over the true meaning of the words in the Amendment; e.g., “bear arms” and “the people.” 

3) Errors made by support staffs in the transcribing of notes and copying of text was just as problematic then as it is now, and it caused some subtle but important bases for argument and differences in interpretation.

The Founding Fathers were acutely aware of the time in English history that Catholic monarchs actually disarmed Protestant citizens in order to try to force their compliance with Catholic doctrine.  The Bill of Rights and the Second Amendment therein was the remedy for any such future actions on the parts of Congress for any reason. 

The reason they thought the right to bear arms referred to individuals themselves and not the formally convened state militias was because they knew a militia is made up of civilians called upon by the state to resist tyrannical actions on the part of the Feds.  They reasoned that individual citizens needed to be armed when they got the call for state duty.  They were separate and apart from the national army.

We know that in the formal language of government the phrase “the people” can have a dual meaning.  One is singular – I am a person, you are a person, therefore we are people.  The other meaning is collective – a government by the people, of the people and for the people –meaning everyone in the United States who is not a government official or a politician.

The fairly well-annotated entry in Wikipedia on the Second Amendment states:

There are several versions of the text of the Second Amendment, each with slight capitalization and punctuation differences, found in the official documents surrounding the adoption of the Bill of Rights.[5] One version was passed by the Congress,[6] while another is found in the copies distributed to the States[7] and then ratified by them.

As passed by the Congress:

A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.

As ratified by the States and authenticated by Thomas Jefferson, Secretary of State:

A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.[8]

The original hand-written copy of the Bill of Rights, approved by the House and Senate, was prepared by scribe William Lambert and resides in the National Archives.

The version passed by the Congress is unclear in its meaning given the placement of the commas. Did William Lambert, in an effort to improve the readability alter the emphasis of the amendment?  Did Congress mean “a free State”, as in the country as a whole?  That would be the presumed reason for the capitalization of “State.” Did the states, given their paranoia about the ability of the federal government to infringe on their rights to bear arms, ratify the second (and mistaken) version only because it seemed to clearly use the word state to mean each individual state and not the union? 

We’ll never know the answer to those questions for certain.  What we do know, however, is that the amendment’s wording has caused differences of interpretation that have only compounded over the ensuing 223 years.  

Today we are divided between those who believe the rights of the individual freedom to own and use firearms are paramount, and those who believe the greater good of the collective population should trump individual rights.  The same division existed in 1789 when the Congress convened to develop the Bill of Rights, and they exist to this day.

 

Other sources consulted:

 http://www.guncite.com/journals/vanalful.html

 http://www.virginiainstitute.org/publications/primer_on_const.php 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Second_Amendment_to_the_United_States_Constitution

Monday, July 23, 2012

There’s That Rock and That Hard Place Again

 

Two twenty-something women went to a trendy new wine bar/restaurant Saturday night.  The popular night spot is the most recent upscale dining option in the commercial district of my Atlanta neighborhood  Sipping wine and eating tapas is a satisfying way to spend an evening.

A little after midnight, the two women left the restaurant.  As they walked north a few blocks a man came out of the shadows, sneaked up behind one of the women and stuck a gun between her shoulder blades.  Her companion, who stated she wasn’t clear as to whether the gunman was looking to steal her friend’s purse or if he planned to abduct the woman, she spoke up – loudly.

Now the gun was pointed at both women’s fronts.  He yelled at the mouthy friend to shut up – that she was next.  He then fired the handgun toward her head.  Luckily, both women had the presence of mind to first fall to the ground and then scramble into a stand of nearby bushes for cover.  The frustrated dirt-bag grabbed the first victim’s purse and escaped into the night.  Before the sun rose on Sunday, the robber had charged $5,000 worth of merchandise to the credit card he found in that purse.

That’s the background.  Here’s the point of this post:

An acquaintance of one of the two victims has told a concerned neighbor that the restaurant asked them not to share their story with the media.  Whether they did or not is unclear, but somebody did because the story was reported this morning on the local news.

Some people are vilifying that restaurant manager for wanting to keep the terrifying incident under wraps.  Just another example of money-hungry business owners putting the best interest of their establishment over the safety and well-being of the people who keep them in business, some are saying.  Others are incensed that there would be any effort to keep the surrounding residents in the dark about something so important for them to know. 

It is really not very difficult to understand what motivates a restaurant manager to make such a request.  If people believe they have a fairly good chance of being robbed at gunpoint or, worse yet, shot, they might choose to stay away from our area in droves.  It is well-known how narrow a margin on which restaurants and wine bars operate.  And once the police had been called and the women were seen safely home, it is only natural to be concerned about the effect such a news story would have on their bottom line.

What would you do?  Should that restaurant manager have asked the young women to keep quiet?

The details of this crime are sketchy, at best.  Even the actual location of the stick-up is currently being mis-reported, according to our neighborhood public safety committee chairman.  But the situation is real enough for the sake of discussion.

Saturday, July 21, 2012

Sans Taxes

 

I woke up one morning out of a deep, coma-like sleep.  Inexplicably, I felt awash in a sense of newness. Foreignness.  Something had changed.  Something was different.

I looked at the calendar—Monday, January 21, 2013.  Oh yes.  Now I remembered.  It was the day after the inauguration of President Romney.  I had stayed up to watch the most boring array of inaugural celebrations in the history of my long life. 

Has-been celebrities were resurrected for the occasion. Pat Boone arrived to sing Love Letters in the Sand.  Anita Bryant sang My Little Corner of the World. A film montage of John Wayne and Charlton Heston was presented by Michelle Bachmann. Sean Hannity served as master of ceremonies at the banquet.

Willard “Mitt” Romney had looked extremely presidential when he took the podium for his swearing in. Hatless, his silver-kissed temples gleamed in the cold sunlight.  He walked with the familiar swagger he had adopted since that fateful day back in October, 2012, when the U.S. Senate voted in concert with the House of Representatives to eliminate every federal tax on the books, effective January 1, 2013.  He had been victorious across the board.

Red state governors had wasted no time following suit and Georgia, my state, was the first to repeal all taxes.  Georgia Tea-Partiers were literally dancing in the pot-holed streets and the 2012 holiday season was the best ever for them.

I slowly shook my head as I stumbled into the bathroom to start my day.  Monday was garbage day, so I needed to get my herbie-curbie out to the street.

Ooops.  Old habits die hard.  I had briefly forgotten that the herbie –curbie was already at the curb, buried in the garbage that had gone uncollected by the City of Atlanta for the past three weeks.  The mayor had been forced to put the Department of Sanitation on a monthly pickup schedule, due to budget constraints. Rats and copperhead snakes were taking up residence amidst the rubble.  Where are those freakin’ coyotes when we need them?

After I walked the dog and ate a light breakfast, I jumped in the car and drove the three blocks to the Senior All-Purpose Center, where I took free cardio dance classes three times a week.  A crowd was forming around the entrance to the building when I turned into the parking lot. They were reading a posted notice:  This facility has been closed by the Fulton County Commission due to an abrupt reduction of funding.  It will remain idle until further notice.

Damn, I thought, I was really enjoying this center – meeting people and staying in shape.  I sure can’t afford to join a real gym…  What’s going to happen to those seniors in the daycare wing?  Some of the people in my exercise class probably won’t eat very well without these $2 hot meals they served here.

Frustrated and defeated, I did the unthinkable and stopped at the Highland Bakery for one of their to-die-for scones.  The familiar clerks behind the counter noticed my unusual cloudy mood, but said nothing.  The surprise came when the price I was used to paying (or overpaying!) had been reduced nearly 50 cents.  No more sales tax.  Well, that was a ray of sunshine.

As I rounded the corner onto my street, visions of my heated scone dancing in my addled head, I noticed three youthful men running from my neighbor’s house, each carrying a piece of expensive electronic equipment.  I grabbed my cell phone and dialed 911.  The phone rang and rang.  Thinking I had made a dialing error, I tried it again.  Still no answer. 

Hmmmm…I wonder if those layoffs the mayor announced last month included 911…what if there was a fire?!?  I’d better go ahead and replace that busted garden hose outside my townhouse.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted one of my ‘grandneighbors’ (that’s what I call the youngsters in the ‘hood I help look after from time to time) It was now about 10:30 a.m.

“Hi, Jordan.  Why aren’t you in school?  Surely the holiday is over this late in January.”

Jordan smiled that blinding white smile of his.

“Haven’t you heard?  The public schools have had to cut classes down to two days a week.  I only have to go on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

Well, I sighed as I thought, I guess they’ve taken their country back.

So, bye-bye, Miss American Pie
Drove my chevy to the levee
But the levee was dry
And them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey and rye
Singin' this'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die

Don McLean

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

What Not to Wear? --Says Who?




    
 Sunny before her makeover
 The new (and improved?) Sunny


Okay, at 28 years of age, Sunny, pictured above, seemed to have gotten stuck in a time warp with Tinkerbell as her stylist.  And, no, it wasn’t Halloween or right before the curtain rose on some bizarre version of the Nutcracker.  The wing-adorned frock on the left was one of Sunny’s everyday ensembles, worn whenever and wherever she chose.

Now I am all about style and fashion.  Anybody who has known me since before that doggone movie premiere I attended last September (2011) is well aware of my obsession with “getting it right” for the judging eyes, my own first and foremost.  And I can only think of one or two of my acquaintances who would truly prefer Sunny’s “before” look to the stylish and polished version she presents in the “after” shot.

Sunny’s fiancé nominated her to be ambushed by TLC’s Stacy and Clinton from their mega-hit TV makeover series What Not to Wear.   Sunny’s episode, which originally aired in 2009, was today’s noontime rerun in our market.  It was the first time I had seen it.

Sunny’s idea of stylish included oversized layers of clothing that looked like she stood under an apartment building and “caught” the castoff closet detritus of every woman inside.  Her makeup consisted of glitter on her eyelids –the kind of glitter art teachers use in kindergarten classes.  Sequins and other sparkly accoutrements on her textiles and clunky hiking shoes that converted to roller skates completed her look.  Oh, and she alternated among five pairs of fairy wings that she affixed to her back using ribbons tied over her shoulders.

I have always felt sorry for the people who are ganged up on by their family and friends and told their style or lack thereof stinks, in front of a national television audience.  Many of those selected are clearly suffering from deep-seated self-esteem issues – some are hiding under ill-fitting or shapeless clothes; some are uncomfortable with attention; some have severe body dysmorphia.

Sunny displayed none of these. She is 5’6” and wears a size 4.  If she had a problem at all, it was the Peter Pan Syndrome.  She is an aspiring actress (read creative) who speaks with a wistful, child-like delivery.  She had no idea people found her choice of apparel weird or inappropriate.  She thought she was universally admired for her individuality and flare. She thought she was stunning.

And when she was ambushed by the show hosts, camera in tow, her feelings of hurt were palpable.  She actually cried when her entire wardrobe was tossed in the trash, to be replaced by a new “acceptable” one worth $5000 of the show’s money.

Her fiancé said he called the show because he was afraid Sunny would show up for their wedding with a pair of wings on her back.  Yet, he apparently fell in love with the costume-wearing woman of his dreams with no problem.

The show hosts criticized the young vegan’s penchant for polyester instead of natural fibers.  Sunny refused to wear silk, wool, leather – anything that came from an animal – even silkworms. So that left cotton.

At the end, Sunny was going along with the program – literally. She went through the haircut she didn’t want, and the makeup she didn’t want and selected clothes she described as “bland.”  She seemed genuinely pleased with the positive attention her transformation garnered, but there was still a hint of real loss in her eyes.

Yes, it is true Sunny is more likely to land movie and TV parts dressed in her new style.  And yes, it is true everybody at her wedding will feel a lot more comfortable with her conforming to the ideals of wedding glamour.  But at what price?

Who wants to bet she wore high-top glitter sneakers under her traditional gown?

Photos from TLC.com

Friday, July 13, 2012

OMINOUS

 
  Sky in Atlanta on a cloudy day low pixels
Danger dressed in black lace
Billowing above the limbs
That will soon become rockets
Landing where they may

Beauty trumps fear
and offers the promise of raindrops
For the crackling landscape
Begging to be slaked

Sky in Atlanta on a cloudy day2 low pixels

Subtle vertigo-inducing Motion
agitates the lace from black to grey
and back again
Assembling for the assault

Thunder portends the curtain's rise
the clouds release the strobes
in jagged streaks that hide and seek
releasing Nature's angst.


Words and images by L in the Southeast
2012

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Flying Solo

eagle-at-the-beach  
This essay was written in response to an editor's open call to answer the question "Why Are You Single?"

I am single because it’s easier.  It’s as simple and as complicated as that.

If I had a dollar for every time someone said to me “Humans aren’t meant to be alone so you need to find a boyfriend/husband,” I might be able  to buy a ticket to Australia.  I’ve wanted to go there for decades.

Two marriages and two wandering husbands have convinced me I am a poor judge of character and probably not a good candidate for until death do us part.  When husband #2 strayed I knew there must be something very wrong with the way I do relationships.

I bear a large part of the blame, if there is a need for blame.  I am bored easily.  Personality quirks in a man seem cute in the beginning but by the end they set my teeth on edge.  Mannerisms wear out their welcome with me and soon make me want to scream.

And then there are the expectations.  Silly me, I thought each time I got married it was because we enjoyed each other’s company and couldn't get enough of it.  Next thing I know, I’m being told he is not responsible for my happiness and I need to make a life of my own, aside from the marriage. 
I’m certainly not an easy partner.  Having a good memory myself, I have little patience for “I can’t remember," especially when the question is something like “who was that on the phone?” or “when is our anniversary?”

I have spent too many decades pretending to be engrossed in football games and learning the names of all the local sports heroes in order to be “conversant.”

Being single is not even close to being new to me.  My last divorce was in 1985.  Since then I have had two semi-serious longish-term relationships.  Their failure to blossom probably has something to do with the way I choose men who are emotionally unavailable.

I learned some things about myself during the twelve years I have been retired.  I’ve grown to view relationships as being more trouble than they are worth.

I’ve learned that I prefer solitude to boring company.

I’ve grown to prefer going to movies and plays alone – no need for talking and answering questions. I still feel self-conscious alone in a restaurant, but I don’t really have money to spend in them anyway.  If I want to eat out, I can always find somebody willing to tag along – especially if I say I’m treating.

I’ve learned that I like freedom from external expectations, be they sexual, emotional or social.  I like the spontaneity being single allows.  For instance, I could stop writing right here in the post and decide I want to ditch cooking and go get Chinese.  I like not having to compromise between buying brand names and buying generics.  I like not having to answer this question: “Is that new?”

I like not having to worry about bodily functions that interfere with co-habitational comfort.

Would a warm body (other than my dog’s) next to me in bed once in a while be okay?  Absolutely.  But at age 67, I still have the nerve to be picky about who I let share my bed.  Guys my age are not as attractive to me as someone younger.  Someone younger who would be attracted to me I view as suspicious. Not too conducive to hooking up, is it?

I’ve never been happier.  I have friends of all ages and neighbors who try to look after me.  I say “try” because I AM an independent old bird who likes to look after myself.  But when I pull stunts like falling on my face in the driveway, I know there will be someone nearby I can count on to get me to the ER.

What’s not to like?

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Is the Military Construct a Greenhouse for Rapists?

 

As often happens, this post was triggered by a post from another blogger.  This time it was Jonathan Wolfman’s Widening Sex-Crimes Scandal @ Air Force Training Command(s).

Power and control are the lifeblood of military life. I know this not from personal experience – I am decidedly unsuited for regimentation of most kinds.  I know this from observations, anecdotes from family members who served in every branch of the U. S. military, and fictional portrayals of military life.

The deplorable crime of rape, say the experts, is also all about power.  It has little if anything to do with the drive for sexual release.  It’s more about humiliation and control.  It’s more about power.

Many years ago I traveled from my home in the San Francisco Bay Area to the U.S. Marine Corps Camp Pendleton to witness my nephew’s graduation from basic training.  The first part of the ceremonies took place inside a gigantic auditorium.  As I waited for the newly minted Marines to march into the assembly hall, I thought about the little boy, only 8 months younger than my own son, who had always been a free spirit with a mind of his own.  His independence was constantly straining against the societal regimentation that required him to eat certain things, play with certain toys, and wear certain clothes.

Back in that Marine Corps hall, I looked frantically in the visual sea of monotony to try to pick my nephew out of the thousands who sat at attention, eyes front, palms on thighs. A sense of dis-ease overwhelmed me, for I share his fierce independence, and this blatant loss of his individuality greatly disturbed me.

His father, who was seated next to my sister, the Marine’s mom, had also been in the Corps.  I remember what happened to him when, during basic training, his teenaged wife, my sister, made the mistake of including one of his favorite peppermint hard candies in a letter to him.  My sister had been beside herself with remorse because the commanding officer (or drill sergeant or whatever they have in the Marines) made a spectacle of the letter and its contents by burying the candy in a pile of sand, forcing my brother-in-law to dig it out of the pile with his bare hands and eat the candy, sand, wrapper and all.

They tear us down first so they can build a man in the shoes a boy once stood.  That was his explanation.

The power of the chain of command was absolute.  The control over the new recruits was absolute – when to sleep, when to eat, when to eliminate their body wastes.

From the outside looking in, I have never had a sense that mental health was a priority in the military.  In fact, some of the characteristics found in the profile of a rapist, according to forensic psychologists and police profilers, are traits that tend to be rewarded in the military, at least for those in leadership positions.

Take a look at the description of a category of rapist called Power Assertive in a report  on the website Forensics Talk:

The Power Assertive rapist has an extreme sense of superiority and entitlement. He will rape women simply because he can. For him, rape is a way of validating his masculinity. This is what men do, according to him. ... He is usually athletic, exercises often, likes a sense of style; dresses flashy and drives a flashy car, and is loud and boisterous. He likes the macho image. He wants to be known as a "man's man".

   His psycho-social background will usually include a history of domestic problems and multiple divorces. He will probably work in a male dominated field like construction or police work. Unlike the peeping Tom type of rapist, this guy will haunt the singles bars where he can have plenty of females to pick from. He will use the con approach, getting to know his victim, then offering to give her a ride home or walking her to her car. He will usually rape away from where he lives or works.

   His fists will be his weapon. He will use a moderate level of force, if the victim resists, and will assault the same victim repeatedly. He could care less about the comfort and well being of his victim. He may assault the victim vaginally, then anally, then force her to perform fellatio(classic technique). He will attack with both verbal and physical violence, committing a very brutal attack, although he doesn't intend to kill. He may slap, hit, curse, and tear clothes.

He will attack most often in the early evening hours, between 7;00pm and 1:00am, and tends to commit the rapes in a 20-25 day pattern. He picks women of his own race and age group. His motive is control and domination of "the weaker sex". He's very arrogant and doesn't try to hide his identity. There is no apology afterwards, nor will he attempt to contact the victim later. He keeps no souvenirs and doesn't keep a diary.

Among all rapists, the Power Assertive type represents anywhere from 12 -44% – I have seen conflicting estimates; most have been on the higher end.  But given the profile of the Power Assertive rapist, and given the culture of the military in general, is it reasonable to guess that percentage would increase in the ranks of the military? 

The subject of Jonathan Wolfman’s post today happened to be rapes that have been alleged by female U.S.Air Force trainees.  There is no reason for me to believe there would be any less number of allegations based in fact in the Army, Navy, Coast Guard  or Marine Corps. 

If one of those Power Assertive airmen were to target another male subordinate – and that happens since rape has nothing to do with sexual desire or preference – he would run the risk of being (wrongly) labeled “gay,” a fate worse than death for some homophobic members of the armed services.  That leaves the usually more physically vulnerable female who is a captive and subordinated prey.

It would appear it is going to take more than vigilance, training and increased prosecution of offenders to protect our countries female service members.  Nothing short of a complete revamping of the military culture will make a dent in the problem.