The Kalmyck Mongolian Buddhist Brotherhood Society of America is honored to announce a public talk by His Holiness, the 14th Dalai Lama of Tibet, “Buddhism in the 21st Century.” … We welcome His Holiness to share with us his compassion, love and wisdom.

To some, the Dalai Lama may represent the moral equivalent of the pope, in terms of his popularity, influence and sanctity among a particular segment of the religious world. Wouldn’t I want at least temporarily to be part of that historical moment?

And so I, the Buddhist wannabe, debated going or not going, I really did. I struggled with the idea of paying more to see him than I’d pay for my adored once-and-future therapist “Dr Briggs,” not her real name, or my beloved once-and-future personal psychic “Sforza Destino,” not his real name either, or perhaps, well, Leonard Cohen or Bob Dylan or maybe The Fine Young Cannibals or even Huey Lewis and the News – and I felt way guilty.

Nevertheless, I actually hightailed it over to the Kimmel box office the beginning of the week – first time I ever dared venture inside that building, with its awful gentrifying impact on my once-quiet neighborhood – but alas they were “sold out.” I even entered a Buddhist lottery to get a free ticket for the Dalai Lama’s talk. Needless to say, I didn’t win. Obviously, “The Universe” did not intend for me to see him live.

Unless I could view the simultaneous streaming video on the Internet. And so I attempted to sign up for that. But first, an instant online test to see if your computer was capable of receiving streaming video. Alas, my computer, with its arcane dial-up connection, was found technologically wanting.

Oh, well. Life goes on.

Around dinnertime, after his midday appearance without me, I pass by the Kimmel and, in the distance, I see demonstrators parading up and down Broad Street. Rushing to an appointment, I couldn’t check it out. But, apparently, a dissident Buddhist sect was protesting the Dalai Lama. Imagine that!

Later, I see PR Web: “The Western Shugden Society (WSS) along with hundreds of Tibetan and Western monks, nuns and others will be protesting the Dalai Lama outside the Kimmel Center this Wednesday, 11:30 a.m.-4 p.m. The protesters who have traveled from over 18 different countries hope to shed light on a wealth of evidence and firsthand testimony available showing the Dalai Lama’s current and aggressive acts of religious persecution through ban on a 400-year-old mainstream prayer to the Buddhist Deity Dorje Shugden, including a campaign of forced segregation and denial of basic human rights such as food and medical treatment. The protesters will be greeting the Dalai Lama and the 2,000 others attending his public talk with colorful banners and loud persistent chants.”

About the demonstration, veteran Washington political savant “Fordham McNedrick,” not his real name, observed: “I have a feeling the Lama is well-connected to U.S. intelligence. Though I have little sympathy for the Chinese government, a Stalinist monstrosity in every sense.”

That same evening, I hear from someone who actually was there: “I saw the Dalai Lama today, who was not encouraging non-Buddhists to follow the path. I was very excited about his message of world peace. …”

Then, over the following weekend, I bump into an old meditation friend, who informs me she had the same reaction – not wanting to pay $75 for a ticket. Despite having a car, “Alice,” not her real name, took a bus halfway across town after reading in a newsletter how “about 40 very good tickets will go on sale Tuesday 7/8 [for $25 at a small grocery store in the Fairmount section of the city].”

When “Alice” got there, despite her having just confirmed by phone that she was coming over to purchase a pair of tickets, the fellow had sold them out from under her to someone else.

What a mad scramble for crumbs. Very spiritual, indeed.

Oh, no, Mr. Bill!

And when I purchase my usual store-brand bargain roll of, pardon the expression, CVS toilet tissue, I see they’ve repackaged it in a de rigeur green-and-brown wrapper, now proclaiming this product ‘s environmental friendliness. How thrilling – um, going to the bathroom’s designated an officially sanctioned planet-saving activity?

If anyone could give ecology a bad name, it’s CVS.

Then, over breakfast, I notice a review of a local art gallery trumpeting its latest group show – recycled objects – with a sculptor whose mostly mediocre work has been largely ignored forever suddenly grabbing the spotlight for his “green” creations.

Bo-ring!

Actually, didn’t Dada’s daddy, artist Marcel Duchamp, already invent using “found objects” – readymades – nearly 100 years ago, like back in the early 20th century?

Supposedly, around 1915 Duchamp coined the term readymade to describe his found art, ranging from such recontextualized objects as a bicycle wheel, to bottle-drying rack, and even a urinal.

The old shall become “new” – with a vengeance.

Lately, like some holier-than-everyone-else St Peter at the Gate, Al Gore infests my nightmares, dispensing instant critique my carbon footprint is too large, while he flits about the country in his personal private jet after driving to the corner in his gas-guzzling SUV. Oh, sorry, that’s the Bush-Wah Crime Family?

Excuse me, but isn’t all this environmental correctness becoming … a convenient marketing ploy?

I mean, besides being an entire burgeoning industry, it’s threatening to become the New Tyranny – although much of it’s really been done before.

Thirty years ago, Philadelphia’s Academy of Natural Sciences showcased visionary ecology exhibits. Twenty years ago, my friend Margaret, a brilliant character actress, drama teacher and comedic performance artist, pranced and pirouetted around onstage wearing edgy fashions cannily crafted from trash-bags, using street theater to encourage folks to recycle and use trash cans via municipally funded performances in various city neighborhoods. Swathed in plastic, Margaret was way ahead of her time, the Queen of Green.

Quite presciently, Margaret and her husband relocated to rural West Virginia more than a decade ago, moving into a nifty farmhouse on a rolling plot of land complete with minnow pond and live deer. Really, she’s been a pioneer in simple, basic, back-to- nature Conscious Living.

Speaking of which, one of my favorite movies ever is French avant-garde film director Agnes Varda’s amazing, intimate and picaresque 2000 documentary, “The Gleaners and I.”

Varda’s aesthetic, political and moral point of departure is “Les Glaneurs,” the famed 1857 Millet painting of peasants picking up after the harvest and scouring newly reaped fields for leftover food. In its glorious unpredictability, her film traces this centuries-old proletarian practice of gleaning – how the poor pick up what others leave behind – grain, turnips, potatoes, grapes, etc. – and ingeniously comes full circle to the present, exploring such related contemporary practices as “dumpster diving” and “freeganism,” with their implications for planetary survival.

These days, going green’s the newest obligatory lifestyle and, I fear, yet another oppressive form of political correctness. I get the feeling if the late Shirley Jackson were writing her chilling short story “The Lottery” today, she’d have the crazed villagers stone miscreants to death for not recycling! It’s gotten that bad.

Whenever an ideology becomes the smothering norm, I wanna go in the opposite direction. I guess it’s the cranky contrarian, or curmudgeonette, in me. Hey, how can I reduce my carbon footprint any further? I already don’t own or drive a car. I choose to live without air conditioning. My wardrobe’s from thrift shops. My shoe size is six-and-a-half. Doesn’t that count in my favor?

Sometimes all this foofaraw brings out my Inner Republican. Climate change and global warming? Whiny liberal myths! Besides, what’s so great about penguins and polar bears, anyhow? We’ll clone ‘em and be done with it! So the glaciers are melting? Prove it! The Kyoto Protocol’s for wusses! My corporation can take over your corporation! Oil dependence? Makes the world go round! Down with “Sustainable” and “Renewable”! Eventual collapse of civilization’s systems and societies is inevitable! Let’s just pollute the planet ad infinitum, deplete our natural resources, exterminate the poor, gobble up the food supply, obliterate intelligent life as we know it, and then begin anew someplace else. Littering on Mars? Pollution on Pluto? What an investment opportunity! Mergers and acquisitions, here we come!

Attaboy! Go gettum!

Not that I’ve ever been a Springsteen fan – heresy, huh? – but growing up in New Jersey, I often passed Madame Marie’s Temple of Knowledge shack near the beach.

Asbury Park was once the palatial summer destination favored by presidents and potentates. Living there as a little girl, the place was paradise to me. My family moved away before Asbury’s sad 20th century decline.

Best-selling author David Morrell nails the faded resort’s iconic allure: “Asbury Park always fascinated me because it seemed a small version of America. It began with religious ideals, progressed to a huge casino and finally collapsed from natural disasters and riots that underscored the weakness in the culture. The city – now making a comeback – fascinated me enough that I set ‘Creepers’ there. The novel has a couple of pages about the city’s doomed history,” he emails me.

His remarks amplify a previous comment of his from Bookreporter:

I’m intrigued by [Asbury Park's] failed hopes – the collapse of the American Dream. It’s almost mythic. Asbury Park was founded in the 1870s as a bastion of Methodism, but 30 years later, there was a huge gambling casino at the end of a half-mile boardwalk. In an amazing contrast, the town became known as the crown jewel of resorts on the eastern seaboard. A fire in the 1920s destroyed the resort area, and they rebuilt. In 1944, a hurricane destroyed the resort area, and they rebuilt. But how many times can you have the strength to keep going? By the 1960s, the place was a haven for bikers, street musicians, hippies, and drug dealers. A riot in 1970 destroyed the resort area, but this time it wasn’t rebuilt. Bruce Springsteen played in some of the remaining bars, and his early songs about desperation and needing to head down the road are emblematic of the emotions of Asbury Park. Today, despite repeated attempts to refurbish the area, it looks like bombed-out Bosnia.

Those sentiments and Madame Marie’s passing got me thinking – why not a new American Revolution?

“In 1776 a bunch of rag-tag farmers and small businessmen set out to defeat the world’s number-one superpower – and succeeded! May the will of the people of these United States remain so steadfast and dear. May we never forget how fragile our government and way of life truly are,” observes Michigan attorney-author Michael Cort.

Then Rep. Dennis Kucinich – a rare voice of sanity and integrity in Washington, D.C., – e-mails this stirring Independence Day message: “Two hundred and thirty-two years ago, our nation was conceived in liberty. We have once again reached a moment of truth, one Lincoln recognized at Gettysburg – whether ‘this nation or any nation so conceived or so dedicated can long endure.’ Through the ashes of the civil war, Lincoln prayed ‘this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom … and that government of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from the earth.’ “

Kucinich’s sense of urgency builds:

“This Fourth of July 2008 we face a different kind of war, trying our souls. This war’s based on lies. But with the power of truth and the power of the people we can achieve a new birth of freedom, standing up for what’s good in America, insisting on the rule of law, demanding adherence to the Constitution, and supporting the impeachment of a president who lied to take us into a war against Iraq. Please go to my website and sign the petition, which calls for impeachment. Please circulate word of this petition far and wide, to all your friends and family. It’s the one opportunity we have right now to actually change events in this country.”

Kucinich calls on each of us to “be the answer to Lincoln’s Prayer” and help support “restoring the rule of law in America. … As we once again celebrate our Independence as a nation, let’s celebrate freedom from fear and pledge our ‘government of the people’ will survive in this land we love. So let’s demand all those who have taken an oath to defend our Constitution keep their promise and protect our nation from the threat within.”

And you don’t need Madame Marie’s crystal ball to see how dangerous doing nothing is, either.

Still not sure what I’m talking about? C’mon, you’ve seen the headlines!

But I beg to differ. Embodying strength and tenacity, “Lord Hanuman” is one of the most popular deities in the Hindu pantheon. Actually, the monkey god “Lord Hanuman” is a mighty ape, and since apes just were extended “rights to life and freedom” in Spain, why not call his representation a statue rather than an idol? It’s nicer!

Temples dedicated to Hanuman are among the most common public shrines in India. Considered an avatar of Lord Shiva, Hanuman’s worshipped as a symbol of physical strength, perseverance and devotion – entirely appropriate for a presidential election year, doncha think?

During times of trouble, Hanuman’s devotees chant his name, sing his hymn, “Hanuman Chalisa,” and proclaim “victory to thy thunderbolt strength.” Annually, on sunrise of a full moon in April, the celebration “Hanuman Jayanti” commemorates the birth of Hanuman. Saturdays and Tuesdays are fast-days for his Hindu followers.

Besides being one of the most popular gods in Hinduism, Hanuman is also one of the most important personalities in the Indian epic scripture, “The Ramayana.” Supposedly, Hanuman’s most famous feat therein was leading a monkey army to fight a demon king and rescue a kidnapped princess.

In modern times, various prophets, including the revered miracle-maker Sri Sathya Sai Baba of India, have claimed to see Hanuman. Others have also asserted his presence wherever “The Ramayana” is read in its original Sanskrit, rather than transliterated.

Yatra Yatra Raghunath Kirtanam
Tatra Tatra Krita Mastaka anjalim
Bashpawari Pari purna lochanam/Marutim nammascha rakshas antakam.”

Which means:

That wherever the deeds of Sri Rama are sung,
At all such places does Hanuman cry tears of devotion and joy,
At all such places does his presence remove the fear of demons.

Often, Lord Hanuman is celebrated in many of the wildly mesmerizing kirtans, or yogic devotional chants, performed by Krishna Das, an American originally from Long Island and born Jeffrey Kagel, who has been singing the “Hanuman Chalisa” for more than 30 years now.

Certainly, a powerful symbolic figure such as Hanuman would seem to have special inspirational appeal to an unusual political candidate such as Barack Obama.

Legend has it, Hanuman was mischievous in childhood and sometimes teased the meditating sages who found his antics unbearable. Realizing Hanuman was merely a child – although invincible – the sages placed a slight curse on him. By this curse Hanuman forgot his own prowess and recollected it only when others reminded him of his stupendous skills.

And the complex symbolism could be even more resonant for Barack Obama. According to Wikipedia:

The monkey symbolism of Lord Hanuman is related to the notion that a human being’s mind is ever active and never restful, hence the depiction of a human being with the face of a monkey. Furthermore, Lord Hanuman symbolically stands for pure devotion, complete surrender and absence of ego or the lower self. … Symbolically he also stands for the subtle body consisting of the breath body, the mental body and the intelligence body. … Once … the mind becomes devoted unconditionally, the mind can [also] obtain miraculous powers and perform amazing feats like that of Lord Hanuman.

Have we finally found the perfect next leader-to-be?

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Nay, it’s nearly unimaginable. Unless perhaps the Bushling was actually swayed by the pope’s mesmerizing hospitality – the pontiff leading a pie-eyed GWB to the Vatican’s heavenly inner sanctum, then showing him the secret shrine, holiest of holies, illuminated by acres of gleaming gold.

Can you spell G-E-N-U-F-L-E-C-T?

And yet, one may wonder about the hapless-cum-hopeless leader of the free, and not-so-free world – is Bush 43 indeed already soulless as well, and facing certain eternal damnation, as his most vitriolic political enemies would suggest? Or is he merely planning to secure his perpetual place in the afterlife now that his catastrophic White House career’s rapidly spinning to a close?

Hard to say.

Although I was under the impression Bush-Wah’s already compelled to exclusively kissing ONLY Dick Cheney’s ring – rumored much larger and even more spectacular than the pope’s – I personally know how powerful a force Catholic Envy can be, since I grew up that way myself in New Jersey, yearning to trade my Jewish guilt for after-school Catechism lessons.

Recently, “Jake the computer-repair guy,” not his real name, induced me to accompany him to a Latin Mass in the Philadelphia suburbs before he would even consent to fix my laptop’s broken printer. Every Sunday, “Jake” still attends Mass, despite the sex scandals. He’s a true loyalist. Lately, he had discovered a breakaway neo-traditionalist Catholic Church in a bleakly working-class Pennsylvania town.

What could I do but say yes? I really wanted my printer fixed, and besides, I didn’t mind church every once in a while – there was a spiritual space in my schedule.

To be totally truthful, I confess I was once really in love with the idea of becoming Catholic as a kid. I actually read “The Song of Bernadette” through twice and wanted to be the first Jewish nun – well, at least the first Jewish nun from my hometown. Later on, after college, I was baptized Catholic at a party. Don’t ask!

But compared to Reform Judaism’s dictate when you die you “go with God” – far too vague, flimsy and insubstantial for my tastes – Catholicism seemed to me at that stage of my life like unit pricing at the supermarket, specific and direct. I always said I wanted to know not just the neighborhood but the street name, the address and yes, the house number.

Anyway, Jake shows up on my doorstep at 8:30 a.m. and we’re off. It’s just a short drive out past the airport into some slightly industrial terrain. “I have to warn you. People around here are weird. See, you know we’re in weird country. Look. Political signs for Ron Paul,” he says, pulling into the church parking lot. I shrugged. To me, Ron Paul’s libertarian political views really aren’t weird at all. Not that I’m a libertarian. Me, if I leaned any further left, I’d fall over.

As we exit Jake’s car, he hands me a Kleenex tissue. “Here. I forgot to mention. When we get inside, women must cover their heads.” I forswear the proffered tissue, instead draping my teal-blue chenille scarf over my head as we enter the front doors of the small plain pointy Gothic structure, its vaulted ceiling of exposed beams.

We’re ushered to our seats. Most of the congregants are families, mothers and fathers and children, all spiffed up in their simple Sunday best. The Mass seems endless. There’s frequent kneeling, standing and sitting on cue, lots of up-and-down – hitting home the notion of submitting to the will of the Lord. I can’t say the priest gave much of a sermon. At a certain point, my spine stiffens to hear him mention “the Jews” in a pejorative way. Although it makes me uncomfortable, no one else seems to notice.

Afterwards, you can buy coffee or tea, doughnuts, hot dogs, fresh diced tomato salad, roast chicken legs, in another part of the building. I make Jake get me a doughnut, and since I almost never eat one, it’s nearly a religious experience.

Now I almost understand why my old Catholic friend, “Krasinska,” not her real name, once converted to Judaism supposedly so she could play Mah-Jongg. Will Bush-Wah do the same for a steady supply of superior – and possibly sacred – doughnuts? Ya never know.

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I mean, both of THEM supposedly were in attendance at Bilderberg! The nerve! Here they pretend to be an alternative to the corrupt crew currently in power, yet they’re kowtowing to the same old cabal?

Now it occurs to me the person we should really be concerned about is McCain’s future running mate, whoever that may be. Wouldn’t it be interesting if he picked Condi Rice – Hillary and Obama rolled into one! Talk about yer Dream Ticket! Although I doubt McCain’d be that avant-garde. But if he were, the Repugs would sure give the Dumb-O-Craps a run for their money and trump, or is it trounce, whatever edge having an alternative candidate presents.

Meanwhile, my working-class friend “Cecily-Marie,” not her real name, is foaming at the mouth about Hillary’s departure, ah, “betrayal.” “Despite more than 18 million votes, she was outfoxed by his slick Chicago politics,” she fumes about her idol’s “defeat,” then uses the H-word: “This campaign’s been hijacked.”

Hey, in case she hasn’t noticed, this country was hijacked several elections ago.

Her grief – mixed with anger and rage – at her heroine’s momentary political demise, pours out like lava over the lost city of Pompeii. She blames an anti-Clinton media agenda, political fixes, maybe even “destiny.”

“I saw Carville turn to Donna Brasile on television and say, ‘It was that Robert Kennedy comment, I know it was,’” “Cecily-Marie” seethes. “Well, I say, it’s time for America to get over its hypersensitivity about its history of assassination. Hillary was merely stating a fact.”

Oh, really?

As I listen to my friend rave on and on, it occurs to me she seems to be demonstrating the same dogmatic “True Believer” mentality as, well, religious fundamentalists. How can I tell her it’s folly to assume everyone she speaks to agrees with her? Although feelings are not facts, and opinions are not scientific formulae, there’s no way I can convince her.

Nevertheless, I try.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” I gently suggest, “Politics may be the New Religion? We have dogma, true believers, one true church, crusades, infidels. Just think about it.”

Hmmm, she says, not getting my point.

And, if Politics = the New Religion, I continue, then maybe a little Tolerance would go a long way.

Instead of easing up, she rails on. Even the Democratic Party doesn’t escape her blistering criticism, although she does praise Pennsylvania’s Gov. Rendell, former DNC head, for being a Clinton loyalist. “At least Eddie stayed in Hillary’s corner until the end. I wrote him to thank him for that.”

Oh, Rendell, THAT Great American, I shrug.

Eventually she hangs up, her outrage temporarily slaked, and I return to my own thoughts. Ultimately, I suspect McCain will select some awful right-winger like, you should pardon the expression, Mitt Romney or even worse, some stealth PNAC-er. Evil incarnate all over again.

Anyway, that’s who we should be watching – Mc Cain’s prospective running mate – because, in Hillary-speak, that’s the person who will take over in case something bad happens to McCain since he’s the Methuselah of American presidential aspirants and most people are already dead when they reach his age.

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Someone else I know slightly – a local photographer/professor/poet/ex-priest – recalled how his father always had a martini every day of his life, until he was hospitalized during his final illness. And so, out of love and compassion, the son brought his semi-comatose father a last martini in the hospital, smuggled past the nurses and attendants, in a small screw-top aluminum film container.

He gently gave it to his father who, even in a semi-conscious state, slurped it up with relish, then died the next day. So, instead of the awful death-rattle of Cheyne-Stokes breathing, my friend has this poignant memory of his father’s ultimate moment of pleasure.

And then there’s this riveting father-son correspondence a reader sent me:

Dad, first of all I want to say I am sorry for the hurt you feel as well as the way I ignored your calls over the past couple weeks. That was wrong of me.

Dad, this relationship is not what I imagined a father/son relationship to be. So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to give you a list of things I cannot handle as topics of conversation.

Do not blame me for problems in your life. Your life is your life – where you are at is a product of the way you have run it.

I don’t want to hear how the world screwed you. I don’t want to hear how everybody else is the problem and you have nothing to change.

I don’t want to talk about your 25 years of marriage with Mom. That’s in the past and that was your relationship with her. I’m only a product of it.

I don’t want to talk about your problems with [my sister] or with Mom – that’s not our relationship. Our relationship exist between you and me.

I don’t want to hear about how you have been abandoned by everybody.

I don’t want to talk about your problems – if things are not going well just simply tell me things are not going well.

I don’t want to you to lecture me, on anything. I need the freedom to ask questions as I need to and give feedback on what you have presented to me.

I don’t want you to tell me how I should be living my life. You have your life; I have mine. Neither of us should be telling the other what to do, only offering our thoughts when asked.

I don’t want you to ridicule me for my college years, I don’t want to hear that [X College] was a bad choice, I don’t want to hear how if I had listened you would have told me to go to [X State] and things would have been perfect. I also don’t want to hear how I should have graduated in three years.

I don’t want you to tell me what I should become or the profession to go into. I want to explore and see where I end up, that’s part of me becoming my own man.

I don’t want advice on the type of women I should be interested in or how I should conduct my romantic life – if I have a question I will ask you.

I don’t want you to tell me I am going to be a failure and end up in the same boat you are. I have too much life between now and 50, and I am a different human being, so let’s not throw out false prophecies.

I don’t want you to compare my relationship with you to your relationship with Grandpa – they are very different relationships and you and I are not the same person. Please don’t expect me to treat you the way you treated Grandpa. I’m not going to do tricks for your love – that’s not love.

Finally, Dad, I want you to know if you [disregard] these boundaries, that will inhibit our ability to have a healthy relationship. The consequences … will include decreased frequency in our interactions as well as less depth.

I want to be able to add other things to this list.

I want you to have the freedom to come up with a list of things you don’t want to talk about, if you need to.

I want you to be free to call me and me free to call you.

Amazing, no?

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Inside, a solitary workman’s polishing the floor. Outside, it’s a gorgeous summery Sunday afternoon. The birds are singing. The sun is shining. You’ve just returned from a scrumptious brunch with a dear activist friend freshly back from Italy, so your mind is, understandably, preoccupied with pleasanter things.

On the Global Catastrophe Scale, this has to be a minor disruption. But a disruption it is. During the ensuing weeks, you forget about this small puzzling urban mystery until your cat playfully plunks down upon you one morning, waking you, and thus you are reminded to call the veterinarian’s office and find out what’s up.

A tape-recorded message featuring the exotic and way-literary Euro-accent of the clinic’s Russian émigré former receptionist, let’s call her “Sofia,” matter-of-factly informs you “THE OFFICE IS CLOSED,” and if you wish your pet’s medical records, please state the animal’s name, your name, address, and phone number clearly, spelling out any necessary words. Her crisp tones betray no emotion.

Frankly, I am stunned.

My first thought: Did the vet pass away? Certainly a strong possibility. One, he’s mortal. Two, he’s middle-aged. But no. A few days later, a friend of his would answer the animal clinic phone, again promising to send former clients their pets’ medical histories and any pending prescriptions. Supposedly, “Dr. X” went on to bigger and better things career-wise, becoming a celebrity pet vet for an aquarium and a science museum. So don’t weep for him, Argentina.

But what did his departure really mean? It didn’t make sense. He didn’t notify any of us clients, not even a postcard. It felt like he abandoned his practice. Wasn’t it a betrayal of our trust? Didn’t he care about, well, continuity of care? Eventually, more of the story emerges: news of the tragic death of his vet tech, an unfortunate development probably precipitating profound grief and sadness among the remaining staff, making it impossible to go on.

Now where will you get your animal’s array of obligatory shots and those 20-pound bags of his specially prescribed food? And what will you do if your pet, heaven forbid, gets sick? Certainly, the other nearby veterinarians aren’t very inspiring. Supposedly, one kicked a dog to death before he himself expired. Two others are “not accepting any new clients” – what are they running, a hair salon or an underwear boutique? One watched an overexcited kitten choke to death on the examination table without so much as raising a hand.

Alas, I find my old vet irreplaceable. While not exactly holistic, he was secure and accommodating, meaning he didn’t freak out if you eschewed strong pharmaceuticals for your pet. And although he rarely used it, he did know animal acupuncture. I mourn his closing. Oh, there are other vets, you say. Sure, double-billing you, hanging up on you, overmedicating your cat and blithely charging $500 for a half-hour hello, while they barely recall who your spectacularly precious pet is despite his unique array of symptoms.

Sometimes in a moment of reflection, I’ll slip into a rather reckless Dan Savage-meets-Rick Santorum kind of mood. And what I secretly wonder about is this: When will they legalize civil unions between people and their pets? No, I’m not one of those bestiality nuts. Get that right out of your head this minute. I don’t mind sleeping with my pets, but in this case, sleeping means just that, sleeping. Only last night I was reading Desmond Morris’ “Catwatching,” to discover why cats purr, why they play with their prey and other such cosmic curiosities of feline existence.

Meanwhile, seeking warmth for his creaky bones, my cat has taken to sitting on the keyboard of my laptop. What have these Kitten-on-the-Keys moments accomplished? Already he’s deleted the backup file for my Final Draft screenwriting-format software. If that’s not an editorial decision, I don’t know what is.

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Where’s the respect? What’s next, an equine glue factory?

Whatever were they thinking? Not only is this a disservice to our country, our brave fallen soldiers and our beloved animal companions, it’s repugnant and shocking. Hard to believe this policy persisted for nearly a decade! According to WaPo staff writer Ann Scott Tyson, “The U.S. military has, since 2001, cremated some of the remains of American service members killed in Iraq, Afghanistan and elsewhere at a Delaware facility that also cremates pets, a practice that ended yesterday [May 9] when the Pentagon banned the arrangement.”

How much further will the rulers of this allegedly great country of ours stray from any modicum of humanity?

Memorial Day, observed on the last Monday in May in the United States to honor our war dead, originally began as Decoration Day after the Civil War when Americans began decorating the graves of fallen soldiers with flowers.

Supposedly, Gen. John A. Logan designated May 30, 1868, “as a day for … decorating the graves of comrades who died in defense of their country, and whose bodies now lie in almost every city, village, or hamlet churchyard in the land. … It is the purpose of the commander in chief to inaugurate this observance with the hope it’s kept from year to year while a survivor of the war remains to honor the memory of the departed.”

What better way to “honor the memory of the departed” now than IMMEDIATELY ceasing all military operations in Iraq and bringing our troops home?

How many years ago did the Bushling, America’s Putative Presi-Dunk, actually declare the “war” in Iraq officially “over”? Since “Mission Accomplished” was proclaimed back on May 1, 2003, we’ve had more than 3,938 U.S. war dead.

This is obscene.

So far, nearly 4,100 dead Americans – a constantly soaring statistic, plus multitudes of innocent Iraqi non-combatants, women and children. If you’re counting: 1.2 MILLION estimated Iraqi deaths due to the U.S. invasion.

Which begs the question, if more lawmakers’ sons and daughters fought and, well, died in these mostly pointless wars, would the oil-thirsty neocon junta that hijacked the USA be so eager to enter these futile battles?

I’ll never forget that famous scene in Michael Moore’s unjustly maligned documentary masterpiece, “Fahrenheit 451,” where the controversial filmmaker stands on a street corner in the nation’s capital, seeking passing members of Congress with offspring serving in Iraq.

Zilch!

Otherwise, the Great American Pull-Out probably would have already begun.

Indeed, Rep. Dennis Kucinich has long urged the U.S. devise a plan for withdrawal from Iraq. Back on Jan. 8, 2007, he unveiled his comprehensive exit strategy to bring the troops home and stabilize Iraq. The U.S. would:

• End the occupation, close its military bases and withdraw.
• Use existing funds to bring the troops and the necessary equipment home.
• Order a simultaneous return of all U.S. contractors to the United States and turn over this contracting work to the Iraqi government.
• Convene a regional conference for the purpose of developing a security and stabilization force for Iraq.
• Prepare an international security peacekeeping force to move in, replacing U.S. troops, who then return home.
• Develop and fund a process of national reconciliation.
• Restart programs for reconstruction and creating jobs for the Iraqi people.
• Provide reparations for the damage done to the lives of Iraqis.
• Assure the political sovereignty of Iraq and ensure their oil isn’t stolen.
• Repair the Iraqi economy.
• Guarantee economic sovereignty for Iraq.
• Begin an international truth and reconciliation process between the people of the United States and Iraq.

What kind of respect have we shown our Iraq war dead by processing their corpses in a pet-packing plant? Um, besides our own unbelievably vile Darth Vader, Vice President Dick Cheney, shrugging off their deaths by his criminally disingenuous assertion the 4,000-plus US war dead had, well, volunteered.

That’s what I love about Repug-Nicans. They’re so big on individual personal responsibility – that is, among the rest of us citizens – so it’s never the PresiDunce’s fault. Who will be to blame if Congress funds the war again through 2009?

US!

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Prostate cancer is now the most common cancer in American men, besides skin cancers: “The American Cancer Society estimates that during 2008 about 186,320 new cases of prostate cancer will be diagnosed in the United States. About 1 man in 6 will be diagnosed with prostate cancer during his lifetime, but only 1 man in 35 will die of it. More than 2 million men in the United States who have been diagnosed with prostate cancer at some point are still alive today. … According to the most recent data, for all men with prostate cancer, the relative 10-year survival rate is 91 percent and the 15-year survival rate is 76 percent.”

Unfortunately, the “cutting edge” of prostate cancer treatment – the bloodless, vaguely sci-fi “gamma knife” you’ve seen advertised by some medical centers – is still considered too experimental to qualify for health-insurance reimbursement, so at this point it’s limited to wealthy patients not worried about their wallets.

Because Dick’s prostate cancer was discovered only in one sector at a relatively early stage with a moderately elevated PSA, he decided to have implantation of radioactive “seeds” – Brachytherapy – rather than radical surgery.

In Dick’s case, besides CAT scans and bone scans, he also needed to undergo several other preliminary minor surgical procedures first, culminating in the dreaded unpleasantness of catheterization accompanied by an extra added bonus of visiting nurses.

Wait – don’t forget to mention the hormones! Because testosterone has been implicated in possibly triggering prostate cancer, some treatments seek to neutralize that mechanism. And so Dick would also receive female hormone shots and female hormone pills – which, his urologist warned him, might bring hot flashes, enlarged breasts, weight gain, possible mood swings, and no interest in sex whatever. “It won’t even cross your mind,” the doctor declared, but Dick wasn’t convinced.

As for Jane, she jokes she was waiting for Dick to show up in a dress.

But what the doctor didn’t mention was Dick would become … a changed man. Suddenly, this tough, handsome guy started crying at happy-sad TV shows. He developed a craving for chocolate, going shopping and even chick flicks. Weird, huh? For Jane, it was almost like having a new girlfriend.

Amazingly enough, most hospitals really don’t seem to counsel men about what it will be like – what they’re actually facing emotionally, let alone physically. Ultimately, whatever the choice of treatment in prostate cancer, the upshot seems to be incontinence and impotence, one way or another. So, no matter which direction the treatment takes – coping with this situation even temporarily – a couple’s relationship will definitely change.

Jane knows theirs has.

Hey, she points out, has anyone else ever noticed something like this? As soon as Dick’s hormone treatment stops, within just a few weeks he’s back to being the cranky old man she knows and loves. Yet during the female hormone-bombardment phase, he was so sweet, even meek.

Pleased with his progress, Dick’s physician has given him a stash of “little blue pills” for special occasions when he’s back in the mood again, which Jane hopes will be soon! All he must do is remember not to take them within several hours of his blood-pressure meds. That is, if he remembers to take the herb gingko biloba for his memory first!

Meanwhile, Jane’s challenge is being totally supportive of Dick in his chosen treatment, whatever direction it takes. Thankfully, his prognosis is very positive. As the American Cancer Society says, “More than 9 out of 10 prostate cancers are found in the local and regional stages (local means it is still confined to the prostate; regional means it has spread from the prostate to nearby areas, but not to distant sites, such as bone). When compared to men the same age and race who do not have cancer (called relative survival), the five-year relative survival rate for these men is nearly 100 percent.”

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