The past year has been a growing time for my little man. We'll miss the First Grade; he did some good things there. But next year will be a new challenge and a new class, but the same bold little guy. So let's go, Peeper; I love you, man.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Rhino
It's the "Last Week of School" here in Portland, which means that any attempt at real teaching and learning has stopped and it's pure fun time.This is the big finish from the 1st Grade play, "Anansi and the Moss-covered Rock". Peep was one of the Rhino Brothers, and his Mango Tango was utterly kick-ass.
The past year has been a growing time for my little man. We'll miss the First Grade; he did some good things there. But next year will be a new challenge and a new class, but the same bold little guy. So let's go, Peeper; I love you, man.
The past year has been a growing time for my little man. We'll miss the First Grade; he did some good things there. But next year will be a new challenge and a new class, but the same bold little guy. So let's go, Peeper; I love you, man.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Far above rubies
My friend Lisa is not feeling well.
In a world where it seems to me that undeserved praise, unwarranted ease, slippery self-justification, and special pleading are - and perhaps always have been - the rule rather than the exception, I have always found that Lisa is that rare person who seldom takes the easy path paved with excuses. She is a quality compounded of wit, knowledge, grace and beauty that makes Woman, a certain breed of woman, the crowning achievement of Creation. One that use hairy, less-evolved types would do well to simply admire in seemly silence.
I hope she feels better soon, because, like the sunrise on the ocean or the dawn chorus heard at the edge of the dark forest, she lightens a world which is a grayer and drabber place without her moving through it with lightness and verve.
And for her convalesence, a poem.
TWILIGHT: AFTER HAYING
Yes, long shadows go out
from the bales; and yes, the soul
must part from the body:
what else could it do?
The men sprawl near the baler,
too tired to leave the field.
They talk and smoke,
and the tips of their cigarettes
blaze like small roses
in the night air. (It arrived
and settled among them
before they were aware.)
The moon comes
to count the bales,
and the dispossessed—
Whip-poor-will, Whip-poor-will
—sings from the dusty stubble.
These things happen . . . the soul’s bliss
and suffering are bound together
like the grasses. . . .
The last, sweet exhalations
of timothy and vetch
go out with the song of the bird;
the ravaged field
grows wet with dew.
Jane Kenyon
Hope you're feeling more the thing soon, Lisa. Probae esti in segetem sunt deteriorem datae fruges, tamen ipsae suaptae enitent.
In a world where it seems to me that undeserved praise, unwarranted ease, slippery self-justification, and special pleading are - and perhaps always have been - the rule rather than the exception, I have always found that Lisa is that rare person who seldom takes the easy path paved with excuses. She is a quality compounded of wit, knowledge, grace and beauty that makes Woman, a certain breed of woman, the crowning achievement of Creation. One that use hairy, less-evolved types would do well to simply admire in seemly silence.
I hope she feels better soon, because, like the sunrise on the ocean or the dawn chorus heard at the edge of the dark forest, she lightens a world which is a grayer and drabber place without her moving through it with lightness and verve.
And for her convalesence, a poem.
TWILIGHT: AFTER HAYING
Yes, long shadows go out
from the bales; and yes, the soul
must part from the body:
what else could it do?
The men sprawl near the baler,
too tired to leave the field.
They talk and smoke,
and the tips of their cigarettes
blaze like small roses
in the night air. (It arrived
and settled among them
before they were aware.)
The moon comes
to count the bales,
and the dispossessed—
Whip-poor-will, Whip-poor-will
—sings from the dusty stubble.
These things happen . . . the soul’s bliss
and suffering are bound together
like the grasses. . . .
The last, sweet exhalations
of timothy and vetch
go out with the song of the bird;
the ravaged field
grows wet with dew.
Jane Kenyon
Hope you're feeling more the thing soon, Lisa. Probae esti in segetem sunt deteriorem datae fruges, tamen ipsae suaptae enitent.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
"What an idiot."
Back in the day I was a hell of a baseball fan.
I could tell you who platooned at catcher for the 1971 Washington Senators (Paul Casanova and Jim French). I could tell you who Moonlight Graham was before the excrable "Field of Dreams" fantasy made him a household word. I read Bill James and honestly cared who went into the Hall of Fame.
Well, I grew up, sort of, and moved away from baseball, developing a passion for soccer, a love-hate relationship with lacrosse (love the game, hate the "leagues" that play it) and a secret fascination with oddball, nonprofessional sports like curling and roller derby.
But there are moments when baseball rears up and slaps me in the head with why I stopped following the game.
The steroids had something to do with it; I knew...hell, everybody watching the game knew...that Sosa and McGwire didn't get those biceps drinking their Tiger's Milk. The cheap homers and the return of what Bill James called "sit-on-your-ass" baseball, where both teams and the fans sat around and waited to see whose pitcher would hang one in the other teams' slugger's wheelhouse, had something to do with it. The loathsome antics of the owners, a bunch of spoiled rich men who finally discovered that they didn't have to put up with some crotchety Commissioner telling them what they couldn't do by placing their own bobo in the Commissioner's chair, had a LOT to do with it.
But mostly it was stuff like this that killed my affection for the game.
This little bit of nonsense is a perfect illustration of the way I feel about professional baseball as a sport and am beginning to feel about my country as a nation.
Here's a perfectly simple situation; someone makes a mistake. Call it invading a foreign country that presented no threat to us. Call it letting a private company take charge of an environmental disaster of its own making. Call it letting the same charlatans who swindled each other and the public continue their monte games with the full and complete guarantee of the Federal Reserve. Call it blowing a call at first and fucking up a pitcher's perfect game.
The solution is obvious; take charge. The "rules" and "traditions" of baseball are not sacred. The "free market" is not a religion. The "respect" and "dignity" of a nation, or a nation's leaders, are not worth a pint of pig piss when compared to human lives and individual rights.
So you, the leader, the "Commissioner", step in, reverse the call, make the official end of the game the out Jason Donald made, end of story.
Imagine if all those OTHER choices were so simple! That the destruction of the north Gulf of Mexico could simply be undone. That the tens of thousands of deaths and billions in damage and destruction could be just revived and reconstructed as if they'd never happened. That the jobs and wealth of all those of us fucked over by the moronic "Master of the Universe" could be redeposited into our IRAs and mortgages and bank accounts.
But this worm, this flyspeck, this insignificant, niddering, wretched simulacrum of a man, this Selig, this sock-puppet for his wealthy cronies, this echoing, empty tube of encrusted toilet tissue says "that Major League Baseball will look at expanded replay and umpiring, but (would not) specifically address umpire Jim Joyce's botched call Wednesday night."
In other words, the "rules", the arbitrary laws that we ourselves set up, are more important to Selig and men like him than taking action outside the "rules" to correct an obvious error and right a wrong done to real people in real places. Better than a real man should be denied than a powerful organization should be seen to be in - or admit to, and correct its - error.
Conformity trumps neccessity. Complacency trumps action. Image trumps reality.
And, yeah, I'm kind of done with that, too.
A vigorous, active, healthy society makes rules that make sense for its daily lives, actively question and live to those rules, and when those rules conflict with good sense, health, and vigor,, temporarily abrogates or even permanently changes those rules. When a society falls to blindly "following the rules", when the form of things matter more than the function, when rules becomre more important than human lives, or reality, or sense?
That's a problem. That's a society with no outs, the bases loaded and the game tied, deep in the late innings, with a tired pitcher and a manager who is out of relievers.
I can't help but see this as a snapshot of a game, and a society, that are looking perilously close to walking off the field hung with an "L".
I could tell you who platooned at catcher for the 1971 Washington Senators (Paul Casanova and Jim French). I could tell you who Moonlight Graham was before the excrable "Field of Dreams" fantasy made him a household word. I read Bill James and honestly cared who went into the Hall of Fame.
Well, I grew up, sort of, and moved away from baseball, developing a passion for soccer, a love-hate relationship with lacrosse (love the game, hate the "leagues" that play it) and a secret fascination with oddball, nonprofessional sports like curling and roller derby.
But there are moments when baseball rears up and slaps me in the head with why I stopped following the game.
The steroids had something to do with it; I knew...hell, everybody watching the game knew...that Sosa and McGwire didn't get those biceps drinking their Tiger's Milk. The cheap homers and the return of what Bill James called "sit-on-your-ass" baseball, where both teams and the fans sat around and waited to see whose pitcher would hang one in the other teams' slugger's wheelhouse, had something to do with it. The loathsome antics of the owners, a bunch of spoiled rich men who finally discovered that they didn't have to put up with some crotchety Commissioner telling them what they couldn't do by placing their own bobo in the Commissioner's chair, had a LOT to do with it.
But mostly it was stuff like this that killed my affection for the game.
This little bit of nonsense is a perfect illustration of the way I feel about professional baseball as a sport and am beginning to feel about my country as a nation.
Here's a perfectly simple situation; someone makes a mistake. Call it invading a foreign country that presented no threat to us. Call it letting a private company take charge of an environmental disaster of its own making. Call it letting the same charlatans who swindled each other and the public continue their monte games with the full and complete guarantee of the Federal Reserve. Call it blowing a call at first and fucking up a pitcher's perfect game.
The solution is obvious; take charge. The "rules" and "traditions" of baseball are not sacred. The "free market" is not a religion. The "respect" and "dignity" of a nation, or a nation's leaders, are not worth a pint of pig piss when compared to human lives and individual rights.So you, the leader, the "Commissioner", step in, reverse the call, make the official end of the game the out Jason Donald made, end of story.
Imagine if all those OTHER choices were so simple! That the destruction of the north Gulf of Mexico could simply be undone. That the tens of thousands of deaths and billions in damage and destruction could be just revived and reconstructed as if they'd never happened. That the jobs and wealth of all those of us fucked over by the moronic "Master of the Universe" could be redeposited into our IRAs and mortgages and bank accounts.
But this worm, this flyspeck, this insignificant, niddering, wretched simulacrum of a man, this Selig, this sock-puppet for his wealthy cronies, this echoing, empty tube of encrusted toilet tissue says "that Major League Baseball will look at expanded replay and umpiring, but (would not) specifically address umpire Jim Joyce's botched call Wednesday night."
In other words, the "rules", the arbitrary laws that we ourselves set up, are more important to Selig and men like him than taking action outside the "rules" to correct an obvious error and right a wrong done to real people in real places. Better than a real man should be denied than a powerful organization should be seen to be in - or admit to, and correct its - error.
Conformity trumps neccessity. Complacency trumps action. Image trumps reality.
And, yeah, I'm kind of done with that, too.
A vigorous, active, healthy society makes rules that make sense for its daily lives, actively question and live to those rules, and when those rules conflict with good sense, health, and vigor,, temporarily abrogates or even permanently changes those rules. When a society falls to blindly "following the rules", when the form of things matter more than the function, when rules becomre more important than human lives, or reality, or sense?
That's a problem. That's a society with no outs, the bases loaded and the game tied, deep in the late innings, with a tired pitcher and a manager who is out of relievers.I can't help but see this as a snapshot of a game, and a society, that are looking perilously close to walking off the field hung with an "L".
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Under the downspout...
You may have noticed a sudden uptick in political and military posts here lately.
I still want to try and keep this a more "personal" blog, and shift the bulk of my political and military thinking over to MilPub. But between the two of us jim (from RangerAgainstWar) and I were kind of shouting across the room and, I think, were drowning out the other folks who post over there. So we've agreed to shut the hell up for a bit and let other people talk.
But...I'm still a verbose sonofabitch, and it tends to work its way out somehow or somewhere. And as it happens, it's turning up here.
I waon't swear how long I can keep from butting in over there, but at least for now, here's where you can shout back at me for the usual jackassery.
While I'm here, I should do a little business. Here's a snapshot from the files: Me with the Master Chief, right after graduation from 104th Division (Training) Drill Sergeant School.
That round brown was the biggest freaking headgear the Army ever issued me. I still have it somewhere, tho. Hard to let go of some things, regardless of how useless.
And Reserve DS School taught me that even in the U.S. Army you get out what you put in. The Reserve drill sergeant program was fairly broken; the USAR schools graduated a fair number of people who never should have gone on the Trail. But I believe - and have the paper trail to prove it - that I was a damn good Hat. And so were several others who graduated with me, or who I ran into down the trail.
I note with some wistfulness that the old Timberwolves - having already been downgraded into something called a "Leader Training" outfit - are being shoved out of our old home in Vancouver into Ft. Lewis, WA this summer. I am all in favor of streamlining our expensive military forces. But what would it hurt to keep a Reserve unit in Vancouver Barracks after 160 years? A corporal's guard, mayhap, to keep the "citizen soldiers" out there amongst the citizens?
Oh, while I'm here, I have to tell you a Drill Sergeant story.
When I was assigned to the 1/413th at the old reserve center on North Chautauqua we had a hat, part of the Leadership Academy (aka DS School). Let's call him Sergeant Rock.
Rock lived in Northeast Portland, and was one of these guys who - and this was before Iraq and its becoming not just possible but likely for an RC guy to make a full-time job of the Army - pretty much had no life outside the USAR. Every drill weekend he'd board the 75 bus - in starched fatigues complete with Smokey-the-Bear hat, mind you - and ride down N. Lombard to Chautauqua and then walk down to the USARC. And this was back when Columbia Villa was really Columbia Villa, and the Crips there would cut off your head and shrink it for walking on their turf if the mood was on them.
He was a sort of skinny guy with a big head, and he had a cracked, nasal voice that always sounded sarcastic even when he wasn't. He was our DSL, our drill sergeant instructor, and he was a tough little character.
Anyway, that particular weekend we had an in-ranks Class A inspection. The lot of us turned up in our fancy dress, all Corfam oxfords and brass nice and shiny...except for Private Drendle. Private Drendle wasn't a fuckup, but he was one of those guys who never seem to get the word quite right. He had his dress uniform, all right...but just that. He'd forgotten his dress shoes and had nothing but his boots, his hat had gone somewhere, and he had nothing else to put on the coat but his PFC stripes, and those were sewn on, so he couldn't really take credit for them.
We all advised him to hide out, or just turn out in his fatigues; better to be honestly out of uniform than to try and half-ass his way through inspection. But for reasons only he could fathom Drendle fell in with the rest of us as Sergeant Rock called us to attention and opened the ranks.
He looked, frankly, like one of the guys you see hanging out at the bus station dressed in dirty scraps of old Army clothes, like a wino.
The entire little class had by this time lost all interest in the actual inspection; we all looked to our front, listening to the sound of Rock moving through the ranks, waiting for him to get to Drendle, knowing that something good was going to happen.
We heard him face right, step, stop, face left in front of the victim. We listened to the long, long moment of silence, knowing he was looking up and down at the spectacle in front of him. And when he spoke, we had our moment.
(You should know that back in the Eighties and early Nineties Portland's best known homeless shelter was a place called Baloney Joe's in Old Town, near the end of the Burnside Bridge. It's gone now, but if you were on the bum in Portland back in the day, Baloney Joe's was the place to see and be seen.)
So we all knew what he meant when Rock said, in his fleering tones:
"So. Drendle. How was breakfast at Baloney Joe's this morning?"
Speaking of changes to the urban landscape, this...
...is what is going up across the alley behind the Fire Direction Center.
The picture is several months old and this McMansion is complete and on the block, and the offering price is shocking; less than $450K for the 3.5-bathroom, 4,000sf monster. And this is in a neighborhood where little 1,500sf Craftsman bungalows from the Teens and Twenties were going for $500K+ two years ago. I can say that I hadn't really thought about the effect the bursting bubble would have on my neighborhood until I saw the flyer for this place.
I have now.
I'm sure glad we don't need to sell anytime soon.
And so far the Oregon "spring" is acting fairly notional. I'm fortunate in being inside instead of out today because it's cold and pouring like piss out of a boot. Our poor tomato plants are perhaps all of two inches taller than when they were planted three weeks ago; just no sunshine for them to like. Or me. I know that we're supposed to be a cool, wet climate here, but, Jesus wept...
Anyway, I've gotta get back and do some more rockfall runs. But my PCC class is over this Monday, so I'll be back blogging again with a little more frequency than the past couple of months. I love my students and the class was great...but I'll be glad to get my evenings back, thanks.
I still want to try and keep this a more "personal" blog, and shift the bulk of my political and military thinking over to MilPub. But between the two of us jim (from RangerAgainstWar) and I were kind of shouting across the room and, I think, were drowning out the other folks who post over there. So we've agreed to shut the hell up for a bit and let other people talk.
But...I'm still a verbose sonofabitch, and it tends to work its way out somehow or somewhere. And as it happens, it's turning up here.
I waon't swear how long I can keep from butting in over there, but at least for now, here's where you can shout back at me for the usual jackassery.
While I'm here, I should do a little business. Here's a snapshot from the files: Me with the Master Chief, right after graduation from 104th Division (Training) Drill Sergeant School.
That round brown was the biggest freaking headgear the Army ever issued me. I still have it somewhere, tho. Hard to let go of some things, regardless of how useless.And Reserve DS School taught me that even in the U.S. Army you get out what you put in. The Reserve drill sergeant program was fairly broken; the USAR schools graduated a fair number of people who never should have gone on the Trail. But I believe - and have the paper trail to prove it - that I was a damn good Hat. And so were several others who graduated with me, or who I ran into down the trail.
I note with some wistfulness that the old Timberwolves - having already been downgraded into something called a "Leader Training" outfit - are being shoved out of our old home in Vancouver into Ft. Lewis, WA this summer. I am all in favor of streamlining our expensive military forces. But what would it hurt to keep a Reserve unit in Vancouver Barracks after 160 years? A corporal's guard, mayhap, to keep the "citizen soldiers" out there amongst the citizens?
Oh, while I'm here, I have to tell you a Drill Sergeant story.
When I was assigned to the 1/413th at the old reserve center on North Chautauqua we had a hat, part of the Leadership Academy (aka DS School). Let's call him Sergeant Rock.
Rock lived in Northeast Portland, and was one of these guys who - and this was before Iraq and its becoming not just possible but likely for an RC guy to make a full-time job of the Army - pretty much had no life outside the USAR. Every drill weekend he'd board the 75 bus - in starched fatigues complete with Smokey-the-Bear hat, mind you - and ride down N. Lombard to Chautauqua and then walk down to the USARC. And this was back when Columbia Villa was really Columbia Villa, and the Crips there would cut off your head and shrink it for walking on their turf if the mood was on them.
He was a sort of skinny guy with a big head, and he had a cracked, nasal voice that always sounded sarcastic even when he wasn't. He was our DSL, our drill sergeant instructor, and he was a tough little character.
Anyway, that particular weekend we had an in-ranks Class A inspection. The lot of us turned up in our fancy dress, all Corfam oxfords and brass nice and shiny...except for Private Drendle. Private Drendle wasn't a fuckup, but he was one of those guys who never seem to get the word quite right. He had his dress uniform, all right...but just that. He'd forgotten his dress shoes and had nothing but his boots, his hat had gone somewhere, and he had nothing else to put on the coat but his PFC stripes, and those were sewn on, so he couldn't really take credit for them.
We all advised him to hide out, or just turn out in his fatigues; better to be honestly out of uniform than to try and half-ass his way through inspection. But for reasons only he could fathom Drendle fell in with the rest of us as Sergeant Rock called us to attention and opened the ranks.
He looked, frankly, like one of the guys you see hanging out at the bus station dressed in dirty scraps of old Army clothes, like a wino.The entire little class had by this time lost all interest in the actual inspection; we all looked to our front, listening to the sound of Rock moving through the ranks, waiting for him to get to Drendle, knowing that something good was going to happen.
We heard him face right, step, stop, face left in front of the victim. We listened to the long, long moment of silence, knowing he was looking up and down at the spectacle in front of him. And when he spoke, we had our moment.
(You should know that back in the Eighties and early Nineties Portland's best known homeless shelter was a place called Baloney Joe's in Old Town, near the end of the Burnside Bridge. It's gone now, but if you were on the bum in Portland back in the day, Baloney Joe's was the place to see and be seen.)
So we all knew what he meant when Rock said, in his fleering tones:
"So. Drendle. How was breakfast at Baloney Joe's this morning?"
Speaking of changes to the urban landscape, this...
...is what is going up across the alley behind the Fire Direction Center.The picture is several months old and this McMansion is complete and on the block, and the offering price is shocking; less than $450K for the 3.5-bathroom, 4,000sf monster. And this is in a neighborhood where little 1,500sf Craftsman bungalows from the Teens and Twenties were going for $500K+ two years ago. I can say that I hadn't really thought about the effect the bursting bubble would have on my neighborhood until I saw the flyer for this place.
I have now.
I'm sure glad we don't need to sell anytime soon.
And so far the Oregon "spring" is acting fairly notional. I'm fortunate in being inside instead of out today because it's cold and pouring like piss out of a boot. Our poor tomato plants are perhaps all of two inches taller than when they were planted three weeks ago; just no sunshine for them to like. Or me. I know that we're supposed to be a cool, wet climate here, but, Jesus wept...
Anyway, I've gotta get back and do some more rockfall runs. But my PCC class is over this Monday, so I'll be back blogging again with a little more frequency than the past couple of months. I love my students and the class was great...but I'll be glad to get my evenings back, thanks.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Operation: FAIL
This sort of thing is why we fail.
And the Brits are usually better at this than we are.
I love the U.S. Army, but my experience over 22 years of service was that we really hated to have to learn hard lessons drawn from failure. Field problems were seldom, if ever, "free play", which would have allowed tactically shrewd officers to make fools of tactically incompetent ones. Even when they were - as was my ARNG brigade's deployment to JRTC in 2005 - the incapable officers or NCOs are seldom relieved, seldom even retrained or counseled. The caissons just keep rolling along.
We are engaged in a soon-to-be decades long foolish attempt to hustle the East. It has gained us little and, though costing us little as well, has gone a long way to keeping our eye off the geopolitical ball (why do we hear so little about the dangerously-close-to-collapse condition of Mexico, for example, other than in the paranoid screeds of the Arizona Republican Party?) as well as earning us a fair degree of enmity in a part of the world where we really have no reason NOT to be an honest broker.
At any rate, one would hope that at the very least what we could get out of this mobile clusterfuck would be a good after-action report/lessons learned assessment of how we managed to copulate this rottweiler. But no. Afraid that a report detailing the hubris, stupidity, venality and incompetence of the "leadership" of their country the British have chosen to hide these scumbags' moronity under the Cone of Silence. One is left to marvel about the depths of idiocy that the report must have detailed.
And for all that, we here in the U.S. have not even attempted such a self-examination. How much worse must our fucktardry have been that we dare not even begin to examine it?
Sigh. It's like we're fucking half of a Bourbon. We forget nothing because we don't even try to learn anything.
And the Brits are usually better at this than we are.I love the U.S. Army, but my experience over 22 years of service was that we really hated to have to learn hard lessons drawn from failure. Field problems were seldom, if ever, "free play", which would have allowed tactically shrewd officers to make fools of tactically incompetent ones. Even when they were - as was my ARNG brigade's deployment to JRTC in 2005 - the incapable officers or NCOs are seldom relieved, seldom even retrained or counseled. The caissons just keep rolling along.
We are engaged in a soon-to-be decades long foolish attempt to hustle the East. It has gained us little and, though costing us little as well, has gone a long way to keeping our eye off the geopolitical ball (why do we hear so little about the dangerously-close-to-collapse condition of Mexico, for example, other than in the paranoid screeds of the Arizona Republican Party?) as well as earning us a fair degree of enmity in a part of the world where we really have no reason NOT to be an honest broker.At any rate, one would hope that at the very least what we could get out of this mobile clusterfuck would be a good after-action report/lessons learned assessment of how we managed to copulate this rottweiler. But no. Afraid that a report detailing the hubris, stupidity, venality and incompetence of the "leadership" of their country the British have chosen to hide these scumbags' moronity under the Cone of Silence. One is left to marvel about the depths of idiocy that the report must have detailed.
And for all that, we here in the U.S. have not even attempted such a self-examination. How much worse must our fucktardry have been that we dare not even begin to examine it?
Sigh. It's like we're fucking half of a Bourbon. We forget nothing because we don't even try to learn anything.
This in from the traffic desk...
Sinkhole in Guatemala City:
Buffy Summers: Now, we can do this the hard way or... well, actually, there's just the hard way.
Darla: That's fine with me.
Buffy Summers: Are you sure? Now this is not gonna be pretty. We're talking violence, strong language, adult content.
Two thoughts: Traffic through this part of town is pretty much hosed.
And I wonder who has the contract for providing the City of Guatemala City with backfill? And is it too late to get a bid in?
Buffy Summers: Now, we can do this the hard way or... well, actually, there's just the hard way. Darla: That's fine with me.
Buffy Summers: Are you sure? Now this is not gonna be pretty. We're talking violence, strong language, adult content.
Two thoughts: Traffic through this part of town is pretty much hosed.And I wonder who has the contract for providing the City of Guatemala City with backfill? And is it too late to get a bid in?
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