All Ears

According to Wikipedia the National Security Agency is a cryptologic intelligence agency of the United States Department of Defense responsible for the collection and analysis of foreign communications and foreign signals intelligence. The NSA employs 40,000 people at various locations and its annual budget is a secret, although intelligence analysts have estimated the per annum outlay at $10 billion plus. The NSA has excelled at maintaining at low profile since its creation in 1949, although the agency’s mission was expanded after 9/11 to include illegal wire taps under GW Bush and data-mining through its PRISM project. Criticism against War on Terrorism has been considered treason by most Americans and the government has vigorously punished or minimize whistle-blowers and reporters endangering the NSA’s veil of secrecy.

Early this month The Guardian published accusations from Edward Snowden, a Central Intelligence Agency employee who worked for Booz Allen Hamilton, that the NSA had ordered various telecommunication companies in the USA to provide data for all telephone calls within the United States, including local telephone calls” and all calls made “between the United States and abroad.”

I make approximately twenty calls a day.

There are over 300 million phones in America, meaning that the NSA processes six billion calls per day along with 1.7 billion e-mails.

In 2012 NSA employees dealt with over trillion calls, which I have calculated to be a 2.5 billion calls each year. Massive supercomputers assist the harried intelligence operatives, but I suspect that millions of calls are dumped into delete files much like the post office employee dumped junk mail in the trash.

Even worse was the report from the BBC that the billions of dollars spent on PRISM ended up revealing information on fewer than 300 phone number in 2012, meaning that the PRISM program is another cash cow for the military-industrial complex and its effectiveness is as meaningful as catapulting every elephant in the world to kill a single mouse.

The NSA refutes the worthlessness of data-mining by arguing that “dozens of potential terrorist plots here in the homeland and in more than 20 countries around the world”.

The NSA provided no details, donning their cloak on secrecy, proving the best secrets are those that aren’t really secrets.

Mumble, my fellow Americans and strutters have a party.

The NSA knows nothing.

And Eric Snowden knew that.

He has now vanished from Hong Kong.

And there are plenty of

Father’s Son

Franka played baseball in our hometown on the South Shore. His father worked in Boston. Franka asked our father to drive Franka to the games. My old man got him back and forth without a problem.

He was a good man as was his grandson.

Franka is on his way to LA to try his hand at being a TV writer.

In CATCHER IN THE RYE Holden Caulfield accused his older brother DB of being a prostitute for writing in Hollywood.

It was a cold thing to say.

Especially from a runaway boy.

EVERYWHERE by Peter Nolan Smith

My older brother and I went everywhere with our parents. We drove from Hingham to Maine, Watchic Pond to Boston, Falmouth Foresides to the South Shore. There were thousands of trips with my mother and father. Nowadays Frunk and I live far apart. We haven’t been in a car together for over ten years, but we speak several times a month and this afternoon I phoned Frunk to wish him a Happy Father’s Day.

“Happy? You know what I did this weekend?”

“I spoke with your son.” Franka was moving from Philadelphia to Boston before hitting the road to LA. He wanted to be a TV writer.

“Friday night I drove down to Phillie. I loaded the U-Haul truck with Franka’s things. We left at 5. I got home around midnight.” Frunka’s house was on a hill above the Neponset River. The old mansion was ten times larger than my apartment in Fort Greene.

“And you dropped off the truck in the morning?” I had called his son on Friday. I could have gone to help, instead last night I lay in bed listening to the Stanley Cup finals on WBZ. Their announcers painted better picture than the TV guys.

“No such luck. We unloaded most of his things on the Cape. I’m just entering the U-Haul parking lot to drop off the truck and then I’m going to the house here before driving to Boston in the morning, so ask me how my weekend was?”

Our father would have done the same thing for us. He liked to drive.

“The Bruins won by a goal in overtime.” I was deflecting his slapshot question.

“I listened to it on the radio in the truck.” More than likely on I95.

“Did you drive alone?” It was a silly question.

“My wife and son were in the Lexus.” Frunka had settled a good case in April. The car was a birthday present to himself. He deserved it.

“At least you had peace and quiet.” Marshall McLuhan had said that driving a car was one of the few times man was alone in the modern age.

“No, they called me every five minutes to ask where we were.”

“Nice.” I was really happy I hadn’t helped him.

“How was your Father’s Day?”

“I’m drinking a beer.

“Paradise.”

“Hope you get there soon.”

“Not a chance. I’m taking my son out to dinner, so all I’ll get for Father’s Day is another bill.”

“It goes with the territory.” Tomorrow I was sending money to Fenway in Thailand. His teeth are rotting fast and he’s only five years-old. I love my son.

“I can’t wait for a client to ask how was my weekend.”

“I bet you can’t.” Telling him that I was about to take a hot bath was too cruel and drink another beer while listening to acid rock from the 60s was too cruel, but Franka was with his son Frunka. I wished him a good night and hung up.

I was alone in Fort Greene.

Fenway was on the other side of the world.

My everywheres have shrunk to one place and I’ll get to that everywhere one day.

Sooner hopefully more than later for this father, for with Fenway every day is Father’s Day.

Horace Silver SONG FOR MY FATHER (1964)

Father’s Day Gift

My father came around the world to see me and Angie in Thailand. Most of the time he had no idea where he was. It was the start of his decline. He was the father a son could have.

He will always be in the here-now with the love I carry for him into the here-to-come.