Sucker, Part II

So, to review:

The Five Stages of Grief are:

Denial
Anger
Bargaining
Depression
Acceptance

Looking at them now, I'm chagrined to admit that it's not an appropriate descriptor in this case. Denial was momentary, went straight to Anger. Not much in the way of bargaining to be done, no one to trade with. Anger (direct, not the residual) lasted a good couple of weeks. Fortunately, when one has been even angrier, for longer, one learns to channel this energy. We'll come back to this. Depression was good for another 3-4 weeks. Acceptance came with some success. This concludes our overview.

When we last left our hero, Food Service had virtually no suction. Central Service, provider of all things sterile and clinical, was not much better. Receiving had given up on using their tube station, some months ago. The EAU and 8th floors were complaining of intermittent service and lost tubes. The two major zones weren't sinking, but they were listing hard to port, as it were.

Now, the technical description. This system is a one-tube system - the same tube is used for sending and receiving. There are 42 stations, segmented into 4 zones - 4 main routes that branch off to each station by means of diverters - think railway switch. They converge in the basement at the "Dazzler" - a conflagration of bent, rotating tubes that makes the exchange from station C12(Lab) to B11(11th fl.) possible.
Nurse Nancy puts her lab sample into bubble wrap, then puts it in the tube. She puts the tube into an arm-like holder, and enters the destination's address on a keypad. The station accepts this (usually), and moves the arm over to the gate - the closed-off opening. In the BOC (Pit of Despair, see earlier posts), A PC takes the request and lines up that zone to the station. One of the 4 large blowers in the basement fires up, vacuum is created, and the tube is pulled into the basement, into the "Dazzler". The PC then directs the "Dazzler" to line up a path to the destination station. The blower shifts from suction to pressure, and the sample winds it's way to the lab. That's it. Usually takes less than 2 minutes. There are communication links, optical sensors that track the trajectory, and log the results. We hardly ever lose a tube - it has to go somewhere, and it does. When it goes, of course. These weren't leaving the station.

As you may have experienced, pneumatic tube systems can move small items very quickly and efficiently. This beneficial service is multiplied in an institution such as ours. It is one of those things that is easily taken for granted, which, like fresh tomato on a "California Burger", can lead to outright rage when it's taken away. Food Service had had to find a different way to get patient menu selections from the floors, and the affected floors were really missing the quick and efficient transfer of minutia, like medicines from the pharmacy. My boss had set me firmly in the midst of a large steaming pasture, whether he knew it or not.

Next: Anger is an ener-gee, or Troubleshooting Things You Don't Understand.

There's a Sucker Born Every Minute, Part I

Alright, I mentioned it, and some of you have been needling me about it, so here's my essay on the tube system. Pneumatic. Ecstatic. Acrobatic, tube system.

In the world according to Dilbert, I have done my best to transform myself from Dilbert into Wally. Wally - the little bald-headed guy whose raison-de-etre' is to do as little as possible, while maintaining the illusion of work. For me, this has been by focusing my efforts on those systems that are least likely to result in a telephone call in the middle of the night from our latest hire, naturally working the graveyard shift with no experience and a million square feet to take care of. The actual fact is that I am so good at maintaining the things that I'm responsible for (as my friend says, "It ain't rocket surgery"), that I end up looking for things to do. So, into my semi-secure world drops the tube system, as I guess someone noticed that I'd actually been happy at work for 3-4 weeks or so.

I was very angry at the manner in which it came to me. My current supervisor/Manager/Team Leader/I-really-don't-care-what-his-title-is, is a nice-enough guy who was working his way up the ranks while I had crested and fallen. He's actually asked me for some occasional advice, and I've seen him make some real progress, management-wise. His job (which is actually the job I had, reconstituted into something I'd never want to do, again) keeps him up at night at least 2-3 times a week, and his hair is going greyer even faster than mine did. Every morning, we carry on a fine naval tradition called the POD, or Plan of the Day. Sharing info, doling out assignments, finding out where the floods were the night before (It's a 540 bed hospital that's 43 years old, you do the plumbing math). This particular morning, the meeting breaks up, he motions me over, and tells me - in the presence of my co-worker that's being relieved of this burden - that it's now my responsibility. No warm-up, no warning, no smoke signals of any kind. I then get about 90 minutes of "this is where everything is"- "here's the main parts of the tube station" - and I'm left alone, seething with a handful of work orders and a third of the system not working.

Flash back to 1990. I am a "Management Specialist", working for the Director of Engineering. We've just replaced our 25 year-old pneumatic tube system, and the new system's performance is not quite what the brochures and sales pitches told us that it would be, primarily in the form of the amount of daily attention it requires from our service techs. The boss calls about 5 of us into his office, where he places a conference call to the president of the company. He informs him that we're not satisfied at all, and we're going to inform all of the trade publications and medical device newsletters of how incompetent this system is. He wants the president and anyone else he wants to bring to be in our offices tomorrow, for a meeting about how they're going to fix it - or else. It is the age of Total Quality Management. I actually "Facilitated" that meeting - my first one, handed to me, incidentally, three minutes before it started, without warning or preparation (yes, history repeating itself). We came up with an action plan, and basically made them sweat until the warranty was up, or they went out of business - I don't remember which happened first.

Yes, this all went through my mind before that day was over. You bet your sweet bippy, I was mad.

Next: The Five Stages.

One for the money, 2fer the show.

As residents of Southern California, we have the unique opportunity to participate in Disney's "2Fer" offer - During the first few months of the year, one can visit Disneyland and Disney's California Adventure for the price of one admission. The only real rules are that you can't visit one park twice, and you have to visit the second one within 30 days of your first visit. Yesterday was the 29th day after our recent day at the Magic Kingdom, so DCA (that's what you call it when you live in "the OC" - the surrounding Orange County) was in order.

Hot. Hot and muggy. Stinkin' hot and muggy - probably an average day on the Eastern Seaboard, but oh so icky for those of us used to a desert climate. Arriving late, our first omen was our parking placement without tram service - meaning that we had the pleasure of traversing "Downtown Disney" on foot before we'd even started.

The purpose of the 2Fer is to pump up attendance in the off season. Our procrastination, this year, means that we hit the resort (when I was a kid, it was Disneyland, now it's The Disney Resort. Big whoop) in full Summer swing. Stinkin' hot, muggy, and crowded. Sweating bullets at the front gate, already. Quick, head for the Muppetts' 3-D theater. When I was a kid in Arizona, there were signs on restaurant windows that boasted "refrigeration", regarding their air conditioning. This theater was refrigerated, baby. Emma had great fun with the 3-D effect. Rides. Lines. Lunch. Pushing the stroller back and forth. Melting. Everybody kinda caved in at about 6 o'clock - even though there were 3 more hours of magic awaiting us. Our hip OC friends with annual passes who met us barely had time to see the parade, and we were leaving. I think that they were hot enough, themselves, by then.

We're spoiled, like meat left in the hot sun. When I was a kid, and there was no internet, no 183 channels on the TV, only a record player and some books in the house. Disneyland took planning, stamina, and an intense feeling that, if one didn't work at it, certain fun would be missed. It's not that way, today. Spoilage aside, it does seem to be a bit more relaxing.
So, for your comparative note-taking, here's footage from DCA's carousel, along with some scenic interpretations from Samuel L. Goble, BSC (class of 2015).

Disney California Adventure, June 2008 from Jeff Goble on Vimeo.

Graduation Day, 2008

So, today was Graduation Day. OK, from the Fifth Grade. Here, it's the transition from elementary to middle school. For some of them, it's leaving the school they started at. For Sam, it's only been a year, but it's been a really good year. Marvin Elementary is a great school - the folks there do a great job. Sam's teacher, Mr. Myrick,helped turn a bad situation into a great positive. Of all the things to build upon, they share a fondness for Monty Python's Flying Circus - naturally, I think Mr. Myrick is brilliant.

 

 

Sam graduates from 5th Grade from Jeff Goble on Vimeo.

There was a little Pomp, under the circumstances, but all in all it was a warm (no, not just the humidity), brief, and heartfelt ceremony.

 

 

 

I caught Sam smiling, again!

 

 

 

It was the last day of school for Emma, too, unfortunately all I got was one blurry picture, melting popsicle and all.

 

 

It was a great family day. We had some Mexican food, came home, and promptly crashed. Tomorrow is the last day for our Disneyland/California Adventure 2fer ticket thing, so we're off to the place right next to the "happiest place on earth."

Summer's Here!

Shorn, Fleeced, Bamboozled.

One of my best online friends, Kelly, has posted The sheep that we are. I recommend that you read it, as she has so clearly and coherently put her mind and heart to this work.
Our children are the 'canaries in the coal mine' of Eugenics. The prevention of their lives should serve as a warning to us all.
Thank you, Kelly.

Call me Clementine/D-Land 2008

Why? 'Cause as of Saturday, I'm a 49'er, that's why.

"Next year's the big one", Dad said on the phone, that morning. "If you say so," says I. Fully aware that it's not halfway - I'm confident that I aint makin' it to a hundred; I figure I'll be lucky if that point passed 9 years ago.

I haven't written much, although there's been stuff to say. I seem to be living in that realm where the news is either too big for the blog, it's info that I don't want others to read for legal reasons (believe it or not - relax, no warrants yet), or it's whining. So I've let it be. Good things are happening. Not so good things have happened. In short, Life is going on, whether I want to play or not. It is the way of things, grasshopper.

We had a really good family day at Disneyland, last Monday. For some reason, I didn't feel that pressing need that has been a part of the 'Disney Magic' since my first childhood visit  - to see and do everything before the park closes. As always, it took us longer to get there, and seemingly forever to get through the gate. That hasn't changed. Now, I'm not saying that it's a bad thing - but it is worth noting -that my son doesn't seem to be as enraptured with the Magic Kingdom as we were when we were 11. Once I'd moved through the five stages - Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance - it made the day much easier to take. Learning from past experience, we got the pass that lets us use Emma's stroller (yes, she still barely fits into it, yay!) as a wheelchair, which mostly saves us from major meltdowns in long lines. This time, it seemed even more magical on a day when attendance was light, and we breezed through the major attractions with some real ease. If you realize that sometimes going anywhere with Emma can turn into a major scene, this was truly a blessing, and I'm grateful for it.

Emma had a great time. This was the first time that she could go on the big rides. She held on tight through the dark sections. This, of course, is the carousel.

Disneyland 2008 from Jeff Goble on Vimeo.

It cooled off as the day wore on, seemingly boosting our available energy into the evening. Steve and Rita met us in the afternoon, and we left "the happiest place on Earth" to venture into Garden Grove for some great mexican food with them and their son Matthew and his girlfriend. Sprinted home, and made it into bed before the stroke of Midnight.

Maybe, soon, I'll write about my new responsibility at work, the pneumatic tube system. Talk about working in a vacuum.

I read the news today, oh, boy.

  I found out yesterday that Larry Norman died at the end of February. Like any fan, I'm saddened that the majority of you have no idea who he is. He claims the title, as much as anyone could, of being the first Christian Rocker. Our lives intersected at a crucial time in my life, and, taking the same road made all the difference for me. He was 60.

I remember hearing my first Larry Norman song. There was a new church that had grown pretty rapidly, called Calvary Chapel, in Costa Mesa, Ca. I was invited to go with some older teens to the Saturday night concert - it became a regular event for many of us for a couple of years. That night, I don't remember who it was - other than the singer was blind - sang "U.F.O." I remember -the sound of their voice simply singing it. It was the gospel, presented on my terms, with brash honesty and love. I didn't know that it was one of his songs at the time, but the impact of the words still carries me to a sense of wonder:
"He will come back, like he promised, with the price already paid. He will gather up his followers, and take them all away. . .
And if there's life on other planets, well I'm sure that He must know. 'Cause he's been there, once already, and has died to save their soul."
There was a lot more. Larry was political, and I didn't always agree with his politics. But he was telling it like he saw it, and pointing out others who were taking advantage of the times to lead people astray:
"The Beatles said,"All you need is Love" and then they broke up."
-"Readers Digest"
These lyrics are from a song released in 1972. Incredibly sad that they mean so much, today:
"you are far across the ocean
in a  war that's not your own
and while you're winning theirs
you're gonna lose the one at home
do you really think the only way
to bring about the peace
is to sacrifice your children
and kill all your enemies"
-"The Great American Novel"
Larry and his converted friend, Randy Stonehill, sang the songs that touched my heart and fueled my passions for a very long time. I even begged Randy for an audition, once, I wanted to be a part of that group so much.
His most famous song, "I Wish We'd All Been Ready", was a powerful evangelical tool for a while, eventually over-performed into irrelevance as the age of sending teenagers already afraid of nuclear destruction to bed with the fear that the faithful were going to disappear all around them before morning if they didn't get right with God faded. Those were some scary times to be a teenager. As a fan, I see the whole "Left Behind" stuff as his legacy, even though I know that there's more to it than that.

Although I saw him perform as many times as I could, I never met Larry. I sent him an email, a couple of years ago, thanking him for his impact upon my life, never got a reply. My understanding of things is that he had relationship problems with a number of people over the years, with bands, etc. Part of his persona was that he was against whatever grain there was. As a fan, I can accept that - I never had to live or work with him - it was part of his art. His poetry, performance, and faith inevitably influence the things that I do and say. God Bless you, Larry.

"I've been knocked down, kicked around,
But like a moth drawn to the flame,
Here I am, talkin' bout Jesus just the same. . .
I've been rebuked, for the things I've said,
For the songs I've written and the life I've led.
They say they don't understand me, but I'm not surprised
Because you can't see nothin' when you close your eyes.
They say I'm sinful, backslidden,
That I have left to follow fame.
But here I am, talkin' bout Jesus, brother
Here I am, talkin' bout Jesus, sister
Here I am, talkin' bout Jesus, just the same."
-Shot Down

The Ramblings of a Sleep-Deprived Service Tech

Working in a hospital engineering department has always been a combination of monotony, maintenance, and surprise. I tell people, "If you can think of it, we probably have at least one of them." We supply air, water, gases, nuclear medicine, etc.
One of the capabilities that we have is the capacity to generate our own power. Part of our responsibility is to assure that that power is always available, and able to come on line within 10 seconds of city power loss. So, for example, someone checks our generators 3 times a day, to make sure that the switches are in their correct positions, that there's fuel avaiable, and that the batteries are charging. Once a month, each generator (we have 3) is tested under an actual load, and they are all run once a week. This means that, twice a month, a couple of us get to come in at 0430 to run them under a load on a scheduled basis, at the least disruptive time for all of the activities that happen in our happy little hotel. We sometimes have to postpone a test if there's a trauma or other unscheduled surgery going on - even though those areas are protected by Uninterruptable power supplies - we do not take the chance that someone might be plugged into the wrong outlet. I'd want to know that if I were on the table. Today was my turn - to do the test, not for an operation.
Getting up at 0330, even to go fishing (which I've never actually done), is like getting up in the middle of the night. Fortunately, wearing a uniform means that it's relatively easy to get dressed in the dark. Stumbling out to the car - I've worked there so long that I really don't have to think about where I'm going - my 16 year-old buggy knows the way. Traffic is light. Who knew?
The hospital is lit up, as it always is. With the exception of different faces, and less of them, it really doesn't matter what time it is in the hallways. The Generators are out back, sequestered in buildings that block a majority of the noise that they make. We check the fuel, check the oil, check the radiators, write down the vital statistics, including the hour meter readings. We are in a constant squeeze between regulators; the Air Pollution Control District only permits us to run these mammoth diesels for so many hours a year (excluding actual emergencies), and the Joint Commission for Hospital Accreditation sets the parameters for testing them, including how much load to place on them, for how long, and when. These agencies do not communicate with each other.
The Generators, themselves, are big, with big old radiators on the front, the actual generator on the other end, and massive exhaust systems crammed into the building to keep the noise down. Ear protection is required. Heaters keep the engine warm, to help them start more quickly. When running under load, they are actually turned on by Automatic Transfer Switches, which either sense the drop and switch automatically in an emergency, or via our building automation softwarem, on a PC when we test. So, you press a button with your mouse, the lights go out, and within 10 seconds the switches switch, the behemoth awakes, takes the load, and everything springs back to life. Thirty minutes later, the switch back is just a 'bump'.
There are lots of things that can go wrong, and they do, although rarely. Today, all was just peachy. We fired it up, made sure that we were delivering over 300KV (30% of the generator's 1000kV capacity), checked the temps, hertz, amps, and stood around for 45 minutes while it did its' thing. The crescent moon was lovely, through the clouds. We ran the other two 'no-load' for 10 minutes apiece, filled out all of the paperwork, and it was time for breakfast.
One of the things that I've always taken great pride in is that even these industrial actions that we take can be and are related to taking care of patients. The people that are the best at this kind of work are those who relate what they do to the greater good. I like watching "Dirty Jobs" on TV because Mike Rowe understands and promotes the concept. To be quite honest, my paycheck isn't enough to drag my tired butt out of bed to do something like this, knowing that it is important makes it happen.Yes, this is one of the reasons that your hospital stay costs so much. There's a lot to this facility that most people never see in redundant systems and things like fire safety. There's a lot wrong with healthcare in this country, but there's a lot right, too. I know that in my house, you're going to be safe, secure, and the lights will be on, if I have anything to do with it. We might even make you comfortable, every now and again. but that's another story.

"I smell the onions, I look around for you. . . "

It's been a fun few days, here at Casa Bardonia. The good news is that we've had good outcomes - the process has been a bit, well, odiferous, though. First part of the week, I started noticing a rotten, kinda moldy, pungent smell in the bathroom, when I was giving Emma her bath. Emma tends to well, splash around a lot, sometimes, and I often end up putting an old towel on the floor to sop up the water, and the towel doesn't always get hung up, and it'll lay there for a day or two. . . cause she'll just do it again, tomorrow. . . so I'm thinkin' that we've got a mildewing towel thing going on. Next day, it's a little worse. I bother to pick up the towel - nope, it's not the towel. What is it? Don't know.
Thursday, it's getting nasty. I pull up a corner of the vinyl flooring - thinking to myself, 'great, it's gonna be mold, I'm going to have to tear this floor out and . . . '
No mold.
Then, it dawns on me. I've smelled something like this, before. Yes. It's DEAD ANIMAL. I don't think that I've recorded my experience - I think it's been 5 or so years ago - of removing half of a dead skunk from under this house, and I'm not going to, now. I will tell you of its effect upon me yesterday.
Resigned to the reality that 1) it was too late to do anything at the moment and 2) it was going to be my main concern in the morning, I went to bed. The odor, which had previously only been perceptible in the one bathroom, was now beginning to pervade the eastern end of the house.
I awoke at 3:15, my personal 'witching' hour. When I'm bothered, when stuff happens in the middle of the night, I've noticed that it's usually right around 3:15. I could smell this thing, and my brain began to turn. The condition of this corpse. The physical proximity that I would need to assume to address said corpus, or should I say now, host. I began to consider the logistics, put forth new theories and designed potential tools to do the job, like rigging up a plastic bag on a pole with a cable threaded around the bag opening, that could be placed over the thing and then drawn tight like a drawstring, in order for the operator to stay further away from the business that surely would be at hand. The smell wouldn't let me be. Went to the office, opened the window. Gad. My course became clear, even as my stomach became increasingly muddled. It was time to call a professional. Whatever the cost - actually, I considered about $200 to be my price ceiling - somebody else was going to do this dirty work. To the internet! I selected three companies, got myself dressed - the smell taking over my senses the whole time, and left for work a little early.
Speedy Animal Control. They open at 7 - perfect. I'll get them going and we'll be done. Left a message on their machine at 7:25. They never called me back.
On to D&D Dead Animal Removal Service. No fancy website, 'no bones about it' - low tech, on the lowdown, actually my first choice but no posted hours. I stopped waiting for Speedy just before 10am. D&D (lots of opportunity to 'riff' on the possibilities of those initials) had an answering service, too, but then Mary called me back within minutes. They had a live one, as it were. I explained that there was a dead animal under my house, could they please remove it, TODAY?
"What kind of animal is it?"
"I don't know. I'm thinking it's a possum or a raccoon - I'm pretty sure it's not a skunk, because we've had a dead skunk under our house, before."
"Well, a dead skunk doesn't always smell like a skunk."
"Yes, ma'am."
After going back and forth, spelling street names, Mary relaying info to another person trying to find us in the Thomas Brothers' map book, she gets back to business:
"Is this space accessible"
"Yes."
"How much space is there?"
(I don't know, I can crawl down there, I can turn over, it's a CRAWL SPACE!)"I'd say a good 24 inches or so."
"Well, sir, we do charge for this service."
(Oh really? It'd be kinda creepy if you didn't)"Yes, Ma'am."
"We charge between $60 - $120, depending on how far we have to crawl, and what we find down there."
(SWEET!) "Sounds great"
"Sometimes, they're alive, you know."
"I'm pretty sure that that's not the case, here."
We wrapped up the conversation, and they came out a couple of hours later. Vicky brought Jesus into the house, to the bathroom, and he said "I know what that is." Identifying animals by the smell of their rotting bodies is a skill that, while I admire it, is not one that I'd like to cultivate. He did his thing, we paid them $80, and life was much better all over again. I received the text message from Vicky - "Possum gone." Yes, Jesus had delivered us from the pestilence that had afflicted us, yea verily, our entire household. Make your own jokes, if you must. I prefer to remain respectful, for a change.
There's still a little smell, this morning, I'm just a bit nauseated at the moment. Yes, I found another broken vent and closed it off. We're moving on, today, to brighter horizons, and domestic bliss.

World Down Syndrome Day

Today was World Down Syndrome Day. Of course, I didn't have to tell you, I'm sure you saw the blue and yellow banners waving from the lampposts in your town. It was in all the papers, and the heartwarming stories filled the post-sports-newscasts slots between chuckling anchors and videos of hailstorms as big as golf balls and water-skiing squirrel videos. People with Down Syndrome got free haircuts, donuts, and movie tickets, and they waved from convertibles as parades were held in their honor. 21-gun salutes, plus one "extra" shot, echoed at military installations. The telethon was a great success, raising 40 million dollars for research. Of course, we've already found a cure, but there appear to be a number of things that we can do to help those who've escaped it. The day was all about possibilities, inclusion, and achievement.
Yeah, Annie, I have my days, too.

Waiting in the Weeds

I've been sitting on that last post for three weeks. I find myself, from time to time, unable to post about the things I'm thinking about. Years ago, I often read about writing taking courage, and I really didn't understand what that meant, outside of, say, Karl Marx or George Orwell. I am realizing that, if I really want to delve into some subjects, I'm going to need to do what I'm told every writer should be doing anyway, and that's writing a journal. I don't have the ego to think that my thoughts need international publishing; you've all been invited to read at your leisure and discretion as I hopefully work on myself. I try to do this in a way that might have some value for you as my friend, family member, or parent on this zany caravan we call - heck, what do we call it? At any rate, thanks for checking back, I've been kinda blocked. I'm going to try and start journaling, which hopefully may clear the docket for some more focused material. And I'm going to floss every day and check the oil in the car at least once a week. I'll save my courage for the time being, even though that kinda makes me shudder. Anyone understand this?

The news says that it takes a big chunk more than we bring in to 'make ends meet' here in San Diego. The school district - a big part of our lives right now, for both of my kids - is cutting on the very programs and services that serve Sam and Emma, being at either end of the educational spectrum. We've all been sick with some kind of crud that has lasted for about 3 weeks now, leaving us with a messy house, unmown grass, fast food because we're too pooped to get to the store, let alone cook. . .
It's just been a season of malaise.
Spring is on the way, though. I'm listening to music, again. I'm working through some stuff. I'm trying to figure out what my next career is going to be. I've pretty much ruled out inspirational speaker, cause I'd be livin in a van down by the river. And nobody wants that.

Bonus Photo!
Here's a picture from my webcam that we sent to Vicky when she was in Yuma a few weeks back.

Fasten Your Seat Belts

I'm warning you, right off the bat, that I'm going somewhere that I'm not exactly comfortable with, and I'm pretty sure that some of you won't want to go. Feel free to stop this ride at any time - this is not required reading. The topic - same sex marriage. Curious? Let's proceed. Not curious? Feel free to check back, later.
I got a phone call, yesterday afternoon, from my neighbor Sid. Sid and Janice are lovely people; their children have grown and moved on, and I really do like having them for next-door neighbors. We've been through stuff together like building and paying for a common fence, reaching Janice on the phone when Sid had chest pains and got taken away in the ambulance, Sam was a somewhat unwitting accomplice when the neighbor kid set fire to one of Sid's trees - you know, the usual neighbor stuff.
Sid calls, wants to know if Vicky and I would join them in signing a petition for another ballot measure stating that marriage is between a man and a woman. I politely answered, "no." He politely said,"o.k., bye then," and that was that. Poor Sid. I do hope he talks to me again, someday.
We talk, all the time, in my communities of DS parents, about how our children change our lives. It's often hard to express just how. Time shifts, expectations change; after being stared at enough times you care less and less what people think about how you look, or what you're doing, because they have no clue what this is like, and most don't ever want to. Yup, I'm a minority, parent of a smaller minority.
So, there's stories about the occasional, "high functioning" Down Syndrome couples getting married. OK, there's no law against that. Should there be? They're different. How are they different? Why, it's a chromosomal anomaly. There's a behavioral gap between them and 'normal' married people.
I have grown to the opinion that homosexual people are born 'different'. I don't know if it's chromosomal, or not. I think that there's a whole range of genomic expression, just as there is with hair color, cruelty, and any other major characteristics of our human condition. I know some gay people that don't really exhibit any outward characteristics at all. There are many in key leadership positions where I work. There's a transsexual (at least one that I know about) in my building. We all manage to do what we need to do.
Now, I understand the societal implications of what I'm saying. I frankly think that there's been more damage done to our society by what is now the near requirement that both parents work to support an artificially high standard of living, financially, sociologically, and morally. That ship has sailed. We live in a country where single persons and gay couples can adopt children, 'have' them via surrogates. They live together in monogamous relationships and raise children, already. We've given them all of the de-facto trappings - more to the point, they've done it regardless of any law to the contrary. We don't have the legal/moral authority to jail them or stone them to death. Meanwhile, 90% of the children with the chromosomal condition that Emma has are killed, excuse me, prevented from living, er, what would you call it? And that's acceptable to all of us, because it continues, and is being further strengthened by the church of medicine.
What if homosexuality was discoverd to be a combination of genetic factors? Would it then become a disability? Perhaps you think it is, now. Would gay people suddenly be allowed to park in front of the grocery store? Would we evangelical folk be willing to accept them for who they were, then, now presented with a medical model, instead of a moral imperative?
This is a big pot, and this post is not going to make any sort of palatable soup. I'm reading a big book about theology and Down Syndrome. I don't know how it ends. I'm thinking that it may affect how I feel about this subject. At the moment, though, I just can't help but feel that we've got to come up with some new answers for these moral mines, answers that speak to love, God's love, that pass our understanding, that pass our propensities to alienate, that seek to bring healing relationships.
I know that some of you will disagree with this viewpoint, completely and utterly. You have other criteria. I'm just saying that Emma has changed my perspective on many things. I don't think I could ever explain myself to Seventh-Day-Adventist Sid in a way that he'd understand. I know he's a compassionate man, but I don't think he'd be able to fully see it through my eyes. I don't know if I've explained it in a way that anyone else understands.
It's amazing, what a telephone call can do.

IEP, 2008

Individualized Educational Plan. Talk about your 'living documents.'
I've said before, in this context, that I wonder how most of us would measure up to this kind of scrutiny. Experts in their fields, describing your strengths and weaknesses, accomplishments and failures, setting goals for your performance over the next year.
Emma is doing well. As you can see, she is beginning to write letters, and is doing better all the time at writing her first name. After years of tracing, she's heading out onto the wide open spaces of paper and dry-erase boards. She can count to 6. She's learning signs, and using them, and, a couple of weeks ago, put a 3-word sentence together, signing "I Love Ice Cream." Mom thought it was going to be "I Love You," but Emma may have been leading her along on purpose. That's my Emma - likes the surprise, the joke, the 'BOO!"
She's beginning to work with an assistive device for speech, a little bit at school, and seems to like it. She's now being prodded to actually ask for things, rather than pulling someone to what she wants - and she's asking, rather than melting/shutting down. She's gaining strength, can now 'gallop' for many feet (another measurement), and the threshold's been lengthened. She's going to learn how to dribble a ball, here, pretty soon. She's sorting like crazy, and she's more visual than verbal when it comes to colors and identifying like things. Yes, she is. She's got buddies, and gets along really well with the kids at school - loves to participate with everyone. Everybody loves Emma (as far as I'm being told, anyway).
Now, you can look over this list and consider it to be pretty pathetic for an 8-year old. Nope. One of the things that Emma has taught me, that I think Jesus taught over and again, was that our expectations of others need to meet where they are, not where some arbitrary or selfish or theological or social norm labels them as unworthy. Our 'worthiness', our value, exists independently from these things; they are only mechanisms for us to distance ourselves from each other. But I digress. That we take the liberty to do so with the disabled should be a lesson to the normal, but we don't pay attention.
We made a major change with Emma, about 18 months ago, and I think we're just now beginning to see some measurable results. My parental cycle with Emma seems to be that, just when I've given up on something, she surprises. She is determined to take her own path.
I come out of every IEP meeting with two major emotions. One is gratitude for those that are investing themselves into my daughter, and pride in what they say about my Emma, the person. There's no graph, goals, or objective criteria for that, just the way she changes and enriches them. I couldn't be any prouder of her than I am, in those moments.

Hello, hello - I am telling you that you should go. . .

If you have any affection for U2, or have never been to a real rock concert, or it's just been a while since you've heard loud music (and you like that sort of thing), I strongly urge you to see U23D. See it in all of it's IMAX 3-D glory, if at all possible.
U2 is a great band - the fact that they are now billionaire activists for Peace, Love, Justice, and all that stuff makes it all the easier appreciate that it's what they were about, all along. It's been cool to watch them grow into what they've become.
I had the pleasure of seeing the "Vertigo" tour twice. In many ways, this film is about as close as one could come to being there - in many ways, better - because the camera takes you onstage. Having been to these concerts, the film brought back a lot of the emotional substance. I don't know if one can really get the sense of what it is to see, hear, and feel an arena full of people dancing and singing In the Name of Love at full throttle, but you should at least be able to appreciate the moment in the film when Bono steps back from his mic and says, "Wow!" I am usually taken by The Edge's powerful solo lines, and the movie certainly provides those opportunities. They are veteran performers, but this movie also brings you into the circle, a bit, to see that they are still having a very, very good time.
The 3D is good, really good. There's some gimmickry, mic stands standing out, shots of Adam poking his bass neck around like he's probing a large, wet balloon - no, wait, he always does that. Larry Mullen's drum kit looks phenomenal through the polarized glasses. You can also see how hard he's working, something you tend to forget when watching him from a quarter mile away.
It has been a very long time since I've been 'wowed' at the movies. I knew that I was going to like the music, but the 3D really did make it a 'wow' experience. Don't wait for this to come out on DVD - I don't think it'll be quite the same. It's like the difference between listening to music in your living room vs. seeing it performed live. Except different.

Your stigma just dented my karma.

The "R" word has screwed up my weekend. Again.
My gaming clan. It's not really expected to be a politically correct arena. In the course of the last two days' events, I have learned that the word has been added to a ban list on the forum because of me, an action that I'll take credit for but am not particularly happy that I had to be the reason for. More on that in a moment.
One of my buddies posted a message asking that the word "Ree-tard" be ree-instated - "I find this word very useful, pleasing to the ears, and a useful tool on RO team chat. I have been using moron in various forms for months, but I miss the beauty of the original word."
Now, to my clan's credit, most of the responses to this were that it wasn't acceptable. I made my choice. I embedded Emma's birthday video, and typed "Joe, meet my daughter, Emma. . .

It's a big world, and this is a big clan. There's room for most of us. I have to vote no on this one though.Thanks Destroyer, VGER and others. You're much nicer than I am."

No tirade, no rant, just the facts. I've reached a point where there's no real sense of righteous anger, no alerting of the local cell of Amnesty International, no striking a blow for Mankind sort of feeling. Just calling an ass an ass. I had a bad feeling about this one, and I was proven right.
A couple of hours go by, some other posts in the thread, then a new post appears. Joe's resigning the clan - he's offended too many people. My response is the first one - don't quit, you were trying to be funny, yadda yadda. It appears that Joe's a pretty popular Old Fart. Posting a resignation isn't resigning, it's a popularity poll. If you're leaving, leave. Don't let the door hit you on the ass on the way out. Don't stand in the doorway exclaiming, "OK, I'm really going this time, no really, Bye!. . . . . Bye! Gotta go now. . . OK! He's not going anywhere.
This morning. Joe sends me a Private Message, explaining that he of course meant to offend no one. He goes on to relate that he has several in-laws with various conditions, and they enjoy calling each other 'retard' when they play games together. I have to share this:

"My wife's brother is half paralyzed and nearly completely brain damaged due to a car accident 20 years ago. We still call him Frankenstein, and our new favorite DroolBucket. No one minds, it's part of our way of interacting as it has been all our lives."

How lovely it must be to be Droolbucket! Surrounded by love and warmth and care. This is what I meant by my bad feeling. I've run into this sort of person before. Of course there's nothing wrong with using words like these, Joe. It feels like HOME. Alrighty then. Now I understand Joe. He still doesn't, and probably won't ever, understand me. There is the possiblity that he'll slide off into a tree while snowboarding and end up in the living room as Droolbucket II, but that's pretty much the only way he's going to get my drift.

Yeah, I'm angry. I always have been. I'm angry that my daughter has Down Syndrome. I'm angry at Joe's upbringing. I'm angry that I feel accommodated for - that it has to be me, that it wouldn't be, otherwise. I'm angry that many of my clanmates imply in their posts that it's no big deal, that I somehow overreacted by reacting at all. They have no idea, LAUGH OUT LOUD. I'm angry that - now that I've made it clear to the whole clan that I'm an oversensitive parent of a poor retarded girl - they're gonna treat me differently. I can't even leave the house, electronically, without this affecting my life. I'm angry that there are those that (no one ever says it out loud) think that our kind should just shut up and take my proper place in the isolated shadows of society, to happily accept "oh, I didn't mean you" when the dipstick makes a joke about taking the short bus.
I'm a compassionate man. I'm a loving father. I think I'm funny, most of the time. Today, I'm just pissed. I"m gonna go play with Emma for a while. She couldn't care less about any of it, and that's the wonder, the redemption, and the answer to it all.

It's about the Mentos, and more

Here's the deal:
We've seen the original. We've watched Mythbusters do it. We've bought the kit.
Then Sam modified it. He's replaced the drop mechanism with two magnets, ala Adam and Jamie. Then, with the help of Old Dad, we made the tube and adapter. Witness the results:



This is so much better than Cub Scouts.
It's cool to watch him experiment, to facilitate his 'vision', albeit a goofy way to expel Diet Coke into the atmosphere. It's Dad-dom fully realized. It was all his idea. Makes me prouder than I could ever imagine.

Margins

Why do we constantly marginalize each other?
Politics makes me physically ill. This, I'm sure, is a character flaw on my part, borne of a gentle spirit, schoolyard bullying, the harmony of the modern evangelical church, and the fact that I am even lactose tolerant. I like "Great Moments with Mr. Lincoln", where he describes the factors that would rend us asunder, then rises to his feet as only a pneumatic doll could, and brings us all back together before we head back out into the sweltering heat of Main Street, USA. I hate politics, because the discussion begins, in one form or another, with a declarative statement that immediately alienates a portion of those in the room. These days, if you hold a basic set of philisophical/political beliefs, to declare them as such instantly labels you and hangs a whole meat locker of smelly, disgusting issues around your neck by default, whether you're invested in them or not. This odor, now emanating from everyone in the room - because each 'party' (what a ridiculous name!) has plenty of stink to go around - makes everyone unhappy. More to the point, it causes artificial, unnecessary assumptions - let's just call it what it is - prejudice - to cloud, overshadow, dilute, poison the topic at hand. There are those that are very close to me who, I know, assume my positions on several subjects. I also know that they are wrong. One of the things that I think that is as sacred - and necessary - as the First Amendment to the Constitution is the secret ballot, including the right to keep those choices to myself. It's the power of the powerless. No one has the right to know how I voted, unless I tell them. I'm also quite afraid that, if they knew how I really felt on certain topics, our friendship could very well be at risk - a very saddening prospect. There would be no convincing, as well as no acceptance. Very sad, indeed.
This post has been percolating for a day or so. I know now that I'm not alone. Two nights ago(seen by me last night thanks to the miracle of Digital Recording), John Stewart was pointing out to Lou Dobbs that Dobb's own poll showed that 94% of his viewers were sick of the idiotic reporting of campaign and campaigner's minutiae, rather than the facts and the issues. I got a forwarded email, this week, telling me that Senator Obama -- I want to pause, a moment, for emphasis -- Senator Obama, a duly elected member of the second-most elite group of elected officials in this country, which makes him a high-ranking member of one of the two most powerful political parties, subject to their scrutiny, approval, and support -- I get this email that tells me (and I'm paraphrasing some of it here) that Senator Obama won't say the Pledge of Allegiance, went to hezbollah school, and will have us all hiding our McRibs under our burkahs come February. The creation and dissemination of that type of vitriol marginalizes everyone; sender, subject, party, recipient, country - it even slows down the internet, for Pete's sake. This week, I'm told that Ms. Clinton wins a political primary because she shows some emotion. I haven't seen it, don't want to, don't need to. IT"S NOT IMPORTANT. It could actually be true that some people actually changed their vote over this, but I sincerely doubt that this contingent of Americans made the difference. The error is in affording it more importance than it deserves, and by doing so, removing the focus from what is important. I truly do not know why anyone would put themselves under so much pressure and scrutiny in the first place. I don't know why I'd be interested in Britney Spears locking herself in her bathroom, either, but that's just more of the same.My point is simply this: Whether you're angry with the poor sot behind the counter at McSubWenTacoFiesta, or passing through the mid-band of your cable channels with the talking heads of 'news channels', ask yourself, "Why must we 'marginalize' each other?"Can't trust the media; can't trust a photograph - remember 'pictures don't lie'? Can't trust a sound bite. We can't trust our processes, either, unless we're willing to take some personal responsibility for how we treat each other. I do know that there aren't many places where I can enter into a discussion of many issues, these days, without somebody's feelings getting severely hurt. This needs to change, if we're to move in any sort of positive direction. I'm just sick about it.

Wrap it Up, I'll Take It

It’s been a good season.
I have been the recipient of some great and gracious gifts, and have had the pleasure of surprising a couple of people, myself. We’ve had good travel, good food, and some genuine times. The kids are growing up – my niece Megan stunned my senses as she came through the doorway – she’s not a little girl, anymore. Her old uncle was as pleased as punch to be her old uncle and show her how to string her new guitar, albeit left-handed. I am not the kind of guy that kids gravitate toward (call it an homage to W.C. Fields, call it what you will); it was nice to have a reason to converse with her. If she brings it over next year, then I’ll know that I’m just being used to perform a mundane chore, but, now that it occurs to me, it’d still make me quite happy.
As one who chews on things, this is the time of year for mental mastication. So far, nothing tasty is appearing. There’s a lot going on, and a lot to do. One of my online friends, Tom, has kicked up that whole doing/being/where do you want to go today? dustbowl. Whether it’s the passage of time, inertia, or the seven stages of Death, I’m more comfortable right now that I be what I be. Doing has always been the bug in the balm. How do I show who I be to me son? By what I doing. How’m I doing? Not so good, I fears. He’s a great kid, maybe I doing alright.
This has been a year of doing what needs to be done. Will we do better, starting tomorrow? I don’t know.

Tis the Season

Boy, life just goes on, doesn't it? There's a lot going on around me, anyway. This is typically the time of year when I get sick. I think I'm an undiagnosed bipolar personality. Why, you may ask? Because everyone needs a diagnosis these days, don't they? Why am I ending every sentence with a question mark? Is it because I need you to agree with me? Well, don't I?
Apologies. I am a member of the Seinfeld generation. I am not an Israelite, but I did work for a wonderful man for 7 years who once advised me "Always answer a question with a question!" I was also eligible to marry one of his daughters at that point, but, alas, I was already married, and they were too cool for a goyim geek like me. Miriam would have never allowed it.
The nanny state upped the ante another notch; I was required by STATE LAW, as a healthcare worker, to either get a flu shot or sign yet another document stating that I was refusing same. What the writer of Revelation didn't realize was that, by the time we'd have so many forms to fill out, we'd welcome a barcode on our foreheads just to save time. The insidious thing about a flu shot is that most of my coworkers and I felt lousy for a few days afterward, but not unwell enough to stage a strike or call a press conference to announce that it was a complete failure, ala Mike Aguirre. I hope I don't get the flu this year, I really don't.
I'm feeling particularly bombarded by sensory input, this year. There are a few projects in the works, one that's pretty exciting and intimidating at the same time. At the moment I'm waiting for information for a writing/presentation project that will be due in 23 days. It looms. Annoyed by both advertising, and anti-advertising. A very cute video piece from a friend about "Merry Tossmas", encouraging me to throw away every ad or catalogue that panders to everyone, instead of just Christians, by not calling the holiday Christmas, but merely a "Holiday." I am certainly one of those people who like to "call a spade a spade", and I know and fully expect everyone to call it a "Christmas Tree", and the day is Christmas. A store catalogue, in a multi-cultural society - and we are one BY DEFINITION, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN - is a shotgun blast. Good marketing is targeted, and L. L. Bean should know who their kwanzaa customers are. All 57 of them. Getting upset about the 'dilution' of Christmas is sounding the call after the dam has broken.
It is ridiculously cowardly that we cannot call Christmas Christmas on a school flyer, or sing Christmas carols in school that mention the event. That is exclusion, not correctitudinousness. I personally see the observance of Hanukkah, the observance of a miracle of God's provision for His people, as the perfect prelude to Christmas - but that's just me. I also see the Cross when I look at a Christmas Tree. I'm a Bittersweet kinda guy. Gee, I'm not sure where this comes from, but we should be looking for opportunities to encourage - children, in particular - to recognize and apprecieate their cultural diversity. That includes not banning Christ from Christmas. I remember singing "The Draedle song", in school, as a kid.
We're losing the ability to open our arms - culturally, emotionally, religiously, politically, physically.
I know this is a digression, but it's part of the bombardment. I heard a great quote, on the radio this week, from Sen. John McCain regarding the United States using torture. A man who knows (this, from a speech in February):

"Many years ago, a scared American prisoner of war in Vietnam was tied in torture
robes by his tormenters and left alone in an empty room to suffer through the
night. Later in the evening, a guard he had never spoken to entered the room and
silently loosened the ropes to relieve his suffering. Just before morning, that
same guard came back and re-tightened the ropes before his less humanitarian
comrades returned.
He never said a word to the grateful prisoner, but some months later on a Christmas morning as the prisoner stood alone in the prison courtyard, the same Good Samaritan walked up to him and stood next to him for a few moments. Then with his sandal, the guard drew a cross in the dirt. Both prisoner and guard stood wordlessly there for a minute or two venerating the cross until the guard rubbed it out and walked away. This is my faith, the faith that unites and never divides, the faith that bridges unbridgeable gaps in humanity. That is my religious faith and it is the faith I want my party to serve, and the faith I hold in my country. It is the faith that we are all equal and endowed by our creator with unalienable rights to life liberty and the
pursuit of happiness. It is the faith I would die to defend."

Now, that's not the quote. The quote is "It's not about them. It's about us."
I would not be surprised at all if Christmas is eventually removed as an "official" holiday, at least from the government's books. That does not mean that most of us will stop celebrating it or taking several days off, even. Perhaps we might even be able to clear away some of the dreck that hangs off the event and focus more on the meaning, as a result. Nah, silly me. We'll just add some more Federal and State days off, and see if they catch on with shoppers. No one will be working, by then, anyway. I don't think we'll ever have to revert to sketching crosses or icthuses in the sand, but it means living our individual lives with courage, not caving in to committees.
Massacre in a mall. Al-Qaieda doing this, we brace ourselves for, but like Oklahoma City, we manage to provide the home-grown event. The searing knowledge that Christmas won't be the joyous event for everyone.
Bombardment. Multi-tasking. We feel guilty if we're not doing at least 3 things, simultaneously. I love the houseboat because there's usually only one thing to be done, and that it entails eating, sleeping, or simply looking out across the expanse of water to allow the noise level in my brain subside. Remembering it, this week, was a reminder to seek some peace in the middle of all of this.
Christmas is coming. There's no avoiding it, even if you call it something else. It will be gone, soon enough, and, with any luck, we'll have a few moments of peace, joy, and goodwill toward men to remember, perhaps even record. Wise men do still seek those moments, and I hope they find them.
I hope you don't find this to be a depressive essay, my intent is to spur you (and myself) to action, whether it be to your community, your family, or to your heart. Seek Peace, even if you need to make some. Smell the fresh wreath that's been sent to you by a friend, and smile. Give the gifts that you have. Let the gratitude of the Thanksgiving (remember that, already?) harvest beget the sharing of same with those whose crops didn't come in. Put up a Festivus pole, if you have to.
As for me, I'm going to spend some time over the next couple of weeks seeking a baby in a manger, no crib for a bed, who continues to try to bring Love to a world, bombarded.

Happy Thanksgiving

Thanks.

There's been a lot of new hoo-haw about Thanksgiving, this year, including word of some school district in the NorthWest calling it a day of mourning for Native Americans (I'm not wasting my time looking it up, it's on the internet, it must be true). What narrow-mindedness has gripped our collective idiocy, these days? The reality is that many cultures have always celebrated the harvest. I'd like to remind you why it's a day off in the United States.
The Battle of Gettysburg, fought July 1-3, 1863, nearly 87 years to the day of the nation's birthday, took between 46,000 and 51,000 lives. Three days. More than are killed on our highways in a year. It is a staggering number by any human standard. A nation at war, a war that would eventually claim 618,000 . President Lincoln is struggling to keep the Union together. I invite you to read his Proclamation. It acknowledges the war only as an impediment to the inevitable success of the U.S. as a people. It is a prayer - and it is not filled with the trappings of any one religion - it is a prayer for a nation to express its' gratitude, even in the midst of cataclysm.
We need to be grateful, in whatever circumstances we find ourselves. There was a great line, last night, on the TV show "House." "When you have all of the answers, you no longer have Hope!"
Thanksgiving, as manifested in our culture, is all about Hope. The traditional story of the Pilgrims indicated a new era of cooperation and understanding in the New World - regardless of the outcome. Lincoln's proclamation is all about the future. It is a day to pause and reflect upon those things that we tend to take for granted, ultimately to spur us to pursue those ideals that motivate us personally and collectively.
I am thankful that:

• I have the freedoms afforded to me, earned both by the lives of others committed to those freedoms, moreso than by my own participation in the process.
• I have Love. This greatest gift continues to be bestowed upon me by my family, friends, and a merciful and gracious God (to borrow a bit from A. Lincoln).
• I have health.
• I have a secure and comfortable place to live, and plenty of food to eat.
• I have employment that ultimately serves others, thereby giving it greater purpose, for me.
• I have places and communities that value my contributions, this means more to me, the older I get.
• I have Hope.

I wish you all a safe and happy Thanksgiving. Thank you for reading.