I’m always broke on Thursdays. It doesn’t matter when I get money out, or how much it is. When I say broke, I mean that there’s no folding money in my wallet. What it means is that, lunchtime on Thursdays, I have to go to the ATM in the lobby and pay $1.50 for the privilege of taking money out of my account. What is interesting is that I know this, yet I do not take appropriate action to remedy it. Sometimes, when I kiss my wife goodbye in the morning, I’ll beg for what she might have in her purse, but I don’t like to do that – it makes her have to actually have to process information beyond her twilight routine of kissing me goodbye, and it usually means a trip for her to the ATM. I have thought to myself, on Wednesdays, “you should go by the bank on your way home,” only to find myself pulling into the driveway without doing so.
I’m sure that you are wondering why I’m telling you this. There are three reasons that I can think of. First, there are no new episodes of Seinfeld, and some of you may be missing it. Second, this event is prompting me to realize how very habitual I am. I get up, get ready, go to work, work is the same, every day (at least since 2001), eat lunch at the same place, get in my car, and drive straight home 92 days out of 100. I have actually had days off where I get the feeling that I am doing something wrong; truant, as it were. I have become institutionalized. I am like the bear at the zoo, pacing back and forth in a self-stimulating rut that also assures me that I’m not going to be bothered, beyond, of course, those things that invade my routine. I used to think that this was faithfulness; lately, I’m seeing it as fearful. I’ve pulled the lid over the top of the box I’m in.
So, what should I do? Should I just head for Tijuana some afternoon? Nah, it’s like a whole different country down there. I have plenty of things to do. I really need to just get busy and start doing them. I’m hoping that by writing it down, confessional-style, it’ll help prompt me to action. I’ll let you know. And, by the way, this is a rhetorical question. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t like the answers most of you would give me, thanks just the same.
Perhaps you don’t have this problem. Perhaps you do, to some extent. Maybe this little exercise might prod you out of a little mire, which would make it worth publishing, which brings us to reason number three.
I felt like I needed to write something. It’s been a few weeks. I suspect I’ll have some more to write about in another week or so.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
Monday, September 11, 2006
Friday, August 25, 2006
Beetljz Beetljz Beetljz!
I can’t believe it. Beetlejz is shutting down. To me, it’s like In-n-Out burger closing. I’ll still eat, but it just won’t be the same.
Beetlejz (his online name) has run a bunch of gaming servers, some public, some private, long before I got involved in online gaming, circa 2003. He and Slippyfist have, over the years, been continuously updating and modifying their servers to attract and keep good players. I stumbled onto their Return to Castle Wolfenstein Tram server; I liked it because it played the same map over and over; I could concentrate on learning its layout while I was being shot down, over and over again. In this type of game, teams compete on a timed map to either achieve or defend objectives. There are innumerable ways to modify the game settings to influence how this is done. When a player is killed, he goes into “limbo”, and then “respawns” – returns to the map at predetermined spots. One of the things that set Beetlejz servers apart from most others was that this number of respawns was limited. What this meant was that, if you just ran around killing and be killed, chances are that you’d run out of lives before the round, and your team would not achieve their objective. To play on Beetle, you needed to be part of the team, make a contribution. It’s more fun and satisfying, that way, particularly after you gain some skill.
The virtual world of FPS (first person shooter) gaming has been, although it is now “maturing”, a realm dominated by young men. A lot of servers are available to shoot, kill, hack, and otherwise act like 15 year-olds. Beetlejz welcomed them, and old farts like me, and provided a place for us all to play a better game. They also ran a website. Between voice chat, game chat, and the website, we got to know each other. In short, a community.
This stuff is still new to most of us, and beetle was one of those opportunities to be a member of a different sort of group. I’m part of a few of these now, for different reasons, and it’s changed the nature of my life. There have been arguments, misunderstandings, and they have required different skills to resolve, but it’s all been pretty good.
Online games have life-cycles, there’s a new Wolfenstein game on the horizon. It’s why the servers have been less busy, and why they’re shutting down. I don’t know if I’ll move to the next version or not, we’ll see. I might just do so to keep up with my buds on Beetle, should they decide to fire a server up again. I’m grateful to them for keeping the website going, and I’m sure that some of us will see each other out there on the net. After all, they’re my friends.
So, to Beetle, Slippy, Gramps, PantsofGod (yes, I still really don’t know why she has that name), Talbot, Vortex, sabotage (who lives about 3 miles from me, but we’ve never met), TheScud, BBQDog, Shodan, Baz(I still miss ya, man), leafie, and even Spec7ral and GorgeousGeorge, along with a host of others, thanks for letting old Marvin interrupt your fine games with chat spam, bad puns, and silly haiku while I planted some dyno here and there and harassed you with sniper fire. You helped me through some rough times, and most of you didn’t even know it. I hope I’ve gained some friendships that’ll last, and I’d really like to meet most of you (lol) if I get the chance. From the beaches of Europe to the ice-covered slopes of Norway, V586 (Good Game), and V43 (Thank You). Hope ta see ya on Old Farts (another server), or on the forums. Vaya con Dios.
Beetlejz (his online name) has run a bunch of gaming servers, some public, some private, long before I got involved in online gaming, circa 2003. He and Slippyfist have, over the years, been continuously updating and modifying their servers to attract and keep good players. I stumbled onto their Return to Castle Wolfenstein Tram server; I liked it because it played the same map over and over; I could concentrate on learning its layout while I was being shot down, over and over again. In this type of game, teams compete on a timed map to either achieve or defend objectives. There are innumerable ways to modify the game settings to influence how this is done. When a player is killed, he goes into “limbo”, and then “respawns” – returns to the map at predetermined spots. One of the things that set Beetlejz servers apart from most others was that this number of respawns was limited. What this meant was that, if you just ran around killing and be killed, chances are that you’d run out of lives before the round, and your team would not achieve their objective. To play on Beetle, you needed to be part of the team, make a contribution. It’s more fun and satisfying, that way, particularly after you gain some skill.
The virtual world of FPS (first person shooter) gaming has been, although it is now “maturing”, a realm dominated by young men. A lot of servers are available to shoot, kill, hack, and otherwise act like 15 year-olds. Beetlejz welcomed them, and old farts like me, and provided a place for us all to play a better game. They also ran a website. Between voice chat, game chat, and the website, we got to know each other. In short, a community.
This stuff is still new to most of us, and beetle was one of those opportunities to be a member of a different sort of group. I’m part of a few of these now, for different reasons, and it’s changed the nature of my life. There have been arguments, misunderstandings, and they have required different skills to resolve, but it’s all been pretty good.
Online games have life-cycles, there’s a new Wolfenstein game on the horizon. It’s why the servers have been less busy, and why they’re shutting down. I don’t know if I’ll move to the next version or not, we’ll see. I might just do so to keep up with my buds on Beetle, should they decide to fire a server up again. I’m grateful to them for keeping the website going, and I’m sure that some of us will see each other out there on the net. After all, they’re my friends.
So, to Beetle, Slippy, Gramps, PantsofGod (yes, I still really don’t know why she has that name), Talbot, Vortex, sabotage (who lives about 3 miles from me, but we’ve never met), TheScud, BBQDog, Shodan, Baz(I still miss ya, man), leafie, and even Spec7ral and GorgeousGeorge, along with a host of others, thanks for letting old Marvin interrupt your fine games with chat spam, bad puns, and silly haiku while I planted some dyno here and there and harassed you with sniper fire. You helped me through some rough times, and most of you didn’t even know it. I hope I’ve gained some friendships that’ll last, and I’d really like to meet most of you (lol) if I get the chance. From the beaches of Europe to the ice-covered slopes of Norway, V586 (Good Game), and V43 (Thank You). Hope ta see ya on Old Farts (another server), or on the forums. Vaya con Dios.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Anniversary Correction
Evidently my marriage is older than the PC. By two months.
It's a nice article. 16K of RAM. If my memory serves, it was a blazing 4.77 MHz.
Yellow or green screen. Dot-matrix printer. spreadsheet goodness.
Happy 25, PC!
And I just found out that the Internet is 15!
Happy Birthday to you!
Monday, July 31, 2006
Do Not Speak Ill of the Ed
My Mother-in-law, Marian, has certainly seen her share of tragedy. It would be imprudent to detail it all here, and I suspect that there has been more than I’m aware of in her lifetime. Recent events, however, have made this student of irony shake his head in disbelief.
When she married Ed, somewhere around 20 years or so ago, he was a friendly enough guy, but well, standoffish in an indefinable sort of way. Efforts to get to know each other better were awkward, by all parties involved, to the point where we all just sort of gave up after a time. I never disliked Ed. Ed was what would now be called an old-school mainframe computer guy – and when he retired, he wanted nothing to do with computers. About 3 years ago, in a rare moment of generosity, he handed me 2 boxes of blank 5 ¼ floppies. I thanked him for the gift, and actually kept them in a drawer for a few months before disposing of them. I think he was sincere in his own way; I did not tell him that these disks were obsolete and unusable. I think his view of technology stopped with his retirement. His involvement with my family eroded to the point where he was merely present when we were at their house – he came and went as if we weren’t there.
I really can’t say, then what happened to him in the last year or so. I have learned recently that Ed was weirder with his money than I’d previously known. I do not nor really want to know about how two older adults, marrying later in life, deal with such things. He evidently tried to pull some shenanigans with Marian’s estate, effectively taking all of it from her heirs, were she to go before he did. It was the reason for their pending divorce. When she confronted him with it, he continued to try and “make deals” with her. The irony in all of this, from my perspective, was that he 1) had more money than he could have spent in what was left of his frugal lifetime, and 2) he had no family to leave this inheritance to, just his church. I can only surmise that he felt that leaving additional funds to God would somehow add jewelry to his crown in paradise – maybe even a gated community up there.
The resulting rift left Ed to find accommodation in a trailer park in Palm Desert. Marian spoke with him about a week before they found him. He specifically mentioned that he was not going to have a $300 a month air conditioning bill, like his neighbors. Marian says she really didn’t recognize him when asked to identify his body. That he should die, alone, a victim of both his self-imposed loneliness and unwillingness to turn down the thermostat is a pitiful end for anyone.
There were forces driving Ed that I think I can recognize, but can’t fully understand. He served us all in Korea, and I don’t think the experience was a positive one. I think his religious behavior was more compulsion than devotion. I think Ed was compelled to do many things, and therein lies the tragedy for him. Whether or not Marian was able to see and share with the person behind those compulsions, I don’t know. I do know that, by the time I entered his life, he was not able to bridge many of the relational gaps that we all deal with to make life work. Yes, I’m sorry I couldn’t make up for it, but it takes two to tango, you know, and Ed didn’t want to dance. When told that we’d had a daughter with Down Syndrome, his message was, “Get over it and move on.” He was right, if not a little too abrupt for my generation. He was always kind, if aloof, with my children, although it’s hard to be aloof with Emma.
Marian had signed the divorce papers, Ed had not, so they were married when he died. Marian chose to take care of his final arrangements, including a ceremony for their square-dance friends. I think that that was mighty nice of her. The ultimate irony is that she, evidently, now gets to determine how his estate is disbursed. I hope it brings her some comfort for the nonsense she had to deal with.
It’s been rumored that some of that legacy may even trickle down to pay for air conditioning at my house. If it’s true, I know that I’ll think of Ed whenever I hear it kick on. Ironies abound.
When she married Ed, somewhere around 20 years or so ago, he was a friendly enough guy, but well, standoffish in an indefinable sort of way. Efforts to get to know each other better were awkward, by all parties involved, to the point where we all just sort of gave up after a time. I never disliked Ed. Ed was what would now be called an old-school mainframe computer guy – and when he retired, he wanted nothing to do with computers. About 3 years ago, in a rare moment of generosity, he handed me 2 boxes of blank 5 ¼ floppies. I thanked him for the gift, and actually kept them in a drawer for a few months before disposing of them. I think he was sincere in his own way; I did not tell him that these disks were obsolete and unusable. I think his view of technology stopped with his retirement. His involvement with my family eroded to the point where he was merely present when we were at their house – he came and went as if we weren’t there.
I really can’t say, then what happened to him in the last year or so. I have learned recently that Ed was weirder with his money than I’d previously known. I do not nor really want to know about how two older adults, marrying later in life, deal with such things. He evidently tried to pull some shenanigans with Marian’s estate, effectively taking all of it from her heirs, were she to go before he did. It was the reason for their pending divorce. When she confronted him with it, he continued to try and “make deals” with her. The irony in all of this, from my perspective, was that he 1) had more money than he could have spent in what was left of his frugal lifetime, and 2) he had no family to leave this inheritance to, just his church. I can only surmise that he felt that leaving additional funds to God would somehow add jewelry to his crown in paradise – maybe even a gated community up there.
The resulting rift left Ed to find accommodation in a trailer park in Palm Desert. Marian spoke with him about a week before they found him. He specifically mentioned that he was not going to have a $300 a month air conditioning bill, like his neighbors. Marian says she really didn’t recognize him when asked to identify his body. That he should die, alone, a victim of both his self-imposed loneliness and unwillingness to turn down the thermostat is a pitiful end for anyone.
There were forces driving Ed that I think I can recognize, but can’t fully understand. He served us all in Korea, and I don’t think the experience was a positive one. I think his religious behavior was more compulsion than devotion. I think Ed was compelled to do many things, and therein lies the tragedy for him. Whether or not Marian was able to see and share with the person behind those compulsions, I don’t know. I do know that, by the time I entered his life, he was not able to bridge many of the relational gaps that we all deal with to make life work. Yes, I’m sorry I couldn’t make up for it, but it takes two to tango, you know, and Ed didn’t want to dance. When told that we’d had a daughter with Down Syndrome, his message was, “Get over it and move on.” He was right, if not a little too abrupt for my generation. He was always kind, if aloof, with my children, although it’s hard to be aloof with Emma.
Marian had signed the divorce papers, Ed had not, so they were married when he died. Marian chose to take care of his final arrangements, including a ceremony for their square-dance friends. I think that that was mighty nice of her. The ultimate irony is that she, evidently, now gets to determine how his estate is disbursed. I hope it brings her some comfort for the nonsense she had to deal with.
It’s been rumored that some of that legacy may even trickle down to pay for air conditioning at my house. If it’s true, I know that I’ll think of Ed whenever I hear it kick on. Ironies abound.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
The World's Fastest Indian
We just saw this movie, last weekend. Typically, I only see the first half of most movies, as we don't settle the house down (i.e. Emma goes to bed) until about 9 p.m.; the combination of inertia and recliner usually do me in. The fact that a movie engages me to the point of missing sleep, then, should suffice as endorsement enough. With this picture, the craftsmanship projects a love for the subject matter in a way that is palpable, and it tells a story that is as interesting as it is worth telling. The accompanying special features really only tell you what you already knew, - that the making of this movie drew everyone concerned into a magical realm of creativity that produces a whole greater than the sum of its parts.
I don't know anyone who does not like Anthony Hopkins. When he says that this is the best work he's ever done, it does not sound like the typical hyperbole that seeps out of press kits. Evidently, one day on the set, Burt Munro (the main character of the movie)'s children were brought to tears by his performance, he had become their father. His performance is that good.
The story is of a man of singular purpose, a dream to run his 1920 home-modified "motorsicle" halfway around the world at the Bonneville Speed Trials in the early 1960's. His naivete' about the rest of the world creates quite a journey for all of us as he pursues that dream through obstacles that would have turned most around, the least of which is his lack of pre-registration for the event and complete lack of any safety gear. That he was allowed to run at all is a miracle that probably could not happen in today's world.
This is not a Disney Movie by anyone's definition. Burt meets a cross-dressing angel in Hollywood, as well as a friendly Widow or two along the way, and he's no Boy Scout. Kids not old enough to get it won't, and those old enough won't suffer any psychic damage from it. Burt's charm is a wonder to witness, and he forges friendships as surely as he casts his own cylinder heads.
We enjoyed this movie immensly. I found it to be entertaining and inspiring. I hope you enjoy it, too.
I don't know anyone who does not like Anthony Hopkins. When he says that this is the best work he's ever done, it does not sound like the typical hyperbole that seeps out of press kits. Evidently, one day on the set, Burt Munro (the main character of the movie)'s children were brought to tears by his performance, he had become their father. His performance is that good.
The story is of a man of singular purpose, a dream to run his 1920 home-modified "motorsicle" halfway around the world at the Bonneville Speed Trials in the early 1960's. His naivete' about the rest of the world creates quite a journey for all of us as he pursues that dream through obstacles that would have turned most around, the least of which is his lack of pre-registration for the event and complete lack of any safety gear. That he was allowed to run at all is a miracle that probably could not happen in today's world.
This is not a Disney Movie by anyone's definition. Burt meets a cross-dressing angel in Hollywood, as well as a friendly Widow or two along the way, and he's no Boy Scout. Kids not old enough to get it won't, and those old enough won't suffer any psychic damage from it. Burt's charm is a wonder to witness, and he forges friendships as surely as he casts his own cylinder heads.
We enjoyed this movie immensly. I found it to be entertaining and inspiring. I hope you enjoy it, too.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Go Padres!
I am not a huge sports fan. I found this article today about the Padres, and I think you should read it.
Just warms the cockles of me heart it does, and hope it does the same for you.
Well Done!
Just warms the cockles of me heart it does, and hope it does the same for you.
Well Done!
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Silver Jubilee
Well, we made it. Not that I had my doubts, but things happen. And a lot has happened.
We hit the official 25 year mark for married-dom on Monday. There are any number of things to put this “achievement” in perspective. Celebrating my parents’ 50th anniversary at the same time. Visiting with my 90-year old grandmother, who looked up at a picture of Grandpa Charles and said, “I don’t remember sleeping with that man.” The space program is older than my marriage.
However, this union has been around longer than the Personal Computer, VCR’s, CD’s, MP3’s, IPods, indoor football, and Green Day. It has survived 3 wars, AIDS, several recessions, the War on Inflation, and “Saved by the Bell.” We’ve even stayed together through “Back to the Future III;” what a clunker that was.
We’re not the same people that we were, going into this thing. We’ve changed. What hasn’t changed is our commitment to each other. I’ve learned that every good marriage has a certain air of mystery about it. People say a lot of practical things, but there’s more to this two-candles-into-one-flame thing than meets the eye. Alchemy – turning (in my case) lead into gold. A bit of science, a bit of magic, and some hard work.
We are not proud people, but I am proud of what we do have – a safe, stable home for all four of us. I love to go home. I like to be home. My wife and kids are (more often than not) glad to see me. I am at my best when I am with them. We’re good, together. Increasingly, not a lot of people have this.
I’m glad I got married. I’m glad I’m still married. I can’t imagine life without her. In a world where seemingly everything has changed, it’s one of the few constants in my mind and heart. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Monday, June 05, 2006
MySpace ends where your nose begins
The internet is often described as a dangerous place, and it certainly can be. Just as we hear very little news about all of the good that our soldiers are doing in Iraq, there is little to be said about the benefits of so much information availability to anyone “connected”. From banking to special-interest groups to online gaming, to finding out which blank CD-RW’s will work with my recorder, it’s all there. Part of living in any society is development of the skill of discernment – veracity seems to be hidden, even in fast-food restaurant ads. Which brings me to today’s topic. How do we teach “netiquette”?
Parents, school districts, and individuals are struggling with naughty, derogatory, nasty, and even inciting information from their children online – another battle between the lines of free speech, bad behavior, and personal safety and security. (Mostly) Teens text-message each other with alarming speed these days; there are even sites where one can post ratings and dating experiences for others to judge; adults too. “Kiss and tell” has taken on yet another dimension.
I carry on online “conversations” on a daily basis with people that I’ve never met physically. These sorts of conversations, for me, began on BBS systems, pre-internet “bulletin boards” quite a while ago , initially inhabited by uber-geeks (and I are one), soon expanding to topics like religion and politics. This is where I learned my first lessons about online behavior. In nearly twenty years of participation and observation, I have not seen anyone’s ideas, philosophy, or salvation change as a result of anything posted in a “religion” thread. I have seen a lot of arguing, name-calling, mis-communication, and hurt feelings resulting from them, but no movement of any significance. As a participant in the communities I frequent, I have learned that it is almost too easy to be taken in an emotional direction by someone that was never intended, and it is so very easy to then fire off a reply filled with righteous indignation. These posts inevitably fester and foster those with an opinion on either side of “the issue” – real, unintended, or not – and can bring wave upon wave of heated debate and division to people whose intent was support and mutual interest. What’s lacking is the social infrastructure. People post things on the internet that they would never say in most social settings. When it’s said, there is no restraint inherent in the receiver being there to react, or anyone else, for that matter. There are none of the cues available to the receiver that we take for granted when we are physically together – tone, inflection, body language. Therefore, the context is limited by the rules of the community, the existing (or lack of) relationship between the parties, as well as the context that the receiver is in when the message is read. As a receiver, all of these things have influenced how I’ve read someone’s message, and what is communicated in my direction has not always been clear. I have learned, often requiring apologies, to moderate myself in how as well as what I will react to. As a “Moderator” – one who has the responsibility for maintaining the rules of one such community, I’ve learned to apply some standards to my online behavior, as well as that of others.
So, what’s my beef? It is precisely that we cannot ask our children to do what we do not do, ourselves. I merely have to point you to any recent political campaign advertising you have witnessed. How about “Entertainment Tonight” or “Extra”, or whatever those shows are called? Any negative snippet of information, innuendo, or inappropriate photo of a public personality is rushed to the screen, put out with little regard to context or propriety, and sensationalized to the point of stupidity. My 9 year old realizes the farcical, condescending nature of a political ad that calls a congressional candidate “dangerous”. He will learn, soon enough, that most of the danger in our government comes from the Executive branch, then the Judicial branch, and Congress last, but that’s a lesson for another time.
There has been a lot of attention focused upon MySpace. I signed up at the invitation of an online friend whose husband is in a band. One of the things that has contributed to MySpace’s success is it’s facilitation of local bands; distributing their music and performance dates, etc. I have also seen a great deal of what I would deem inappropriate content in the arena of personal spaces, but that’s because I’m a middle-aged married man uh, “not seeking”, as it were. It’s another aspect of the community. There are some things to note, here. First, I deem myself mature enough to control my own behavior. Second, I do not access MySpace when my children are around. Third, I would not allow my son to have a MySpace account. Fourth, I monitor his activity (and he is young enough and so far smart enough – through talking with him as well as monitoring his activity) to not want to go to places like this. We had a conversation just last night at dinner regarding a Nickelodeon game site that was interactive to a point that he’d never been before, and it was an opportunity to discuss “netiquette” with him some more. I expect this dialogue to continue, of course.
I suspect that this is not the case in these households where teenagers are posting abusive information about their schoolmates. Different school districts and even individual schools have reacted to this sort of behavior in different ways. It is a formidable and new problem to deal with this sort of private behavior that affects a public community. I agree that it is a problem, however I think that suppressing the medium is not the answer. It is a matter of personal accountability; and therefore a parental responsibility. Children, particularly teenagers, have always found the means to group themselves and ostracize others. When it interferes with the educational process, and even causes damage to another person, it should be dealt with, and parents need to be held liable for minors’ actions in this realm, as well. Some new paradigms for internet speech and behavior by minors as it applies to the educational environment need to be developed, without dissembling their First Amendment rights to criticize ideas or even institutions. That is a critical part of our educational process that needs to be held a little dearer, as far as I’m concerned.
What’s the answer to the larger, societal problem, then? I don’t know. I vote with my remote control and with posts like this. Like those religion threads, I don’t necessarily think I’m changing anyone’s mind, I’m interested in keeping the dialogue alive in your head, as we all make decisions about what we view and popularize. Many of these lines regarding freedom and responsibility are being re-drawn, and we need to be talking more about how. For many of us, it’s a matter of what we type, to whom, and about what. I hope I’ve given you pause to think about it.
Parents, school districts, and individuals are struggling with naughty, derogatory, nasty, and even inciting information from their children online – another battle between the lines of free speech, bad behavior, and personal safety and security. (Mostly) Teens text-message each other with alarming speed these days; there are even sites where one can post ratings and dating experiences for others to judge; adults too. “Kiss and tell” has taken on yet another dimension.
I carry on online “conversations” on a daily basis with people that I’ve never met physically. These sorts of conversations, for me, began on BBS systems, pre-internet “bulletin boards” quite a while ago , initially inhabited by uber-geeks (and I are one), soon expanding to topics like religion and politics. This is where I learned my first lessons about online behavior. In nearly twenty years of participation and observation, I have not seen anyone’s ideas, philosophy, or salvation change as a result of anything posted in a “religion” thread. I have seen a lot of arguing, name-calling, mis-communication, and hurt feelings resulting from them, but no movement of any significance. As a participant in the communities I frequent, I have learned that it is almost too easy to be taken in an emotional direction by someone that was never intended, and it is so very easy to then fire off a reply filled with righteous indignation. These posts inevitably fester and foster those with an opinion on either side of “the issue” – real, unintended, or not – and can bring wave upon wave of heated debate and division to people whose intent was support and mutual interest. What’s lacking is the social infrastructure. People post things on the internet that they would never say in most social settings. When it’s said, there is no restraint inherent in the receiver being there to react, or anyone else, for that matter. There are none of the cues available to the receiver that we take for granted when we are physically together – tone, inflection, body language. Therefore, the context is limited by the rules of the community, the existing (or lack of) relationship between the parties, as well as the context that the receiver is in when the message is read. As a receiver, all of these things have influenced how I’ve read someone’s message, and what is communicated in my direction has not always been clear. I have learned, often requiring apologies, to moderate myself in how as well as what I will react to. As a “Moderator” – one who has the responsibility for maintaining the rules of one such community, I’ve learned to apply some standards to my online behavior, as well as that of others.
So, what’s my beef? It is precisely that we cannot ask our children to do what we do not do, ourselves. I merely have to point you to any recent political campaign advertising you have witnessed. How about “Entertainment Tonight” or “Extra”, or whatever those shows are called? Any negative snippet of information, innuendo, or inappropriate photo of a public personality is rushed to the screen, put out with little regard to context or propriety, and sensationalized to the point of stupidity. My 9 year old realizes the farcical, condescending nature of a political ad that calls a congressional candidate “dangerous”. He will learn, soon enough, that most of the danger in our government comes from the Executive branch, then the Judicial branch, and Congress last, but that’s a lesson for another time.
There has been a lot of attention focused upon MySpace. I signed up at the invitation of an online friend whose husband is in a band. One of the things that has contributed to MySpace’s success is it’s facilitation of local bands; distributing their music and performance dates, etc. I have also seen a great deal of what I would deem inappropriate content in the arena of personal spaces, but that’s because I’m a middle-aged married man uh, “not seeking”, as it were. It’s another aspect of the community. There are some things to note, here. First, I deem myself mature enough to control my own behavior. Second, I do not access MySpace when my children are around. Third, I would not allow my son to have a MySpace account. Fourth, I monitor his activity (and he is young enough and so far smart enough – through talking with him as well as monitoring his activity) to not want to go to places like this. We had a conversation just last night at dinner regarding a Nickelodeon game site that was interactive to a point that he’d never been before, and it was an opportunity to discuss “netiquette” with him some more. I expect this dialogue to continue, of course.
I suspect that this is not the case in these households where teenagers are posting abusive information about their schoolmates. Different school districts and even individual schools have reacted to this sort of behavior in different ways. It is a formidable and new problem to deal with this sort of private behavior that affects a public community. I agree that it is a problem, however I think that suppressing the medium is not the answer. It is a matter of personal accountability; and therefore a parental responsibility. Children, particularly teenagers, have always found the means to group themselves and ostracize others. When it interferes with the educational process, and even causes damage to another person, it should be dealt with, and parents need to be held liable for minors’ actions in this realm, as well. Some new paradigms for internet speech and behavior by minors as it applies to the educational environment need to be developed, without dissembling their First Amendment rights to criticize ideas or even institutions. That is a critical part of our educational process that needs to be held a little dearer, as far as I’m concerned.
What’s the answer to the larger, societal problem, then? I don’t know. I vote with my remote control and with posts like this. Like those religion threads, I don’t necessarily think I’m changing anyone’s mind, I’m interested in keeping the dialogue alive in your head, as we all make decisions about what we view and popularize. Many of these lines regarding freedom and responsibility are being re-drawn, and we need to be talking more about how. For many of us, it’s a matter of what we type, to whom, and about what. I hope I’ve given you pause to think about it.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
Sam's da Man
I'm really proud of my Son, Samuel. He puts up with a lot, always has, and his understanding of the world is growing along with a really compassionate personality. I recently moved a better computer into his room, mostly for the selfish reason that it helps to keep him off of mine. Saturday, he tried to install a LEGO PC game. The video card in his computer just won't quite do it. There's another game that only runs certain parts and not others, the vid card is the culprit there, too. We were talking about it, and I remarked that it was just that some of the requirements for the games were outside the card's operating parameters. He nodded, and we continued talking for a couple more minutes. He's 9. He walked away, and I had to take a moment and realize how much he knows, already. It's often hard for me to remember and treat him like the kid he is. As his Dad, I instinctively put pressure on him about the way he does things, because I want him to, of course, do better than I do. I am also keenly aware that he seems to be a more easygoing kid than I was, and I'm glad for that. I really want him to be comfortable with his intellect, yet challenge him enough to enable him to excel where he wants to.
He just got third place in the Spelling Bee at school. I was happy that he had a good time, as well as doing well. His growing appetite for Science is really cool to watch; he's becoming authoritative on a few subjects - I hope he can maintain it through Calculus and Chemistry, he's gonna need those Miller genes to pull through.
Speaking of genes, I am really proud of how he helps out with his sister. He really does, including letting her just jump in and on him and wrestle with him without overwhelming her. She can't say his name yet, but he's attentive, just the same. I can tell, from the other room, by the tone of his voice, when he's trying to help her - there's an honest earnestness that puts a lump in my throat. Yes, I can tell when he's annoyed, too.
He's a pretty good guy. I like him a lot.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Another Oklahoma Tribute
I met a pioneer, a couple of weeks ago. She’s retiring from a 30+ year career in public education, currently an elementary school principal. We got to talking, and she mentioned special ed. I asked her if she’d been a special ed teacher. She had not, but she began to talk about her involvement in setting up some pretty innovative programs several years ago. She set up Early Intervention programs, parent’s groups, mainstream classes, and other things for our kids just as they were beginning to come home, rather than being sent into institutions. She is one of those people who “got it” early on and ran with it, rather than resisting change. What blew me away was her description of setting up the first group home in her area. She and some others saw a need, and filled it. They found financing, got someone to donate land, designed a facility (one building for men, another for women, common areas, etc.) , and had the thing up and running in about 3 years. It’s still there, today. I can’t express how great it felt to hear her go on in detail about how she made things work, mentioning kids and parents along the way that had obviously changed her life, too, in the process. Because it was a casual conversation, I didn’t feel comfortable saying “Thank You” to her for all of it, for all of us. I am grateful, for her and those like her who moved beyond prejudice and saw children, who set aside their own fears, perhaps, to make a better life for all of us. So I’m thanking her, here, and there, and I know she’ll get the message, eventually. Thanks, Aunt Janice!
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Oklahoma City
I have been to a few places where people have died simply because they are American – Pearl Harbor, Vicksburg, Breed’s Hill, and now Oklahoma City. My feelings are much the same when I am at any of them. Today is no different – sadness at the cataclysmic and needless loss of life, and anger at the forces and implementers of such hatred. It seems a simple enough message to you and I, yet so far out of reach of those who perpetuate it, still.
The site of the Murrah Building brings a different sort of sadness and rage. I have family near Oklahoma City. I learn that one of my cousins’ best friends’ wives is represented by a chair on the lawn where the building once stood. The chairs - smaller chairs representing the children – are arranged roughly in the places in the building where they died. The street where the deluded patriot set off his Ryder truck bomb is now a reflecting pool, with 2 large structures at either end of the street; 9:00 set on one, 9:03 on the other.
The other side of the street is landscaped, grass and block giant stair-steps, up to the preserved, scarred wall of the building that now houses the museum dedicated to the event. There’s a place dedicated to the children, and a section of chain-link fence left for people to leave toys, messages, and other personal remembrances. The church across the street has erected a statue of a weeping Jesus. It is America.
I remember the first hours after the bombing, and the gradual realization that this attack on the heartland was not by foreign terrorists, but by native sons. That they found it somehow necessary to deliver their dysfunctional act of upside-down heroism upon the unsuspecting, unarmed innocents inside should and does turn the stomach of anyone who might hear of it. To convince oneself to commit an act of cowardice, to feel oppressed and powerless to the point of violence – let this memorial stand for many things, let it also stand as a warning against those who have lost sight of the responsibilities that freedom brings.
I am not writing this as an authority on any subject; this is not my intent. I am an American. I was hurt on that day; today I pay my honor and remembrance to those whose lives were taken in full measure for my freedom. My continuing charge is to remember, learn, and then teach. I did not visit the museum this time. I am resolved to bring my son here, someday. He needs to know, as best that I and others can teach him, what right and wrong truly mean, the costs of intolerance and dogmatism, and the resolve of a nation to struggle for freedom, both without and within. I can teach him no less. I am an American.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
A Tech Funny
I had a real belly laugh last night. My friend calls me up, says his TV has a flat line running horizontally across the middle of the screen. "You're lacking vertical deflection", I said, in my best technical know-it-all voice. It's a not-so-common symptom anymore, my old TV shop used to pay the rent on such repairs. It has one of two causes. One is electronic, the other a physical "open" in a circuit - like a bad solder connection. So I says, "Smack it."
"What?"
"Hit it!"
"How hard?"
"Well, not hard enough to knock it off the table, but hard enough." Count 1, 2,
"Hey! It worked!"
"See, you can be a technician, too."
I told him that it would probably happen again, till we could get it fixed.
It's probably a paper-thin solder connection on his printed circuit board that has broken with the repeated heating and cooling of the TV. We should be able to find it, and all will be well with the world, for a while.
It made my day to help a friend, especially in such a simple and fun way. I hung up and just guffawed.
"Technical Support, this is Popeye, can I help you?" "Augh-ag-ag-ag-ag-awwww."
"What?"
"Hit it!"
"How hard?"
"Well, not hard enough to knock it off the table, but hard enough." Count 1, 2,
"Hey! It worked!"
"See, you can be a technician, too."
I told him that it would probably happen again, till we could get it fixed.
It's probably a paper-thin solder connection on his printed circuit board that has broken with the repeated heating and cooling of the TV. We should be able to find it, and all will be well with the world, for a while.
It made my day to help a friend, especially in such a simple and fun way. I hung up and just guffawed.
"Technical Support, this is Popeye, can I help you?" "Augh-ag-ag-ag-ag-awwww."
I love the Internet, hate customer service
I've had two experiences, this week, that I think bear repeating. The first one involves a Kodak camera given to me on Sunday. It wasn't working - camera powers up, all of the functions work, with the small exception that it takes no pictures - no preview from the lens, either. I started at Kodak's site, and it's troubleshooting guide led me toward a fill-in form that I wasn't ready to complete, just yet. I then started Google-ing the model number, and found a wealth of information. I found literally hundreds of comments from owners, detailing two obvious flaws in the camera (my symptom is one of them). Nearly all of these cameras quit after about 2.5 years of use (I'm pretty sure that that's how old this camera is), and, if I were to fill out that form on Kodak's site, they would offer me a lesser model camera in exchange for returning this one, oh, and send them $125. Pretty sure that's not going to happen. I'd be livid, as many of these posters are, if I'd paid between $300-400 for this camera. Kodak has lost a lot of business and reputation from this one.
Yesterday, I downloaded an album, using software I'd used before. Eventually. What happened was this. I found the album, clicked on "buy", and charged my account. Then the download wouldn't happen - kept getting an error message. When I clicked on the link to explain the error message, a screenful of information appeared, with a link to technical support and a specific error message. Problem was, this screen would appear, then refresh back to the store. Quitting, restarting, and repeating this event 2-3 times, I eventually had to use Ctl-Print Screen to capture the info and paste it into Word in order for me to read it. It's now been about an hour. Unable to access the tech service link on the page, I found an email address and posted a detailed message with account info, album and artist, answered their system questions, and included the error message provided. Then, just for kicks, I Googled the error message directly, just put it straight in. I found several forums that detailed the same problem, and a solution (the problem was a corrupted file in Windows XP, renaming it fixed the problem). Five minutes later, the album was on my drive, and CD's burning. This morning, I received a response from their tech support (I'd been warned on the forums that this could take 2-5 days, so I was pleasantly surprised). The email politely asked me for more information. What's noteworthy is that each bit of information asked for was provided in the copy of my email attached to the bottom of his response! I had to look, twice, I believe the operative word is incredulous.
I thanked him for his prompt response, detailed my solution, and where and how quickly I had found it, and went on my merry way.
The first example is of corporate incompetence, from design to their response to what is obviously a defective product. The second one is merely bureaucratic failure - failure to list a set of fixes to error messages for common errors. Yes, it's probably more complex than that and, yes, I'm more willing than the average nancy to rename files and such, but still. The fact remains that I was able to find more timely, accurate information from forums than I did from the companies, themselves. It is unfortunately one of the bittersweet realities of the information age.
Yesterday, I downloaded an album, using software I'd used before. Eventually. What happened was this. I found the album, clicked on "buy", and charged my account. Then the download wouldn't happen - kept getting an error message. When I clicked on the link to explain the error message, a screenful of information appeared, with a link to technical support and a specific error message. Problem was, this screen would appear, then refresh back to the store. Quitting, restarting, and repeating this event 2-3 times, I eventually had to use Ctl-Print Screen to capture the info and paste it into Word in order for me to read it. It's now been about an hour. Unable to access the tech service link on the page, I found an email address and posted a detailed message with account info, album and artist, answered their system questions, and included the error message provided. Then, just for kicks, I Googled the error message directly, just put it straight in. I found several forums that detailed the same problem, and a solution (the problem was a corrupted file in Windows XP, renaming it fixed the problem). Five minutes later, the album was on my drive, and CD's burning. This morning, I received a response from their tech support (I'd been warned on the forums that this could take 2-5 days, so I was pleasantly surprised). The email politely asked me for more information. What's noteworthy is that each bit of information asked for was provided in the copy of my email attached to the bottom of his response! I had to look, twice, I believe the operative word is incredulous.
I thanked him for his prompt response, detailed my solution, and where and how quickly I had found it, and went on my merry way.
The first example is of corporate incompetence, from design to their response to what is obviously a defective product. The second one is merely bureaucratic failure - failure to list a set of fixes to error messages for common errors. Yes, it's probably more complex than that and, yes, I'm more willing than the average nancy to rename files and such, but still. The fact remains that I was able to find more timely, accurate information from forums than I did from the companies, themselves. It is unfortunately one of the bittersweet realities of the information age.
What it's like, too
One of my online friends posted this on her blog. I think it's great. And much "shinier" than most of my posts.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Pinewood Derby Soapbox
I hate Cub Scouts
I hate Cub Scouts
I hate Cub Scouts
I hate Cub Scouts
I want to be clear.
Today’s subject is Pinewood Derby – or “what would a car made by a 6-10 year old really look like?”
The conversation at my house, for three years, has gone something like this (condensed):
“You know, the race is two weeks away, you need to start thinking about a design for your car.”
“I know.”
“Would you like some help?”
“I don’t know.”
“Sam, we have a week until the race, have you picked out a design yet?”
“No.”
“We’re running out of time.”
“I KNOW, SORRY!”
“What about this one?”
“I don’t know.”
“Or this one?”
“I don’t know - I guess so.”
Of course the shapes and designs are spawned and made for BOY SCOUTS with (assumedly) some dexterity and ability to use tools that no sane parent would put in the hands of someone under 10 years of age. I negotiate a design, cut it out, and promptly break off one corner while working with it. Glued back together, the next day:
“OK, here’s the shape, how do you want to paint it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you thought about it”
“I guess so. Not really.”
“What about red, maybe with a stripe?”
“OK.”
He does pick out a blue stripe and decides to put it down the middle of the car. Painting proceeds, this year he’s actually capable of squeezing the spray paint nozzle, and does a fine job of painting the car. Dad kinda messes up the finish, late in the night before the weigh-in (more on that, later) in the toaster oven trying to hurry it along. One of the wheels in the kit provided is goofed up, so Dad pulls the wheels and axles off last year’s car, sparing the time needed to de-burr and polish them (actually nails, but they are the only sanctioned axles allowed). There are pre-cut grooves in the bottom of the car provided, and three of these break while Sam carefully nails them into place. Hot Glue Gun time. Sam picks his Lego driver, and weights are screwed and glued into place. We make our way to the weigh-in with a couple of hours to spare. The car gets weighed, we modify to reach total weight ( a cup holder for the driver), passes inspection with a small dispute over length, and is quarantined until race time (preventing last-minute, unauthorized modifications by eager kids – right). I’m feelin’ all warm and fuzzy about the whole thing, oh, yeah.
Two weeks of rain delay. I get a call on a Tuesday, where I’m asked (and agree) to meet up and assist with the track set-up at 0730 Saturday morning. Turns out, we go to Disneyland on Friday, bedtime is approximately 0230, Saturday morning. Oh joy, unspeakable and full of glory (for all of you Nazarenes out there). One of my tasks is to take a tube of graphite, and lubricate all of the axles and wheels for the 26 cars in the impound tubs – one axle at a time. I’m working my way through them, when I spot a car with genuine AXLES, not the nails that are sanctioned to hold the wheels in place. I show this to the other fathers there, and move on. In my later absence, the car is allowed to run anyway. What a great message to teach the leaders of tomorrow.
I go back to the house to retrieve Sam at 0850, thinking the races start at 0930. We arrive at 0920 to find them well underway, having begun at 0900. Sam’s car has been run once for him, and he misses his only chance to see it win a race. The races proceed, and a few of the cars actually bear witness that a kid might have worked on one or two of them. Most do not. Sam loses his next two races, actually to two cars that finished in the top 5. He’s not happy about it, but the good news is that he’s not really that unhappy about it. I’m fortunately not one of the Dads whose kid got beaten by the illegal car, and I’m too tired to really make a stink about it (here, this issue’s not dead with me yet). Not unexpectedly, it’s me and the Den leader left to take the track apart and put it in his truck at the end. We head home to lunch and a nap, at least for me.
Oh, and the car that won? It came in second, last year. Ran the same car this year, same paint, same decals. At least that poor sucker has to spend another whole day this month at the Council races, it should make up for the time he didn’t spend putting one together. Ironies abound. Congratulations.
Call me a whiner. Go ahead. Finished?
This is an ill-conceived activity for these young boys. I am fully behind something that Sam can make/do/participate in with my help, but this is a ridiculous example of transposing something from a successful program to an unsuccessful one. The rules and restrictions are obviously there to promote fairness, but are also recognition that this organization committed to character-building has some real characters in it. To then allow what is clearly cheating to occur just boggles my mind. I clearly don’t see the point. It’s been 3 years of frustration for me; this year’s event left me tired, disillusioned, and pretty much unwilling to do it again. Of course, if Sam stays with Scouting, I only have 9 more cars to make.Make that 3, perhaps none. I’m growing fonder of this one, every day.
Monday, April 03, 2006
A Day At Disneyland
Preface:
Vicky and I used to spend a fair amount of our time in comedy clubs, back when they were more popular, and we had no children. One night, the headliner was Mike Binder, who has (mercifully for both him and the public at large) moved on to become a writer, producer, and director. Mr. Binder, never hilarious, was having a rough night, and I remember being almost relieved when he ended his act. As the "headliner", he returned for an encore. What came next has, of course, solidified the title of this post in my mind forever.
Mike returned to do a bit of schtick that had always generated a fair amount of laughter, even from me the first 3-4 times I'd seen it. The gag is simple: He announces "I would now like to do for you - "A Day At Disneyland". He would then pantomime standing in line - you know, walk a little, wait a little, make a U turn, walk a little. . .
What Mr. B failed to realize was that the majority of people at the Comedy Store that night had already seen it 3-4 times. He does the first little shuffle - and then someone in the audience heckles him (with perfect timing, I might add) with "ALL HE'S GONNA DO IS WAIT IN LINE!". The crowd erupted into the loudest laughter of the night, Mike waved, and left the stage. Game Over.
We went to Disneyland last week. The most noteworthy element of this day was that nothing happened. Just about everything went as it should have, which is a rarity in this world of overpopulation and inflated expectations. I think the worst thing was that Pirates of the Caribbean was closed; in the grand scheme of things, this was minor, indeed.
The weather was perfect. We have had rain, off and on, before and since. Waiting in line at The Magic Kingdom can be a hot and boring experience. It was sunny, but with a lovely breeze, a perfect Anaheim day.
Everyone was healthy and in a good mood, even Dad. Emma was well-behaved all day; she fell asleep at about 7:30 pm, even though it meant that she was up and ready to roll at 5:30 the next morning, she wasn't a tired whiner at the park.
No major clothing or equipment malfunctions. No car trouble, no diarreah explosions, and we rode Splash Mountain last, and old Grumpy hardly got wet at all.
We got to see everything we came to see. Not always easy.
We had a good experience with something new. The last time we were at Disneyland, it was a hot day, and Emma, barely 5, was neither accustomed to waiting in line or cooperating. By mid-afternoon, we were all exhausted and unhappy with wrestling each other onto and off of rides. The ride operator at Peter Pan suggested that we get a "special needs" pass. By then, it was really too late. This time, with a little apprehension, I took Emma and we went to the Customer Service desk (at City Hall) and I explained the situation. What they did was give me a pass that stated that Emma's stroller was essentially a wheelchair. What this meant, mainly, was that we could keep her in the stroller, in line, until such time as we'd need to bypass the tighter spaces that a wheelchair couldn't get through. On the older rides, this meant skipping some of the line. Sometimes, these lines were just as long with folks in wheelchairs lined up to be fit in - it reminded me of when "we" were pregnant - suddenly there's pregnant people all over the place where you never noticed them before (hmm). On the newer rides, it meant being able to keep her in the stroller until the last minute, then a little help on and off of the ride. The difference between this experience and the last was wonderful. We didn't take advantage of it on every ride, and it was nice to feel free to do so. I expected some condescending or even snotty treatment from some operators or others (you know, always looking on the bright side), there was none - I felt like most of them were glad to see us, nearly all of them treated us exceptionally well.
Space Mountain is cool. Just ask Sam. If you haven't been on it lately, it's 3X faster, and darker, and funner.
It was a good day. We stayed until 11 pm or so, and got home about 2. The Pinewood Derby, the next morning at 7:30, was a different story, but was overshadowed by the afterglow of a fine "Day at Disneyland".
Vicky and I used to spend a fair amount of our time in comedy clubs, back when they were more popular, and we had no children. One night, the headliner was Mike Binder, who has (mercifully for both him and the public at large) moved on to become a writer, producer, and director. Mr. Binder, never hilarious, was having a rough night, and I remember being almost relieved when he ended his act. As the "headliner", he returned for an encore. What came next has, of course, solidified the title of this post in my mind forever.
Mike returned to do a bit of schtick that had always generated a fair amount of laughter, even from me the first 3-4 times I'd seen it. The gag is simple: He announces "I would now like to do for you - "A Day At Disneyland". He would then pantomime standing in line - you know, walk a little, wait a little, make a U turn, walk a little. . .
What Mr. B failed to realize was that the majority of people at the Comedy Store that night had already seen it 3-4 times. He does the first little shuffle - and then someone in the audience heckles him (with perfect timing, I might add) with "ALL HE'S GONNA DO IS WAIT IN LINE!". The crowd erupted into the loudest laughter of the night, Mike waved, and left the stage. Game Over.
We went to Disneyland last week. The most noteworthy element of this day was that nothing happened. Just about everything went as it should have, which is a rarity in this world of overpopulation and inflated expectations. I think the worst thing was that Pirates of the Caribbean was closed; in the grand scheme of things, this was minor, indeed.
The weather was perfect. We have had rain, off and on, before and since. Waiting in line at The Magic Kingdom can be a hot and boring experience. It was sunny, but with a lovely breeze, a perfect Anaheim day.
Everyone was healthy and in a good mood, even Dad. Emma was well-behaved all day; she fell asleep at about 7:30 pm, even though it meant that she was up and ready to roll at 5:30 the next morning, she wasn't a tired whiner at the park.
No major clothing or equipment malfunctions. No car trouble, no diarreah explosions, and we rode Splash Mountain last, and old Grumpy hardly got wet at all.
We got to see everything we came to see. Not always easy.
We had a good experience with something new. The last time we were at Disneyland, it was a hot day, and Emma, barely 5, was neither accustomed to waiting in line or cooperating. By mid-afternoon, we were all exhausted and unhappy with wrestling each other onto and off of rides. The ride operator at Peter Pan suggested that we get a "special needs" pass. By then, it was really too late. This time, with a little apprehension, I took Emma and we went to the Customer Service desk (at City Hall) and I explained the situation. What they did was give me a pass that stated that Emma's stroller was essentially a wheelchair. What this meant, mainly, was that we could keep her in the stroller, in line, until such time as we'd need to bypass the tighter spaces that a wheelchair couldn't get through. On the older rides, this meant skipping some of the line. Sometimes, these lines were just as long with folks in wheelchairs lined up to be fit in - it reminded me of when "we" were pregnant - suddenly there's pregnant people all over the place where you never noticed them before (hmm). On the newer rides, it meant being able to keep her in the stroller until the last minute, then a little help on and off of the ride. The difference between this experience and the last was wonderful. We didn't take advantage of it on every ride, and it was nice to feel free to do so. I expected some condescending or even snotty treatment from some operators or others (you know, always looking on the bright side), there was none - I felt like most of them were glad to see us, nearly all of them treated us exceptionally well.
Space Mountain is cool. Just ask Sam. If you haven't been on it lately, it's 3X faster, and darker, and funner.
It was a good day. We stayed until 11 pm or so, and got home about 2. The Pinewood Derby, the next morning at 7:30, was a different story, but was overshadowed by the afterglow of a fine "Day at Disneyland".
Monday, March 20, 2006
Bittersweetness on a Stick
I learned today of the death of a little girl. She was a friend of a friend, unknown to me other than by description. That she was the same age as my daughter heightens my sadness. That she was a "special needs" child who apparently died resulting from something going wrong during or after an orthopedic operation is only part of the mystery and horror of it all.
I'm so proud of my friend for her ability to share her story with me, to make her real enough so that I can both celebrate her life as well as mourn it. I've thought about her, all day, and am reminded of another little girl I know who left the hospital worse than when she went in. I've thought about several aspects of the human condition, how we make things worse sometimes when we mean to do better. How we make mistakes, awful mistakes, more often than we'd like to admit. I see Challenger explode, and get angry every time at the stupidity that allowed it to happen. And it was right to try it again, and again, and we should not stop.
The truth is that we cannot stop trying. We cannot stop caring, and that's what's moved me all day long. I care about someone that I've never met today, their family, their friends, just because someone else led me to. We are all connected, whether or not we choose to be, and we do make it better by trying.
That second little girl I mentioned spoke volumes to me, one day, when I got to hold her in my arms. She could not speak, she could not even look me in the eye, or even hold me back, back then, but I sensed who she is, felt her heart beat, I can't fully explain it. She exists in a world of love and care, and she's slowly gained - she's trying and prevailing - some means to return that love and care. I delight in her accomplishments, because I've met her; I know what she's living with.
We live with death. We live with hope. We have each other. We have Love. These things I know. Today's been a practical application of them all. I mourn for a little girl I've never seen. I smile a bittersweet smile when I think of Mya. I'm hugging my Emma tighter, today. I just hope my connections bring more hope and Love than my mistakes don't. It's been quite a day.
I'm so proud of my friend for her ability to share her story with me, to make her real enough so that I can both celebrate her life as well as mourn it. I've thought about her, all day, and am reminded of another little girl I know who left the hospital worse than when she went in. I've thought about several aspects of the human condition, how we make things worse sometimes when we mean to do better. How we make mistakes, awful mistakes, more often than we'd like to admit. I see Challenger explode, and get angry every time at the stupidity that allowed it to happen. And it was right to try it again, and again, and we should not stop.
The truth is that we cannot stop trying. We cannot stop caring, and that's what's moved me all day long. I care about someone that I've never met today, their family, their friends, just because someone else led me to. We are all connected, whether or not we choose to be, and we do make it better by trying.
That second little girl I mentioned spoke volumes to me, one day, when I got to hold her in my arms. She could not speak, she could not even look me in the eye, or even hold me back, back then, but I sensed who she is, felt her heart beat, I can't fully explain it. She exists in a world of love and care, and she's slowly gained - she's trying and prevailing - some means to return that love and care. I delight in her accomplishments, because I've met her; I know what she's living with.
We live with death. We live with hope. We have each other. We have Love. These things I know. Today's been a practical application of them all. I mourn for a little girl I've never seen. I smile a bittersweet smile when I think of Mya. I'm hugging my Emma tighter, today. I just hope my connections bring more hope and Love than my mistakes don't. It's been quite a day.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Tick Tock
I just know it's coming. Any moment now, the queasy feeling, the over-salivation, the urge to purge. It's inevitable, like April 15 or another root canal.
I got home from work yesterday, and it was eerily quiet. Emma was nearly asleep in the Family Room, and when I poked my head into the office, I saw no one. Vicky was assisting Sam into bed. He'd come home from school at 10, and had more than emptied his stomach several times since then. A quick hug from us, and he went to sleep. Emma soon nodded off in the big chair, and Vicky headed out for more supplies, leaving me to computer nerddom for an hour or so.
About the time she got home, I was standing in the middle of the house, thinking to myself, "So this is what it'd be like to not have kids in the house. Sure, I could focus on what I was doing and, sure, the usual pounding in my head from layer upon layer of TV noise, shouting, feet pounding up and down the hallway, balls bouncing off walls wasn't there - but the vacuum-like silence was unnerving, too. I have these moments, from time to time, like the guy in "The Seven-Year Itch'' or probably more like Don Knotts in "The Reluctant Astronaut" - short fantasies about how life could've, would've been different. It didn't take more than a couple of instants to be glad that Sam wasn't usually in bed at this time of day.
Emma woke up just as I was bringing the plate of BBQ ribs in from the patio. She uncurled, then hurled on the chair, floor, and herself, mostly. Ahh, the smell of pork n' puke. We got her down the hall, cleaned up the mess(es), and put her to bed, so we could enjoy the sounds of her dry-heaving through dinner. Seriously, one of the hardest things about being Emma's Dad is watching her throw up and not be able to explain to her that it's going to be alright. She looks so worried and upset, I hate that look on her face. All you can do is talk to her and hold her, and hope she understands that it's going to get better.
Dinner's over, cleaned up, put away, and I settle into my chair for the purpose of napping before bedtime. What do I hear? Yes, that's it. The sound of a cat, just outside the patio door, heaving up whatever it was that it was heaving up. I took it as a sign. I know it's coming. I'm just not sure when.
I got home from work yesterday, and it was eerily quiet. Emma was nearly asleep in the Family Room, and when I poked my head into the office, I saw no one. Vicky was assisting Sam into bed. He'd come home from school at 10, and had more than emptied his stomach several times since then. A quick hug from us, and he went to sleep. Emma soon nodded off in the big chair, and Vicky headed out for more supplies, leaving me to computer nerddom for an hour or so.
About the time she got home, I was standing in the middle of the house, thinking to myself, "So this is what it'd be like to not have kids in the house. Sure, I could focus on what I was doing and, sure, the usual pounding in my head from layer upon layer of TV noise, shouting, feet pounding up and down the hallway, balls bouncing off walls wasn't there - but the vacuum-like silence was unnerving, too. I have these moments, from time to time, like the guy in "The Seven-Year Itch'' or probably more like Don Knotts in "The Reluctant Astronaut" - short fantasies about how life could've, would've been different. It didn't take more than a couple of instants to be glad that Sam wasn't usually in bed at this time of day.
Emma woke up just as I was bringing the plate of BBQ ribs in from the patio. She uncurled, then hurled on the chair, floor, and herself, mostly. Ahh, the smell of pork n' puke. We got her down the hall, cleaned up the mess(es), and put her to bed, so we could enjoy the sounds of her dry-heaving through dinner. Seriously, one of the hardest things about being Emma's Dad is watching her throw up and not be able to explain to her that it's going to be alright. She looks so worried and upset, I hate that look on her face. All you can do is talk to her and hold her, and hope she understands that it's going to get better.
Dinner's over, cleaned up, put away, and I settle into my chair for the purpose of napping before bedtime. What do I hear? Yes, that's it. The sound of a cat, just outside the patio door, heaving up whatever it was that it was heaving up. I took it as a sign. I know it's coming. I'm just not sure when.
Friday, March 03, 2006
What It's Like
It was just another moment.
Thursday evening, we went to school to see Sam and Emma both recieve their "Good Citizen" awards; Emma for January, Sam for February. No one has ever defined the criteria for this award for us - it seems to me that every student there without any outstanding warrants or restraining orders gets this award annually. In any event, this event is held in the auditorium, which seats 150 comfortably, but usually holds about 225. The awardees sit onstage in rows, and come down the steps to the stage when called to receive their certificate, bumper sticker, and ice cream coupoon, stand briefly while the parental papparazzi fiddle with their cameras, and then go outside, only to return to the stage to wait for the group photo at the end - assuring, of course, that the good citizen parents stay for the entire proceeding, so that the last kid called still has an audience. We live in such an ill-mannered society.
We had three, well, four options (and the nice part is that there was no one telling us what to do):
1) Put Emma up on stage and hope for the best - not really an option, just yet.
2) Put Emma up on stage next to Sam - not really fair to him.
3) Sit up on stage with Emma and 100 kids - not our idea of a good time.
4) Find a place near the front. That's what we did.
We sat through the obligatory PTA meeting, so that they could pad their attendance numbers and claim that we are all now well-informed, active participants in the process. We were actually sitting along the wall on a table, helping Emma fidget, which means that we were already in full view of all, with the requisite sidelong glances and smiles conveying all of the different messages that people display in Emma's direction. Emma got hard to handle, so I moved her to the doorway, and then back again. Then it was her turn. I slid us off the table, and we made our way up front. Emma froze. So I kinda pushed-carried her to the front, got her paperwork, and managed to get her back to our seat, not too long after the applause quit. Okay.
The event ended, and I started to move Emma toward the front, to join the group picture. A very nice woman, a teacher, I think, who had greeted Emma earlier brushed past us and said to me, "I bet you guys just can't wait to get out of here." Then she was gone. I cocked my head to one side, and kept moving. Sam (have I mentioned that I love my Son very much?) came down and sat next to his sister on the steps for the photo. When it was all over, we got a snack, and headed for the ice cream store.
Now, I'm not angry. As a human being and a preacher's kid, I've been subject to misplaced, well-intentioned commentary for some time now. She may have just been witness to the at-times wrestling match between myself and my angel. That's probably it. For me, at the time, I'm pretty sure that I didn't want "to get out of there" any more than anyone else over the age of 13 present. Handling Emma is what we do. But the whole comment just gnawed at me for the rest of the evening. I'm sure I took it the wrong way; already feeling self-conscious, on display, and guilty for feeling that way. I'm sure that the same comment would have been appropriate, for example, had Sam gotten nervous and upchucked on his shoes, or done his 'Elaine from Seinfeld' dance (don't tell him I said that) on stage. The point is that she pointed out to me that we were different. Guess what? I felt that way before Emma existed. I feel that way all of the time. The visceral effect of her message was "GET OUT!"
I'm old enough - some might call it maturity, but I'll never know for sure - to know that she's not responsible for that message. It was just a moment, and it's passed, but I think I have a better understanding of how subtly we can damage each other, sometimes, even when we're trying to do the opposite. I used to not understand things that were labeled 'racism', offers of social programs and things that turned out to be, in truth, segregation or worse - when explained from the discriminated races' perspective. It does depend on your perspective; "seeing" requires more than merely sight.
One of my favorite U2 lines, all by itself, is "to touch is to heal, to hurt is to steal" . . . it often reminds me that I don't want to be a thief. The majority of moments pass without notice. Some change our lives completely. Others shape who, where, and how we are. I'm hoping, more often, lately, to recognize and perhaps anticipate them a little better. I know I've stolen a lot of moments. Trouble is, you can't give them back.
Thursday evening, we went to school to see Sam and Emma both recieve their "Good Citizen" awards; Emma for January, Sam for February. No one has ever defined the criteria for this award for us - it seems to me that every student there without any outstanding warrants or restraining orders gets this award annually. In any event, this event is held in the auditorium, which seats 150 comfortably, but usually holds about 225. The awardees sit onstage in rows, and come down the steps to the stage when called to receive their certificate, bumper sticker, and ice cream coupoon, stand briefly while the parental papparazzi fiddle with their cameras, and then go outside, only to return to the stage to wait for the group photo at the end - assuring, of course, that the good citizen parents stay for the entire proceeding, so that the last kid called still has an audience. We live in such an ill-mannered society.
We had three, well, four options (and the nice part is that there was no one telling us what to do):
1) Put Emma up on stage and hope for the best - not really an option, just yet.
2) Put Emma up on stage next to Sam - not really fair to him.
3) Sit up on stage with Emma and 100 kids - not our idea of a good time.
4) Find a place near the front. That's what we did.
We sat through the obligatory PTA meeting, so that they could pad their attendance numbers and claim that we are all now well-informed, active participants in the process. We were actually sitting along the wall on a table, helping Emma fidget, which means that we were already in full view of all, with the requisite sidelong glances and smiles conveying all of the different messages that people display in Emma's direction. Emma got hard to handle, so I moved her to the doorway, and then back again. Then it was her turn. I slid us off the table, and we made our way up front. Emma froze. So I kinda pushed-carried her to the front, got her paperwork, and managed to get her back to our seat, not too long after the applause quit. Okay.
The event ended, and I started to move Emma toward the front, to join the group picture. A very nice woman, a teacher, I think, who had greeted Emma earlier brushed past us and said to me, "I bet you guys just can't wait to get out of here." Then she was gone. I cocked my head to one side, and kept moving. Sam (have I mentioned that I love my Son very much?) came down and sat next to his sister on the steps for the photo. When it was all over, we got a snack, and headed for the ice cream store.
Now, I'm not angry. As a human being and a preacher's kid, I've been subject to misplaced, well-intentioned commentary for some time now. She may have just been witness to the at-times wrestling match between myself and my angel. That's probably it. For me, at the time, I'm pretty sure that I didn't want "to get out of there" any more than anyone else over the age of 13 present. Handling Emma is what we do. But the whole comment just gnawed at me for the rest of the evening. I'm sure I took it the wrong way; already feeling self-conscious, on display, and guilty for feeling that way. I'm sure that the same comment would have been appropriate, for example, had Sam gotten nervous and upchucked on his shoes, or done his 'Elaine from Seinfeld' dance (don't tell him I said that) on stage. The point is that she pointed out to me that we were different. Guess what? I felt that way before Emma existed. I feel that way all of the time. The visceral effect of her message was "GET OUT!"
I'm old enough - some might call it maturity, but I'll never know for sure - to know that she's not responsible for that message. It was just a moment, and it's passed, but I think I have a better understanding of how subtly we can damage each other, sometimes, even when we're trying to do the opposite. I used to not understand things that were labeled 'racism', offers of social programs and things that turned out to be, in truth, segregation or worse - when explained from the discriminated races' perspective. It does depend on your perspective; "seeing" requires more than merely sight.
One of my favorite U2 lines, all by itself, is "to touch is to heal, to hurt is to steal" . . . it often reminds me that I don't want to be a thief. The majority of moments pass without notice. Some change our lives completely. Others shape who, where, and how we are. I'm hoping, more often, lately, to recognize and perhaps anticipate them a little better. I know I've stolen a lot of moments. Trouble is, you can't give them back.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
My Valentine
Today we honor Valentine, one sainted long ago,
Just who he was, or what he did, we really do not know.
What he accomplished was for love, of that we can be sure,
Today’s the day we try to say, “I Love You,” plain and pure.
Apparently, he put himself between an Emperor’s rule
For fighting men, unmarried, it was callous, mean, and cruel.
Our hero went behind his back and married on the sly
Young lovers who were adamant, and willing to defy.
Another version says that he was doing Heaven’s work,
Helping Christians to escape the wrath of Roman jerks.
At any rate, he was a guy who loved his fellow man,
Until such time as he was caught, and thrown into the can.
It seems that from a prison dark, as one old version goes,
Our soon to be Saint inductee, was ankle-deep in woes.
The jailer’s daughter fell for him, their love affair was fine.
He wrote his last long letter to her, from “Your Valentine.”
An oft-told legend, Sainthood then, example to us all.
For one who toiled and suffered at the beck of pure Love’s call.
Sometimes obscure, but always sure, and held in high regard
And then the phenomenon that is the modern Greeting Card.
Oh what a gift our Saint hath wrought, the opportunities
For queing up at Flower shops, for lining up at See’s.
I’m not begrudging anything, on this fine holiday,
But I know well that he would tell us, “do this every day!”
Not chocolate, roses, valentines, but hugs and heartfelt giving
To those we cherish and adore, and make our lives worth living.
For as he knew and then pursued, Love is the only way
That life is meant here, to be spent here, each and every day.
Today is but a symbol, and a chance to share some joy
From one who gave his all for love, to every girl and boy.
And so, to those who love me, and to those who may yet not,
Accept my valentine to you, in purpose and in thought.
Happy Valentines’ Day!
Just who he was, or what he did, we really do not know.
What he accomplished was for love, of that we can be sure,
Today’s the day we try to say, “I Love You,” plain and pure.
Apparently, he put himself between an Emperor’s rule
For fighting men, unmarried, it was callous, mean, and cruel.
Our hero went behind his back and married on the sly
Young lovers who were adamant, and willing to defy.
Another version says that he was doing Heaven’s work,
Helping Christians to escape the wrath of Roman jerks.
At any rate, he was a guy who loved his fellow man,
Until such time as he was caught, and thrown into the can.
It seems that from a prison dark, as one old version goes,
Our soon to be Saint inductee, was ankle-deep in woes.
The jailer’s daughter fell for him, their love affair was fine.
He wrote his last long letter to her, from “Your Valentine.”
An oft-told legend, Sainthood then, example to us all.
For one who toiled and suffered at the beck of pure Love’s call.
Sometimes obscure, but always sure, and held in high regard
And then the phenomenon that is the modern Greeting Card.
Oh what a gift our Saint hath wrought, the opportunities
For queing up at Flower shops, for lining up at See’s.
I’m not begrudging anything, on this fine holiday,
But I know well that he would tell us, “do this every day!”
Not chocolate, roses, valentines, but hugs and heartfelt giving
To those we cherish and adore, and make our lives worth living.
For as he knew and then pursued, Love is the only way
That life is meant here, to be spent here, each and every day.
Today is but a symbol, and a chance to share some joy
From one who gave his all for love, to every girl and boy.
And so, to those who love me, and to those who may yet not,
Accept my valentine to you, in purpose and in thought.
Happy Valentines’ Day!
Monday, February 13, 2006
The Religion of Peace
The Religion of Peace
I have been mulling over my online friend’s post.
He is right. The NY Times is wrong. But is there more to it?
As an American, it is hard to understand how this can be such an explosive issue. It is not hard for me to understand Fundamentalism, at all. However, I exist in a society that has both rejected Fundamentalism, while it accepts it and allows it to exist. When Pat Robertson says that Ariel Sharon’s stroke was caused by God, due to his “giving up” land to Palestinians - quoting Scripture to prove it - he’s dismissed by all but the faithful (to him, that is). I watched yesterday, while channel-surfing, Louis Farrakhan calmly talking with an interviewer, about his organization’s goals. I stopped surfing to hear a rant. What I heard was eloquence and thoughtfulness, and a lot of “right” reasoning for the reactionary racism that he espouses. I wish him incomplete success – I want him to feel as “equal” in this country as I do, which of course is not equality by many measures. I have the luxury of both being white and a member of an even smaller minority than he is. My society allows me to hear him, disagree with him, and form my own opinions, even appreciate his point of view. Eventually, our common hope is that improvement will result, by whatever measure. I know that I’m smarter for simply listening to him.
There seems to me to be no better word to use than to say that there is a ‘Fundamental’ difference between “our” way of conducting ourselves and the way “they” do. As obvious a statement as this is, it is important for me to remind myself of it. One of my first reactions to this cartoon controversy was that, if “they” want to be members of the world community, then they need to learn to play by international rules. This thought is ignorant of the first statement of this paragraph. They are not able to; their fundamentalism does not allow it. There is only conformity or blasphemy. They do not desire freedom, the one fundamental tenet that diversity demands, tolerance is heresy. Their freedom is found in obedience, which is, by the way, the way of Christianity, too, although it is obedience of a different sort, extending grace, a different sort of servitude.
And no, not the Pat Robertson kind.
Where does that leave us?
I recently became aware of a group of persons in this country, under the banner of Christ, who are setting up anti-war protests at the funerals of American soldiers, taunting the family members in their grief, graveside. This makes me physically ill. Do they have the right to do this? Of course they do. It also raises the question, in this context, does the right of free speech mean that it should always be exercised? Is there really anything to be gained by doing this, here?
And so, I apply all of these thoughts to The New York Times. I completely understand the comparison to the “art” referred to in Tom’s post; however, it is not the same. Those “artworks” (and that is a topic left for another time) would never have been made in an Islamic society, the “artist” would have been tortured and stoned to death. Those offended in this culture were allowed to speak out against it, and did so. That this would happen was known before the works were created, let alone published in the newspaper. It is part and parcel of what makes us American. To apply this standard to the Islamic world is something else. In this case, it is inflammatory. The cartoons are readily available already; freedom of the press has been satisfied. That the NYT, a powerful member of the “Western Media”, chose not to exercise that power is a matter of editorial choice, to ascribe cowardice or courage to the decision is a matter for each reader to decide. I’m not trying to be argumentative, I’m just trying to figure this stuff out. I’m inclined to think that it was the right decision.
And yes, it’s still bothering me.
I have been mulling over my online friend’s post.
He is right. The NY Times is wrong. But is there more to it?
As an American, it is hard to understand how this can be such an explosive issue. It is not hard for me to understand Fundamentalism, at all. However, I exist in a society that has both rejected Fundamentalism, while it accepts it and allows it to exist. When Pat Robertson says that Ariel Sharon’s stroke was caused by God, due to his “giving up” land to Palestinians - quoting Scripture to prove it - he’s dismissed by all but the faithful (to him, that is). I watched yesterday, while channel-surfing, Louis Farrakhan calmly talking with an interviewer, about his organization’s goals. I stopped surfing to hear a rant. What I heard was eloquence and thoughtfulness, and a lot of “right” reasoning for the reactionary racism that he espouses. I wish him incomplete success – I want him to feel as “equal” in this country as I do, which of course is not equality by many measures. I have the luxury of both being white and a member of an even smaller minority than he is. My society allows me to hear him, disagree with him, and form my own opinions, even appreciate his point of view. Eventually, our common hope is that improvement will result, by whatever measure. I know that I’m smarter for simply listening to him.
There seems to me to be no better word to use than to say that there is a ‘Fundamental’ difference between “our” way of conducting ourselves and the way “they” do. As obvious a statement as this is, it is important for me to remind myself of it. One of my first reactions to this cartoon controversy was that, if “they” want to be members of the world community, then they need to learn to play by international rules. This thought is ignorant of the first statement of this paragraph. They are not able to; their fundamentalism does not allow it. There is only conformity or blasphemy. They do not desire freedom, the one fundamental tenet that diversity demands, tolerance is heresy. Their freedom is found in obedience, which is, by the way, the way of Christianity, too, although it is obedience of a different sort, extending grace, a different sort of servitude.
And no, not the Pat Robertson kind.
Where does that leave us?
I recently became aware of a group of persons in this country, under the banner of Christ, who are setting up anti-war protests at the funerals of American soldiers, taunting the family members in their grief, graveside. This makes me physically ill. Do they have the right to do this? Of course they do. It also raises the question, in this context, does the right of free speech mean that it should always be exercised? Is there really anything to be gained by doing this, here?
And so, I apply all of these thoughts to The New York Times. I completely understand the comparison to the “art” referred to in Tom’s post; however, it is not the same. Those “artworks” (and that is a topic left for another time) would never have been made in an Islamic society, the “artist” would have been tortured and stoned to death. Those offended in this culture were allowed to speak out against it, and did so. That this would happen was known before the works were created, let alone published in the newspaper. It is part and parcel of what makes us American. To apply this standard to the Islamic world is something else. In this case, it is inflammatory. The cartoons are readily available already; freedom of the press has been satisfied. That the NYT, a powerful member of the “Western Media”, chose not to exercise that power is a matter of editorial choice, to ascribe cowardice or courage to the decision is a matter for each reader to decide. I’m not trying to be argumentative, I’m just trying to figure this stuff out. I’m inclined to think that it was the right decision.
And yes, it’s still bothering me.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Not Exactly Seeing Red
The San Diego Zoo is a wonderful place. It was the site of some of my first school field trips, the first place that I ever got to see and smell exotic animals, and learned about far away places. It is the zoo of zoos, and I do consider myself fortunate to have taken advantage of it for my entire life. Like the weather here, it is easy to take for granted, as well. It’s been 7 or so years, now, since I’ve visited. I think I’m about ready to go back. Things will be different this time, though, to be sure.
I should probably remember the date, but for many years it was a day that I really didn’t want to recall in any way, shape, or form. A beautiful, sunny day, filled with the promise of family fun. Sam was happily strapped into his stroller, in a blue outfit, equipped with snacks and juice bottles and eager to take on whatever he was rolled up to. We flashed our passes at the gate, and headed North, toward the elephant exhibit. Passing the restaurant and bus depot, we stopped to admire the small exotic bird cages, trying to interest Sammy in the bright feathers and beaks beyond the mesh before us. We shuffled over to the Koalas, trundling over the accessible wooden tree house ramps, pulling the prince from his perambulator for a better view. On to the elephants; Sammy was going to love the elephants!
The elephant exhibit, although it has been re-worked over the years, is essentially the one I remember from my first glimpse of these amazing creatures. It is a large island, ringed with a sidewalk and road, across which are exhibits of other large mammals. We wheeled over to the far side, and I saw a couple of animals I hadn’t remembered ever seeing before, red rhinoceros, rhinoceri, rhinoceroses. They were big and red and I was drawn over to look at them.
It happened in an instant, an instant that now takes up several moments’ worth of my long–term memory cells, pushing out more important things like, well, I don’t remember. The large creature that I had been regarding at fairly close range, obviously sharing no sort of Dr. Doolittle-esque understanding of my admiration, calmly turned, lifted up its tail, and sprayed me from head to foot. Upon reflection, a country boy would have recognized this brief signal, but this city dweller had received no such training via any of my behavioral psychology texts, and my previous animal research had only involved rats and primates.
Short of having this done to one on a regular basis, armed with the proper Personal Protective Equipment, most of us have no inkling of what to do upon realization that they are soaking in rhinoceros urine. I was not pissed off, I was pissed on. The fact that she had done this to me from about 15 feet away somehow did not impress me; at the time it instantly effected a sudden lack of respect for the creature and entire species, for that matter. I never wanted to see another animal, again. I invite you to now take a moment, pause, and laugh as hard as you want. It’s o.k., I really want you to - get it out of your system. Thanks. When you’re ready, proceed.
Fortunately, the aim was precise, and no one else had been voided upon. It was also fortunate that there was a restroom nearby, and I could at least wash off my face and hands, and kind of rinse my hair out, some. It became obvious that I had neither the facility to undo this, this, thing that had happened to me with powdered soap and paper towels, and I looked at myself in the mirror and contemplated my options. I had absolutely no desire to parade through the rest of the zoo, smelling what I was smelling like, if only to myself. I really didn’t want to find the nearest keeper and announce, “Hey, your rhinoceros just peed all over me! – just to have them double over in hails of derisive laughter, take me back to the keepers’ lounge, do it all over again for the group, followed maybe by a cold hosing-off, afterward. Perhaps if there had been a large pin at the gift shop “It’s not me – A Rhino peed on me” or “Pee on me if you’re Horny” (yes, I realize that this is in bad taste, but, you have to agree, completely appropriate in this particular case) I might have pressed on.
As calmly as I think I could have been, I emerged from the bathroom and mumbled something like, “I’m sorry, I think I’m done for the day”, and headed for the exit. I have never really thanked her, but I remain grateful that my sweetie did not challenge my decision, and dutifully followed, wheeling Sammo back out to the car, without snickering once (that I heard). I was fuming, internally as well as externally, all the way home. Silently, I walked to the washing machine, deposited my clothing, and found the apex of that day’s adventure under the shower head. I don’t remember speaking of much the rest of the afternoon, and I was happy to close my eyes and put it all behind me - oh, a day or so later.
I’ve been thinking, lately, that it’s time to visit the zoo again. But this time, things will be different.
I should probably remember the date, but for many years it was a day that I really didn’t want to recall in any way, shape, or form. A beautiful, sunny day, filled with the promise of family fun. Sam was happily strapped into his stroller, in a blue outfit, equipped with snacks and juice bottles and eager to take on whatever he was rolled up to. We flashed our passes at the gate, and headed North, toward the elephant exhibit. Passing the restaurant and bus depot, we stopped to admire the small exotic bird cages, trying to interest Sammy in the bright feathers and beaks beyond the mesh before us. We shuffled over to the Koalas, trundling over the accessible wooden tree house ramps, pulling the prince from his perambulator for a better view. On to the elephants; Sammy was going to love the elephants!
The elephant exhibit, although it has been re-worked over the years, is essentially the one I remember from my first glimpse of these amazing creatures. It is a large island, ringed with a sidewalk and road, across which are exhibits of other large mammals. We wheeled over to the far side, and I saw a couple of animals I hadn’t remembered ever seeing before, red rhinoceros, rhinoceri, rhinoceroses. They were big and red and I was drawn over to look at them.
It happened in an instant, an instant that now takes up several moments’ worth of my long–term memory cells, pushing out more important things like, well, I don’t remember. The large creature that I had been regarding at fairly close range, obviously sharing no sort of Dr. Doolittle-esque understanding of my admiration, calmly turned, lifted up its tail, and sprayed me from head to foot. Upon reflection, a country boy would have recognized this brief signal, but this city dweller had received no such training via any of my behavioral psychology texts, and my previous animal research had only involved rats and primates.
Short of having this done to one on a regular basis, armed with the proper Personal Protective Equipment, most of us have no inkling of what to do upon realization that they are soaking in rhinoceros urine. I was not pissed off, I was pissed on. The fact that she had done this to me from about 15 feet away somehow did not impress me; at the time it instantly effected a sudden lack of respect for the creature and entire species, for that matter. I never wanted to see another animal, again. I invite you to now take a moment, pause, and laugh as hard as you want. It’s o.k., I really want you to - get it out of your system. Thanks. When you’re ready, proceed.
Fortunately, the aim was precise, and no one else had been voided upon. It was also fortunate that there was a restroom nearby, and I could at least wash off my face and hands, and kind of rinse my hair out, some. It became obvious that I had neither the facility to undo this, this, thing that had happened to me with powdered soap and paper towels, and I looked at myself in the mirror and contemplated my options. I had absolutely no desire to parade through the rest of the zoo, smelling what I was smelling like, if only to myself. I really didn’t want to find the nearest keeper and announce, “Hey, your rhinoceros just peed all over me! – just to have them double over in hails of derisive laughter, take me back to the keepers’ lounge, do it all over again for the group, followed maybe by a cold hosing-off, afterward. Perhaps if there had been a large pin at the gift shop “It’s not me – A Rhino peed on me” or “Pee on me if you’re Horny” (yes, I realize that this is in bad taste, but, you have to agree, completely appropriate in this particular case) I might have pressed on.
As calmly as I think I could have been, I emerged from the bathroom and mumbled something like, “I’m sorry, I think I’m done for the day”, and headed for the exit. I have never really thanked her, but I remain grateful that my sweetie did not challenge my decision, and dutifully followed, wheeling Sammo back out to the car, without snickering once (that I heard). I was fuming, internally as well as externally, all the way home. Silently, I walked to the washing machine, deposited my clothing, and found the apex of that day’s adventure under the shower head. I don’t remember speaking of much the rest of the afternoon, and I was happy to close my eyes and put it all behind me - oh, a day or so later.
I’ve been thinking, lately, that it’s time to visit the zoo again. But this time, things will be different.
Saturday, January 28, 2006
Cast Away
Sorry I've been gone a month. It's been more of the same, but different. I've started several drafts, only to backspace them away. They're not ready yet.
Vicky brought home Cast Away last night - the movie where Tom Hanks' character gets stranded on a Pacific Island for years, eventually rescued and plopped into a world that had, by all reason and necessity, given him up for dead.
I excused myself and went to bed last night at about the part where he loses "Wilson", his island companion sculpted from a volleyball that was on the plane, washed ashore with him. I just wasn't ready for the end of the movie yesterday.
Up at 4:50 with Emma this morning, started her Elmo tape and went to the computer. Popped in the DVD, and just started weeping. This movie got to me when it came out, it nails my heart this morning. I think most of us identify with certain actors, Tom Hanks is that guy for me. It's not that I want to be him, but his mannerisms, style, and demeanor resonate with me more than say, George Clooney. I even like Joe and the Volcano, and it stinks.
I'm not sure why, but watching both Tom Hanks and Helen Hunt playing these scenes out, as they should be, almost zombie-like, the shock for him of dropping from the sky into a world jarred along 6 years from where he left it, the shock for her and his friend of reliving his funeral, "letting go" of him only to see him now, here, before them. They go through the motions externally, not really knowing what to feel. Which just projects it all onto me in a way that I don't normally experience. I can hardly bear it when he apologizes to his friend for not being there when his wife died. Standing in the house with the pictures on the refrigerator of the little girl that should have been his. Realizing that the love of his life, his inspiration, had been lost irretrievably. To bend Jackie Gleason, how bittersweet it is.
Fortunately, it's Hollywood, and the character wraps it up nicely for us to all move on. "Surely, tomorrow, the Sun will rise", he says, and the end of the movie fades with him literally looking across Texas to the future.
I guess I needed a good cry - I can count on this one if I need to, again, say in a year or two.
I give it three hankies up. Oooh, hankie, like Tom Hankie. Wow. Stream of consciousness, right here. I could use a cup of coffee.
Happy Saturday!
Vicky brought home Cast Away last night - the movie where Tom Hanks' character gets stranded on a Pacific Island for years, eventually rescued and plopped into a world that had, by all reason and necessity, given him up for dead.
I excused myself and went to bed last night at about the part where he loses "Wilson", his island companion sculpted from a volleyball that was on the plane, washed ashore with him. I just wasn't ready for the end of the movie yesterday.
Up at 4:50 with Emma this morning, started her Elmo tape and went to the computer. Popped in the DVD, and just started weeping. This movie got to me when it came out, it nails my heart this morning. I think most of us identify with certain actors, Tom Hanks is that guy for me. It's not that I want to be him, but his mannerisms, style, and demeanor resonate with me more than say, George Clooney. I even like Joe and the Volcano, and it stinks.
I'm not sure why, but watching both Tom Hanks and Helen Hunt playing these scenes out, as they should be, almost zombie-like, the shock for him of dropping from the sky into a world jarred along 6 years from where he left it, the shock for her and his friend of reliving his funeral, "letting go" of him only to see him now, here, before them. They go through the motions externally, not really knowing what to feel. Which just projects it all onto me in a way that I don't normally experience. I can hardly bear it when he apologizes to his friend for not being there when his wife died. Standing in the house with the pictures on the refrigerator of the little girl that should have been his. Realizing that the love of his life, his inspiration, had been lost irretrievably. To bend Jackie Gleason, how bittersweet it is.
Fortunately, it's Hollywood, and the character wraps it up nicely for us to all move on. "Surely, tomorrow, the Sun will rise", he says, and the end of the movie fades with him literally looking across Texas to the future.
I guess I needed a good cry - I can count on this one if I need to, again, say in a year or two.
I give it three hankies up. Oooh, hankie, like Tom Hankie. Wow. Stream of consciousness, right here. I could use a cup of coffee.
Happy Saturday!
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Time is no longer on my side
It's that time of year again, when our thoughts approach the aptly named January - looking back, even as we look forward. I'm one of those persons whose birthdays occur mid-year, so it seems I end up with a semi-annual self-assessment schedule.
It gets kinda quiet here in the Building Operations Center during the week between Christmas and New Year's Day - the docs have sent home most of the patients they can send home, lots of staff are out on vacation time, and the rest of us are trying to keep a low profile, as it were. So here I sit, contemplating this blank screen between the occasional phone call for a broken TV or plugged toilet.
I am constantly amazed at what's taking place at my home on a daily basis. Between my kids, the neighbor kids, the kid we watch after school most days until early evening, my house is a maelstrom of running, thuds, screaming (both joyful and painful, often at the same time), strewn toys, swinging lightsabers and jump ropes, and at least one TV with Elmo running on it. As annoying and bothersome as it often can be, I am, at my core, happy about this. Happy that my children are well, that they have what they have, and that my home is a safe place to play. There's the paper-mache' shark on the top shelf from Sam's latest Animal Report, a pretty good rendition that is as much testament to Vicky's abilities -- artistic as well as her ability to keep Sam focused on getting good work done. A few nights ago, Vicky was wrapping presents on the Family Room floor, and Sam joined her to "help". I sat, a few feet away from them, and pretended not to just be awed by the glimpse of the young man that I was looking at. He's still 9, but there are flashes every now and then that make me immensly proud and horribly apprehensive (regarding my abilities to finish the job) of him at the same instant. My goal for him this year is for him to become more aware of his impact on this family, and on his world. He's got so much to offer, I want him to see some of it and enable him to start earning some of his own "character points."
Emma, the enigma. After an oh so long period of just grunting and pointing her way through life, she's showing an interest in communicating with us. The completion of a good sign or word is a time for joy, watching her try a few times, only to give up in frustration, pure hell. It's been so cute, the last week or so -she'll walk into the room and say, "Hi", nonchalantly as you please. We've made a game out of "Dadeeee", "Mama" has been a lot harder. Although the words "Angel" and "innocent" are often not descriptive of her at all, living with Emma has a way of bringing me around to what really matters more often than I care to admit. And that is Love.
Vicky gets it all done. I don't deserve her. That's all this Gump can say about that. I just try to keep up, or at least look busy.
I've got to crawl out of this hole. I'm not happy that my bass amp is behind the lawnmower in the garage. I think I still have a little light, I'm just at a loss as to where to let it shine (for all of you Sunday-schoolers out there). I'm trying to prepare myself for some 'leaps of faith' this year. I'm not sure just what that means, yet, but I know that something has to change. I really hope that it's more than just my attitude, I'm getting kinda tired of lemonade. I keep looking for jobs in the paper, but there's very little listed in either the "guru" or "maven" categories, these days. I'd like to write a book, but I don't know what I'd write about. "A Book about Nothing" has probably already been written. I thought about writing an expose on the rotten underbelly of the Church of the Nazarene, but there just isn't enough material. There are, believe it or not, lots and lots of books about what it's like to be the parent of a child with "special needs", "special gifts", whatever - even semi-celebrities - so there's no real "market edge" there for me, either. Fiction sounds like too much work. Scott Adams has the corner on workplace nonsense. I've thought about writing "inspirational" material - but then I wouldn't want to end up like William J. Bennet, my seedy lifestyle and habits ruining my success. I'd write about how to negotiate your way through the healthcare system, but I'll be damned if there is a way, and I work there. So, I remain in a quandary. There is the story about how I was peed on by a Hippopotamus, but that really isn't enough to build an entire book around. Sigh.
So, I'm looking forward for myself to exhibit some out-of-character behavior this year, hoping that perhaps it will be more-in-character behavior, but I'm not making any promises I can't keep. Hope springs eternal. Thanks for reading, perhaps I've spurred some ideas for your own blessings-counting/resolution planning session, soon. Get on with it.
Happy New Year!
It gets kinda quiet here in the Building Operations Center during the week between Christmas and New Year's Day - the docs have sent home most of the patients they can send home, lots of staff are out on vacation time, and the rest of us are trying to keep a low profile, as it were. So here I sit, contemplating this blank screen between the occasional phone call for a broken TV or plugged toilet.
I am constantly amazed at what's taking place at my home on a daily basis. Between my kids, the neighbor kids, the kid we watch after school most days until early evening, my house is a maelstrom of running, thuds, screaming (both joyful and painful, often at the same time), strewn toys, swinging lightsabers and jump ropes, and at least one TV with Elmo running on it. As annoying and bothersome as it often can be, I am, at my core, happy about this. Happy that my children are well, that they have what they have, and that my home is a safe place to play. There's the paper-mache' shark on the top shelf from Sam's latest Animal Report, a pretty good rendition that is as much testament to Vicky's abilities -- artistic as well as her ability to keep Sam focused on getting good work done. A few nights ago, Vicky was wrapping presents on the Family Room floor, and Sam joined her to "help". I sat, a few feet away from them, and pretended not to just be awed by the glimpse of the young man that I was looking at. He's still 9, but there are flashes every now and then that make me immensly proud and horribly apprehensive (regarding my abilities to finish the job) of him at the same instant. My goal for him this year is for him to become more aware of his impact on this family, and on his world. He's got so much to offer, I want him to see some of it and enable him to start earning some of his own "character points."
Emma, the enigma. After an oh so long period of just grunting and pointing her way through life, she's showing an interest in communicating with us. The completion of a good sign or word is a time for joy, watching her try a few times, only to give up in frustration, pure hell. It's been so cute, the last week or so -she'll walk into the room and say, "Hi", nonchalantly as you please. We've made a game out of "Dadeeee", "Mama" has been a lot harder. Although the words "Angel" and "innocent" are often not descriptive of her at all, living with Emma has a way of bringing me around to what really matters more often than I care to admit. And that is Love.
Vicky gets it all done. I don't deserve her. That's all this Gump can say about that. I just try to keep up, or at least look busy.
I've got to crawl out of this hole. I'm not happy that my bass amp is behind the lawnmower in the garage. I think I still have a little light, I'm just at a loss as to where to let it shine (for all of you Sunday-schoolers out there). I'm trying to prepare myself for some 'leaps of faith' this year. I'm not sure just what that means, yet, but I know that something has to change. I really hope that it's more than just my attitude, I'm getting kinda tired of lemonade. I keep looking for jobs in the paper, but there's very little listed in either the "guru" or "maven" categories, these days. I'd like to write a book, but I don't know what I'd write about. "A Book about Nothing" has probably already been written. I thought about writing an expose on the rotten underbelly of the Church of the Nazarene, but there just isn't enough material. There are, believe it or not, lots and lots of books about what it's like to be the parent of a child with "special needs", "special gifts", whatever - even semi-celebrities - so there's no real "market edge" there for me, either. Fiction sounds like too much work. Scott Adams has the corner on workplace nonsense. I've thought about writing "inspirational" material - but then I wouldn't want to end up like William J. Bennet, my seedy lifestyle and habits ruining my success. I'd write about how to negotiate your way through the healthcare system, but I'll be damned if there is a way, and I work there. So, I remain in a quandary. There is the story about how I was peed on by a Hippopotamus, but that really isn't enough to build an entire book around. Sigh.
So, I'm looking forward for myself to exhibit some out-of-character behavior this year, hoping that perhaps it will be more-in-character behavior, but I'm not making any promises I can't keep. Hope springs eternal. Thanks for reading, perhaps I've spurred some ideas for your own blessings-counting/resolution planning session, soon. Get on with it.
Happy New Year!
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Lord of the Wardrobe, or Disney's not-Lion King
I had the opportunity to see “The Chronicles of Narnia – The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe” yesterday. For whatever reason, I really wasn’t in the mood for it. As this blog seems to be an exercise in selfishness, I’m going to say that the movie didn’t change my mood a whole lot. But it was nice.
We (and by that I don’t mean the ‘royal’ ‘we’, I mean our family unit) have watched several series’ of pictures, lately – the”Lord of the Rings”, “Star Wars”, “Back to the Future”, etc. I couldn’t help but think, while watching this movie that they’d just suited up a few hundred of the extras from Lord of the Rings for these battle scenes. Lewis and Tolkien were friends – perhaps Narnia is just over the mountains from the “Shire”. There wasn’t any mystery involved -- everyone’s been reading the book in anticipation of this release. It was rather more like seeing a play that you’ve seen three or four times before, looking to appreciate the performances as much as the play itself. The performances were fine, but none extraordinary, with the possible exception of the computer-generated lion. This story is Christian allegory, and the strongest imagery is embodied in that of Aslan. I shuddered in my seat, thinking what it might be like to actually stand before my Savior, one day, to be deemed worthy or not. To be forgiven. To hear him say, “What’s past is past.” That got my attention. The rest of it, again with the exception of Aslan’s “deep magic” disappearance at the end, and vague promise to return, was what has become pretty predictable fantasy fare. The “coronation” scene looked just like a “Star Wars” movie ending, or was that a “Star Trek” movie. . . or was it “Shrek II?” I am a believer in “archetypes” – and I certainly think that there’s no better introduction to them for young children than the writings of C.S. Lewis. Although I’m glad that Peter Jackson didn’t direct this picture - it would have taken two more hours to tell the story - there might have been a bit more passion, though. It is a well-crafted movie; my criticism is that, unfortunately, nearly all of the themes have been theatrically pounded into the ground at this point – which is truly too bad for this particular story.
To be fair, this was not made for me. There was certainly applause at the end, most of it, I think, from children in the audience. That it was picked up by religious groups and deemed worthy of their support speaks more to me about those waiting for permission, and those feeling a need to give it, than it does for the content. There’s as much religion in “The Wizard of Oz” as there is in this film, unless you’re already a believer. That’s the way Mr. Lewis wrote it, thank God (and thank you, Mr. Lewis). I won’t mind sitting through 6 or 7 more of these with my children, truly, as long as they enjoy them. There should be enough parental/authority death to deem them Disney-worthy, and I’m pretty sure that the Mouse will market what follows as effectively as they always have.
In the interest of journalism, Sam liked it very much. Emma fell asleep about the time the other three on-screen children fell through the back of the wardrobe, and snored through the credits. I only napped through what must have been the first expository section in the Beaver’s home. I tend to hold a special, personal value in those kid’s movies that I can sleep at; this film met that criteria too, minimally. I think it held Vicky’s interest, and, as she was holding Emma, she had nothing better to do. There’s little to dislike here, and talking animals and children who rule over dumber adults are always winners. To say that I’m quivering with anticipation for book 3 would be a bit of an understatement, but it’s a safe bet that, nap-worthy or not, it’ll still be a good time.
We (and by that I don’t mean the ‘royal’ ‘we’, I mean our family unit) have watched several series’ of pictures, lately – the”Lord of the Rings”, “Star Wars”, “Back to the Future”, etc. I couldn’t help but think, while watching this movie that they’d just suited up a few hundred of the extras from Lord of the Rings for these battle scenes. Lewis and Tolkien were friends – perhaps Narnia is just over the mountains from the “Shire”. There wasn’t any mystery involved -- everyone’s been reading the book in anticipation of this release. It was rather more like seeing a play that you’ve seen three or four times before, looking to appreciate the performances as much as the play itself. The performances were fine, but none extraordinary, with the possible exception of the computer-generated lion. This story is Christian allegory, and the strongest imagery is embodied in that of Aslan. I shuddered in my seat, thinking what it might be like to actually stand before my Savior, one day, to be deemed worthy or not. To be forgiven. To hear him say, “What’s past is past.” That got my attention. The rest of it, again with the exception of Aslan’s “deep magic” disappearance at the end, and vague promise to return, was what has become pretty predictable fantasy fare. The “coronation” scene looked just like a “Star Wars” movie ending, or was that a “Star Trek” movie. . . or was it “Shrek II?” I am a believer in “archetypes” – and I certainly think that there’s no better introduction to them for young children than the writings of C.S. Lewis. Although I’m glad that Peter Jackson didn’t direct this picture - it would have taken two more hours to tell the story - there might have been a bit more passion, though. It is a well-crafted movie; my criticism is that, unfortunately, nearly all of the themes have been theatrically pounded into the ground at this point – which is truly too bad for this particular story.
To be fair, this was not made for me. There was certainly applause at the end, most of it, I think, from children in the audience. That it was picked up by religious groups and deemed worthy of their support speaks more to me about those waiting for permission, and those feeling a need to give it, than it does for the content. There’s as much religion in “The Wizard of Oz” as there is in this film, unless you’re already a believer. That’s the way Mr. Lewis wrote it, thank God (and thank you, Mr. Lewis). I won’t mind sitting through 6 or 7 more of these with my children, truly, as long as they enjoy them. There should be enough parental/authority death to deem them Disney-worthy, and I’m pretty sure that the Mouse will market what follows as effectively as they always have.
In the interest of journalism, Sam liked it very much. Emma fell asleep about the time the other three on-screen children fell through the back of the wardrobe, and snored through the credits. I only napped through what must have been the first expository section in the Beaver’s home. I tend to hold a special, personal value in those kid’s movies that I can sleep at; this film met that criteria too, minimally. I think it held Vicky’s interest, and, as she was holding Emma, she had nothing better to do. There’s little to dislike here, and talking animals and children who rule over dumber adults are always winners. To say that I’m quivering with anticipation for book 3 would be a bit of an understatement, but it’s a safe bet that, nap-worthy or not, it’ll still be a good time.
Monday, December 12, 2005
Twas Twas
***I seem to be slipping into pseudo-Seussian rhyme, lately.
***My apologies for lines borrowed.
Twas’ a month before Christmas, and all through the land.
Not a creature was stirring, from fresh tryptophan.
The turkey carcass was not even cold, yet red and green ornaments glowed big and bold.
“Black Friday” arrived, shoppers formed at the doors
For early-bird sales, and fighting in stores.
Too early for spirit, the gift is the thing!
Without it, we’re hampered, true joy for to bring.
Soon news of “Black Monday” grew on the ‘net
Turned out was a marketing scam to forget.
As newspapers swelled with holiday ads,
Malls began filling with seekers of fads.
Three weeks before Christmas, and everyone’s tired
Checking on coupons that, just now, expired.
Grumpy and Sleepy are dwarves, they’re not elves,
People just arent’ really feeling ‘themselves’.
There’s parties, and candy, and White Elephants,
And all sorts of unexpected expense.
Hanging of lights, and dragging home trees,
Pulling down glittery gunk from the eaves.
Stringing, and plugging, and looking for lamps,
Fresh aches and pains, not to mention new cramps.
Two weeks to go, the stupor kicks in,
We’re on automatic, obtuse to the din.
Slogging from store to store, weary and worn,
Our only nutrition from stale Caramel Corn.
Stashing our purchases far out of sight,
Collapsing as evening turns into late night.
Fitfully sleeping with heads full of lists,
We should be so grateful, instead, we’re just pissed.
The day is approaching; few hours left to pack,
Our brains softly pounding from Yuletide’s Muzak.
Standing in line, wishing we knew him better,
Could Uncle Bob even want or need this sweater?
He has to get something, that says that we care,
But we really don't know, so we keep standing there.
Please don’t forget as we just settle in,
That Christmas was just the “down payment” for sin.
The first “Hallmark” gift, that just keeps on giving.
He soon came to die for our eternal living.
Bittersweet joy, as you look at your tree
Glimpse at Him hanging there for you and me.
But just for a moment, please don’t be depressed
To know what His Father did, then, doubly blessed.
For there is no greater gift to be sold,
No precious glittering thing to behold.
Than that of a life given, so pure and free,
To purchase redemption for you, and for me.
It’s been passed to us, by those, who often had less
Who understood gratitude and selflessness.
Our wealth leaves us without a need for such sharing
What’s harder, now, seems to be small acts of caring.
So all that I’m saying here, in this refrain,
Shouldn’t have taken this time to explain.
I’m having trouble, but I’m going to try,
To be a gentler, more sensitive guy.
At least for a few weeks, I’ll work on my “cheerier”
Instead of my usual sneer, fear, and “leerier”.
I never would slug you, in line for a toy,
But maybe a smile from me’d slip you some joy.
If you were to return a grin,we’d both be merrier,
The world would get friendlier, then, not just wary-er.
Then, and most certainly last, but not least.
Save your best cheer for the day of the feast.
Savor the giving, not getting, the most.
And a moment or two for the Heavenly Host.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night,
Please Please Please!, I am asking, with all of my might,
Let’s make it Christmas, and not Xmas Lite.
http://www.townhall.com/opinion/columns/johnleo/2005/12/12/178651.html
***My apologies for lines borrowed.
Twas’ a month before Christmas, and all through the land.
Not a creature was stirring, from fresh tryptophan.
The turkey carcass was not even cold, yet red and green ornaments glowed big and bold.
“Black Friday” arrived, shoppers formed at the doors
For early-bird sales, and fighting in stores.
Too early for spirit, the gift is the thing!
Without it, we’re hampered, true joy for to bring.
Soon news of “Black Monday” grew on the ‘net
Turned out was a marketing scam to forget.
As newspapers swelled with holiday ads,
Malls began filling with seekers of fads.
Three weeks before Christmas, and everyone’s tired
Checking on coupons that, just now, expired.
Grumpy and Sleepy are dwarves, they’re not elves,
People just arent’ really feeling ‘themselves’.
There’s parties, and candy, and White Elephants,
And all sorts of unexpected expense.
Hanging of lights, and dragging home trees,
Pulling down glittery gunk from the eaves.
Stringing, and plugging, and looking for lamps,
Fresh aches and pains, not to mention new cramps.
Two weeks to go, the stupor kicks in,
We’re on automatic, obtuse to the din.
Slogging from store to store, weary and worn,
Our only nutrition from stale Caramel Corn.
Stashing our purchases far out of sight,
Collapsing as evening turns into late night.
Fitfully sleeping with heads full of lists,
We should be so grateful, instead, we’re just pissed.
The day is approaching; few hours left to pack,
Our brains softly pounding from Yuletide’s Muzak.
Standing in line, wishing we knew him better,
Could Uncle Bob even want or need this sweater?
He has to get something, that says that we care,
But we really don't know, so we keep standing there.
Please don’t forget as we just settle in,
That Christmas was just the “down payment” for sin.
The first “Hallmark” gift, that just keeps on giving.
He soon came to die for our eternal living.
Bittersweet joy, as you look at your tree
Glimpse at Him hanging there for you and me.
But just for a moment, please don’t be depressed
To know what His Father did, then, doubly blessed.
For there is no greater gift to be sold,
No precious glittering thing to behold.
Than that of a life given, so pure and free,
To purchase redemption for you, and for me.
It’s been passed to us, by those, who often had less
Who understood gratitude and selflessness.
Our wealth leaves us without a need for such sharing
What’s harder, now, seems to be small acts of caring.
So all that I’m saying here, in this refrain,
Shouldn’t have taken this time to explain.
I’m having trouble, but I’m going to try,
To be a gentler, more sensitive guy.
At least for a few weeks, I’ll work on my “cheerier”
Instead of my usual sneer, fear, and “leerier”.
I never would slug you, in line for a toy,
But maybe a smile from me’d slip you some joy.
If you were to return a grin,we’d both be merrier,
The world would get friendlier, then, not just wary-er.
Then, and most certainly last, but not least.
Save your best cheer for the day of the feast.
Savor the giving, not getting, the most.
And a moment or two for the Heavenly Host.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night,
Please Please Please!, I am asking, with all of my might,
Let’s make it Christmas, and not Xmas Lite.
http://www.townhall.com/opinion/columns/johnleo/2005/12/12/178651.html
Monday, November 21, 2005
Thanksgiving, 2005
Tis’ the season to be thankful
With a couple extra tankfuls
Driving hither ‘cross the counties,
Joining with our loved ones there.
Notice now, that vacant setting
Telling of those now abetting
Freedom – let’s not be forgetting
Those who stand for what we share.
As we gather, and we ponder,
Wealth of Laughter, Love, and Peace
Sacrifices made for others
Willing hands that never cease.
Sons and Daughters, Sisters , Brothers
Spread across this fragile land.
Gratitude and yearning prayer that
Others might soon understand
That there is pride in giving others
Value owed to every Man.
Human fabric, woven ever
Thread by thread, yet ending never,
Binding loved ones closer still.
Gratitude for those who serve us
Please Lord, let the Loom grow larger,
And our hopes and dreams fulfill.
Freedom’s price it seems, must always
Hurt at times when it should not.
It’s our price to pay, however,
For these things so dearly fought.
Having done this, they would want us
Carry on as if ‘twere not.
So, to pause on this occasion
Of a Nation’s Thankfulness
To you standing far from home,
We will truly do our best.
To remember, pray, and render
Thoughts of safety and success.
Thank You.
To the day that brings you home, safe, to us.
With a couple extra tankfuls
Driving hither ‘cross the counties,
Joining with our loved ones there.
Notice now, that vacant setting
Telling of those now abetting
Freedom – let’s not be forgetting
Those who stand for what we share.
As we gather, and we ponder,
Wealth of Laughter, Love, and Peace
Sacrifices made for others
Willing hands that never cease.
Sons and Daughters, Sisters , Brothers
Spread across this fragile land.
Gratitude and yearning prayer that
Others might soon understand
That there is pride in giving others
Value owed to every Man.
Human fabric, woven ever
Thread by thread, yet ending never,
Binding loved ones closer still.
Gratitude for those who serve us
Please Lord, let the Loom grow larger,
And our hopes and dreams fulfill.
Freedom’s price it seems, must always
Hurt at times when it should not.
It’s our price to pay, however,
For these things so dearly fought.
Having done this, they would want us
Carry on as if ‘twere not.
So, to pause on this occasion
Of a Nation’s Thankfulness
To you standing far from home,
We will truly do our best.
To remember, pray, and render
Thoughts of safety and success.
Thank You.
To the day that brings you home, safe, to us.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Timely, or "Stuck in a Moment"
Juxtapose this!
Tuesday night, witnessing once again the phenomenon of "The Larry Mullen Band", all "Love and Peace", "In the Name of Love" , hootin' and hollerin' and singing with 20,ooo of my closest friends about human rights and global debt relief and lifting the seat when you pee (sorry, I made that last one up). It really was a great time. One of the things I was anxious for 8 year-old Sam to see was an arena full of people singing. He seemed kinda engaged, but really got wide-eyed when Bono asked everyone to hold up their lit cellphones. As the mighty Hewson pointed out, "a real 21st century moment." We got home from Los Angeles at about 2 a.m.
Wednesday morning. Awoke to CNN and MSNBC and FOX jumping in and out of the 2+ hours of Rosa Parks' final funeral. A modern name that correctly ranks and resonates for America with those of Attucks, Paine, Tubman, Lincoln, Malcom X, and, of course, Rev. Martin Luther King. Rev. King was her inspiration for his non-violence, Malcom X for his resolve. A quiet, positive, consistent life defined by a moment of courage that galvanized a movement and altered the course of the world. The eulogies were amazing, as they should have been. Rosa's challenge remains:
How many moments do we miss, every day, to make a difference?
Bono spoke of the efforts of ONE, what it has accomplished, in large part due to his and some other high-profile efforts. It is a unique, timely, and overdue coalition that sets aside the petty partisanship that we are so self-indulgently langushing in in this country. It's easy to follow their lead.
Rosa Parks resolve was not temporal. She had had trouble with this particular bus driver, before. Her courage was the result of her internal consistency. "The Movement" had tried bus boycotts, before. This one worked because, as one person said yesterday, they would continue to walk to work in the rain "because of Rosa."
I don't think that Rosa could have known the impact of her decision, it could have just as easily passed into the Montgomery city records without notice. It made no difference to her.
At this moment, I'm not sure if I've ever been personally presented with a moment where doing the right thing meant breaking the law - the question is, would I do so? Do I have to? Probably not. Can I then, at least, stand up for the little things? Just think, if we all could, then perhaps we could change the world.
Not a bad moment to be stuck in.
Tuesday night, witnessing once again the phenomenon of "The Larry Mullen Band", all "Love and Peace", "In the Name of Love" , hootin' and hollerin' and singing with 20,ooo of my closest friends about human rights and global debt relief and lifting the seat when you pee (sorry, I made that last one up). It really was a great time. One of the things I was anxious for 8 year-old Sam to see was an arena full of people singing. He seemed kinda engaged, but really got wide-eyed when Bono asked everyone to hold up their lit cellphones. As the mighty Hewson pointed out, "a real 21st century moment." We got home from Los Angeles at about 2 a.m.
Wednesday morning. Awoke to CNN and MSNBC and FOX jumping in and out of the 2+ hours of Rosa Parks' final funeral. A modern name that correctly ranks and resonates for America with those of Attucks, Paine, Tubman, Lincoln, Malcom X, and, of course, Rev. Martin Luther King. Rev. King was her inspiration for his non-violence, Malcom X for his resolve. A quiet, positive, consistent life defined by a moment of courage that galvanized a movement and altered the course of the world. The eulogies were amazing, as they should have been. Rosa's challenge remains:
How many moments do we miss, every day, to make a difference?
Bono spoke of the efforts of ONE, what it has accomplished, in large part due to his and some other high-profile efforts. It is a unique, timely, and overdue coalition that sets aside the petty partisanship that we are so self-indulgently langushing in in this country. It's easy to follow their lead.
Rosa Parks resolve was not temporal. She had had trouble with this particular bus driver, before. Her courage was the result of her internal consistency. "The Movement" had tried bus boycotts, before. This one worked because, as one person said yesterday, they would continue to walk to work in the rain "because of Rosa."
I don't think that Rosa could have known the impact of her decision, it could have just as easily passed into the Montgomery city records without notice. It made no difference to her.
At this moment, I'm not sure if I've ever been personally presented with a moment where doing the right thing meant breaking the law - the question is, would I do so? Do I have to? Probably not. Can I then, at least, stand up for the little things? Just think, if we all could, then perhaps we could change the world.
Not a bad moment to be stuck in.
Wondering
I often wish and wonder what it’s like to be in someone else’s head. Not just the occasional “What were they thinking?”, but to truly be able to witness the same thing from someone else’s completely different frame of reference, and be able to compare perceptions with my own.
I was thinking about this on Halloween, watching Emma. She really got into the “swing” of things, this year. Adorable is not the word; she stole my heart yet again when she started twirling and preening from the moment Mom put on her pink skirt with the silver stars and tiara in her hair. This was special, and she knew it. It didn’t take long for her to get the hang of going from door to door, either – soon she was going up to the door, banging on it with her fist, and calling out “Trick or Treat” - it had to be – in her own inimitable way. Her excitement was palpable, and I began to wonder many things:
Does she remember last year?
Does she have any idea what we’re doing?
Would she think that she could knock on a neighbor’s door tomorrow and get candy?
What were (are) the associations that she’s making about all of this?
What makes it all so exciting? Our encouragement? That it’s all so different?
What will she remember?
Another thing that happens when we go Trick-or-Treating is the inevitable doggy at the door. Emma has not met a dog she doesn’t adore. She welcomes them, and is more than happy to trade saliva and kisses if they are not both restrained. I, on the other hand, traumatized as a very young child by two, shall we say, “little nippers”, am uncomfortable around nearly all canines. See the analogy? - same animal, completely different reaction. My combination of personal and parental fear of her getting hurt by a dog – I am truly dreading the day, and I hope it never happens – really kicks in at these moments. Watching her unabashedly giggling and cooing with her arms around a big dog’s neck, however, makes me want to buy two of them – but that moment passes, and rather quickly, with the memory of a teenage job I had mowing the lawn of a Great Dane owner. I am jealous of her abilities, always hoping that she never has that particular joy taken from her. I know that that’s the prayer of every parent, of course.
Part of the “sweet” of “Bittersweet” is to share pure joy, purely in the moment, innocent, uncluttered, focused happiness with Emma. The rest of us struggle harder and harder for these moments as we get older. It’s a gift she gives me nearly every day.
Now, it’s easy to contemplate the differences in perception between myself and one so differently-abled as she. It often causes me to ponder the differences that “the rest of us” bring to our situations. Aside from the layer upon layer of complexity that we seem to develop as we learn to distrust even our own thinking, how the background noise that I assume most of you reading this have running in your heads (if you don’t, then I really do have a problem) colors our everyday lives. I am not particularly proud to admit that I deal too often from the deck of sarcasm, and it’s become clear to me that it’s done some damage to my relationship with my Son. Damage, in that it clouds our communication, and I know now that it hasn’t helped our ability to live together. I realized, one day, that he didn’t deserve to have his young head screwed with this way; that it was pretty unfair of me. I’m trying to do better with that, and I hope I can make it up to him, somehow. I wasn’t able to see things through his eyes. I hope to live long enough to gain his forgiveness.
It is now one of those means of defense that I’ve inadvertently passed to the next generation, as it was passed to me. I can share the blame, but not the responsibility.
Living with Diversity requires more than accommodation. It requires empathy, understanding, fueled by desires that can only be kindled by unselfishness. That’s what makes it hard. That’s what takes effort, faith, and courage.
It all makes me wonder.
I was thinking about this on Halloween, watching Emma. She really got into the “swing” of things, this year. Adorable is not the word; she stole my heart yet again when she started twirling and preening from the moment Mom put on her pink skirt with the silver stars and tiara in her hair. This was special, and she knew it. It didn’t take long for her to get the hang of going from door to door, either – soon she was going up to the door, banging on it with her fist, and calling out “Trick or Treat” - it had to be – in her own inimitable way. Her excitement was palpable, and I began to wonder many things:
Does she remember last year?
Does she have any idea what we’re doing?
Would she think that she could knock on a neighbor’s door tomorrow and get candy?
What were (are) the associations that she’s making about all of this?
What makes it all so exciting? Our encouragement? That it’s all so different?
What will she remember?
Another thing that happens when we go Trick-or-Treating is the inevitable doggy at the door. Emma has not met a dog she doesn’t adore. She welcomes them, and is more than happy to trade saliva and kisses if they are not both restrained. I, on the other hand, traumatized as a very young child by two, shall we say, “little nippers”, am uncomfortable around nearly all canines. See the analogy? - same animal, completely different reaction. My combination of personal and parental fear of her getting hurt by a dog – I am truly dreading the day, and I hope it never happens – really kicks in at these moments. Watching her unabashedly giggling and cooing with her arms around a big dog’s neck, however, makes me want to buy two of them – but that moment passes, and rather quickly, with the memory of a teenage job I had mowing the lawn of a Great Dane owner. I am jealous of her abilities, always hoping that she never has that particular joy taken from her. I know that that’s the prayer of every parent, of course.
Part of the “sweet” of “Bittersweet” is to share pure joy, purely in the moment, innocent, uncluttered, focused happiness with Emma. The rest of us struggle harder and harder for these moments as we get older. It’s a gift she gives me nearly every day.
Now, it’s easy to contemplate the differences in perception between myself and one so differently-abled as she. It often causes me to ponder the differences that “the rest of us” bring to our situations. Aside from the layer upon layer of complexity that we seem to develop as we learn to distrust even our own thinking, how the background noise that I assume most of you reading this have running in your heads (if you don’t, then I really do have a problem) colors our everyday lives. I am not particularly proud to admit that I deal too often from the deck of sarcasm, and it’s become clear to me that it’s done some damage to my relationship with my Son. Damage, in that it clouds our communication, and I know now that it hasn’t helped our ability to live together. I realized, one day, that he didn’t deserve to have his young head screwed with this way; that it was pretty unfair of me. I’m trying to do better with that, and I hope I can make it up to him, somehow. I wasn’t able to see things through his eyes. I hope to live long enough to gain his forgiveness.
It is now one of those means of defense that I’ve inadvertently passed to the next generation, as it was passed to me. I can share the blame, but not the responsibility.
Living with Diversity requires more than accommodation. It requires empathy, understanding, fueled by desires that can only be kindled by unselfishness. That’s what makes it hard. That’s what takes effort, faith, and courage.
It all makes me wonder.
Wednesday, October 26, 2005
FAQ to the Future
I worked in a TV repair shop for seven years. My tenure included watching consumer electronics (as well as watching TV!) move from the twilight of vacuum tubes to transistors to integrated circuits. I received enough on-the-job training to eventually become a fair technician. These days, I know enough to be willing to take the covers off stuff and either fix them or reduce them to landfill in a matter of moments.
Part of that education was the whole antenna/tuner thing. Remember TV’s with dials? The big one that went from Channel 2 to 13, along with the little one that went from 14 to 83? Very High Frequency and Ultra High Frequency! UHF Stations were usually low power, low self-esteem stations, where reception was wobbly at best – the world really ran on VHF. San Diego was and still is an area overwhelmed with cable subscription; the terrain assures that most consumers can’t get at least 2 channels, combined with our seeming need to have at least 40 channels of lowest-common-denominator programming at our fingertips. Electronic tuners and the reality of cable companies converting UHF stations to VHF numbers for their band had pretty much relegated UHF to the scrap heap, or at least that’s what I thought.
Sunday, we bought a new TV. A(n) HDTV capable TV. I hooked up the cable and DVD and stereo and such and went hunting for a(n) HDTV program. Imagine my dismay when it didn’t look nearly as good as it did in the store. Actually, I was smart enough to realize that I hadn’t yet tapped into the digital vein, just yet. I lacked knowledge. Little did I know what lay in store.
The internet, of course. There is more information – including an abundance of outdated information – than I ever wanted to know about HDTV. The salient point to this essay is that over-the-air HDTV stations are UHF STATIONS! The band seemingly allocated for obscurity in the early 20th century was now and is the platform of innovation and data packets. If only the parents of UHF were alive to see it (I have no idea who that might be, and I’m not sure how to Google that, nor am I compelled to know).
I couldn’t wait to get home and try it out. Alas, I could not find a suitable loop or even bow-tie antenna amidst the morass (we passed ‘clutter’ in 1998) that is my garage. What to do? As a TV and electronics tech for so many years, I a) Have thrown more of these away than you can imagine, and b) could not imagine even paying $1.49 for one at a local store – if I could find one. Bingo! I took a 75-300 ohm converter, and made a loop from terminal to terminal with a length of solder. I attached it to a length of cable, hooked it up, and, as my Mother would say, “Glory Be!” I was getting 4 or so crystal clear channels of HDTV. For FREE! Oh, Serendipity; joy unbound!
The bad news is that I am nestled up against a mountain that I’m confident that will prevent me from ever getting a signal from 2 network transmitters located 13.1 miles away on another peak on the other side (internet information – I was able to determine the exact latitude and longitude of my address, and plot it in relation to the transmitters up to 100 miles away – waaaay too much information). Couple this with the siren song of the independent film channel and a smattering of educational programming for the kids – a cable upgrade is inevitable – resistance is futile. But for now, I’m just tickled pink, happier than a clam at high tide, with my solder-loop antenna stuck to my hi-def TV. Who’d a thunk it?
Part of that education was the whole antenna/tuner thing. Remember TV’s with dials? The big one that went from Channel 2 to 13, along with the little one that went from 14 to 83? Very High Frequency and Ultra High Frequency! UHF Stations were usually low power, low self-esteem stations, where reception was wobbly at best – the world really ran on VHF. San Diego was and still is an area overwhelmed with cable subscription; the terrain assures that most consumers can’t get at least 2 channels, combined with our seeming need to have at least 40 channels of lowest-common-denominator programming at our fingertips. Electronic tuners and the reality of cable companies converting UHF stations to VHF numbers for their band had pretty much relegated UHF to the scrap heap, or at least that’s what I thought.
Sunday, we bought a new TV. A(n) HDTV capable TV. I hooked up the cable and DVD and stereo and such and went hunting for a(n) HDTV program. Imagine my dismay when it didn’t look nearly as good as it did in the store. Actually, I was smart enough to realize that I hadn’t yet tapped into the digital vein, just yet. I lacked knowledge. Little did I know what lay in store.
The internet, of course. There is more information – including an abundance of outdated information – than I ever wanted to know about HDTV. The salient point to this essay is that over-the-air HDTV stations are UHF STATIONS! The band seemingly allocated for obscurity in the early 20th century was now and is the platform of innovation and data packets. If only the parents of UHF were alive to see it (I have no idea who that might be, and I’m not sure how to Google that, nor am I compelled to know).
I couldn’t wait to get home and try it out. Alas, I could not find a suitable loop or even bow-tie antenna amidst the morass (we passed ‘clutter’ in 1998) that is my garage. What to do? As a TV and electronics tech for so many years, I a) Have thrown more of these away than you can imagine, and b) could not imagine even paying $1.49 for one at a local store – if I could find one. Bingo! I took a 75-300 ohm converter, and made a loop from terminal to terminal with a length of solder. I attached it to a length of cable, hooked it up, and, as my Mother would say, “Glory Be!” I was getting 4 or so crystal clear channels of HDTV. For FREE! Oh, Serendipity; joy unbound!
The bad news is that I am nestled up against a mountain that I’m confident that will prevent me from ever getting a signal from 2 network transmitters located 13.1 miles away on another peak on the other side (internet information – I was able to determine the exact latitude and longitude of my address, and plot it in relation to the transmitters up to 100 miles away – waaaay too much information). Couple this with the siren song of the independent film channel and a smattering of educational programming for the kids – a cable upgrade is inevitable – resistance is futile. But for now, I’m just tickled pink, happier than a clam at high tide, with my solder-loop antenna stuck to my hi-def TV. Who’d a thunk it?
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Someone else is speaking my mind
Thanks to Tom at Unresolved References, an article that addresses this issue better than I could ever hope to.
The Abortion Debate that No One Wants to Have
Study this if you want to understand part of how it feels to be me.
Wow.
The Abortion Debate that No One Wants to Have
Study this if you want to understand part of how it feels to be me.
Wow.
Thursday, October 13, 2005
Sorry, my Muse was Bruised
Man, I’ve been sick. Sick up and fed of being sick. It’s always an amazing feeling to me, as it was this morning, to wake up feeling better than I did when I went to bed, to gradually feel whatever this crud is oh so slowly leaving my body. As the old song goes, “Don’t it always seem to go, that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone. . .” Amen, sister.
I’m a wimp when it comes to being sick. I don’t wanna, I ain’t gonna; just leave me alone with my bed and my remote control. This, of course, eventually, after a while, makes me feel kinda guilty about all of the things I’m supposed to be doing – one of the sure indications that I’m getting better. I live with one of those people who never seem to do what I do – declare I’m sick, I’m going to bed, and then drop off the face of the earth for a few days. She just keeps on going like the Energizer Bunny. I’m sure that it has a lot to do with her knowing that it won’t get done unless she does it, but I think it goes deeper than that. I do not know how she does it, but in the final analysis I don’t care. I yam what I yam – “just a spud boy who found his real tomato” (30 points for emailing me with the proper reference for that modified lyric).
I went to “the church of Springsteen” a couple of Sundays ago. I found myself on the bow of a houseboat, moored in a cove at Lake Mead, my coughing carcass jammed low into a canvas chair with his latest, “Devils and Dust” mostly gently playing in my headphones. It was one of those moments where the confluence of mood, fatigue, the desert fauna, a cool wind, and artistry brought me to tears more than once. Until the one song with the seemingly out-of place lyrics jerked my reverie back to wherever it is I usually live. One has to appreciate these moments when they occur, they are as fleeting as spring flowers in Death Valley. It’s also hard to describe to someone else, isn’t it? I’ve never been a true fan of ‘The Boss”, but these soft, straining songs reveal feelings beyond polish, beyond production, true experience. Honesty is the best policy. “Matomoros Banks” is my song of the year.
Even though we’ve been doing this for umpteen years now, and I always knew it, I used Google Earth to look around Lake Mead before we left, and was able to see how actually stinkin’ close our wilderness adventure is to Las Vegas. To explain, there is a significant mountain between eastern Las Vegas/Henderson and Lake Mead – getting to Echo Bay requires a 45 minute drive from Boulder City, around this mountain. It’s probably only about 20 miles, as the crow flies, from Echo Bay to the Strip. They are worlds apart, however, which only adds to the awe of it all. The bad news is that, at night, there is a pronounced glow to the West. The good news is that you can still see the Milky Way and shooting stars until you go to sleep. I woke up one night, looked out the window, and saw Mars and the little dipper. It’s so easy to forget that this stuff is always there – a reminder between REM states that to stop and wonder is still a wonderful thing. Whatever your opinion of Las Vegas as a technological triumph over the desert may be, the juxtaposition of it against this wilderness is never lost upon me. All this, of course, from my comfy chair down the hall from a working bathroom and shower, on a Man-made lake. Did I say I’m a wimp when it comes to camping, too? Yeah, probably.
I’m a wimp when it comes to being sick. I don’t wanna, I ain’t gonna; just leave me alone with my bed and my remote control. This, of course, eventually, after a while, makes me feel kinda guilty about all of the things I’m supposed to be doing – one of the sure indications that I’m getting better. I live with one of those people who never seem to do what I do – declare I’m sick, I’m going to bed, and then drop off the face of the earth for a few days. She just keeps on going like the Energizer Bunny. I’m sure that it has a lot to do with her knowing that it won’t get done unless she does it, but I think it goes deeper than that. I do not know how she does it, but in the final analysis I don’t care. I yam what I yam – “just a spud boy who found his real tomato” (30 points for emailing me with the proper reference for that modified lyric).
I went to “the church of Springsteen” a couple of Sundays ago. I found myself on the bow of a houseboat, moored in a cove at Lake Mead, my coughing carcass jammed low into a canvas chair with his latest, “Devils and Dust” mostly gently playing in my headphones. It was one of those moments where the confluence of mood, fatigue, the desert fauna, a cool wind, and artistry brought me to tears more than once. Until the one song with the seemingly out-of place lyrics jerked my reverie back to wherever it is I usually live. One has to appreciate these moments when they occur, they are as fleeting as spring flowers in Death Valley. It’s also hard to describe to someone else, isn’t it? I’ve never been a true fan of ‘The Boss”, but these soft, straining songs reveal feelings beyond polish, beyond production, true experience. Honesty is the best policy. “Matomoros Banks” is my song of the year.
Even though we’ve been doing this for umpteen years now, and I always knew it, I used Google Earth to look around Lake Mead before we left, and was able to see how actually stinkin’ close our wilderness adventure is to Las Vegas. To explain, there is a significant mountain between eastern Las Vegas/Henderson and Lake Mead – getting to Echo Bay requires a 45 minute drive from Boulder City, around this mountain. It’s probably only about 20 miles, as the crow flies, from Echo Bay to the Strip. They are worlds apart, however, which only adds to the awe of it all. The bad news is that, at night, there is a pronounced glow to the West. The good news is that you can still see the Milky Way and shooting stars until you go to sleep. I woke up one night, looked out the window, and saw Mars and the little dipper. It’s so easy to forget that this stuff is always there – a reminder between REM states that to stop and wonder is still a wonderful thing. Whatever your opinion of Las Vegas as a technological triumph over the desert may be, the juxtaposition of it against this wilderness is never lost upon me. All this, of course, from my comfy chair down the hall from a working bathroom and shower, on a Man-made lake. Did I say I’m a wimp when it comes to camping, too? Yeah, probably.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
"Strength in the Things that Remain" - Bob Dylan
I have been pondering many small absurdities, lately. I just finished reading a post at languagehat.com, http://www.languagehat.com/archives/002088.php, that describes the (previously unkown to me) practice of intentional fakery in reference works to identify copyright theft. How ingeniously incongruous!
Labor Day Weekend was spent on a Cub Scout campout with Sam. It was somewhat of a milestone for old Dad, because it was now time to actually commit to the purchase of the required equipment – tent, sleeping bags, camp stove, etc. – I’m still working on the “Happy” part of “Happy Camper.” I managed to think of all but three items – sugar, for my tea (haven’t invested in the percolator for coffee, yet), bug spray (our camp was about 200 yards from the “lake” – I think “pond” when I see green water, blue means “lake” to me), and a fishing pole for Sam. I personally prefer dentistry to fishing but hey, it’s not about me. Unless, of course, you’re a mosquito. My legs and arms still look like I’ve been well, part of a control group in an experiment gone horribly wrong. Little Man Sam bore not one welt. I’m not sure what I was exuding, pheromonically I must have been either alluring or argumentative. Sam was just happy to be there, and I think the blood suckers honored that. Of particular note were the little flies that have an affinity for hovering near the opening to one’s ear canals – you know, the ones that send any sentient being screaming into the woods, which of course is quite counterproductive.
All of the requisite Boy Scout charms were evident – campfires, BB guns, archery, hiking in the dark. One of the things that the BSA is still allowed to do by our government is to “retire”, to ceremonially and respectfully burn a worn-out American Flag. It was no small measure of the caliber of the men at this evening campfire to see half of them come out of the audience when the call for veterans, active military, and Eagle Scouts to join the ceremony. These are all good fathers, and many have served us, as well. I’m not altogether sure I’m in the same category. I was humbled, just the same. To me, the Boy Scouts is pretty anachronistic, an institutional holdout against the onslaught of modern life in many of its forms. It is also, in my opinion, something not to be dismissed, either, a glimpse into some truths that will be eventually lost. There is much that I disagree with in the organization I’ve seen, but that, like fishing, is not what it’s about. It’s about providing time and life lessons for tomorrow’s Men. I’m most pleased when I see these guys teaching Sam about things I wasn’t exposed to, like fishing and using a compass, but otherwise just doing things in a way that doesn’t happen in suburban America. I remember my Grandfather teaching me how to bundle up twigs one day; in his brusque manner and insistence that I do such a small task well conveyed values that were both consistent with who he was, as well as an unspoken love in the investment of his attention that have obviously impacted me forever. These are the moments that make the itching, backaches and body odor worthwhile. Not my Grandpa’s, mine, that is.
Speaking of absurdities, the bathrooms/showers (I’m told they were cold showers, which to me are mutually exclusive terms) were divided into three sections. Boys 18 and under, Women, and Men 18 and older. It was just a reminder that nothing’s what it used to be, or should be, for that matter.Anyone got any used fishing gear for sale?
Labor Day Weekend was spent on a Cub Scout campout with Sam. It was somewhat of a milestone for old Dad, because it was now time to actually commit to the purchase of the required equipment – tent, sleeping bags, camp stove, etc. – I’m still working on the “Happy” part of “Happy Camper.” I managed to think of all but three items – sugar, for my tea (haven’t invested in the percolator for coffee, yet), bug spray (our camp was about 200 yards from the “lake” – I think “pond” when I see green water, blue means “lake” to me), and a fishing pole for Sam. I personally prefer dentistry to fishing but hey, it’s not about me. Unless, of course, you’re a mosquito. My legs and arms still look like I’ve been well, part of a control group in an experiment gone horribly wrong. Little Man Sam bore not one welt. I’m not sure what I was exuding, pheromonically I must have been either alluring or argumentative. Sam was just happy to be there, and I think the blood suckers honored that. Of particular note were the little flies that have an affinity for hovering near the opening to one’s ear canals – you know, the ones that send any sentient being screaming into the woods, which of course is quite counterproductive.
All of the requisite Boy Scout charms were evident – campfires, BB guns, archery, hiking in the dark. One of the things that the BSA is still allowed to do by our government is to “retire”, to ceremonially and respectfully burn a worn-out American Flag. It was no small measure of the caliber of the men at this evening campfire to see half of them come out of the audience when the call for veterans, active military, and Eagle Scouts to join the ceremony. These are all good fathers, and many have served us, as well. I’m not altogether sure I’m in the same category. I was humbled, just the same. To me, the Boy Scouts is pretty anachronistic, an institutional holdout against the onslaught of modern life in many of its forms. It is also, in my opinion, something not to be dismissed, either, a glimpse into some truths that will be eventually lost. There is much that I disagree with in the organization I’ve seen, but that, like fishing, is not what it’s about. It’s about providing time and life lessons for tomorrow’s Men. I’m most pleased when I see these guys teaching Sam about things I wasn’t exposed to, like fishing and using a compass, but otherwise just doing things in a way that doesn’t happen in suburban America. I remember my Grandfather teaching me how to bundle up twigs one day; in his brusque manner and insistence that I do such a small task well conveyed values that were both consistent with who he was, as well as an unspoken love in the investment of his attention that have obviously impacted me forever. These are the moments that make the itching, backaches and body odor worthwhile. Not my Grandpa’s, mine, that is.
Speaking of absurdities, the bathrooms/showers (I’m told they were cold showers, which to me are mutually exclusive terms) were divided into three sections. Boys 18 and under, Women, and Men 18 and older. It was just a reminder that nothing’s what it used to be, or should be, for that matter.Anyone got any used fishing gear for sale?
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