I am an oversensitive doormat. I was raised to be the latter, the former is just an unhappy byproduct. There. I've said it. Hope you don't mind.
I was pressed for time this morning, and as I reached an intersection to make a right turn, I observed a woman crossing the street in my direction, requiring me to wait for her.
Now, this woman, probably a few years older than I, was clad in running gear, and yet here she was, walking across the street; I became instantly outraged (internally, of course - no horn honking or gesticulating from me, no sir). Why wasn't she RUNNING? I was convinced that she was doing this on purpose, to make me wait because she could. Which brings me to my current state of contemplation about how we are the way we are.
If you know me, then it's very possible that you know my father. Our Father, who art in Temecula, is one of my heroes. The older I get, the smarter he is. He has become, and remains, a Great Man. I love him dearly. Having said that, he is also, by both nature and desire, one who turns the other cheek ad nauseum. As my dear Mother would attest, he has turned martyrdom into an art form. All other family secrets and confessions aside, it is alas a mode that I have probably embraced, embodied, and employed to my detriment, as well as, I'm told, the detriment of those around me. I order a hamburger at Burger King the way it comes - their way is fine with me. If I find a chicken sandwich in the wrapper, I'm apt to see it as an indication from the Almighty that I've been eating too much beef, lately; usually preferring to eat it rather than put everyone through the hassle of a "do-over." It's often hard for others to see the value; they think it's spinelessness on my part. I think Dad would agree with me that it's more about being at peace than being "right" - but then you have to have this perspective to begin with. Having children, of course, changed everything. The way we raise children today means constantly making adjustments - and I don't necessarily want my children to be the way I am - they need to make their way in a world much different than mine is. What I'm working my way around to is that how we're changing has been the result of an insidious process, and perhaps we need to think about being more accommodating, some times with each other, particularly strangers. Which brings me back to this morning's runner.
See, the thing is, if the situation had been reversed, I'm pretty sure that I would have run across the intersection, or at least trotted, or in some way indicated that yes, I am holding you up, but making some sort of token (if not real) effort to both recognize your presence and get out of your way. It's politeness, it's recognition of your value, it's a positive rather than a negative moment in a negative world. I remember feeling put-upon when being taught that a gentleman opened a door for those around you, Ladies first, of course, but I've noticed that some people do, some people don't. The ones that don't open a door for me instantly lose all credibility, as far as I'm concerned. I seem to be drifting off-topic. And yet not. It's turned into a mark of character, to some extent.
I made the offhand joke, the other day, that this was all Burger King's fault. "Have it Your Way" has become a mantra, an expectation that has turned sideways into selfishness, and then reversed itself upon us to the point where we have to choose where there were no choices, before. Please apply this concept. Discuss with your inner self. Failure to demand one's own way or show deference to another is now a sign of weakness.
So, I'm confident that I'm going to inherit the earth. Of course, the selfish and the slipshod will have pretty much soiled it beyond recognition by the time I get it, but I'll be happy. I'll be happier if those folk are all gone by then, off to a planet more suited to their tastes.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
A show about nothing
It's so very gratifying to realize that my generation is going to remembered and characterized by TV shows like the vapid "Friends" and "Seinfeld." I had the pleasure of watching an old rerun of "Gunsmoke" a few days ago. I remember begging to stay up to watch it as a child. It portrays a world where evil intrudes, moral dilemmas ensue, and right prevails in the end - with humor, grace, and a clear statement of what is right and what is wrong. When James Arness looks into the camera, he's looking me in the eye. When Doc Adams provides medical care for everyone, regardless of social status or ability to pay, the lesson is clear.
It is so much about nothing, these days. I guess I'm succumbing to the attitude of my age - squarely "middle-aged" now - seeing an ever-narrowing window of opportunities, combined with a growing desire for safety - it leads to simmering banality (which can actually be very nice with a good pinot grigio and sourdough toast). There was an old Mr. Rogers Neighborhood parody where the gentle man says, "The universe is entropying. Can you say 'Entropy', boys and girls?" I look at the paint peeling off my house, the back deck decaying, calling me to action, and feel unable and unwilling at the same time.
Multi-tasking tends to rob me of the joy of doing, the loss of the sense of time one gets when singularly focused on something. I'm doing one or two or more things, thinking about another 2-500 others as I work. It reaches a point of critical mass, and then something perfectly innocuous occurs, like Emma emptying a shelf full of something onto the floor, and I'm filled with anger at that one thing that sent the whole stage full of spinning plates to come crashing down. Losing one's train of thought can seem calamitous, and it's too easy to pin the blame on the most innocuous of targets. Like the poorly educated part-timer behind the counter at Wendy's who's fellow team member didn't read the instructions and put dill pickles on your Mediterranean Fish Sandwich instead of the bread-and-butter slices you asked for. We're blowing our mental gaskets at the weak points of our day, instead of focusing on the underlying pressure. The result of deferred maintenance, I fear.
It seems like there are those of us that are able to make great strides on a regular basis, but it's hard to point to anyone nearby that is. Part of the underlying pressure is that we're (I'm including you, now) missing the point that much of what we are doing is important - raising kids, keeping clothes, food and shelter coming, mowing the lawn (yes, I still do), making the occasional assymmetrical "thing" out of wood. I don't always "get it", but I can't quite explain the feeling, like I got last night, when Sam asked me to check his homework. A small, yet profound sense of accomplishment. Yet, while I'm doing this, I'm trying to copy a DVD onto my Pocket PC (Why? Because I can, of course), watching TV, thinking about GSA contracts . . . the moment faded much more quickly than it should have, or at least before I wanted it to.
Is it that so much has already been done, we need to make something out of nothing? I can make my own movies, I can record my own music, I can even publish on the internet to a worldwide audience - all things formerly reserved for various versions of the elite, via their intrinsic processes for those with talent and influence to dominate. Is it democracy or dilution? Am I empowered, or enslaved by the crush of information being pushed in my direction from every device imaginable? Yes and no. Several events have proven that information is power; they have also proven that that distorted information can power some pretty ugly machines - can you spell Schiavo? Now everyone can.
So, back to what I was talking about? Oh, that's right, nothing. Never mind.
It is so much about nothing, these days. I guess I'm succumbing to the attitude of my age - squarely "middle-aged" now - seeing an ever-narrowing window of opportunities, combined with a growing desire for safety - it leads to simmering banality (which can actually be very nice with a good pinot grigio and sourdough toast). There was an old Mr. Rogers Neighborhood parody where the gentle man says, "The universe is entropying. Can you say 'Entropy', boys and girls?" I look at the paint peeling off my house, the back deck decaying, calling me to action, and feel unable and unwilling at the same time.
Multi-tasking tends to rob me of the joy of doing, the loss of the sense of time one gets when singularly focused on something. I'm doing one or two or more things, thinking about another 2-500 others as I work. It reaches a point of critical mass, and then something perfectly innocuous occurs, like Emma emptying a shelf full of something onto the floor, and I'm filled with anger at that one thing that sent the whole stage full of spinning plates to come crashing down. Losing one's train of thought can seem calamitous, and it's too easy to pin the blame on the most innocuous of targets. Like the poorly educated part-timer behind the counter at Wendy's who's fellow team member didn't read the instructions and put dill pickles on your Mediterranean Fish Sandwich instead of the bread-and-butter slices you asked for. We're blowing our mental gaskets at the weak points of our day, instead of focusing on the underlying pressure. The result of deferred maintenance, I fear.
It seems like there are those of us that are able to make great strides on a regular basis, but it's hard to point to anyone nearby that is. Part of the underlying pressure is that we're (I'm including you, now) missing the point that much of what we are doing is important - raising kids, keeping clothes, food and shelter coming, mowing the lawn (yes, I still do), making the occasional assymmetrical "thing" out of wood. I don't always "get it", but I can't quite explain the feeling, like I got last night, when Sam asked me to check his homework. A small, yet profound sense of accomplishment. Yet, while I'm doing this, I'm trying to copy a DVD onto my Pocket PC (Why? Because I can, of course), watching TV, thinking about GSA contracts . . . the moment faded much more quickly than it should have, or at least before I wanted it to.
Is it that so much has already been done, we need to make something out of nothing? I can make my own movies, I can record my own music, I can even publish on the internet to a worldwide audience - all things formerly reserved for various versions of the elite, via their intrinsic processes for those with talent and influence to dominate. Is it democracy or dilution? Am I empowered, or enslaved by the crush of information being pushed in my direction from every device imaginable? Yes and no. Several events have proven that information is power; they have also proven that that distorted information can power some pretty ugly machines - can you spell Schiavo? Now everyone can.
So, back to what I was talking about? Oh, that's right, nothing. Never mind.
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Karma Chameleon
Yesterday, I was confronted with a malicious post on a forum for Down Syndrome parents, designed to attack one of our deepest fears – that of the sexual abuse of our children. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. Network TV even does it from time to time, exploiting the idea for the sake of drama, to sell Cialis and Crest. It’s almost a familiar emotional road to travel these days, from anger to wanting revenge to wanting mere justice to feeling mere pity and disgust for the adolescent punk, who, if there is any justice in this life, will probably sustain a C4 spinal injury when his ATV rolls over on him, leaving him with his thoughts of how cruel God was to him. Maybe I’m not quite through the "revenge" part, just yet.
It’s days like that one that just make playing with Emma before dinner, or holding her sleeping pj’d form in my arms for just a few extra minutes so much sweeter. I’m pretty sure that Nimrod hasn’t had a hug in a long time, and that is truly a crime – his parents (if he has any) have damaged him perhaps beyond relational repair. Whatever forces may someday drive my adult children to seek therapy, lack of love from their parents will not be one of them. I just hope Nimmy has his accident before he fathers any more of his kind. Crap, there I go again. Sorry.
It’s days like that one that just make playing with Emma before dinner, or holding her sleeping pj’d form in my arms for just a few extra minutes so much sweeter. I’m pretty sure that Nimrod hasn’t had a hug in a long time, and that is truly a crime – his parents (if he has any) have damaged him perhaps beyond relational repair. Whatever forces may someday drive my adult children to seek therapy, lack of love from their parents will not be one of them. I just hope Nimmy has his accident before he fathers any more of his kind. Crap, there I go again. Sorry.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Million Mourner March
I’ve been pondering what a million people in line looks like. The Vatican had to close the line to view Pope John Paul II’s remains Thursday, as the wait was already 12 hours, and preparations would need to be made for the funeral.
I’ve also been wondering why we, as a species, are compelled to “see it for ourselves.” For reasons unknown to me, I have never been fond of pressing groups of people or large gatherings, aside from church potlucks at the park in the summertime. This, of course, has more to do with the food than the fellowship.
However, I will subject myself to such torture, nearly always for the purposes of amusement, enduring the proximity for pleasuring the senses with music and rides on hydraulic monstrosities. Just as military service is pressed upon the young primarily because we older folk would simply desert, my willingness to wait for anything is diminishing as my age increases. I consider it one of the more normal aspects of my being.
Why is it that we are lured to the sights and sounds of rotating lights and sirens, when we should avoid them? Why am I compelled to identify the residue of forest creatures left on the expressway? Why do I want to see a band play, when I’ve already heard their music, can see video of their performances that allow me to see the pores on their foreheads, and eat bon-bons in my underwear while doing so?
Because it’s not the same, that’s why. There is the component of “I was there.” It goes beyond bragging rights, although that can be part of it. There is no substitute, yet, for being physically present when a unique event occurs.
I am a fan of Samuel Clemens, for reasons that, in my wildest dreams, would only flatter me. I have had occasion to visit his home in Hartford, CT. Oh, to be so wealthy to be able to express oneself in architecture and furnishings! There is even a handwritten note from him, addressed to burglars, in the basement. The value of this one-of-a-kind place is that it illustrates and gives presence to what is already a faded personality of great influence on the early 20th century.
I have stood at the base of Michaelangelo’s “David”. I have also stood at the base of a full-sized copy of “David” in a cemetery here in Southern California. To say that they are similar is correct. They are not the same. To tell you how they are different would be quite difficult. I’m sure that context has a lot to do with it, but it is much more than that. One is cast, the other creation.
I know that millions want to express their appreciation and gratitude for a life lived well, whose impact has truly been divine. It is also part of the culture of Catholicism. I, however, cannot easily fathom this depth of humanity. It is truly a wonder.
I’ve also been wondering why we, as a species, are compelled to “see it for ourselves.” For reasons unknown to me, I have never been fond of pressing groups of people or large gatherings, aside from church potlucks at the park in the summertime. This, of course, has more to do with the food than the fellowship.
However, I will subject myself to such torture, nearly always for the purposes of amusement, enduring the proximity for pleasuring the senses with music and rides on hydraulic monstrosities. Just as military service is pressed upon the young primarily because we older folk would simply desert, my willingness to wait for anything is diminishing as my age increases. I consider it one of the more normal aspects of my being.
Why is it that we are lured to the sights and sounds of rotating lights and sirens, when we should avoid them? Why am I compelled to identify the residue of forest creatures left on the expressway? Why do I want to see a band play, when I’ve already heard their music, can see video of their performances that allow me to see the pores on their foreheads, and eat bon-bons in my underwear while doing so?
Because it’s not the same, that’s why. There is the component of “I was there.” It goes beyond bragging rights, although that can be part of it. There is no substitute, yet, for being physically present when a unique event occurs.
I am a fan of Samuel Clemens, for reasons that, in my wildest dreams, would only flatter me. I have had occasion to visit his home in Hartford, CT. Oh, to be so wealthy to be able to express oneself in architecture and furnishings! There is even a handwritten note from him, addressed to burglars, in the basement. The value of this one-of-a-kind place is that it illustrates and gives presence to what is already a faded personality of great influence on the early 20th century.
I have stood at the base of Michaelangelo’s “David”. I have also stood at the base of a full-sized copy of “David” in a cemetery here in Southern California. To say that they are similar is correct. They are not the same. To tell you how they are different would be quite difficult. I’m sure that context has a lot to do with it, but it is much more than that. One is cast, the other creation.
I know that millions want to express their appreciation and gratitude for a life lived well, whose impact has truly been divine. It is also part of the culture of Catholicism. I, however, cannot easily fathom this depth of humanity. It is truly a wonder.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Ennui and Me
Ennui:
Listlessness and dissatisfaction resulting from lack of interest; boredom.
This word shares the same heritage with annoy, and that’s the way I like it. Annoyed boredom.
That’s me, today.
I’ve had the privilege of seeing one of the world’s greatest rock bands, twice in one week, last week. I live in a home that’s worth nearly a half a million dollars (insanely overvalued, to be sure), I have a wonderful family, food to eat, TV with 75 channels (2 or 3 with actual programming worth watching, and that includes John Wayne movies), and a persistent connection to the Internet. I have transportation, credit, and friends. Yet, still, I languish in a pit, dug with my own hands, swimming in self-pity; seemingly unable to even rent a ladder. I can’t seem to find my bootstraps. I fear they’ve rotted away.
I heard the greatest essay on PBS radio yesterday. The author read, "You are what you give." It was the basis of her belief system, annealed by caring for and watching her daughter die from a progressing disease. She talked not only of giving with no strings, but of giving with no thought whatsoever of the recipients’ attitude, gratitude, or lack thereof. She does it because it suits her. She is right. It is the Biblical Imperative, stripped of all of its trappings and baggage.
God, prompt me to give, to love, to at least hold my tongue, sometimes. To move beyond my circumstances, however comfortable they may be. To move beyond random acts of kindness, to random acts of love.
To do something.
"To love is to heal, to hurt is to steal . . ."
"She Moves In Mysterious Ways", U2
Listlessness and dissatisfaction resulting from lack of interest; boredom.
This word shares the same heritage with annoy, and that’s the way I like it. Annoyed boredom.
That’s me, today.
I’ve had the privilege of seeing one of the world’s greatest rock bands, twice in one week, last week. I live in a home that’s worth nearly a half a million dollars (insanely overvalued, to be sure), I have a wonderful family, food to eat, TV with 75 channels (2 or 3 with actual programming worth watching, and that includes John Wayne movies), and a persistent connection to the Internet. I have transportation, credit, and friends. Yet, still, I languish in a pit, dug with my own hands, swimming in self-pity; seemingly unable to even rent a ladder. I can’t seem to find my bootstraps. I fear they’ve rotted away.
I heard the greatest essay on PBS radio yesterday. The author read, "You are what you give." It was the basis of her belief system, annealed by caring for and watching her daughter die from a progressing disease. She talked not only of giving with no strings, but of giving with no thought whatsoever of the recipients’ attitude, gratitude, or lack thereof. She does it because it suits her. She is right. It is the Biblical Imperative, stripped of all of its trappings and baggage.
God, prompt me to give, to love, to at least hold my tongue, sometimes. To move beyond my circumstances, however comfortable they may be. To move beyond random acts of kindness, to random acts of love.
To do something.
"To love is to heal, to hurt is to steal . . ."
"She Moves In Mysterious Ways", U2
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Flip-flop
As well written a piece as my previous posted link is, still - -
I’ve changed my mind. And not because the courts are going this way. This whole topic has just injected itself (pun intended) into my thoughtstream because it is another example of when principles collide. A grey area.
Did it ever occur to you that even the spelling of grey (gray) is a grey area?
My precise point is that I don’t know, I can’t say what the level of true intimacy is/was between Michael and Terry Shiavo. Failing that, I’ve concluded that their right of privacy supercedes the government's (my) right to interfere. This same question can be used to support the opposite conclusion. However, that’s where I, as a citizen of this country, must place my trust in the court system. The courts have consistently sided with Michael, conservative and liberal judges alike.
I’ve also weighed this in light of my own circumstances. Agreed, I have been married (consciously) for a longer period of time, but I still think that I am far more aware of my wife’s true wishes than her family. I’m not casting aspersions at her family. I think she knows mine better than my family. The fact that he has consistently stood his ground, without wavering, even under criticism and the offers of millions of dollars to drop his suit, is barely relevant. I’ve somehow managed to place myself in his position, now aligned seemingly against the Congress of the United States. He must feel like the Chinese man, standing with his groceries in front of a tank.
Does this mean I’ve abandoned Terry? I don’t think so. I think it is part of recognizing the sanctity of marriage. It’s the "For worse" part. I think he’s proved his love and devotion to her, in the face of some pretty imposing forces. If my concept of marriage is correct, then I have willingly placed the responsibility of these decisions upon my wife's shoulders, and she upon mine, in the absence of any written directives. I wasn't thinking about this, earlier this week.
I think it stinks on ice, either way. I am completely clear on that.
I’ve changed my mind. And not because the courts are going this way. This whole topic has just injected itself (pun intended) into my thoughtstream because it is another example of when principles collide. A grey area.
Did it ever occur to you that even the spelling of grey (gray) is a grey area?
My precise point is that I don’t know, I can’t say what the level of true intimacy is/was between Michael and Terry Shiavo. Failing that, I’ve concluded that their right of privacy supercedes the government's (my) right to interfere. This same question can be used to support the opposite conclusion. However, that’s where I, as a citizen of this country, must place my trust in the court system. The courts have consistently sided with Michael, conservative and liberal judges alike.
I’ve also weighed this in light of my own circumstances. Agreed, I have been married (consciously) for a longer period of time, but I still think that I am far more aware of my wife’s true wishes than her family. I’m not casting aspersions at her family. I think she knows mine better than my family. The fact that he has consistently stood his ground, without wavering, even under criticism and the offers of millions of dollars to drop his suit, is barely relevant. I’ve somehow managed to place myself in his position, now aligned seemingly against the Congress of the United States. He must feel like the Chinese man, standing with his groceries in front of a tank.
Does this mean I’ve abandoned Terry? I don’t think so. I think it is part of recognizing the sanctity of marriage. It’s the "For worse" part. I think he’s proved his love and devotion to her, in the face of some pretty imposing forces. If my concept of marriage is correct, then I have willingly placed the responsibility of these decisions upon my wife's shoulders, and she upon mine, in the absence of any written directives. I wasn't thinking about this, earlier this week.
I think it stinks on ice, either way. I am completely clear on that.
Friday, March 18, 2005
A Great Moral Argument
I wish I could write like this:
Peggy Noonan, Wall Street Journal Opinion Page, March 18, 2005
An interesting twist on Terry Schiavo's life and influence on all of us. I particularly like the stories relating to Winston Churchill and Ronald Reagan.
Read it at your own moral peril.
Peggy Noonan, Wall Street Journal Opinion Page, March 18, 2005
An interesting twist on Terry Schiavo's life and influence on all of us. I particularly like the stories relating to Winston Churchill and Ronald Reagan.
Read it at your own moral peril.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Thatsa My Boy!
Samuel, my 8 year old son, won a "Write Across America" Dr. Seuss essay competition at school last week. We're pretty proud of him anyway, but this was fun. Below is his essay. The "payoff" comes at the end, the editorial "Note from author" . . .
The Sneetches
by Sam Goble
Once there were sneetches on the beaches. There were star-bellys and non star-bellys. The star-belly sneetches stars were in fact very small, you would think something that small would really not matter at all. But it really did, the star-belly sneetches thought they were better for no real reason at all. The star-belly sneetches didn't invite any, oh no, not one plain-belly sneetch to their frankfurter roasts or marshmallow toasts, year after year.
Then a stranger came to town in the most unusual of cars. "I am Sylvester McMonkey McBean! I have heard of your problems so just come to my star on machine it will put stars right on you bellies for just 3 dollars each." So they paid up and went straight into the machine and plopped out and then the ones that didn't have stars before bragged that they now had stars on their bellies. They couldn't tell each other (apart?) and that was just the problem. The ones that had stars before said that they were still the best sneetches on the beaches and Sylvester McMonkey McBean told them to take a trip through his star-off machine for 10 dollars each. They went through, plopped out and the ones that now had stars knew that having a star was now quite bad. In, out, in, out, in, out, stars on, stars off, stars on, stars off. In and out of the machine the sneetches went paying alllll their money over nothing. Then Sylvester McMonkey McBean packed up and left with all the money. I'm sure he at least had $1,000 by then and said, "You can't teach a sneetch." But then back at the sneetches beaches the star-bellies and non star-bellies were friends.
The End
Moral: The moral of this story is not to judge anyone by their looks.
*Note from author: I was wondering why the non star-bellies didn't make their own fun?
Dad's got nothing to add to that.
The Sneetches
by Sam Goble
Once there were sneetches on the beaches. There were star-bellys and non star-bellys. The star-belly sneetches stars were in fact very small, you would think something that small would really not matter at all. But it really did, the star-belly sneetches thought they were better for no real reason at all. The star-belly sneetches didn't invite any, oh no, not one plain-belly sneetch to their frankfurter roasts or marshmallow toasts, year after year.
Then a stranger came to town in the most unusual of cars. "I am Sylvester McMonkey McBean! I have heard of your problems so just come to my star on machine it will put stars right on you bellies for just 3 dollars each." So they paid up and went straight into the machine and plopped out and then the ones that didn't have stars before bragged that they now had stars on their bellies. They couldn't tell each other (apart?) and that was just the problem. The ones that had stars before said that they were still the best sneetches on the beaches and Sylvester McMonkey McBean told them to take a trip through his star-off machine for 10 dollars each. They went through, plopped out and the ones that now had stars knew that having a star was now quite bad. In, out, in, out, in, out, stars on, stars off, stars on, stars off. In and out of the machine the sneetches went paying alllll their money over nothing. Then Sylvester McMonkey McBean packed up and left with all the money. I'm sure he at least had $1,000 by then and said, "You can't teach a sneetch." But then back at the sneetches beaches the star-bellies and non star-bellies were friends.
The End
Moral: The moral of this story is not to judge anyone by their looks.
*Note from author: I was wondering why the non star-bellies didn't make their own fun?
Dad's got nothing to add to that.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Thank you for Playing Double Jeopardy
Today, in the course of 5 minutes, I was informed of one woman going into labor, while another one reported the stillbirth of her child. It’s a train wreck in my heart. It’s, well, Bittersweet. It’s only 9 o’clock in the morning.
There have been a lot of big thoughts pounding around in my head lately. It seems that seeing movies isn’t helping that process much, lately, either. "I Heart Huckabees" gives very little in the way of comfort or guidance to those of us mired in our own existential morass. It made me feel like I was floating in a tepid bowl of wor wonton soup, bobbing up and down with pieces of philosophies. Unsettled. Jude Law needs a haircut. Not a bad movie. It’s destined to be some cult’s classic.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the big "Why?" lately. I guess it comes with the news that there’s a new prenatal blood test that’s coming over the horizon. From what I read, there are fetal cells that make their way through the placental barrier into Mother’s bloodstream. These can now be identified, separated, and tested for lots of things. I became aware of this in the context of someone accusing the March of Dimes organization of an agenda of eugenics. It’s so hard to look at these things without some sort of agenda forming, some group with their feelings hurt, some moral issue to confuse the plodding of pure science toward our own self-destruction. Sorry – lost my head there for just a moment.
Anyway, it started what I’ve come to recognize as a circular process, a Mobius strip of questions that ultimately lead back to themselves, in, out and around in a never-ending loop. Let me see if I can drop you in - you can start just about anywhere:
Is my daughter defective? Genetically so? Societally so? If so, how defective does a human need to be to render them invaluable? Are they mutually exclusive properties? Should her condition be protected, suppressed, or eliminated altogether? (program note: The March of Dimes was created to fight Polio, when it was gone, it shifted to "improve the health of babies by preventing birth defects and infant mortality.") Is Trisomy 21 a birth defect? Is it merely an affect? Should it be prevented? If so, then does that make my daughter a "mistake"? If so, then how should she be treated (by all of us)? If she’s got a birth affect, then, again, should it be prevented, or accepted, protected, embraced, or even revered, as I’m told some American Indian tribes have. It does not make sense to desire that my daughter was born with T21. As much as I love her, I will always miss what she cannot be. Furthermore, with the availability of these tests and abortion, to possess the selfish thoughts that question what might have been, otherwise. How defective am I? Did we make the right decisions?
Underlying all of this are the subtexts and rythms of religion, relationships, science, philosophy, and culture. Which leads me to the blood test.
Currently (as I understand it), a conclusive, prenatal diagnosis of T21 is via amniocentesis. This invasive procedure carries its own risk factors; as such it is often not used, and the knowledge remains inconclusive until birth. It only seems logical that this new test is going to lead to more abortions. I’m not here to debate that topic, it just thrusts me into the vortex, again.
Is my daughter going to be an anachronism, in her own time? Is that a bad thing? It certainly could be if she’s going to be an adult who’s self-aware enough to know that there will be no more like her, that her particular "configuration", if you will, has been eliminated. Can you see the emotional conundrum?
Now, I should ask polio and thalidomide survivors if they mind, I’d think not. I just can’t help but think that, somehow, T21 is different. I have a co-worker with CP who is productive, articulate, and as far as I can see, no less happy and involved in the human experience than I. Now, CP is usually an injury, but my point in bringing it up here is to involve the spectre of degree. How much defect is enough? How ya gonna know, prenatally, beyond the chromosome count? Is it better to be safe, than sorry? Should we even be sorry? Put another nickel in, here we go on another ride.
Like I said, I’ve had a lot on my mind. At least the rain has finally stopped for a while.
There have been a lot of big thoughts pounding around in my head lately. It seems that seeing movies isn’t helping that process much, lately, either. "I Heart Huckabees" gives very little in the way of comfort or guidance to those of us mired in our own existential morass. It made me feel like I was floating in a tepid bowl of wor wonton soup, bobbing up and down with pieces of philosophies. Unsettled. Jude Law needs a haircut. Not a bad movie. It’s destined to be some cult’s classic.
I’ve been thinking a lot about the big "Why?" lately. I guess it comes with the news that there’s a new prenatal blood test that’s coming over the horizon. From what I read, there are fetal cells that make their way through the placental barrier into Mother’s bloodstream. These can now be identified, separated, and tested for lots of things. I became aware of this in the context of someone accusing the March of Dimes organization of an agenda of eugenics. It’s so hard to look at these things without some sort of agenda forming, some group with their feelings hurt, some moral issue to confuse the plodding of pure science toward our own self-destruction. Sorry – lost my head there for just a moment.
Anyway, it started what I’ve come to recognize as a circular process, a Mobius strip of questions that ultimately lead back to themselves, in, out and around in a never-ending loop. Let me see if I can drop you in - you can start just about anywhere:
Is my daughter defective? Genetically so? Societally so? If so, how defective does a human need to be to render them invaluable? Are they mutually exclusive properties? Should her condition be protected, suppressed, or eliminated altogether? (program note: The March of Dimes was created to fight Polio, when it was gone, it shifted to "improve the health of babies by preventing birth defects and infant mortality.") Is Trisomy 21 a birth defect? Is it merely an affect? Should it be prevented? If so, then does that make my daughter a "mistake"? If so, then how should she be treated (by all of us)? If she’s got a birth affect, then, again, should it be prevented, or accepted, protected, embraced, or even revered, as I’m told some American Indian tribes have. It does not make sense to desire that my daughter was born with T21. As much as I love her, I will always miss what she cannot be. Furthermore, with the availability of these tests and abortion, to possess the selfish thoughts that question what might have been, otherwise. How defective am I? Did we make the right decisions?
Underlying all of this are the subtexts and rythms of religion, relationships, science, philosophy, and culture. Which leads me to the blood test.
Currently (as I understand it), a conclusive, prenatal diagnosis of T21 is via amniocentesis. This invasive procedure carries its own risk factors; as such it is often not used, and the knowledge remains inconclusive until birth. It only seems logical that this new test is going to lead to more abortions. I’m not here to debate that topic, it just thrusts me into the vortex, again.
Is my daughter going to be an anachronism, in her own time? Is that a bad thing? It certainly could be if she’s going to be an adult who’s self-aware enough to know that there will be no more like her, that her particular "configuration", if you will, has been eliminated. Can you see the emotional conundrum?
Now, I should ask polio and thalidomide survivors if they mind, I’d think not. I just can’t help but think that, somehow, T21 is different. I have a co-worker with CP who is productive, articulate, and as far as I can see, no less happy and involved in the human experience than I. Now, CP is usually an injury, but my point in bringing it up here is to involve the spectre of degree. How much defect is enough? How ya gonna know, prenatally, beyond the chromosome count? Is it better to be safe, than sorry? Should we even be sorry? Put another nickel in, here we go on another ride.
Like I said, I’ve had a lot on my mind. At least the rain has finally stopped for a while.
Monday, February 28, 2005
Congratulations, Mr. Foxx
Turns out Jamie Foxx has a sister with Down syndrome. Small world, huh?
That’s the “4 foot 11 inches” of pure love” he mentioned in his Oscar acceptance speech. Some of the buzz in my little community is that now he’ll become some sort of advocate, another champion to further the cause, whatever that is. I’m still not entirely sure. That’s another blog, someday soon. He is a successful, African-American who has the resources and ability to have his whole family live with him, and he does. I’m sorry, but that’s advocacy enough, and the expectations that this revelation have sparked leave me a little cold. Barbara Walters has a “mentally handicapped” daughter living with her; she neither denies, capitalizes, nor openly campaigns for any causes, as far as I know. That is her right (and mine, too, I might add). During her interview of him, was I to expect that she’d share her family situation as she asked Jamie about his? No, but knowing this made the moment somewhat poignant for me. Did they discuss this off-camera? I’ll never know. We are all collections of what we are, have been, and want to be. Is it important that it all has to be revealed? I don’t think so.
Congratulations, Mr. Foxx. A well-earned award. I thoroughly enjoyed”Ray”, and I don’t often say that after plunking down $9 to see a movie. It ends there.
And, from a parent of a girl with Down syndrome, thanks for being such a loving brother. It means a lot to me.
That’s the “4 foot 11 inches” of pure love” he mentioned in his Oscar acceptance speech. Some of the buzz in my little community is that now he’ll become some sort of advocate, another champion to further the cause, whatever that is. I’m still not entirely sure. That’s another blog, someday soon. He is a successful, African-American who has the resources and ability to have his whole family live with him, and he does. I’m sorry, but that’s advocacy enough, and the expectations that this revelation have sparked leave me a little cold. Barbara Walters has a “mentally handicapped” daughter living with her; she neither denies, capitalizes, nor openly campaigns for any causes, as far as I know. That is her right (and mine, too, I might add). During her interview of him, was I to expect that she’d share her family situation as she asked Jamie about his? No, but knowing this made the moment somewhat poignant for me. Did they discuss this off-camera? I’ll never know. We are all collections of what we are, have been, and want to be. Is it important that it all has to be revealed? I don’t think so.
Congratulations, Mr. Foxx. A well-earned award. I thoroughly enjoyed”Ray”, and I don’t often say that after plunking down $9 to see a movie. It ends there.
And, from a parent of a girl with Down syndrome, thanks for being such a loving brother. It means a lot to me.
Friday, February 18, 2005
Whichways?
Ever just have thoughts running around in your head that are just too big and ugly to write down? You start to think you might have something to say, when you realize that either someone else has already thought it, said it, written it so much better than you ever could have? How futile it all seems. Well, do you? Answer the question.
I’ve been feeling pressure to add something here, but keep coming up empty. I’ve been pretty flattered by those who’ve complimented me on some of these, I envision them coming to the site, seeing nothing new, sighing (it’s how I express disappointment), and then leaving. Fortunately, with the advent of TV, and Seinfeld in particular, I feel free to write about nothing. So that’s what I’m doing, and I guess that makes it something.
We saw "Sideways", Mrs. G. and me, on Valentines’ Day. It was a matinee. Not exactly a "romantic" comedy, but a good movie, nonetheless. Almost too much identification with the main character for me, though. I was really hoping to be more like a Riesling. You’ll have to see the movie to understand that. I’d love to become an oenophile, but it’s a lot like golf or snow skiing. There are so many expensive accessories and travel costs. The wardrobe alone puts me off. Anyway, there’s a great review at http://www.rogerebert.com. That’s what I meant by my first paragraph. That man can write.
I just finished watching "Casablanca", with Mr. Ebert’s commentary "over the top" of it. Now, granted, this is one of the most-dissected, written about, viewed over and over films of all time, but I was completely entertained by his combination of factual reportage and personal observations. Voyeurism multiplied. Watching someone watching someone and explaining why we like to watch someone, even if it is a movie.
Identification with characters. Political themes. Light and shadow. Conflicted emotions. Midgets walking around a cardboard cutout of an airplane. Movie Magic. Something from nothing.
I’ve been feeling pressure to add something here, but keep coming up empty. I’ve been pretty flattered by those who’ve complimented me on some of these, I envision them coming to the site, seeing nothing new, sighing (it’s how I express disappointment), and then leaving. Fortunately, with the advent of TV, and Seinfeld in particular, I feel free to write about nothing. So that’s what I’m doing, and I guess that makes it something.
We saw "Sideways", Mrs. G. and me, on Valentines’ Day. It was a matinee. Not exactly a "romantic" comedy, but a good movie, nonetheless. Almost too much identification with the main character for me, though. I was really hoping to be more like a Riesling. You’ll have to see the movie to understand that. I’d love to become an oenophile, but it’s a lot like golf or snow skiing. There are so many expensive accessories and travel costs. The wardrobe alone puts me off. Anyway, there’s a great review at http://www.rogerebert.com. That’s what I meant by my first paragraph. That man can write.
I just finished watching "Casablanca", with Mr. Ebert’s commentary "over the top" of it. Now, granted, this is one of the most-dissected, written about, viewed over and over films of all time, but I was completely entertained by his combination of factual reportage and personal observations. Voyeurism multiplied. Watching someone watching someone and explaining why we like to watch someone, even if it is a movie.
Identification with characters. Political themes. Light and shadow. Conflicted emotions. Midgets walking around a cardboard cutout of an airplane. Movie Magic. Something from nothing.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Happy Ash Wednesday!
Having grown up in a particular (and peculiar) evangelical tradition, I've been a little confused by the recent emphasis of our last two pastors (the latter is a protege' of the former - but that does not make him a latter-day saint) on Ash Wednesday and the concept of Lent. I always considered that to be a construct of the infidel, not the true church as founded by inspired Texans at the turn of the last century. I suppose the idea of depriving oneself of a pleasure to achieve greater holiness is a time-tested formula, but my upbringing leads me to think that most of these "pleasures" are inherently sinful in and of themsleves, and therefore should not have been indulged in in the first place. This, of course, means that the gesture itself becomes a hollow practice that is merely self-serving to one's sense of piety, as it is re-instated at the end of what is an extended month.
Now, think of a lifetime where, each Lenten season, a vice could be permanently excised from one's repertoire, forever banished. Now there's a concept worth pursuing! Can I have an "Amen!"
Oh, sure, there are those that will say that I just don't get it, that I don't understand the true nature of using deprivation to focus on God and his plan for my life, to use the time released by giving up whatever it is in meditation and prayer. That's a great idea; I just don't think it's gonna happen.
So, I've decided, I'm going to give up "trying" for this Lenten season. I know, it's a little outside the conceptual guidelines, but a) it's suppposed to be up to me and God to decide, and b) I think I can acheive it, with divine help. I think, by not adding any extra effort, I can relax and focus on what's important, like cleaning off the top of my dresser, and organizing my shoes, and defragmenting my hard drive. To accomplish this, I will need pie, ice cream, candy, gum, breakfast, lunch, dinner, TV, NASCAR, Starbucks, Spaghetti, and all of the important aspects of my existence to be able to focus on not trying for the next 39 and a half days. I'm hoping that this will not be a trying time for my family, but I am committed to accomplishing this goal. I'll try and let you know what I learn - - no, I guess I won't. Not until after Easter. This is going to be harder than I thought. I almost blew it before noon the first day. Whew.
Now, think of a lifetime where, each Lenten season, a vice could be permanently excised from one's repertoire, forever banished. Now there's a concept worth pursuing! Can I have an "Amen!"
Oh, sure, there are those that will say that I just don't get it, that I don't understand the true nature of using deprivation to focus on God and his plan for my life, to use the time released by giving up whatever it is in meditation and prayer. That's a great idea; I just don't think it's gonna happen.
So, I've decided, I'm going to give up "trying" for this Lenten season. I know, it's a little outside the conceptual guidelines, but a) it's suppposed to be up to me and God to decide, and b) I think I can acheive it, with divine help. I think, by not adding any extra effort, I can relax and focus on what's important, like cleaning off the top of my dresser, and organizing my shoes, and defragmenting my hard drive. To accomplish this, I will need pie, ice cream, candy, gum, breakfast, lunch, dinner, TV, NASCAR, Starbucks, Spaghetti, and all of the important aspects of my existence to be able to focus on not trying for the next 39 and a half days. I'm hoping that this will not be a trying time for my family, but I am committed to accomplishing this goal. I'll try and let you know what I learn - - no, I guess I won't. Not until after Easter. This is going to be harder than I thought. I almost blew it before noon the first day. Whew.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
No Title - No Words
I sat in a waiting room yesterday, reading an 8-month old Sports Illustrated article praising Pat Tillman, the NFL player who was Killed in Action in Afghanistan. Here's the rest of a different story you may not have heard. It's taken from an unreferenced newspaper article on another site. I trust this source.
Amar was 19, but he had the mind of a four-year-old. This handicap didn't stop the insurgency's hard men as they strapped explosives to his chest and guided him to a voting centre in suburban Al-Askan. And before yesterday's sunrise in Baghdad, his grieving parents loaded his broken remains on the roof of a taxi to lead a sorrowful procession to the holy city of Najaf. There, they gave him a ceremonial wash, shrouded him inwhite cotton and buried him next to the shrine of Imam Ali, the founder of their Shiite creed. On Sunday we witnessed an act of collective courage by an estimated 8 million Iraqis as they faced down terrorist threats of death and mayhem to vote in Iraq's first multi-party election in half a century. But the election day story of Amar is from the other side of human behaviour - in a region where too many have knowingly volunteered for an explosive death in the name of their god. He was chosen because he didn't know. He had Down syndrome or, as the Iraqis say, he's a mongoli, and when his parents, Ahmed, 42, and Fatima, 40, went to vote with their two daughters Amar was left in the family home.They presume that in their absence he set out to fill his day as he always did - wandering the streets of the neighbourhood until, usually, a friend or neighbour would bring him home around dusk. Al-Askan is a mixed and dangerous suburb. Yesterday the Iraqi police allowed The Age to advance only a few blocks into the area before ordering us out.The area around the family's home was the centre of a running gunfightbetween Shiites of the Al-Bahadel tribe and Sunnis of the Al-Ghedi tribe. But one of Amar's cousins, a 29-year-old teacher who asked not to be named, retreated to a distracted state in which Iraqis often discuss death to tell their story as best they can. "They must have kidnapped him," he said. "He was like a baby. He had nothing to do with the resistance and there was nothing in the house for him to make a bomb. He was Shiite. Why bomb his own people?" He was mindless, but he was mostly happy, laughing and playing with the children in the street. Now, his father is inconsolable; his mother cries all the time," the teacher said. After voting at 7.30am, Amar's parents joined their extended family for a celebration that became a lunch of chicken and rice, soup and orange juice, at the home of a relative.The sound of the explosion interrupted the party. But, the cousin said, it was assumed to be a mortar shell, a follow-up to the barrage across the city in the first hours of voting." Everyone was very happy and excited, but news came that a mongoli had been a bomber. Ahmed and Fatima became distressed and they raced home. They got neighbours to search and one of them identified Amar's head where it lay on the pavement and his body was broken into pieces." I have heard of them using dead people and donkeys and dogs to hide theirbombs, but how could they do this to a boy like Amar?" Apparently, Amar triggered the bomb before he got to the intended target. It exploded while he was crossing open ground. Amar's father served in Saddam's army, but now he sells cigarettes in a street market in Al-Askan, an area of the city that also displayed braveryin the casting of votes on Sunday.
Amar was 19, but he had the mind of a four-year-old. This handicap didn't stop the insurgency's hard men as they strapped explosives to his chest and guided him to a voting centre in suburban Al-Askan. And before yesterday's sunrise in Baghdad, his grieving parents loaded his broken remains on the roof of a taxi to lead a sorrowful procession to the holy city of Najaf. There, they gave him a ceremonial wash, shrouded him inwhite cotton and buried him next to the shrine of Imam Ali, the founder of their Shiite creed. On Sunday we witnessed an act of collective courage by an estimated 8 million Iraqis as they faced down terrorist threats of death and mayhem to vote in Iraq's first multi-party election in half a century. But the election day story of Amar is from the other side of human behaviour - in a region where too many have knowingly volunteered for an explosive death in the name of their god. He was chosen because he didn't know. He had Down syndrome or, as the Iraqis say, he's a mongoli, and when his parents, Ahmed, 42, and Fatima, 40, went to vote with their two daughters Amar was left in the family home.They presume that in their absence he set out to fill his day as he always did - wandering the streets of the neighbourhood until, usually, a friend or neighbour would bring him home around dusk. Al-Askan is a mixed and dangerous suburb. Yesterday the Iraqi police allowed The Age to advance only a few blocks into the area before ordering us out.The area around the family's home was the centre of a running gunfightbetween Shiites of the Al-Bahadel tribe and Sunnis of the Al-Ghedi tribe. But one of Amar's cousins, a 29-year-old teacher who asked not to be named, retreated to a distracted state in which Iraqis often discuss death to tell their story as best they can. "They must have kidnapped him," he said. "He was like a baby. He had nothing to do with the resistance and there was nothing in the house for him to make a bomb. He was Shiite. Why bomb his own people?" He was mindless, but he was mostly happy, laughing and playing with the children in the street. Now, his father is inconsolable; his mother cries all the time," the teacher said. After voting at 7.30am, Amar's parents joined their extended family for a celebration that became a lunch of chicken and rice, soup and orange juice, at the home of a relative.The sound of the explosion interrupted the party. But, the cousin said, it was assumed to be a mortar shell, a follow-up to the barrage across the city in the first hours of voting." Everyone was very happy and excited, but news came that a mongoli had been a bomber. Ahmed and Fatima became distressed and they raced home. They got neighbours to search and one of them identified Amar's head where it lay on the pavement and his body was broken into pieces." I have heard of them using dead people and donkeys and dogs to hide theirbombs, but how could they do this to a boy like Amar?" Apparently, Amar triggered the bomb before he got to the intended target. It exploded while he was crossing open ground. Amar's father served in Saddam's army, but now he sells cigarettes in a street market in Al-Askan, an area of the city that also displayed braveryin the casting of votes on Sunday.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Puss 'n' Booze
The reason I wrote this is not important - let's just say that it is for an audience older than my children, but younger than I am, and leave it at that. I'm posting it here in the hopes that you'll know that I'm not, well, dour is the word that comes to mind . . .
He was a tired, old Tom. He’d seen enough alley scrapes to fill 9 lives. He took another pull from his bottle of Night Train, and wished that sleep would overtake his aching bones. He’d known that it was going to be a long night when he saw the three of them coming down Second Avenue. He wasn’t sure how many of them it was going to take to kick his ass, but he knew how many they were going to use. The orange one had come at him first - he was fat and soft, and soon turned tail to nurse the new gash in his left ear. "Sticky" was next, a patchy mongrel who seemed to always be scrapping just to fit in. His problem was that he couldn’t fight, and was dispatched with only a couple of swift kicks to the head and the promise of lost blood. That left only Art – a badass black and white with attitude to match his sharp claws. "Lessssss getiton, essssssayyyowww" he hissed, hunkering down, his tail hairs standing on end, waving slowly back and forth. El Gato turned, and let loose the kind of ‘green cloud’ fart that only an old, dumpster-diving, unwormed alleycat can muster up on a Saturday night. Art hesitated, and it was his undoing. Old Smelly dove under the two-tone, and swiped a clean gash across one of Art’s testicles, long ago rendered useless by the Veteranarian’s knife. They were his pride and joy, just the same. The one-two punch was more than he could take, and he skittered off sideways toward the Hardee’s at the end of the block. Gato hated Hardee’s, and Art knew it. "Eessss not over, fatso!" Art screamed, as he led the battered trio past the battered cans and creosote-stained fences.
"God, I could use a drink" he muttered, and limped back to his lair behind the BBQ Pit. The food and the accomodations were pretty good, and the owner kept him in beer and cheap wine as long as the rats kept their heads down during inspections. "Come on, Night Train," he thought, as he slipped into another fitful night’s sleep. Purrrrrrrrrr.
Good night, young punks, wherever you are.
He was a tired, old Tom. He’d seen enough alley scrapes to fill 9 lives. He took another pull from his bottle of Night Train, and wished that sleep would overtake his aching bones. He’d known that it was going to be a long night when he saw the three of them coming down Second Avenue. He wasn’t sure how many of them it was going to take to kick his ass, but he knew how many they were going to use. The orange one had come at him first - he was fat and soft, and soon turned tail to nurse the new gash in his left ear. "Sticky" was next, a patchy mongrel who seemed to always be scrapping just to fit in. His problem was that he couldn’t fight, and was dispatched with only a couple of swift kicks to the head and the promise of lost blood. That left only Art – a badass black and white with attitude to match his sharp claws. "Lessssss getiton, essssssayyyowww" he hissed, hunkering down, his tail hairs standing on end, waving slowly back and forth. El Gato turned, and let loose the kind of ‘green cloud’ fart that only an old, dumpster-diving, unwormed alleycat can muster up on a Saturday night. Art hesitated, and it was his undoing. Old Smelly dove under the two-tone, and swiped a clean gash across one of Art’s testicles, long ago rendered useless by the Veteranarian’s knife. They were his pride and joy, just the same. The one-two punch was more than he could take, and he skittered off sideways toward the Hardee’s at the end of the block. Gato hated Hardee’s, and Art knew it. "Eessss not over, fatso!" Art screamed, as he led the battered trio past the battered cans and creosote-stained fences.
"God, I could use a drink" he muttered, and limped back to his lair behind the BBQ Pit. The food and the accomodations were pretty good, and the owner kept him in beer and cheap wine as long as the rats kept their heads down during inspections. "Come on, Night Train," he thought, as he slipped into another fitful night’s sleep. Purrrrrrrrrr.
Good night, young punks, wherever you are.
Monday, January 31, 2005
Music in my Head
All I hear, in the background of my thoughts these days, is Marvin Gaye: "Mother, Mother, there's too many of you crying. Brother, brother, brother There's far too many of you dying. . . Oh, what's going on, What's going on?" You know the song, or you should. I know that the context is not the same, but between the natural and personal disasters of late, and the daily death toll from Iraq, I’m just, well, not even sure what I’m supposed to think and feel anymore. Even my sustained employment has been made uncertain in the last couple of weeks, the implied contract of a full paycheck in return for my promise to show up when I'm supposed to has been voided. What’s Going On?
I want to believe, with the faith of a sixth-grader who says the pledge of allegiance proudly, that we are paving the way for self-determination and democracy, despite the Iraqis’ own efforts to blow each other and us back into a state of ignorance. Increasingly, I just want our young people to stop dying. And I sure as hell want to stop teaching our children to torture those that are powerless into whatever it is we want them to do. Talk about sending mixed messages. Which one do you think will be remembered, longer? I used to make TV repair calls to a clientele that included a fairly large contingent of Holocaust survivors here in town. I can never forget seeing the tattoos on their forearms, with the smallest inkling of recognition of what that might represent. What scars are we creating for Iraq? "You see, war is not the answer, For only love can conquer hate . . . Don't punish me with brutality. . ."
I know, you’re just supposed to keep on keepin’ on, and that’s what I do. Keep the faith. Hang in there. I’m proud of , support, and thank God every day for those who place themselves in harm’s way for me. I’m for freedom. I can’t help but think, though, that people who don’t want to be free, or can’t see it for what it is, don’t deserve it until they do. That’s the difference between Brezhnev and Gorbachov. "Oh, you know we've got to find a way To bring some understanding here today. . ."
I’m just saying.
I want to believe, with the faith of a sixth-grader who says the pledge of allegiance proudly, that we are paving the way for self-determination and democracy, despite the Iraqis’ own efforts to blow each other and us back into a state of ignorance. Increasingly, I just want our young people to stop dying. And I sure as hell want to stop teaching our children to torture those that are powerless into whatever it is we want them to do. Talk about sending mixed messages. Which one do you think will be remembered, longer? I used to make TV repair calls to a clientele that included a fairly large contingent of Holocaust survivors here in town. I can never forget seeing the tattoos on their forearms, with the smallest inkling of recognition of what that might represent. What scars are we creating for Iraq? "You see, war is not the answer, For only love can conquer hate . . . Don't punish me with brutality. . ."
I know, you’re just supposed to keep on keepin’ on, and that’s what I do. Keep the faith. Hang in there. I’m proud of , support, and thank God every day for those who place themselves in harm’s way for me. I’m for freedom. I can’t help but think, though, that people who don’t want to be free, or can’t see it for what it is, don’t deserve it until they do. That’s the difference between Brezhnev and Gorbachov. "Oh, you know we've got to find a way To bring some understanding here today. . ."
I’m just saying.
Tuesday, January 18, 2005
The Road Less Traveled
I didn’t know what to do. I was standing in the street. I really wanted to just walk down the hill, get into my car, and drive home to my wife, two kids, and the afternoon I had planned. Instead, I walked across the street into the building and took the elevator to the 8th fl.
I found him in the hallway, with her Dad. I was really here to see him, to offer whatever support my words and physical presence could provide to a man about to lose his wife. His children sat at the end of the atrium. "How’s it going," I said; nothing else to say. "This sucks." "Yup." "Let’s go see her," he said.
We entered the room, and he leaned over, kissed her, and told her that I was there. I held her hand and tried to tell them both how much they had meant to me and my family, their faith and encouragement to us as we battled our own problems, that we were able to share and support each other a little. I felt what was either a spasm or Jerri respond with her hand, I will never know for sure. I’d like to think so, but I’m a skeptical guy. I’m not trying to paint a romantic picture. I looked at her, knowing that it was probably the last time I’d see her. Her head was turned to the side, as I’ve been accustomed to seeing her, at church, at parties, here and there with groups of friends. I tried to burn her profile into my memory. Even in this condition, she is a graceful beauty. As much as it still hurts, it was a privilege to hold her hand and be present with her.
We left the room and returned to the hallway, windows open to the bay. It was a clear day, I could see the Coronado Islands. I have come to deeply respect Brad, our common backgrounds and suffering have given us a way of connecting past the awkward things that most people say. We are two intelligent, able men who are powerless against these forces, and I hope that I in some measure return the strength that he provides me. As we spoke of our different-but-connected perspectives on life, I looked out over the city to the water. The water. The water that had taken so many lives just a couple of weeks ago. This wave was only going to take one.
I left him, and went home to my wife, 2 kids, and the afternoon I had planned. I learned of her passing, last night, as I write this this morning. I am saddened, and will continue to greive for her, but I am glad, today, that I did not take the easy path. I do so hope that you are in Paradise, today, dear Jerri.
I found him in the hallway, with her Dad. I was really here to see him, to offer whatever support my words and physical presence could provide to a man about to lose his wife. His children sat at the end of the atrium. "How’s it going," I said; nothing else to say. "This sucks." "Yup." "Let’s go see her," he said.
We entered the room, and he leaned over, kissed her, and told her that I was there. I held her hand and tried to tell them both how much they had meant to me and my family, their faith and encouragement to us as we battled our own problems, that we were able to share and support each other a little. I felt what was either a spasm or Jerri respond with her hand, I will never know for sure. I’d like to think so, but I’m a skeptical guy. I’m not trying to paint a romantic picture. I looked at her, knowing that it was probably the last time I’d see her. Her head was turned to the side, as I’ve been accustomed to seeing her, at church, at parties, here and there with groups of friends. I tried to burn her profile into my memory. Even in this condition, she is a graceful beauty. As much as it still hurts, it was a privilege to hold her hand and be present with her.
We left the room and returned to the hallway, windows open to the bay. It was a clear day, I could see the Coronado Islands. I have come to deeply respect Brad, our common backgrounds and suffering have given us a way of connecting past the awkward things that most people say. We are two intelligent, able men who are powerless against these forces, and I hope that I in some measure return the strength that he provides me. As we spoke of our different-but-connected perspectives on life, I looked out over the city to the water. The water. The water that had taken so many lives just a couple of weeks ago. This wave was only going to take one.
I left him, and went home to my wife, 2 kids, and the afternoon I had planned. I learned of her passing, last night, as I write this this morning. I am saddened, and will continue to greive for her, but I am glad, today, that I did not take the easy path. I do so hope that you are in Paradise, today, dear Jerri.
Monday, January 17, 2005
Computer Karma and Backups
I am a firm believer in both. As someone who has had a near-Information Systems career (I never mastered the secret handshake, so I don’t get to go to the seminars where they chortle over "Petals over the Rose" and drink Jagermeister and Red Bull at the same time till their heads hurt), I consider myself "computer-savvy." Which means that I can talk about computers the way guys used to talk about cars. "I been thinkin’ about upgradin’ my P4 at 1.6 Gig, ya know, should I go with the Celeron 3.2 or stick with Intel? Hafta get another motherboard, but then I could go SATA and that would kick ass. . ."
As such, I have the privilege of often helping others, as well as helping myself. This can have serious, detrimental consequences with relationships; to forget a friend’s birthday is one thing, to lose all of their children’s baby photos is quite another. I do do a better job of protecting others’ data than my own; I’m getting better at backing up my own stuff, more often. While I’ve found that one can often mitigate the course of general entropy in the universe, which includes computer problems, disaster usually strikes at a point where and when it is least expected, or desired.
I managed to goof up my Dad’s computer last Tuesday, while trying to troubleshoot a problem. I did so, foolishly, before making a backup. I’d only managed to mangle the operating system, Dad’s data was still o.k., so I did a backup THEN. I put the files on my hard drive, and went to bed.
Next morning - Jury duty. I get up and push the "Power on" button on my computer, intending to copy some MP3 files onto my Pocket PC to pass the time in the jury room. No boot. No reboot. UNABLE TO BOOT FROM DRIVE. PLEASE INSERT BOOT DISK AND PRESS ENTER. I’m thinking that things aren’t so great in the computer world. How’m I going to explain this to dear old Dad?
Sigh. Off to the courthouse, where I at least have a couple album’s worth of songs, but then one earphone pulls apart when I abruptly remove it to hear some inane announcement. Monophonic just doesn’t cut it. But I digress. Later, back at the data center –
I was able to recover all but the last week of my computing (the important parts had, thankfully, been sent to clients upon completion, whew!). Restored Dad’s system from a year-old backup (thankfully he doesn’t tweak his system around the way that we "savvy" folk do), and his data from Tuesday’s. All's well that ends, well, well.
I’m now back to daily backups – it is the gift that keeps on giving.
As such, I have the privilege of often helping others, as well as helping myself. This can have serious, detrimental consequences with relationships; to forget a friend’s birthday is one thing, to lose all of their children’s baby photos is quite another. I do do a better job of protecting others’ data than my own; I’m getting better at backing up my own stuff, more often. While I’ve found that one can often mitigate the course of general entropy in the universe, which includes computer problems, disaster usually strikes at a point where and when it is least expected, or desired.
I managed to goof up my Dad’s computer last Tuesday, while trying to troubleshoot a problem. I did so, foolishly, before making a backup. I’d only managed to mangle the operating system, Dad’s data was still o.k., so I did a backup THEN. I put the files on my hard drive, and went to bed.
Next morning - Jury duty. I get up and push the "Power on" button on my computer, intending to copy some MP3 files onto my Pocket PC to pass the time in the jury room. No boot. No reboot. UNABLE TO BOOT FROM DRIVE. PLEASE INSERT BOOT DISK AND PRESS ENTER. I’m thinking that things aren’t so great in the computer world. How’m I going to explain this to dear old Dad?
Sigh. Off to the courthouse, where I at least have a couple album’s worth of songs, but then one earphone pulls apart when I abruptly remove it to hear some inane announcement. Monophonic just doesn’t cut it. But I digress. Later, back at the data center –
I was able to recover all but the last week of my computing (the important parts had, thankfully, been sent to clients upon completion, whew!). Restored Dad’s system from a year-old backup (thankfully he doesn’t tweak his system around the way that we "savvy" folk do), and his data from Tuesday’s. All's well that ends, well, well.
I’m now back to daily backups – it is the gift that keeps on giving.
Thursday, January 06, 2005
A Quick Program Note
Thank you for checking in. I'm told that I'm averaging about 5 visitors a day, I'm pretty pleased with that, even at this low production rate of mine. I have to say that it's been hard for me to work up a good gripe lately, I just keep thinking of all of the people just looking for safe drinking water on our planet right now - it just shuts me right up. We were talking last night about some of the depravity and exploitation that these events seem to expose, compounding the natural disaster to create wider human tragedy. The spectrum of our abilities to both uplift and degrade each other, often in the same moment, is simply overwhelming me.
I've added an RSS feed for those of you that know what that is; I'm still looking for a decent, free reader to find out for myself. Let me know if you've found one.
And, as always, any answers to the above questions would be sincerely appreciated.
I've added an RSS feed for those of you that know what that is; I'm still looking for a decent, free reader to find out for myself. Let me know if you've found one.
And, as always, any answers to the above questions would be sincerely appreciated.
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
"Crap on a Stick", or "So, Tsunami", or "When Bad Things Happen to Everyone"
This response to a post on a forum about the killing of "Dimebag Darrel", the former lead singer of "Pantera." My poster- friend also has just lost a friend and musician who died Christmas Eve, not from violence but heart failure. The question, as I understood it, was "why is all of this stuff happening" - which is a simplification of what she was asking, but the one that I reacted to:
I have to say that the events of this holiday season have me in a pretty deep "funk", to say the least. I've been reading at andrewsullivan.com (a link from Tom's blog) - there's a collection of links under Tuesday's heading, "TSUNAMIS AND THEODICY" that struggle with this subject from a mostly religious perspective. I think that it is one of the most incomprehensible things that we deal with - this feeling, and the teachings of many - that we are immortal, while the life and consciousness that we call experience is fleeting and fraught with uncertainty and peril. Is is real, or simply a series of beliefs? Today, I don't really know. I just feel alone.
Specifically, our society is not doing well with "the mentally ill" at all these days. The well-meaning opening-up of mental institutions and policies of the 1970's has resulted in several things, not the least of which is a nearly-hidden population of street dwellers, secure in nothing but their freedom to be ignored and uncared for. From what I have read, this individual displayed several characteristics of mental illness, but who then is responsible for reporting it, making sure that he was evaluated? Even then, claiming that Pantera had stolen his music is not cause enough to remove him from circulation . . . and only the police have carte blanche when a civilian even points a gun at them. Shifting gears to a silly example, the behavior in "The King of Comedy" with Robert Deniro and Jerry Lewis - - it is often a very fine line that can separate our aspirations and desires from criminal action.
I'm rambling now.
I'm looking for meaning amidst the chaos, myself. Any clues you could spare would help.
"Ever feel like the world was a blue suit, and you were a pair of brown shoes?"
- George Gobel, appearing on "The Tonight Show"
I have to say that the events of this holiday season have me in a pretty deep "funk", to say the least. I've been reading at andrewsullivan.com (a link from Tom's blog) - there's a collection of links under Tuesday's heading, "TSUNAMIS AND THEODICY" that struggle with this subject from a mostly religious perspective. I think that it is one of the most incomprehensible things that we deal with - this feeling, and the teachings of many - that we are immortal, while the life and consciousness that we call experience is fleeting and fraught with uncertainty and peril. Is is real, or simply a series of beliefs? Today, I don't really know. I just feel alone.
Specifically, our society is not doing well with "the mentally ill" at all these days. The well-meaning opening-up of mental institutions and policies of the 1970's has resulted in several things, not the least of which is a nearly-hidden population of street dwellers, secure in nothing but their freedom to be ignored and uncared for. From what I have read, this individual displayed several characteristics of mental illness, but who then is responsible for reporting it, making sure that he was evaluated? Even then, claiming that Pantera had stolen his music is not cause enough to remove him from circulation . . . and only the police have carte blanche when a civilian even points a gun at them. Shifting gears to a silly example, the behavior in "The King of Comedy" with Robert Deniro and Jerry Lewis - - it is often a very fine line that can separate our aspirations and desires from criminal action.
I'm rambling now.
I'm looking for meaning amidst the chaos, myself. Any clues you could spare would help.
"Ever feel like the world was a blue suit, and you were a pair of brown shoes?"
- George Gobel, appearing on "The Tonight Show"
Friday, December 17, 2004
Not a Creature was Stirring
The rat is gone. It brought excitement, it brought excrement, it brought us together in a special way for nearly two weeks, and now it’s over. I think.
Fade to a Sunday afternoon not long ago. Each member of the nuclear family is doing their own thing, which for me was a nearly engaging football game, which actually means a nap. My focus shifted quickly to the sound of hurried steps down the hallway. “There’s a Rat in the cupboard above the microwave,” she said, with all the certainty of one who’s security has been shattered in an instant. “It looked me in the eye,” she shuddered at me. The message was clear. I now had to offer, at minimum, sound advice, or, more to the point, DO SOMETHING. This was not the last time that this creature would interfere with my favorite pastime.
After a measured period of strategizing ways to safely encourage our rodent raider from his elevated position to the great outdoors, it became a matter of holding a large box in one hand while poking a broom handle into the cupboard, while balancing on a stepladder. It became obvious that I would not be able to balance both myself and a box filled with cookbooks, chip bags, chewed-empty peanut shells and rat poop; it became a matter of taking what I could hold, backing out, tying the doors shut, sorting the box empty (outside!), and repeating until the cupboard was bare. Guess what. No rat.
The plausible and popular theory was that El Vermin had escaped the way he’d gotten in, which had to be the gap between the vent pipe going through the cupboard roof and the top itself, leading to the attic. It was quickly sealed with foam, the mess was cleaned up, and our apprehension was tempered by a sense of security. Until the next morning,
as two fresh “presents” appeared on the kitchen counter. A call to an exterminator, fulfilled several uneventful days later, revealed no evidence in the attic of our freeloader or his extended family, and his expert opinion was that we had successfully withdrawn our invitation to this opportunistic drifter. All was well again.
Wednesday night. Children all snug in their beds, and “The West Wing” engages us as we recline. Suddenly, what I’ve come to recognize as the “heebie-jeebie” sound from my beloved severs my reverie. She calmly informs me that she’s just seen a rat run from the cat food dish to what has to be under the oven. While she says this, she sees it repeat this trip. The next hour is spent, kitchen door open, other doorway blocked, removing the boards from under the cabinets, moving the stove, finding the smelly calling cards of our guest, but no rattus rattus. This guy is good. Possible pathways are temporarily blocked, and a commitment is made to solve the problem in the morning.
Morning comes, and the day is spent rooting around, adding barriers, foaming the smallest possible ports of entry at pipe openings and outlets throughout the house. Aside from the original vent, I don’t see where this relative of the gopher in “Caddyshack” is getting in – or out. It’s not anywhere in the kitchen, if it ever was, now.
I go to bed, shortly after the children do, with the satisfaction of a day’s work done well.
My dreams are shattered to reveal my mate standing over my side of the bed – I’ve come to recognize this, over our time together, as - not a good thing. She’s just had the nerve shattering experience of sending a rat – the rat – from under her desk into the Living Room. I believe the word “peeved” comes to mind.
Peeved, I groggily make my way to the Living Room, festooned with the furnishings and decorations of the Christmas Season. Grabbing a broom, and enabling the only possible means of exit to the front door, which now stands open at 11 p.m., I begin disturbing furniture. One, two trips around the room produce nothing. I shake the lit Christmas tree, momentarily wondering if I’m going to have a rat jump me like the raccoon in “Christmas Vacation.” “Joy to the World” as sung by Clark W. Griswald, rings in my ears.
We have a few cats that grace our lives. Cleo has been summoned, and she wanders around the room, contributing absolutely nothing. Olie (no I don’t remember why he’s named “Olie”, he just is, o.k?) has been banned from the house for reasons relating to his need to mark territory within what is clearly ours, not his. He now watches this late-night show with interest from the front porch. At this point, he is a welcome addition to the hunting party. Pee all you want, buddy, just GET THAT RAT!
Third trip. It’s time to start dismantling the furniture. The next – to – last cushion from the couch reveals a tail, which quickly disappears into the superstructure of the couch.
Man of courage, I pick Cleo up off the floor and toss her onto the couch. She stands up, looks at us, and walks back under the table and sits down. Thank you so very much.
I grab the handle to unfold the sofa bed-works, and it runs out from underneath, heading for the door and Olie, accompanied by the aforementioned encouragement from my helpmate, behind the barrier to the Family Room like a picador waiting in the wings of an arena. Seeing Olie, our perpetrator dives under the stack of guitar cases behind the piano. I can see him trying to be small. The good news is, now Olie is interested.
I encourage the rat out into the open, whereupon he heads back to the couch. I’m tired, and I’m tired of this. I go to the couch, give it a yank, and the meteor streaks out, past Clio lounging, toward the door, and BAM! Olie fulfills his destiny. Taking the prey within his jaws, he trots out the front door. Picking up, putting away, we make it to bed about 1 or so.
I want so badly to think that this is over. I guess we’ll find out tonight.
Fade to a Sunday afternoon not long ago. Each member of the nuclear family is doing their own thing, which for me was a nearly engaging football game, which actually means a nap. My focus shifted quickly to the sound of hurried steps down the hallway. “There’s a Rat in the cupboard above the microwave,” she said, with all the certainty of one who’s security has been shattered in an instant. “It looked me in the eye,” she shuddered at me. The message was clear. I now had to offer, at minimum, sound advice, or, more to the point, DO SOMETHING. This was not the last time that this creature would interfere with my favorite pastime.
After a measured period of strategizing ways to safely encourage our rodent raider from his elevated position to the great outdoors, it became a matter of holding a large box in one hand while poking a broom handle into the cupboard, while balancing on a stepladder. It became obvious that I would not be able to balance both myself and a box filled with cookbooks, chip bags, chewed-empty peanut shells and rat poop; it became a matter of taking what I could hold, backing out, tying the doors shut, sorting the box empty (outside!), and repeating until the cupboard was bare. Guess what. No rat.
The plausible and popular theory was that El Vermin had escaped the way he’d gotten in, which had to be the gap between the vent pipe going through the cupboard roof and the top itself, leading to the attic. It was quickly sealed with foam, the mess was cleaned up, and our apprehension was tempered by a sense of security. Until the next morning,
as two fresh “presents” appeared on the kitchen counter. A call to an exterminator, fulfilled several uneventful days later, revealed no evidence in the attic of our freeloader or his extended family, and his expert opinion was that we had successfully withdrawn our invitation to this opportunistic drifter. All was well again.
Wednesday night. Children all snug in their beds, and “The West Wing” engages us as we recline. Suddenly, what I’ve come to recognize as the “heebie-jeebie” sound from my beloved severs my reverie. She calmly informs me that she’s just seen a rat run from the cat food dish to what has to be under the oven. While she says this, she sees it repeat this trip. The next hour is spent, kitchen door open, other doorway blocked, removing the boards from under the cabinets, moving the stove, finding the smelly calling cards of our guest, but no rattus rattus. This guy is good. Possible pathways are temporarily blocked, and a commitment is made to solve the problem in the morning.
Morning comes, and the day is spent rooting around, adding barriers, foaming the smallest possible ports of entry at pipe openings and outlets throughout the house. Aside from the original vent, I don’t see where this relative of the gopher in “Caddyshack” is getting in – or out. It’s not anywhere in the kitchen, if it ever was, now.
I go to bed, shortly after the children do, with the satisfaction of a day’s work done well.
My dreams are shattered to reveal my mate standing over my side of the bed – I’ve come to recognize this, over our time together, as - not a good thing. She’s just had the nerve shattering experience of sending a rat – the rat – from under her desk into the Living Room. I believe the word “peeved” comes to mind.
Peeved, I groggily make my way to the Living Room, festooned with the furnishings and decorations of the Christmas Season. Grabbing a broom, and enabling the only possible means of exit to the front door, which now stands open at 11 p.m., I begin disturbing furniture. One, two trips around the room produce nothing. I shake the lit Christmas tree, momentarily wondering if I’m going to have a rat jump me like the raccoon in “Christmas Vacation.” “Joy to the World” as sung by Clark W. Griswald, rings in my ears.
We have a few cats that grace our lives. Cleo has been summoned, and she wanders around the room, contributing absolutely nothing. Olie (no I don’t remember why he’s named “Olie”, he just is, o.k?) has been banned from the house for reasons relating to his need to mark territory within what is clearly ours, not his. He now watches this late-night show with interest from the front porch. At this point, he is a welcome addition to the hunting party. Pee all you want, buddy, just GET THAT RAT!
Third trip. It’s time to start dismantling the furniture. The next – to – last cushion from the couch reveals a tail, which quickly disappears into the superstructure of the couch.
Man of courage, I pick Cleo up off the floor and toss her onto the couch. She stands up, looks at us, and walks back under the table and sits down. Thank you so very much.
I grab the handle to unfold the sofa bed-works, and it runs out from underneath, heading for the door and Olie, accompanied by the aforementioned encouragement from my helpmate, behind the barrier to the Family Room like a picador waiting in the wings of an arena. Seeing Olie, our perpetrator dives under the stack of guitar cases behind the piano. I can see him trying to be small. The good news is, now Olie is interested.
I encourage the rat out into the open, whereupon he heads back to the couch. I’m tired, and I’m tired of this. I go to the couch, give it a yank, and the meteor streaks out, past Clio lounging, toward the door, and BAM! Olie fulfills his destiny. Taking the prey within his jaws, he trots out the front door. Picking up, putting away, we make it to bed about 1 or so.
I want so badly to think that this is over. I guess we’ll find out tonight.
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