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

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

Your stigma just dented my karma.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's about the Mentos, and more

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



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

Margins

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

Wrap it Up, I'll Take It

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

Tis the Season

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

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

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

Happy Thanksgiving

Thanks.

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

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

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

An Unwitting Accomplice. I am, are you?

I didn't ask for this. You know that. But it's become part of my life. It is true that, in a democracy, you are a participant whether you vote or not.

When I was in school, we recoiled in horror at the revelations of Dr. Mengele. We laughed, with our 20-year perspectives, at B.F. Skinner. We shudder and poo-poo Dr. Watson's emetic statements. Science can and does have a voice in our experience, but will always struggle with what we call "humanity."

I know I keep bringing this up, but it keeps coming back to me. I can't ignore it.
Today, I'm captivated by the prose as much as I am the subject matter.
From Patricia E. Bauer's blog, By Timothy P. Shriver, writing in Commonweal (subscription required for full article):

• Although our policies over the past thirty years have become more supportive of people with Down syndrome, these children are increasingly seen as liabilities. We’ve become more generous with services, but more judgmental too. In this strange mix, what’s clear is that we still don’t believe that people with intellectual disabilities are valuable. When parents knowingly choose to have such a child, the message they frequently receive from the larger society is that they have chosen wrongly. Imagine knowing that others believe your child should not exist.
  … Those who live with and care for people with Down syndrome are able to do this because they know something that the technicians of genetic testing may need to learn: in giving to one another, we get back far more than we give. And in accepting unconditionally the full dignity of every human being, we often discover our own. In this way, the parents of children with Down syndrome embrace the always-unfulfilled aspiration of our nation’s founding — that we are all equal, capable, worthy of a chance, no matter what. But does our nation still believe that?
  At this moment, the stakes are high. For make no mistake: we are in the midst of a silent resurgence of eugenics. The idea that each of us has equal human value regardless of background, wealth, religion, or disability — a cornerstone value of both our religious traditions and our political heritage — is at risk today.

Those are powerful words, to me. I know that all of you that I know who read this are aware of this. It has always been expedient to discount "the full dignity of every human being" to make one's own life easier. It's the selfish, evil undercurrent of every societal system I've ever studied. In our society, however, opportunity exists. Opportunity to give, individually, institutionally, governmentally.

There is much that we do to each other to devalue ourselves - "Reality TV" is enough to prove that point. I cannot fully explain the value that Emma has brought to my life, my family, my community. She has re-defined concepts like 'value', 'dignity', 'courage', 'equality', to me and to others, merely by her presence. Many of her contributions still lie ahead; for now, she has at least the entitlements to make some of them. It is so strange to walk with her in public places and realize that some of those looking askance at her deliberately chose not to share the life that we know. Neither they nor I are criminals in this world - but we both endure the consequences of each other's actions. I don't like that last sentence, but it is the truth.

This morning, I read a post on Downsyn.com from a Mom who had just learned that a friend had recently aborted a child with Trisomy 21. She was not sure how to feel, how to judge, how to act. I wasn't sure how to finish this piece. I will, with my response to her (others had been more direct and eloquent than I could have been) :

Amy has said it, so very well.
One of my favorite things in this world is "A Christmas Carol", by Charles Dickens. There are many haunting messages (and I'm not talking about the ghosts) in this story. One scene that is often left out of dramatizations is the one where Scrooge's fiancee' breaks off their engagement. "May you be happy in the life that you have chosen," she says to him, when everyone, including the reader, knows that this is a huge error on Scrooge's part. He does not see, until reminded, what sort of impact his decisons have made upon him.There are many things that most of us don't talk about, but live with. We didn't know until after a miscarriage that several of our closest friends had had them. I think one of the unrealized undercurrents in our society is the emotional impact of aborted babies. I can't prove it. Every life has meaning - I am now convinced of that. That includes those that are never given a voice. Some of us try and speak for them. Some of us live with the choices that we have made, and prove the point. That does not make us better than they are, but we as a society are made better, [i][b]not by what we do, but by who our children are[/b][/i]. We are simply being stewards of what we've been given.It's not for me to judge. It [i]is[/i] for me to "be happy in the life that I have chosen."
That statement echoes in my head, nearly every day.

Are You Decent?

I realize that I am 48 years old. How I became 48 years old is no mystery. I was here, the whole time, or at least for most of it. I have slept some. I consider myself to be a decent person, certainly raised to be so. Lately, though, I’ve been feeling quite out of the mainstream in this regard. We are becoming an indecent society. It hasn’t happened overnight. We’ve seen it coming. Do I feel this way because I am only six months away from my AARP membership?

I read the obituary for Paul Tibbetts (pilot of the Enola Gay), this Friday. In it, his granddaughter said, “He didn't want a funeral because he didn't want to take the chance of protesters or anyone defacing a headstone.” It resonated with the article I'd read on Thursday, about a successful lawsuit against the completely misguided church (a gross understatement) that protests at soldiers' funerals. Whatever your politics, funerals are not the time and place for polemics. One indecency does not justify another.

We were out, trick-or-treating, on Wednesday. We saw two girls, no more than 15 years of age, in costumes that did not belong on them, at all. Halloween has been co-opted into an adult event, and the result (I actually typed out 'reslut' - which is not a word, but captures the concept) is that costumers provide adult-themed costumes in all sizes - dress up your 9 year-old daughter like a french maid - isn't that cute?

Television is a wasteland. The ability to tell a joke without naming body parts is now a lost art. I love comedy, but not what I see so much on TV, lately. I don't want to censor it, but at least keep it off the air until after 9 p.m., maybe? Social responsibility is part of what it means to be decent.

Worst of all, we now expect to be treated indecently. We rationalize our own selfish, rude behaviors because it's the way things are. Assert yourself, be first, make sure all of your needs are met regardless of the condition anyone else around you is in. When we are wronged, we don't want to be compensated, we need to be over-compensated. It's resulted in a wierd social tapestry of fake manners and idiotic, insincere responses to simple mistakes. Sincerity is a function of decency.

I may not be presenting this very well - call it a draft, from some impressions I've had this week. I want to pique your conscience, as mine has been, about what it means to be a decent person, this week.
I open doors for everyone. I take my turn. Am I a decent person? More to the point, for me, how do I communicate what it means to be a decent person to my children? Aaahhh, quite a different kettle of fish - or is it?

Here's a unique analogy for you.

Why surviving a wildfire is like having a child with Down Syndrome
-or an exercise in selfish rationalization - you decide

Everyone filters information - we are the sum of our experiences.
Last week's wildfires directly impacted over 300,000 people in my county, and indirectly affected an entire region. It was gripping television for several days, 24 hours a day. Stories of evacuation, stories of sudden change, stories of futures forever changed, sometimes gradually, sometimes in an instant. Tears, resolve, promises of help, acts of courage and compassion.
It's a lot like having a child with Down Syndrome. How, you ask?

• Your present becomes irrelevant
• You're afraid about what you don't know
• The past becomes an irreplaceable memory
• Everything is different, yet it really is the same - you just see it differently
• Important things come sharply into focus
• People say things to you that they themselves don't understand
• Your plans change
• Appointments mean nothing
• Your expectations evaporate, then 'morph' into something else entirely
• Bitterness becomes your friend, then an ally, and, if you're smart, an energy source
• You find out who your friends are
• You learn what community can really mean
• You learn that we are all afraid, we are all damaged, and we all need each other, despite our thoughts to the contrary.
• Rebuilding is not restoration. It can be more, it can be less, but it will never be the same.

These are some of the thoughts I had while watching it unfold from my living room.

Now, there are some who don't see the birth of a child with Down Syndrome as a catastrophic event. There are some who return to a million-dollar pile of ash and say, "It's just stuff."
Everyone filters information - we are the sum of our experiences.

I'm just sayin.

There's a local guy who arrived on San Diego TV at about the same time I started college here, in the 70's. Larry Himmel lost his home, last week. His thank-you video I've linked to hits many of the themes I've tried to strike, here. There's nothing like hearing it from someone who knows. I particularly liked "if as many people are praying for me as have told me they are praying for me" . . . I don't think he realizes how tired he looks; his gratitude is tempered by the reality of what has happened, as well as what lies ahead. He's a very fortunate man. I admire his ability to share it all with the rest of us.

Hiatus gone Awry

A lot has happened. It’s been a little intimidating, on several levels. Not only were there fires burning all around me, I’ve been surrounded by journalism – more to the point, surrounded by stories, most of which tell themselves. While I am deeply pleased that I don’t have one to tell, I haven’t been in a position to really rescue anyone, either. With the exception of some overtime, no school for the kids, and really bad air, my family has not been affected - while several thousand homeless people camped about 3 miles from my house. What am I to write about? – pick up a newspaper.
Since I wrote last, I have:
Been on the annual Houseboat weekend. This trip was unusual in three respects. First, we used the other of the two concessionaires that provide rentals on Lake Mead; the more expensive one. It was “Deluxe” when compared to the boats we’ve been on for the last umpteen years. I figure we’re not going back to the ‘old’ boats. . . hedonists that we are. Second, we had 40-50 mph winds on the first afternoon and part of the second day. This is not a good thing when one is attempting to pilot a 50 foot long, 20 foot high pontoon boat with a canvas tarp (read sail) on top. The word that comes to mind for our mooring attempts that day is “dicey”, and we ended up in a cove that was barely wider than the boat was, even against the advice of the guy that came out to bring us a replacement sledgehammer (used to set the bars that hold the ropes that tie the boat to the shore). No story there, it was broken when we reached for it, the first time. Third, on the way back to the marina, we rescued a foursome that had become stranded and spent the night drifting in a small ski boat with no food, clothes to speak of, and no cell phone coverage. Now, this may all look like great blog-fodder, there’s not a lot more to say about it, so I haven’t.

I accidentally stepped on a week-old kitten and crushed it’s skull, in front of my son, and held it, all of us helpless, in my hands as it bled to death. I’ve been thinking that I must not be much of a writer because I can’t adequately describe this event, and how it affected me. Perhaps, someday, I can.

Had my annual performance evaluation at work. Seven years ago, my position as a manager was eliminated to save money. I was made a service technician. In time, my old position re-appeared, and one of my former subordinates now fills it. How would you feel? I’m just saying, it is always an event that allows me to relive the embarrassment and shame all over again.

I haven’t felt good at all, since Lake Mead. After 4 days on the water, we all usually feel the world moving back and forth for a couple of days. It took me a week, this year, including real nausea and near-vertigo. In the ensuing weeks, I have been sharing whatever Emma has brought home from school – mostly intestinal stuff. I’m feeling better, today, but I’m missing a lot of work. Yeah, the aforementioned work. I’ve got to get going, there’s a backlog of stuff to do, and the holidays loom like Sam’s monthly book reports. I’m getting some ideas. Now, if I can only figure out where I put October.

Stand Tall

This is a great article. It's long, but there's a lot to say. Most of us are just trying to live our lives, but we've been given that opportunity, we assume it as a right. Patricia Bauer explains how it feels for us to realize how and why our society is denying thousands of people that opportunity.
I invite you to read it in its entirety.

Stand Tall

Dear Sam,

Dear Samuel,
I want you to know how proud I am of you. Whether you know it or not, you've learned some things in the last couple of weeks, without even trying. I've learned some things, too.
You've learned that being honest, and standing up for someone else does not always bring the response that you'd expect from those 'over' you. You were singled out, and made to feel that you had done something wrong, belittled in front of your classmates, and then told that it was wrong to cry. It was wrong for that teacher to talk to you the way that she did. You were right to tell us about it. I'm pretty sure that you didn't expect telling us would mean that we would move you to a different class in a different school, either. I know you know that we did this because of many other reasons, this was just kind of the 'last straw'for us all. Sometimes, standing up for what is right means that you get hurt, too, at the time. By doing what you did, though, you showed your classmates, your teacher, and everyone the sort of character that you already have.
I hope that you have learned that good things will happen when you do the right thing, too. Most important, you will know in your heart that what you did was right. It's really great for Mom and me to see that you are liking your new class and teacher - you've been more excited about school this last week than you have been in a long time. You're helping Mom by riding the bus with Emma, and Emma loves to have you around at school. You're such a good guy with her but hey, you're her brother, right? I hope you're finding friends. I changed schools a lot when I was a kid, I know that that can be hard. Just be yourself.
I learned how much you know - that, even when I was angry at your teacher, you understood and told me that she may have been trying to help you, in a strange way. You're probably right. Seeing someone else's point of view, even when they're being mean to you, is an ability that some adults don't have.
I know it's kinda weird to tell you this in an email, but I wanted you to read it, and maybe keep it and read it over again on a day maybe when things aren't going so good. Sometimes, putting things in writing makes them more permanent, not just a pat on the back from old Dad.
I Love You very much, and I will always.
Dad

Vacation '07, Chapter V

After a lazy morning with Alex and Davey, we stuff our stuff back into the Honda and head south, over the hills of Marin County to the Golden Gate. Funny, you can't get to the visitor center on the North end when you're heading southbound, but we manage to take the road to Sausolito far enough for some fog-laced pictures. The City is what it always has been, Fisherman's Wharf, Ghirardelli Square, a wistful gaze at the Buena Vista. Sam and I split some scampi and linguini for lunch, followed by the requisite purchasing of the refrigerator magnet at one of the wharf's fine stores. After grabbing some chocolate, Vicky and Sam take a cable car ride, Emma and I follow in the car. We enjoy some traffic out of town, and encounter some on the road to San Jose; an accident renders our shortcut moot. We get to our room in Monterey about 8 and enjoy delivered pizza.
Monterey Bay. The Aquarium. There's about 3 blocks of complete renovation going on near the Aquarium, so we are forced to take our midday nutrition inside the attraction, which turns out to be a frustrating, noisy affair. Finally negotiating our way to the dining room, the kids don't eat the overpriced stuff we bought them. It's the family moments like these that make it all worthwhile.

The Aquarium - I think this is the 3rd time we've visited - is not the *wow* that if first was, but it's all presented so very well. Sea Otters. The jellyfish exhibits can entrance you for hours, if you let them. Watching a huge sunfish loll its way around the tank. The tidal exhibit that dumps a thousand gallons of water over your head every 20 seconds or so. The aquarium is built out over, and into the bay, just off the balconies seals bask on rocks with birds coming and going. We spent 5 hours there.
Back to the room after finally finding a grocery store. The indoor pool at the motel is kinda icky, but we manage to make a good time of it. Nothing like a nice soak in the spa after a day of watching fish.
Keeping to our rigid schedule of leaving by 11, we head south to Point Lobos State Park. This lovely spit of land is just south of Carmel. There are lots of trails along the rocky coast, and tidepools to die for, if one pines for tidepools. If you've ever wondered what a huge rock covered in cormorant and seagull poop smells like, then this is the place for you. The views are spectacular, including a few fog-shrouded manses to the South. We leave Point Lobos for a late lunch at Subway and a lunge down highway 1. It's mostly cloudy, so the views are dramatic when revealed. Highway 1 is probably one of the most dramatic drives that this country has to offer, in any conditions. Today, the fog is boiling up the cliffs, but the roadway is clear, a path through the swirling clouds jumping the roadway and grabbing the hillside over us. Briefly stopping for some obligatory seal pictures, we glimpse Hearst Castle on the way to the restrooms of Cambria (shoulda skipped the refill at Subway). Cambria is one of those lovely little towns (I spent a week here, one weekend) where gas is always a dollar more than it is in the real world, and, while they'd love for you to stop and buy some paintings or antiques, please keep moving down the road and leave us alone, thank you. We oblige, and find our way to San Luis Obispo, Mexican Take-out, and air conditioning. It's humid, and we're treated to a lightning storm at 2 a.m., with cracking thunder and fat raindrops.
The last day, we manage to stretch a 5 hour drive into an 8 hour one, not much to say except LA traffic stinks, but so does San Diego's. The LA delays put us into the 805 merge at the right time to enjoy the added burden of a truck overturned just down the road. It took us an hour to go about 5 miles. In our absence, Paco the kitten expressed his frustration and loneliness by unraveling the toilet paper from two bathrooms, the house is otherwise just musty but fine. It's hotter here at home than anywhere we've been. We managed 1500 miles, 22 miles to the gallon, thank you very much, and only 2 pairs of headphones were broken. All in all, quite a successful trip.

Vacation '07, Chapter IV

Out of the hotel at the crack of 11-ish, we head down highway 80. To Fairfield, home of Nellis AFB and, more importantly, the Jelly Belly jellybean factory. We buy 6 lbs. of "belly flops", jelly beans that didn't make the final cut, as it were. We ate a pizza that's shaped like a jelly bean. They should 'stick' to making candy.

Onward to Napa and Calistoga, through the fabled valley that produced, among other things, our friend Teresa. In Calistoga, we go to the shining winery on the hill, Sterling. To visit Sterling, one must take their aerial tram, then follow a self-guided tour with a few video stops and tastings along the way. It's a gorgeous view south, over the Napa valley. Sam's not having such a great time. As we're leaving, an employee down the hall from the gift shop drops an entire rack of glasses, and everyone's attention shifts. What a horrible, yet incredibly funny sound to hear at an expensive winery. I softly hear the announcement in my head, "I'm sorry, all current discounts have now been cancelled. We apologize for this inconvenience."
We make one more stop down in Napa, where I wait in the car with antsy Emma and sulking Sam while Vicky shops. I watch a skinny, yet well dressed older man tool into the parking lot in his new Bentley. The man's shoes are probably worth more than my Honda. We head back South and West toward Novato and Vicky's cousin Alex, his wife Linda, and Jack and Davey. On a two-lane highway, we encounter about 5-7 miles of completely backed-up traffic heading the other way. Then we find out why. It's Sunday, RACE DAY, and we're headed toward the track that just disgorged it's patrons onto this one and only way in or out. We find our way into line heading our direction - a traffic jam seemingly in the middle of nowhere.
We make our way to Novato, and find friends.
My wife is part of a great family. There were three brothers. Jack Miller was a professor of physics and astronomy in Claremont, CA, Oxford degrees. Probably the smartest man I've ever met. Gaylord Miller was the head of NOAA for the Pacific, they lived in Hawaii. He died before I could meet him. Vance Miller taught high school Math and science. Vance died the day after Elvis did, about 4 months after I started dating his daughter.

Alex is Jack's son,the middle son of three. Alex and Victoria have always been buds. Linda is great. Davey has autism. We didn't know this until my neice's wedding, about 18 mos. ago. It was strangely fun to sit around with them talking about ER visits and cleaning up stuff. . . you know, the usual. They have two dogs, and Emma spends much of our time there swapping spit with Nellie. Alex, among other things, is a book collector/dealer; he showed us some signed, first editions, and gave Sam a set of The Hobbit/Lord of the Rings books. Sam was duly impressed. I'm always happy to hear stories of Vance and the rest of Vicky's family, this visit includes Alex's spot-on imitation of his father's voice - a man I was enchanted with, even as he really wanted very little to do with me, a long-haired psychology major. Sam bunked with Jack, Vicky, Emma, and I stayed in the "PMS Shed", a shed that's carpeted, has TV, and a bed. We set up an air mattress for Emma, and turned the TV back on after Vicky heard rats scampering and chattering on the roof. I, as usual, was blissfully unaware of this until we were in the car, heading south for San Francisco.

Vacation '07, Chapter III

Saturday. Got out of the condo at 11:00, a five minute drive to old Sacramento. We are experiencing unseasonably cool weather, which means it's just a warm 80's. We wander the boardwalk, eventually settling on Fat City for lunch, where I have the pulled pork sandwich with carmelized onions, cole slaw, and ubiquitous fries. De-lish. It's a lovely lunch in a 160 year-old building next to the train station. Very nearly historical.

The railroad museum here is really very impressive. By the nature of the subject matter, the building is huge, and it contains many locomotives and various cars, immaculately restored, creatively displayed. Emma met a wonderful docent in the dining car (which was filled with displays of the various 'diningware' settings of many lines - really cool) who showed her how to use the dinner bell (a 4-note xylophone ala the N-B-C notes on TV). Sweetest moment of the day. We then took a ride on a train down and then back up the tracks next to the river. Sam's acting snotty beyond his years, but still personable about half the time. He's alright. Emma's fascinated, at first, then bored, kinda like me. Cool to hear the train whistle echo off the buildings, and watch the old men tinker and fuss over the locomotive. I love trains, but I don't love trains, if you know what I mean.

Somewhat unfortunately, but actually quite comfortably, we arrived at the Capitol about 15 minutes too late for the last tour. We only had about 45 minutes to wander the dimly-lit halls, which was plenty of time to gaze up into the dome, admire the turn-of-the-century office exhibits, and see the elevators that were reserved for members only. It's a lovely building, well representing our large and fabulous state. It will be noted, later on the trip, that San Francisco's City Hall is much larger and more ornate - but, of course, that's where all the money was. . .
To Wal-Mart, again, for a bathing suit for Dad, swimming goggles for Sam, and headphones for the iPod, Emma having destroyed 2 pair so far. Groceria, then 'home' for a swim and dinner. Domestic bliss. Emma and I took one bedroom, 'cause we're the early risers. I was ready for bed.

Vacation '07, Chapter II

I've said it before, and I think I finally got someone to agree with me, Yosemite is not a day trip destination. We spent more time looking for lunch than we did looking at Half Dome.

It is a wondrous valley, broad meadows ringed by tall pine trees, dwarfed by sheer, ancient granite walls, some stained by waterfalls that mostly trickle this time of year. I did gain a few moments peace on a fallen log in the shade, listening to the wind through the pines, as Emma sat down, clothes and all, into the river.
Yosemite is in the lower part of Gold Country, and we drove through Coarsegold, China Camp, and other historic remnants of what will soon be the events of two centuries ago. Once one leaves the Sierra's sharp cutbacks, the roads divide broad sections of almost rolling hills, covered with ankle-high golden grasses, dotted with oak trees. Much of the Golden State really is this color, most of the year. Eventually, heading East, you drop further into the Central Valley with its industrial farms that feed most of us. Interstate 5 and highway 99 are high speed (not by statute, but by practice) arteries through this central valley. They meet in Sacramento, where we settled into a great find, a two bedroom condo with a kitchen and garage(!). We found groceries and dinner was done by about 9:30. We're off to downtown and old town (if they ever get out of bed) today, staying here again tonight. At least there won't be much car time. In the midst of all there is to do, I am enjoying myself as much as I am able to, cynical curmudgeon that I am. Just don't tell anyone.

Vacation '07, Chapter I

This isn't exactly breaking news, but it's now recorded for posterity, on the intertubes.

It's 9 am, and I'm sitting in the dark in a Holiday Inn Express in Madera, CA. Emma's oogling in the corner with the iPod, and Vicky and Sam are still sleeping. They never make it to the complimentary breakfast.
Yesterday, we had an uneventful 350 miles or so. We'll probably do about a thousand miles on this trip, and never leave California. Think on that, Yankees. The Wide Open spaces. This also means we gotta drive forever to get anywhere from the lower left hand corner of the country. Of course, it's a bit silly to leave a major tourist attraction to see others, but it is the American way.
It certainly is different, traveling now as opposed to when I was a kid. I mean, we used to head out in the middle of the night to cross the desert(it was cooler - no air conditioning, and cars were more likely to overheat), and I'd crawl up into the back window and look at the stars as we drove. Now, we're strapped in, there's a video system set up in the car with Elmo for Emma, Sam's playing nintendo games on his Wii, and Mom's playing podcasts through the radio from her iPod. We found the motel, a bit late, and set out for dinner in this farming town. Your selection. . . The International House of Pancakes! It was either that or a place called "Chubbies." The ambiance included picture boxes with dinnerware in them, an interesting medium. Andy Warhol would have been momentarily intrigued, then bored.
I had country fried steak, eggs, and pancakes for dinner no active cultures for me. . . The Wal-Mart was jumpin' at 9 last night. This is migrant farmer country, lots of small apartments filled with families. It's the land of Cesar Chavez, grape country. It's also over 100 degrees in the daytime, so folks come out at night. We found ourselves at Wal-Mart at about 8:30, picking up some things that we'd forgotten to pack, recognizing that we were the tallest people in the store. I'm just sayin'.
Anyway, the plan today is Yosemite, then on to Sacramento to see our fabulous Capital. Ahnold, most certainly, will be away on some juggernaut with the Kennedy family. So, a fair amount of mountain driving, today, crappy National Park concessionaire lunch fare, but probably better choices for dinner.

Thanks to those of you still checking in.
I've had a major computer meltdown. Combine that with a week-long road trip, 115 degree heat for another week after that, and then a faulty new motherboard, and you have one unhappy camper.
I've got some vacation blogs on a hard drive that I can't access at the moment, but they will appear, hopefully with photos, in a few days.
School's started, Emma's already missed a day due to sickness, it's cooled off dramatically back into the 80's (which actually feels glorious when night falls, and we're into the countdown to our next Lake Mead Trip. We're approaching what goes for normalcy around here.

Emma's Eight

Emma's eight, today. She was born on a Wednesday morning, just after midnight, yanked out of her Mother's womb foot-first, held up in the air for just a moment. The surgical assistants mumbled amongst themselves, pointed out the large gap between her toes to each other knowingly, and whisked her off to the NICU. A lot has happened, since then. Not so much to Emma, but to most of those who have met her.
It's difficult to describe, because it's difficult to describe. The adjectives don't do the truth justice; they tend to spin one off into a minefield of platitudes and prejudice. Saying that Emma has "special needs" implies inferiority. "Differently Abled" is condescending. It is appropriate to label her "Developmentally Delayed" ("retarded" for the 21st Century), but until when? 20? 30? I'm Developmentally Delayed, because I haven't gotten even a Master's Degree yet, let alone that PhD. that I'm oh so capable of? Or am I?
Everyone's expectations for Emma's are different. Unlike most of us, she has to make her own way in the seeming absence of discipline, peer pressure, and shame. The results are quite a mixed bag. Often, this can be refreshing; it can also range from annoying to dangerous. Life becomes a matter of relativity. Emma's finally becoming aware/annoyed with a wet Pull-up - this is a good thing, and a forward step in potty training. Emma's solution is to remove all of her clothing, along with the offending underwear. It's a blessing with it's own bottom-line.
She is capable of getting into the kitchen, and retrieving food from the refrigerator. She is capable of unlocking both of the 'regular' locks on the front door, and walking out of the house. She deftly exchanges the DVD's in the player in the Family Room. She likes to help, whether it's carrying in a bag of groceries, clearing the table, or rearranging the large glass vase filled with shiny rocks and dried plants on top of the piano. It's hard to discipline her when it feels like she really isn't going to ever grasp that what she's done is wrong; there's so many different kinds of trouble to get into, when your freedom is limited and your environment so full of opportunities. The answer can't be to sanitize her (and our) environment, but it's sure tempting when you're putting all of her clothes and bedding back into her drawers for the 4th time this week. She gets frustrated, but I can't really say that it's any more or less than I am on a daily basis. She gets her feelings hurt - see previous sentence. She forgives. She has compassion. She sees humor, she makes jokes. She gives. She loves. It’s not a matter of purity or innocence, it’s a matter of amplitude. She gets less freedom, because she has less responsibility. The rest of us get to make bigger mistakes, because we can usually pay for them.

We bought her a small, cheap, portable video player for her birthday. I cannot read the instruction manual for it. The type is too small, and it has been translated from an eastern tongue by someone who does not have a firm grasp on at least one of the languages:

"That player has six keys(Key) totally with a to turn a switch. . . No
matter what interface it is under, grow to press the MODE and PLAY/PAUSE key to can target the keyboard or relief to target a keyboard in the meantime."

I can almost understand the sentences above. How does Emma interpret what and how we say what we say to her? How do we all fall into the spectrum of truly understanding each other when we try to communicate? Thinking on these things, most things, is how I've changed over these eight years.

Emma is our daughter – of that there is no doubt. I see my Grandmother in her. She sweeps her hair back with the back of her hand in a most feminine way. She preens. She also likes to load up her fork with spaghetti and dangle it over her upturned maw like a bird eating worms. She likes to go out. She works a large table of diners just like her Grandfather. She likes to kick back in the afternoons and nap with Dad in his chair. She likes a good movie. She tinkers with technology. She often doesn't want to be bothered. She loves to dance.
One of my biggest questions is - if she hasn't already - if and when Emma will realize that she's significantly different than most of those around her. I almost hope that she never does - of course her Dad doesn't want his daughter to feel that sort of pain. My true hope is that if this happens, she'll be able to realize what most of us realize when we feel this way, that there are enough of those people around who love her for who she is, regardless of who she is. That’s the way I felt at the end of this day with my family and friends, celebrating Emma’s life with us. Happy Eighth Birthday, Girl!