FaceSpace all a-Twitter

Now, I don’t know this guy, but I am familiar with all of the hardware
(and no, that’s not me in 1982. I was much thinner)

I finally joined Facebook, yesterday. I’d been resisting it for one main reason; the prompting of a loved one finally pushed me over the brink. Joining was easy, it even scanned my email contacts for friends. Put in your schools, easy enough. Started accumulating friends immediately, and several addicts fed their habits by contacting me within minutes. It was, as I anticipated, overwhelming. It helped me over one other brink – the reason I’d resisted – I can no longer be everywhere, online, all the time, anymore. The truth is that I never was, but I felt a certain proficiency right up until, oh, say 2005, when I added a Steam account. I’ve felt “it” slipping away, ever since, my grip on my control of my online persona.

So, I start weeding through my ‘newfound’ friends, really old friends, but some new info and perspective. That’s great. A few ‘conversations’ with some that haven’t kept up via other means. Really good. Hit the “find friends” link and started looking through those identified as college graduate-mates. See a few familiar names, none that I really knew, started thinking about how few of them I really befriended – having a fiancée at State, and all. Their photos all look so, well, let’s just say I didn’t recognize any of them. On to the Upland High School Class of ‘77. Dallas! No, didn’t add him, just smiled at the thought. Went through several pages. Interesting locations for some, interesting pics of others. Then, WHAM! there it was. One of the reasons I’d forgotten not to get on Facebook. No pic, just the name. A quite unpleasant memory involving physical threats, property damage, and the authorities. Three minutes later, and my new profile settings read “Friends only.” I fully understand that I and my physical location can be found in a matter of moments, online, but I certainly am not going to make it any easier for this person (and yeah, he probably doesn’t know how to get a picture into his profile) to be reminded of me, let alone find me. In about 40 minutes, I’d revisited several snippets of my life history that I’d left by the sides of those roads. Facebook, guess what, bittersweet. Go figure.

So, privacy somewhat assured, we move on. I’m looking forward to communicating with the one person who hasn’t contacted me, yet, of course, the one who kept inviting me. The past lies there in Facebook, just as it always has IRL (‘in real life’ for those of you older than I, like, you know, as if). I’ll check in, but don’t look for me to camp it and hang on your every word. I just can’t, ok? I’ve got all those other accounts to keep up with. And blog. And mow the lawn, every quarter, whether it needs it or not. If you want, you can look up my address on Google Street View and see the dead truck, bald-patched lawn and house in need of painting, too. Let’s keep moving forward, shall we?

Frail Grasp On The Big Picture*

There was a story related to me, this week. I do not mean to diminish anyone’s faith. This has been bothering me, though. I did not comment on it where it was published; I felt that by doing so, I would incite side-taking and the inevitable hurt that religious discussion causes on the internet. This is different, those reading here should have a grasp of why I’m bringing it forward, why I’m saying what I’m saying, and hopefully possess the grace to forgive me if I don’t meet their expectations – a fundamental requirement for an ongoing relationship with me, anyway. So, with that ominous introduction:

The story is of a head-on collision between a wrong way driver on the interstate; a small vehicle and a van with “differently-abled adults” inside. Both drivers and three of the adults in the van died. The poster goes on to describe their pastor speaking about the accident the following Sunday. One of the surviving adults from the van is a close childhood friend of his. By the pastor’s account, this man’s customary seat was behind the bus driver. He did so on this day, on the way to the destination. On the fatal return trip, he stated that he “was a big boy” and from now on he was sitting in the back. This, of course, saved his life. The pastor used this as an illustration that “he believed that the Holy Spirit was alive and well.”

I know that this pastor is a human being. I know that his good friend has just been spared. He’s reacting to a powerful event with powerful emotions. I think, however, that this is the sort of thing that is quite irresponsible from the pulpit. I have become wary of those who see God’s will when things turn out the way they’d like them to.

Five people were killed, but God spared the pastor’s friend? Why? Was he the only Christian? Were the other 3 adults “not-abled” enough, spiritually? Maybe that was the reason, God was taking them home early to spare them further pain here on Earth. And why was this the event to be celebrated, why assign The Holy Spirit credit for sparing one life over another? Should we do no more than be grateful for what we have, rather than claim Divine Providence? Perhaps that in itself is what Divine Providence is; the rest is what it is. God only knows.

The more I turn the little I know of this event over and around, in my mind, all I come up with are the same things I always come up with: This was either a set of random events, a very small event in a highly choreographed dance that we are deigned to play out, or something in-between. One can place one’s faith at any point along this continuum, balancing the unlimited, omniscient power of God against Man’s free will to choose. The danger, to me, comes in where we assign responsibility for another’s choices – God’s and yours, more specifically. I’ll take responsibility for mine, although there was lead in the paint in that house in Globe, and Mom put Karo syrup in my formula, and. . .

We see through a glass, darkly. The life of Christ, for me, comes to a point of full maturity and near complete purpose when, on the Cross, after submitting to the Father’s will, still cries out “Why have you forsaken me?” God incarnate asking, "Why?" If they are “three in one”, the experience had to have shaken even God’s all-knowing, timeless heart. I cannot and will not, of course, say that the Holy Spirit did none of this. I just have a really hard time understanding how it would be so selective. That a Minister of the Gospel could be so sure, gives me pause. There is a greater message, and I’m not so sure that he was sending the right one.

And no, I don’t feel any better having written this. Thanks for asking.

*credit to Glenn Frey and Don Henley

Barbie will always be older than I am,

but just barely.

I reached a couple of milestones last week. First, I received my invitation to join AARP. Ironic, in the sense that I seriously doubt that I will ever “retire”; I seem to have inherited most of the physical characteristics of my shortest-living related predecessors, and the government keeps raising the retirement age. I figure that, if I should reach that age, there’ll be a campaign against “the other ‘R’ word” (yeah, small joke). Second, I started using a pocket protector at work. I have been putting it off for some time, oh, at least 12 years or so. The practicality of the object has finally won out over the nerd/geek/maintenance guy stigma. What it does is now more important than what it means. It actually suits my bifocals, when you think about it. Like it or not, I’m one of the old guys, now. You should see the punks they’re hiring, these days. “Smarten up!”, we tell ‘em. They don’t listen.

Achieving a new number with a trailing zero always seems to bring some reflection. It’s an opportunity, welcome or not, to catalogue the things that will forever be lost from your grasp, still remain in the realm of possibility, along with what you do have. These days, I am more content (as in contentment, not volume, ok?) than driven, due more to those around me than from within. I have been blessed in some wonderful and often unbelievable ways.

I would have liked to play a stadium, just once. I did get to perform in Kemper Arena in Kansas City, Mo., one time, but it wasn’t quite the same. 10,000+ people and my Vox Beatle amp to cover the room – not even a meaningless connection to the soundboard to make me feel better about it. It’s amazing, the memories that stick with you. It could still happen, of course, but I’d need to get busy. Short of jumping the stage and wrestling that ugly green axe from Adam Clayton’s hands in November, I don’t see it happening. I have played some amazing venues, even signed a few autographs. Back then, I hoped they were IOU’s for a future payoff.

I’d have liked to have seen more of the world. I’ve seen a bunch, but still. It’s true that I’ve often traded insecurity for security, and I’m comfortable with that. Yes, I’m trying to be funny; that’s a funny sentence.  Read it out loud and it’ll be funnier.

One of the things I’ve learned is that I can pick through all of the yardsticks that exist in the human grid, and come up short. I’m not the tallest, wisest, richest, most intellectual, no great talent; I sit squarely near the middle along the bell curve of my species. I do have a few gifts, and I find most pleasure by trying to give them at my best. I’m my harshest critic, most competent and least productive therapist, and, the older I get, more and more grateful for those who bless me with their gifts of time, attention, love, and care.

Me, me, me. Blah Blah Blah. Thanks for reading. Thanks for your friendship and love, some of it crossing seas, continents, and even the difficulties of us both speaking English. I’m now in the running to be considered one of your oldest friends. You’ll just have to be more patient, more often, while I explain how it used to be.

Bittersweet is a way of life

I have lived in some small towns, although the memories that exist are probably as much Mayberry as they are Globe, Arizona. I have lived in many small communities of various constructions, where everybody knew each other’s “business”. One of the differences between then and now was that, then, you knew more about them than just their “business”, you knew their context. You knew in much more complete way, why.

One of the things about being ‘connected’ in today’s world is that you often learn more than you should about persons that you don’t know in any other, larger way. While this broadens our knowledge, and has created new and diverse communities that span the globe, it is absolutely a different world that’s developing in ways where the old rules can’t apply. It’s also, at least for me, a challenge to the pursuit of contentment on my part, as I suspect it may for some of you. Those connections got to me, this week, in a way that probably wouldn’t have happened even five years ago.

I like to listen to Fresh Air , a PBS interview program. I download them as podcasts and listen to them in the car. As such, I don’t really screen them for content; it’s more often than not a pleasant surprise to hear who’s being interviewed. I’m not going to identify the particular subject of an interview I listened to on Monday afternoon in the car on the way home, but she was describing the abortion of her genetically abnormal baby. I found the first part interesting (and I really didn’t know where she was headed, actually) because she was talking about the different contexts of her world vs. her feminist Mother’s (I am not attacking ‘feminism’, please). Her Mother had been in the fight to win ‘choice’ – and part of that was a metaphorical world (hey! metaphors and meaning) that, for example, used terms like “fetus” instead of “baby”. To this ‘second generation woman’, those obfuscations (my term) were unnecessary – this was a baby that she was aborting. She then went on to describe a very difficult decision-making process with her husband. They didn’t think that their marriage would survive life with a disabled child. Her description of events culminated in a teary request to the doctor that the baby not suffer – he assured her that he’d give it a shot beforehand that would assure this. It was about then that I disconnected the iPod – I didn’t need to go any farther with her. It was not because we disagreed as much as it was just plain disturbing. There was no knowledge to be gained by me from reading her book, I live many of those kinds of moments every day. Her book is for others to read, not me.

These are difficult words to recount, even for me. I don’t present it to you lightly. Please stay with me for the next couple of paragraphs. I’ve had one of those discussions with my wife, before our firstborn, about what and how and what we’d do. We came to a different conclusion, but I fully understand the conversation and the possible outcomes. Now, I’m not that dour a guy, really, but her words continued to mull in my mind.

Thursday, came a reminder from a budding (in the sense that I want it to grow) friendship in Dublin that he’d seen his friend who’d just “buried her baby girl. She takes most comfort from the fact that they got to meet her and know her as a person. Only fifteen days.” Same world, different day. I didn’t get a chance to reply to his email; I spent the remainder of the day thinking of those encounters I’ve had with people – traveling, seminars, camps – where connections are made that affect us for a lifetime. I know what his friend meant. It was gratitude, hope borne of dreams, while, not fulfilled, realized through Love given.

This morning, news that Mya is finally home from the hospital after 55 days. Mya, whose Trisomy 21 became one of the lower priorities for her in light of a medical accident. Mya, the beautiful girl who cannot move, cannot speak, who, when I got to hold her what, 5 years ago?, made an impact on my soul that I can neither adequately describe nor expect you to understand, merely over the course of a few minutes. Mya, who has changed the lives of everyone I know who’s met her.

We have always been beings, seemingly, that do not understand ourselves well enough to know what we are capable of until we realize what we have done. Perhaps there is no other way.

My connections, this week, have taken me round and about, again, through the irreconcilable, the unknowable, the unthinkable, yet often redeemable human experience.
I mentioned contentment. I’m going to define it, for now, as the ability to make the right decision about how one will view one’s current situation. Moving from discontent requires thought, whether or not action is required. As my friend Glen says, “Relationship precedes Function.” Knowing. Being. Doing. I found contentment in the strangest of ways, on this Saturday. Guess what? “The greatest of these is Love.”

Bittersweet.

Happy Birthday, Jeanette

To prove that I’m not a complete and utter curmudgeon, Here’s our birthday greeting to my sister, yesterday, accompanied by Elmo and his constant companion.

Happy Birthday, Jeanette from Jeff Goble on Vimeo.

WhattssametaForU? Part II

Ok. I’m going to admit now that I’ve forgotten what got me started on this topic. But let’s press on.
I’m going to use single quotes ‘ ’ to denote what I consider to be metaphorical doorways, keys, landmines, pick your own descriptor. These are places where you can take the subject matter off on your own tangent, or try and understand mine. . . good luck.

Let’s take on a favorite topic, Persons with Trisomy 21.
Retarded
Morons (IQ between 51-70)
Imbeciles – (IQ between 26-50)
Idiots – (IQ between 0-24)
Down Syndrome
Mongolism
Demon – Possessed
Judgment for the sin of previous generations

From the top down, all but the last two were pretty much acceptable until the mid-70’s. The mid 1970’s. I have personally experienced the sensation in the presence of certain groups that lead me to believe that the last two have not been abandoned.

“Sometimes I think that we’ve advanced, but then I look at where we are.”
-Larry Norman, “If God is my Father”

I remember reading the IQ classifications in my college textbooks, along with the use of “Mongoloid”, albeit historically, in those 70’s. As you see, they move ‘down’ from the scientific to the spiritual, or ‘up’ if you wish to view them as ‘progression’ or ‘evolutionary’ – in terms of Man’s societal and scientific knowledge have grown. A ‘timeline’ of sorts within a continuum of Human experience – gone but not entirely forgotten. Historically, they overlap, but you get the picture. We’re more ‘sensitive’, which pretty much means that we keep our counsel closer than we used to.

Then there’s the modern medical and societal metaphorical mess. Let’s jump in by posing the following question:

Should I support the March of Dimes? I mean, why wouldn’t I? 
Everybody’s against birth defects, right?

It’s about what is, what was, what could have been, what could be. . .

What I’m saying is with the metaphorical mashup is that living with and truly loving Emma means that very little means what it used to.
How does one cuddle and coo with a soul that is the one in ten*, without feeling the loss?
How does one interpret the sidelong glances and stares of what must be the other nine’s mothers and fathers who watch me struggle with Emma at McDonald’s? Moral superiority and societal shame blended into a gut-McFlurry, sometimes. Both at a loss to explain the other’s outcome, unable to fathom the realization of either path, exclusively. And so we exist, uncomfortably, together – so far.
The realization that one sees the world through a very different filter. Alienation. Probably like being very rich or very famous. Without the perks. The realization that talking about it sounds like self-martyrdom. I’m beyond that. This is what it is. Those of you who aren’t in this ‘club’ will be appalled when I say that it’s not even a rare disease that can be capitalized upon, although there are those that try. But those are discussions for other places and other times.

These realizations are not exclusive to me or even Down Syndrome; suffering abounds in many forms and features.This brings me back, ‘full-circle’, and a fine enough place to pause, as it were. We are different, yet we are the same. Nearly all of us ‘suffer’ from something. Those of us that don’t just haven’t reached it, yet.

 

*just in case I have to explain it, 90% of babies diagnosed with T21 in utero are aborted.

What the Metaphor's For, Part I

If you'll all just take your seats, we'll begin. Please extinguish all smoking materials, and place your tray tables in their upright positions. Today we have no syllabus, so fasten your seat belts until the "Buckle Up" sign is no longer lit. Thank you.

Dr. C.Eugene Mallory (pg.7) remains an enigmatic player in my thought life. He was the head of the Psychology Department at Point Loma College - an institution of the Church of the Nazarene, Point Loma College, and Point Loma Nazarene University. Yes, the same place, and yes, it's ironic in the context of this missive - - this is not meant to be a Dis-missive, I'm just sayin'. And that's a pun, not a metaphor.

Most of Dr. Mallory's instruction was, while aimed squarely at me, went completely over my head, probably because I was ducking at the time. Just as our parents become more intelligent as we all grow older, the things that he taught and the concepts that he described began to resonate with me in more meaningful ways much later; right about the time that he died in 2003. This, of course, meant that I could neither thank him nor pursue any further insights with him. Such is the nature of our existence. He and I did not have any sort of larger relationship; I was a student with a major in his department, and the son of a schoolmate. These qualified me for a lot of classroom time and some individualized instruction, as well as a few therapy sessions after I left school. He was a gentle man who often suffered his foolish students, gladly, and whose methods baffled me in my 20's, but make perfect sense to this 50 year old man.

One of the things that I have learned is that, in those times when I'm a teacher, learning does not always take place in the teaching moment.

One of the things that I was not mature enough to wrap my head around in my 20's was that the pseudo-science of psychology, and actually, all things, ultimately, are based upon philosophy. Constructs of the human mind.

"Everything you've learned in school as "obvious" becomes less and less obvious as you begin to study the universe. For example, there are no solids in the universe. There's not even a suggestion of a solid. There are no absolute continuums. There are no surfaces. There are no straight lines."
- R. Buckminster Fuller

(Now, is this "true", or do we just not have an accurate and aesthetically pleasing way to describe a straight line or an absolute continuum? Who am I to doubt Dr. Fuller? Hmmmm?)

If I had been a math major (my chances of being an astronaut were better, but not much, cause it required math), then this realization would have come, too, with the addition of the 4th, 5th, etc. dimensions. Even mathematics can and is taken into the realm where it only exists within the human collective mind. There are minds that readily accept and go with these concepts; my limited brain begins to liquefy and slosh around in my cranium until it just sounds like the ocean.

The various giants of psychology, then, were actually philosophers. What wasn't clearly said (or, more to the point, what I didn't realize, then) was that we are all philosophers. That some of us follow the teachings of Emeril Lagasse, while troubling; means that we all end up with a framework of belief and intent that informs our living. Therefore, the successful therapist would be capable of assessing the patient's actual, functional and philosophical milieu, and then be skilled at applying the appropriate therapy based upon what they needed. Now, the giants, of course, were bound to make their patients fit their philosophy. This is where I was coming from as a 20-something church kid. I'd thought there already was "The Answer", and while I didn't know exactly what it was, I thought I had a clue.

Dr. Mallory was all about meaning. Meaning and metaphor. Truly listening to another to understand. It's a fundamental element of the therapeutic process, and yet I've personally experienced therapy where it did not exist. You know what I'm talking about, from those that "get" what you're talking about, instantly, to those that will make the effort, to those that are only in the room with you - therapist or not.

I'm not going to get near where I thought that I was headed, today, with this, although the background is good - if you're still interested. This is now Part I. If you are, then take some time in the next few days to listen to another person. Listen to the language of their life - the imagery that their words create, how their descriptions are framed. Try and get a picture of how they might see the same things you do in a completely different way. These are the things that I've been dwelling on, lately.

I see that the Captain has turned off the seat belt sign, so please feel free to move about the cabin. We do recommend that you keep your belt fastened while sitting, in the event that we hit some unexpected turbulence. Thank you.

Men, Men, Men. . .

It's a ship that's filled with men. You'll never have to lift the seat, there's no one here but men men men men. . .

We drove through the morning mist to the overlook east of the Indian Casino. Waiting for the remainder of the shooting party, the clouds rose up from the canyon to envelop us even as the sun rose in the East. A few handshakes, then speeding off down I-8 (I was following a police officer, honest!), eventually through downtown Ocotillo (1 store, 2 bars, and about 12 houses) and up the wash to our perfect shooting spot. It consists of a broad place, about an eighth of a mile across. A steep cliff on one side provides safety and crevices for targets like watermelons and bowling pins. Behind, enough scrub and gullies to relieve oneself in the privacy of the wilderness. Our vehicles, in between, laden with firearms, ammo, targets, handi-wipes and snacks. Quickly, but not so quickly that it's work; tables, shades, and chairs appear. Van (the aforementioned policeman and rangemaster) gives the safety lecture, and all pay heed. You listen carefully to each other when there are loaded guns around. Craig Ferguson says that that's why people are so polite in Texas - they're all armed. The safety zone is explained, and Dads are keenly aware of where their sons and daughters are at all times (yeah, there were some girls there, it's o.k. cause they're basically smothered by the testosterone in the air - I'm KIDDING - kinda).

We start with pistols. Load up the clips for the Glock, or grab a handful of .357 bullets for the six-shooter. Noobs and kids are accompanied to the line to make sure that the pointed guns stay pointed at the hill, hands are on the guns in the right manner, and that the gun is actually empty before it's returned to the table. We take our turns shooting above, below, around the targets and plastic bottles. The controlling of danger, explosions, and smell of gunpowder are of course deeply-rooted, endorphin-releasing experiences for most of us, and there can be the satisfaction of actually hitting what one is aiming at, but it is secondary. Earplugs both protect us from the cracking and unnecessary chit-chat. This is serious fun. Your senses are all functioning – straining your eyes at the target, finger on the trigger, arms extended, hold your breath, steady . . . the sting as the gun jumps – some a lot more than others – the zing of the brass casing ejecting, breathe again. The canyon wall provides a resounding crack! after each pop! - from the pfffts of the .22's to the pounding .45.

Rifles. More accurate. More powder. More power, uh uh uh. As someone who shoots virtual guns nearly every day, it is interesting to experience the physical. Particularly when the gun is an M-1, a staple of U.S. troops in WWII, or an AR15, from the Vietnam era.

                        

The M-1, when compared with modern guns, is a piece of furniture. As Van pointed out as he was helping me with it, "Can you imagine slogging through the jungles in the Pacific with this thing?" I can imagine it, but not for very long. It's heavy, but it's also steady. Above, you can see how a clip of eight shells is loaded into the gun. After the eighth shot, the metal clip is ejected with a very characteristic, almost chime-like sound. The stuff of legend. It's also, probably, the most accurate gun I shot, all day.

 

 

 

The AR-15 was another story. Lightweight, yes. Fully automatic on the battlefield, for sure. Handing off the M-1 for the AR-15 though, was like eventually giving up all of those aspirations of finding a girl who could cook just like Mom - life just wasn't going to be the same. It was still fun, sure, but somehow not as satisfying. It probably just means that I'm old enough for old school, now.

Shotguns. Some can hit the clay pigeons, some can't. Sam and I were too pooped to pop at that point; we were pretty sure that all we would get from that would be bruised shoulders.

Heading home, dusty, hands and arms sore, we finished off the bag of chips, wiping our grimy hands on our pants, burping Dr. Pepper into the falling sun. Home in plenty of time for dinner. A world away, if for only half a day. Thanks, guys!

See ya, Monday.

My friend died, Sunday night. He was a co-worker of mine, since 1986. He's been a teacher, mentor, employee, but mostly a friend. He wasn't that easy to get to know; there is still a lot that I will never know about him. We've been to each other's homes, met each other's families. He's loaned me tools. He's given me rides to and from work; I stuck around and drove him home the day his truck got stolen. He read the paper, and we often talked about yesterday's news. We ate lunch and took our breaks together. It was an everyday thing, part of the ritual of the hourly worker. We reminded each other about stuff that needed to be done. He wouldn't like my use of the word, but it was an intimacy borne of time spent together. We griped. We talked about our kids, our wives, the DMV, the War (past and present), cars, work - of course.
We knew some things about each other that maybe no one else will - in those moments of frustration, talking through the day. There were days when we didn't talk much about anything; didn't need to.
His mother died in mid-December. He took time off, then got sick. He never came back, but about a month ago was admitted to the hospital. Our hospital. Upstairs. Those first few days, they had to put a sign up on the door asking you to check in with the front desk - he was inundated by visitors. He got steadily worse. The visitors dropped off. Our conversations became difficult - there's not a lot to talk about when you've been in the same bed for 3 weeks. I'd miss some days because he'd be out getting another procedure done. The last few days, he'd say hi, grumble a bit, then drop off. I'd sit there for a rew more minutes, then wander back to work. Friday, they moved him to the ICU. I went up there, and there were a couple of people working on him. He was talking back and gesturing; I didn't go in. See ya, Monday.
I know I wasn't his only friend. He was a friend to many, and he was a good Dad. He loved his girls. I know his life didn't turn out the way he wanted it to. He did good work, and he trained many. Like so many of us, his job changed drastically from what he was hired to do; he made the best of it. He did what needed to be done. As his boss, I knew that he knew more than I did about what needed to be done, even so, he did what I asked him to do when I proved it. Boss, or no boss, he treated me the same; it was easier for me not to be.

He was a good guy. He took care of his parents, and was taking care of his father when all of this hit him. He was the guy I could borrow five bucks from for lunch when the ATM was down.



He listened.
I miss you, Steve.

Altered States

My doctor changed my blood pressure medicine about 3 weeks ago. Now, I've been taking medication for high blood pressure for nearly 20 years, and been through several formulas in the process. My experience has been that, when you start on a different regimen, the drug hits you with with both effects and side-effects, and you learn to tolerate them all. The balance, naturally (or un-naturally, I suppose in this case) is to be found in getting the right imbalance of the desired result over the undesired. What had happened was a change about 7 weeks ago, a follow-up, and then the drug was boosted another 50%. I'm going to try and explain, briefly, what happened to me, for reasoning that I hope will be meaningful.

Beta-blockers basically lower blood pressure by slowing one's heart rate. They are also used as an occasional anti-anxiety drug for this reason. In the first few weeks, I noticed that the slowdown was mental, as well, but, when you tend to be a sullen curmudgeon with occasional outbursts, I didn't see this as that much of a negative. My weight loss continues, albeit more slowly - if I couldn't be fat, then 2 outta 3 (dumb and happy) might not be so bad. As the dosage increased, I found myself having a hard time concentrating, particularly when someone was speaking to me about anything complex; building control programming, the plot of  "Burn After Reading." At the beginning of the week, I started experiencing panic attacks, but they were very,very strange because a> I had absolutely nothing to be that anxious about, which only made me more anxious, and b> my heart rate wasn't rising to meet the anxiety, which physically felt a lot like stepping out on a very high ledge covered in Crisco(the ledge, not me- that'd be really creepy). I slept for a couple of days, changed the time of day for taking the stuff - didn't really make any difference. Saw the doc yesterday, I'm starting today with a combination of a couple of old favorites to perhaps mitigate the problems with both. Of course, a possibility is aggregation rather than mitigation, but if that happens, there's always litigation. I'm just kidding. Healthcare and lawyers - now there's a prescription for side effects lasting more than four hours. But I digress.

The reason I'm writing about this is that I was reminded, over and again as I went through the motions, mostly at work, moving through the same spaces that I've traveled in for 20 some years, but feeling so very different, that we're not perceiving this world identically. We may be occupying the same spaces, but our senses and conclusions can be as different as night and day. If I might be so bold, I think it's been a real factor in my unease this year concerning politics - seeing relationships torn asunder because, in my opinion, they were just incapable of understanding/accepting/relating to a different view than their own. I was quite frightened, on Monday, by the prospect that I knew that something was wrong with me and it was somewhat out of my control - fortunately I was aware of what was (probably) causing it, and could do something about it. I've been contemplating what it would be like to be in that position without the last part of that sentence in force. I've been reminded that, if I truly want to be the kind of person I'd like to be, I need to be aware of others' contexts, perhaps even drug interactions, when interacting with them. This is pretty easy to observe, where I work, where there are ready examples of a full spectrum of humanity -  from the certified mentally ill to the ultimate ego-driven specimens known as surgeons. It is fortunate that the gemütlichkeit of my workplace includes empathy and compassion; they are inherent in the business plan.

So. How do we come to trust what we trust - our senses, each other, gravity? Experience and Love? What if they're wrong, misplaced, misled? Should I even be asking these questions, are they merely borne by beta-blocking? I'm not sure - but I guess that's the point.

Professor Longhair/Bowfinger/I came, I saw, I sat and sawed.

We attended our first concert at Sam's Middle School, last Wednesday evening. We told no one (sorry G & G) because a) we didn't know what to expect and b) Sam advised us that his portion would be rather small. He also wasn't thrilled about a white shirt, tie, and shoes, for that matter. Suitably attired, he assumed his position on stage.

 

This is only the second year that this program has existed at Pershing. It also looks extremely ambitious to me. There were seven separate groups that performed - separate orchestras for 2 grades, bands for all 3 grades, an 8th grade wind ensemble, and the Pershing Panther Jazz Pride band, complete with 3 bass players playing the "Peter Gunn Theme" in unison. It was actually interesting to track the progress of musicianship from one grade level to the next, and that's all I'm going to say about that. I was most impressed by the way the young teacher managed this large, intermingled group of students, music, and logistical swarming between group changes. He certainly seemed up to the task. Initially, I feared for his sanity. Whether he is in fact sane or not is not actually important; I nonetheless admire his fortitude on several levels.

The auditorium was suitably filled with a family crowd out on a school night. Sam's group, first group up, nervously waited with us through the requisite announcements and introductions. The 6th Grade Orchestra dove right into "Beginning String Medley",
"Grasshopper Chomp", and finally, "March of the Metro Gnome". Thunderous Applause, Sam's done, off the stage, and we settled into our seats for the polite finish.

Evening turned to night. Instruments came and went. Tympani were tuned, re-tuned, and, of course, in true ugly American fashion, the crowd began to dwindle. Sure, part of me longed to join them (mostly my middle-aged rear end on that wooden auditorium seat), but we do our best to teach the right things by doing the right things. Emma even eventually lost interest and turned to the Sesame Street-laden iPod from Mom's purse. The numbness from the aforementioned region eventually spread to my cranium as we passed the two-hour mark. Then, gratefully, it was over. We collected our cellist and headed home to a ten-o'clock dinner.

With the exception of some pre-k bell ringing, this is the first time I've been the one in the audience and not the one on stage. I have a few more times to go before I can sort out all of the feelings about that, and I'm more than willing and happy to do so. Pride and awe in my son, first and foremost. Wistfulness for times past. Newfound empathy for that teacher. Joy at hearing the "Peter Gunn Theme" played with a certain juvenile vigor. The cornucopia of sounds that surround "intonation."  "Playing Through." Yes, I'm thinking of you, Mark. What smug punks we still are - rightly so, man, rightly so. The confidence of youth I saw in those bass players. The promise of things to come, promises kept, spent, fulfilled and left wanting. It was a good evening. Bittersweet.

 

March of the MetroGnomes from Jeff Goble on Vimeo.

Wanna see my Jr. High School AV qualification card?

***I want to do a lot of things. I don't seem to do many of them. One of my desires is to update this blog at least once very couple of weeks. It's been three, so I've been feeling a certain unnecessary pressure, on top of all of the other stuff that's been not working in my life, lately. So, here we go:***

I have always been a gadget geek, and I suspect that, although there are many varieties of geek, I am one of the worst kind. I tend to buy cheap stuff and spend endless hours finding ways to make them work, rather than spending the money to buy something that works right out of the box, or - better yet - not buying it at all. As I teeter on the precipice of my golden years, I'm tending to buy better stuff, when I can, but even now, on my computer desk, my fabulous iMac suffers the indignities of the insertion of various USB, DVI, and Firewire devices into its ports. The iPod that I received as a Christmas gift confirmed all of this for me. A couple of years ago, I bought my phone, a Motorola RAZR, and soon learned that my carrier had it pretty much locked down in ways that did not please me; capitalistic pig-dogs that they are, trying to maximize their profits by charging me airtime to transfer files! So I hacked it, and have spent probably 3 times more time getting it to do what I want it to do as I have doing what I want to do with it. While there is some satisfaction in this, it's beginning to wane. My iPod does what it is supposed to do, and more, like saving my spot and returning to it in the middle of a podcast. Of course, my Mac-running-Vista-running-iTunes isn't perfect, but it's pretty close. I'm growing more comfortable with irony, every day. HA!

At work, I've been trying to get a PC-based Character Generator/video player thing to work. It's kludgy. It doesn't work anywhere near the way that (what there is of it) the User's Guide says it will. The supplying company, up there in the amorphous mass that is Orange County, has a guy, "Steve" (I think all of the geeks that live in Orange County are named "Steve", I think they're aliens living among us, just biding their time until they can overtake the Disney headquarters and rule the world), who has been extremely helpful, but unable to get me to get it to work. It very nearly does what I want it to do, but fails to complete the entire program. Of course, it does not fail in the same place, nor does it fail in any sort of logical manner that "Steve" has ever experienced. Of course, the implementation of this video programming involves those with political clout in my little world, so I've been under a bit of pressure to make it happen. Because this 'thing' runs on a 24-hour schedule, I've been faced with making a minor change/ticking or unticking a checkbox/etc., then waiting several hours - or until tomorrow - to see if anything positive occurs. After about six weeks, I've finally run out of options, so next week "Steve" will either be coming to visit me, I'll be taking the box up to see him, and/or we'll be buying another box. In this instance, my willingness to "make it work" has probably cost me more in the long run than if I'd given up a month ago. Frugality in the electronic age is not always a virtue, I guess.

Friday afternoon, on the way home, I bought a fairly expensive gadget. I brought it home, hooked it up to my iMac, and it didn't work very well. I goofed and fiddled with it, and figured out that I could eventually get it to do the things I wanted it to do, but it wasn't going to be as easy as either promised, or it should be - it would require geekyness on my part. I resisted my primal urges, packed it all back up into the box, and returned it to the store. I'm still going through withdrawal, and looking for an alternative, but I do feel strangely better. My house is filled with stuff that sorta works, so we keep it (that's probably Vicky's attitude toward me, now that I think about it). I guess I'm trying to behave as if I've learned something, after all of these years.

Merry Christmas, 2008

I suspect that most of us don't really deal with innocence on a daily basis. There is an aspect to innocence that undermines the way our minds work; the layers that can both deepen and destroy our relationships. Motives and our mindsets color everything we do. It's a function of Christmas that for a time, at least, we're a little more conscious of the things that we really should be all year round.
I've been thinking of Christmas in terms of Emma this year. She's been watching a Christmas Sesame Street video all year as part of her large rotation of DVD's; we've been party to the theme right along with her. I don't have the slightest clue what her understanding of Christmas or birthdays or any other special occasions might be, other than the fact that she loves a party and loves to open presents. She does not appear to suffer from envy or want; there is never disappointment in what is unwrapped - in fact, the unwrapping can be the best part. It also follows that one can't really predict with any success which toy or book will capture her interest - there is no pressure, then, to provide the latest, most interactive Elmo, she prefers one that she can manipulate over one that performs for her.
There's no anticipation, either. It's mostly just keeping her from the tree until the prescribed day. This frustration, for all of us, is just another facet of her innocence, albeit her perhaps not-so-innocent drive to get to the goods.
What it all means is that our Christmas happens in the moment, not so much in all of the trappings and greater meaning that it otherwise implies for the rest of us. Living with Emma - engaging with her in discipline, play, meals, etc. means more in the here and now. Lessons are not always learned the first, second, ninety-eth time. Joys can also be had, over and over again, too, in ways that don't seem to grow old like they often do for those more sophisticated. Certainly, there is reinforcement and relationship. It's just different. This has been my learning and gift, this year, from her.
I deal with Emma's innocence on a daily basis. Realizing this has, I hope, changed the way that I've dealt with who she is. It is frustrating to still be changing diapers, but there is still a cheering demonstration from us when she chooses to use the potty. It's frustrating to pick up her stuff off the floor, at least once a day, and I will probably be muttering to myself every time I do it for some time to come, but she's helping to set the table and often tries to help in ways that she can. My times of anger turned her way are inevitably shamed by her innocence, and I'm taken to a place where I have to examine why I am the way I am. It's just the way it is.
She's no angel. She has her schemes, and, like any parent, it's my job to subvert them and somehow channel them into opportunities for advancement. She's capable of getting into the kitchen and fixing herself a snack. Fortunately, she's innocent enough not to be quiet about it, and is usually caught in the act, banished to the family room, and forced to ask for it. It is also fortunate that none of her snack-making involves using the stove, and the microwave is (at least so far) out of reach. Innocence can be, and often is, dangerous.
She also still loves to run into my arms. Her giggles when I tickle her or chase her around the house make up for an awful lot. She loves to dance with me, and I love to dance with her because she has no idea how goofy I look.
That she will probably remain this way, in some extent, means that I will be faced with this sort of introspection for the rest of my days. Her promise is one of perpetual honesty, too, a gift that should not be overlooked.
Innocence. Purity. Joy. Promise. Love. They are the themes of the season. Just as it was, so long ago, they existed in the midst of personal struggle, societal upheaval, and great uncertainty for the future. In the moment, though, there is great joy to be had in the face and heart of the innocents. That we could all enjoy the day thus will be my wish for all of us, this Christmas Day.
Merry Christmas!

Disturbed

Is it the nature of modern human life that we multitask ourselves to oblivion?
I'm just askin'.

My routines have been all out of whack. I spent four days, the week before last, under the care of one of the largest companies in the world. I was there for training for our building controls software. It was really quite fun, in a room filled with both state of the art equipment, ready snacks, and a corporate trainer whose mission was to enable 11 of us to fully understand and embrace the curriculum. I was able to sleep in a little later, help get Emma on the bus, a different route to and from, lunch out. . . when you've been institutionalized as long as I have, it feels like cutting school.

This week was the reality that not much had really changed. Let's just leave it at that. The reality is that 'things' are just getting worse, a steady deterioration. They have been for some time. The longer it goes on, the less we keep up appearances, the less appointments we make, the more we withdraw. It's not bad, and we have a very lot to be thankful for. It's Bittersweet all over the map, babaaay. I've just been delaying writing because I've been looking for the clouds to part. A couple of my best online friends are new to this game, the last thing I want to do is discourage them so guys, know that this has as much to do with who I was before Emma was born as it does with her. As with so many other things, she's the magnifying glass, the fulcrum, the point where so many things just have to focus through. That I am feeling so weak and worthless and not able to overcome, like I'm supposed to, is a function of so many things. I got my blood-pressure meds doubled a few weeks ago, I think it's affected my thinking. Gonna talk with the doc this week about it. My passions are muted, modulated. I've been on a short bout or two of anti-depressants over the years, this is not like that.

I'm not wanting to complain, really, it's more a matter of documentation. Don't need to call me with awkward conversation. I'll do better, next time. I've got great friends and family, and I'm talking with them. I had a serendipitous phone conversation with one of you, this week, that still resonates in my heart. Nick, the warmth of your fires, lately, have been both nostalgic and inspiring to me. The realization that some of my scars, while still sore to the touch, have healed some. Keep those fires burning. Tom, your consistency, through your book and music reviews, even - I baffle at my attempts to understand how you manage your time, frankly. I could sure use a conversation with you, about now.

We got the tree today. The lights on the house, that I left up all year, came on last night. Most of them. Christmas is coming a little late this year, and it's already shaping up into a less-than-stellar year. Some years you can just feel it. "People make too much of Christmas, sometimes", Garrison Kiellor just said in the background on the radio ("A Prairie Home Companion", a radio show for those of you across the pond). I don't think I'll be making too much of it, this year. Nothing wrong with that. Maybe it'll kick in a few days before, I won't fight it, but it will be alright if it doesn't. I've had worse ones, for sure.

Sorry, no Dave Barry wackiness this time, no gravitas. Just me. Kinda disturbed. Some good, some bad. Bittersweet.

The TV Generation

 

About 45 years ago, give or take a day, is when my memory begins. I remember the black & white TV, on the wire rack stand with the plastic clear wheels, bringing the images of Walter Cronkite, a caisson, a horse with the boots backward in the stirrups, and a little boy, about my age, saluting. I remember realizing that it was very sad. For all that this event has done and meant to the collective consciousness and memory of this nation, it is that benchmark for me.

The fortunes of JFK's memory, from incredible American Hero and martyr to womanizing drug-abusing power-monger to the eventual accommodation that he was all of these things has mirrored my childhood, adolescence, adulthood, including my "middle-age" sensibility whereupon it is indeed possible for one to be all of these things at once, given enough money, power, and opportunity. Was George Washington, who could never tell a lie, also a wildly successful land speculator who rebelled against the government's efforts to limit his holdings? Yep. Is it possible for a leader to have a vision and mission for a nation/group that flies in stark contrast to their own secret desires, flaws, and appetites? Apparently so, it seems to happen all of the time. Does the power corrupt, or is it exactly this quality of capabilities, ambitions, and impulses inherent in these individuals that brings them to these roles?  Nature/nurture/chicken/egg?  Why do painful childhoods produce stand-up comedians? Why do we park in a driveway and drive on a parkway? Questions for the ages, I suppose.

I have been shaped by the media. There is a CRT or LCD in 5 of the 7 main rooms of my home. My particular background was one where television was regarded with some conflicting emotions and attitudes - awe at the shrinking nature of the world and the growing speed of information, suspicion of the moral impact of such a device into what had, up until then, been the safe moral harbor of the home. There were only a few channels then, too, and the days of JFK were still run by an elite group of old-school newsmen and network heads who had ethical standards that they embodied by their control of the airwaves. The personal lives of public personalities were crafted, accepted, and the realities were off-limits. It was a matter of respect, to some degree, for how we wanted to be as a culture. Today, the results of the abuse of that respect - Vietnam, Watergate, Iran-Contra - pick your poison - along with the explosion of media outlets (including this one) mean that we are all "on", nearly all of the time. I see no need to Twitter, but people do. My workplace is becoming increasingly covered by cameras, and employees and equipment wear badges that pinpoint their presence in the building. I am monitored - for various reasons - when I watch TV via my cable box, when I surf the Internet, when I purchase goods with 'club' cards, etc. etc. etc. I fully anticipate - and sometimes welcome the thought, what with all of the user names and passwords I almost manage - an RFID implant that would provide me with coordinated access to all of the things I now access. I began to leave a trail of minutiae on the Internet that I'm told will last for generations, or until the next great electromagnetic pulse that comes either from outside or off the surface of the planet. We've been provided with many different sets of privileges and responsibilities. Like that 'idiot box', the reality brings awe and fear at the same time.

What's my point? I don't really know, it's just what I've been thinking on this anniversary. Just as my Grandfather saw life go from horses and outhouses to a Lunar Landing and toilets with warm water jets, I'm not sure what's in store for the rest of mine, but I know where it began. It was TV.

Coming of Age

I am not known for the quality of my memory. I do remember the night when Samuel was born, 12 years ago, yesterday. The doctor saying, "You've got a towhead, there! His first cries. My first words: "Hello, Buddy!" Walking out into the air, about 2 or so in the morning, looking up at the stars, and feeling the earth shifting under my feet, and the distinct realization that everything had changed. The pediatrician, eying him for the first time, saying "You've got a week-old baby there." Yeah, he was late. I can't say that I blame him. He's always known a good thing when he sees it.

Samuel means "God Heard." He was an answer to prayer, the culmination of so many complex threads and events that had proceeded him. We weave those threads, good and bad, on a daily basis, some on purpose, some without our desire and even control. Samuel was, and is, our best declaration that life was worth living and investing in. The process of enabling Samuel laid the groundwork for what was to follow.

I used to joke, before I had them, that parents got the children that they deserved. It, of course, is not up to any of us to make that judgement, but we sure deserved Samuel. Through the alchemy of nature and nurture, he is that mixture of what we are, are not, and what we want to be.

Sam is sharp. He is funny - he has to be to survive around his dad. My biggest problem with him has been that, because he's so smart, he's had to endure more than his share of my sarcasm - and I've had to be reminded, time and again, that he's still a boy. A 5 foot-6 boy whose nearly-adult voice made me shudder when I spoke with him on the telephone the other day. He's terrific at math - he has to get that from his Mother. He, without my knowledge or approval, chose to play the cello. I approve, it just, well, startled me (it was my first instrument of choice). I can't play computer games against him, because he embarrasses me in front of his friends. I suppose I deserve that. He has an incredible imagination and can write stunningly descriptive fiction. He is compassionate, and he both sees and steps up to help those in need. He loves his sister, through all of the complications that she presents to his daily life. He's had to learn some things that many never will. He has my ultimate respect for these things.

There's still a lot for all four of us to do, and I've been struck with the growing sense of our time getting shorter to do the best that I can do. We both need to work together to make some stuff happen, and it's not going to be easy. Teendom, here we come.

I love you, Samuel. I hope someday you can know the joy that you've brought me.

Happy Birthday, Son.

Sam's 12 from Jeff Goble on Vimeo

States of Grace

I haven't been writing much. One of the reasons is that I've been reading Roger Ebert's Journal.  Through his physical travails, including the inability to speak, his writing, particularly the creation of his blog, has become quite phenomenal. It's the purification born of the refiner's fire. For me and writing, however, it's been like coming home from a Peter Gabriel concert- I can't entertain the thought of playing my  bass for quite a while afterward. Tinny, out of shape, incompetent in the face of greatness.

Another reason for my absence has been to resist the temptation to say something stupid about our recent 'troubles' , er, I mean, election. There was enough of that available for you, already. The comments made about Senator McCain's concession speech, though, was the catalyst for this essay. Several commented on how "gracious" it was - and it was. It has been my sad experience that many of these great men who are in public service seem only able to exercise this grace in private, or at the end of political campaigns. The process seems to make it impossible. Most of the Presidents in my memory have been smarter and of more value to me after their terms were completed. They were no longer posturing, they were able to fully speak their minds and display wisdom that was somehow obscured by their office, the need to skew and spin, or the Machiavellian machinists that seem to gravitate to the power of the office. That's a whole other kettle of fish. 

I began to think about Grace (with a capital "G"). I began to seek it, a bit more than usual.

This one was easy, it happened yesterday, in an instant. Walking in the hallway at work, running into Sister Leonita ('gracious' is not the first term I think of in terms of all of the Sisters of Mercy that I've met, but Sr. Leonita embodies it), we're going the same direction. There's a patient in a wheelchair moving ahead of us, slows us both down a bit, just the normal traffic, you know. Sister says hello to him, asks where he's going, and then says, "Can I help push you there?" Sister Leonita is about 5 foot 3, her age a Mediterranean mystery. Patient agrees, and they head off. I think, suddenly, that I should have thought of that; stupid galoot. Sister Leonita's grace surpasses her vows and job description, it is part of who she is.

Grace is always extended, offered, presented. Unlike trust, it does not exist on a two-way street - there's no implied contract. It exists without a requirement for reciprocation. It is the result of the law of sowing and reaping, a by-product of a previous investment. Graciousness, at least as far as I've been able to think about it, always comes from Gratitude. The cost to the one being gracious, while sometimes difficult, comes from the heart, which, by nature, gives in the knowledge that love is its reason for being, and is rewarded by the act itself. Grace, then, is not tentative, it is self-confident. Grace is a manifestation of Love. It is why Grace is recognized "under fire". I am able to be gracious when I have something to give, realize it, and offer it to you without qualification.

I guess what I've been thinking about, too, is when I and others aren't gracious. It's boiling down to selfishness, mostly, I suppose, the antithesis of grace. There's more to it, I'm sure; I haven't been googling "Grace" or seeking theological tomes on the subject, it's mere rumination on my part (and yes, I intend the analogy of turning it over and again in my gut, thank you). It's the realization part, the awareness aspect that's been gnawing at me. I'm sometimes not aware of an opportunity to be gracious, sometimes, like the example above, it's not realized until the opportunity has passed, and, at still other times, there's awareness, opportunity, and selfishness intervenes to prevent the flow of what should be. I am less apt to be gracious when I am at my worst - tired, frustrated, etc. - which means that Grace is also a product of the self-discipline of awareness, of taking care of oneself, of being able to do the right thing because you already are. Grown-uppedness. Grace is, then, a quality of a certain maturity, although my children offer it to me on a regular basis.

Grace is a particularly appropriate subject to be on one's mind in the runup to Thanksgiving (yes, even those of you across the pond who may not have a formal day for it in November). Maybe that's why Thanksgiving comes before Christmas, on the calendar, not after. I'm not being theological for a reason. The Grace of God is not separate from this discussion, it's just too huge for this little essay.

My daughter (and in this way opens the door to so many mind-boggling ways to portray who the rest of us really are) exists in a constant state of Grace. Provision is made for her every need, and her responsibilities are few. She does not know what she needs, she thinks she knows what she wants, and pitches quite a fit when her agenda doesn't match the greater one. She's quite unaware of the dangers that surround her, and disregards the warnings and barriers put between her and those dangers. She often has no understanding of the efforts on her behalf to educate and make her life better. Her awareness of concepts of time, love, what it means to be happy, exist in different dimensions of comprehension than mine. The result of our extension of that grace to her, through responsibility borne of love, brings a happiness and joy to us that is boundless and indescribable.

Emma has brought me more enlightenment on the nature of God, I think, than anyone or anything. Just a note, there.

I have existed in many states of Grace. Most of you that come to mind that might read this have extended that Grace to me in many ways, shapes and forms, even if that just means reading this. Thank you.

Our lives are really all "grace periods", from beginning to end. Here's to sharing it more often than not.

We're on the 'een of Destruction

  Here they are, the Hippy and the Princess

We had a rather pleasant end to a pretty stressful week. Sam went Trick-or-Treating with Ryan, from across the street, and we went around the block with Emma - she dutifully walks to the front door, holds open her bag, says "Haiee" and "Baiee", and, while she enjoys this bizarre annual ritual, I don't think she's particularly jazzed about the whole thing. Dressing up, of course, is the best part, and Nana crafted the lovely costume for this year's festivities. We came home with Emma, she sorted through her candy, and even gave Mom & Dad some, and Sam called from Ryan's to let us know that they were hanging out there, for a while. Sam's voice, particularly over the phone, is surprising me these days. Testosterone.

There were even less decorations, and less lights on in the neighborhood. I think that there are a lot of reasons for this, and it may be just the particular niche that I live in. I know that my parents have run out of candy (yes, Dad goes and gets more!) in recent years at their house. I think that next year we may have to seek our amusement elsewhere. That, in itself, is one of the reasons. . .

Fall in

Everyone seems to be busy. I don't know if it's the new fiscal year for most businesses, don't know if it's the lack of holidays, the impending holidays, but this has always appeared to me to be a time of year where people just buckle down and get stuff done. One of the driving forces of my occupation is the preventive maintenance work order (PM). Equipment - emergency generators to exit signs - is inspected, cleaned, repaired if necessary on a schedule determined by a combination of government regulation, manufacturer's recommendation, and experience. Mostly, any more, by government regulation. For reasons heretofore unexplained, we have a lot more PM's in October than most months. Last week, the fire inspector came to visit, always a means to job security and opportunities to improve. This week, we've had 22 government inspectors combing the building, looking for whatever they can find. Did you know that, in a hospital, there are regulations stipulating the number, height and distance from other objects for hand sanitizer dispensers? Glove boxes? Sharps containers? Hospital patient room walls are crowded places. Regulators (read bureaucrats with clipboards) will sometimes overlook utility for an arbitrary standard. But, I digress.
These inspections are good, they can find sometimes obvious things that we miss because they look at things with different eyes. What's not good is the tizzy that it seems to send many people into. It makes for a stressful day.
Anyway, it's been busy.

I look at the pictures we have from our trip, and of course want to explain each one, and before you know it an hour has gone by, no decisions are made, and there's a huge slide show forming in my head, with parallel thoughts of slideshows I've sat through. Sat through one, once, where the photographer had, for each shot, taken a 'portrait' and a 'landscape' version, and eagerly displayed each and every one for us. "Groundhog Day" - in slides. Over three hours.

So here's one from Sunday evening. I don't know if you've ever seen rain off in the distance, in the desert, but you can see it here, in the lower right part of the picture. Now, it's about 85 degrees or so, it's sunny where we're standing, there's a wind picking up, and you can smell the rain coming. About 45 minutes or so after this was taken (wasn't wearing a watch, on purpose!), we got some strong winds - had to redo one of the mooring lines - and about 10 minutes of big, fat raindrops, then it blew by us. At one point, there were 2 rainbows.

Only 335 days to go.

For all my blogger buddies, yeah, I miss you, too.

Blog Awards - Curmudgeon Alert

There are blogs, and then there are blogs. The range of reasons for self-publishing are as varied as there are publishers.

Thank you. The End.

Of course not. Just felt like doing that. It's my blog.

Once it's out there, you can promote your blog, get "discovered", get famous, I suppose, sometimes, make some money, maybe, and or/just feel good about yourself. You can cross-reference, cross-link, crossover and a host of terms that I'm sure I'd misuse and misconstrue into next Tuesday. Not my thing, at least not with this little adventure. More on that, in a bit.

Then there are the awards. There are industry awards, entertainment awards, awards for design, content, unique visitors, Megagiggles transmitted, etc. etc. ad nauseum. There's probably a Blogger Magazine being printed.

My online community is very much like my real life. Wow, go figure -  it is a pretty good chunk of my real life. I occasionally make a pretty good friend. Often that brings me into contact with their wider 'circle', and that's where my lack of social skills begin to show. It's just happened.

There's a type of award that, while I'm sure it's well-meaning, makes me squirm. It's a social thing. I'll try to explain - I want to explain because I've 'gotten' a couple of them recently, and I haven't pasted them here, and I want to explain why to my benefactors.

The award consists of a cute graphic, and/or a particular term, like "Rainbow Writer Award" or "Best Barney Blogger" (I have received neither of these). The award is given to you, with all sincerity by a regular reader. Unfortunately, it doesn't end there. It comes with stipulations. In every case I've seen, one must:

1. Provide a link to the creator of the award.
2. Bestow the award upon several others.

It's an electronic chain letter, and its' primary purpose is to promote the award's creator under the guise of mutual appreciation. It's like those letters that one gets (or I used to get) from the Oxford Official Listing of Who's Who in American Business/Young Up-and-Comers/<insert your career>Movers and Shakers. You can obtain this wondrous volume (be sure and buy 7 copies for your office, extended family and business contacts) for only $49.99 plus shipping and handling. From Oxford, Minnesota, of course. The listing sells the listing, profits only the publisher. That's not entirely true here, but it impresses me in the same manner.
I suppose that I might feel differently if I knew these award creators, but, since I do not, the whole exercise impresses me as 'cheesy'.  Congratulations! Now link to my blog and send this award to 7 other people. Get to work!

I know that my online friends have given me these awards with the best of intentions, and to you all I want to express both my thanks and mutual admiration.

Thank you, Yankee.

Thank you, NanP.

Thank you, Nick (sorta).

I would hope that you knew that, already, being my pals and all. I vow to go into my blog template soon and make sure that I'm displaying a link to your blog - that's a real award, to me - giving you space on my space, as it were.

So. A simple gesture sent my way turns into an internal Auto de fe. Welcome to my world.

I write here to:

• Record the things that are important in my life, for now and later
• Share that with family and friends
• Practice Writing
• Hopefully help (and subsequently receive help, thank you) from those in similar circumstances/places in this journey
• Strengthen my Relationships with all of the above.

So, thank you, but no thank you. I hope, if I hurt your feelings, that you'll forgive me. When my blog becomes syndicated, I promise to send a car round to pick you up for dinner when I come through your part of the world on my promotional tour. It's the least I could do. Well, not quite, but close.