Wednesday, April 30, 2014

Epiphany #28: I Get A Shiver In My Bones Just Thinkin'...

About the weather.

It is true that I live in a city where it is notoriously difficult to predict the weather.  Chattanooga's mountains can act like Moses parting the Red Sea, sending the weather we were supposed to get to the North and South of us, so this is not some criticism, some pile-on of our hapless local weather people who must feel like the gods are toying with them.  This is just an observation.

No one has gotten the weather right for the entire (so far ) calendar year of 2014.  When I reflect on the significant weather events, like snows or storms, none of them have played out the way that they were supposed to.  Some caught us completely by surprise.  Some were so underwhelming that we almost found ourselves irritated that they didn't happen.

But it isn't our local folks who are befuddled; it's everyone.  Even as The Weather Channel has built a kind of "weather monopoly," a stranglehold on "the bad stuff ahead," their empire has only succeeded in making them look somewhat foolish.  At least around here.

The Weather Channel traffics in fear.  The more afraid we are, the more we watch to find out what we should be afraid of.  But if you watched them ahead of the onset of their litany of now-named winter storms, as often as not, their warnings turned out to be overblown and shrill.  Not that it's a bad thing to take precautions, but if you want to be taken seriously, those precautions need to pay off sometimes.

In this neck of the woods, though, the 10-day forecast is a complete joke.  Five days ahead feels like a horoscope, where enough general predictions mean that something has to come true.  Tomorrow is a coin toss.  And, because I'm writing this based on today, what The Weather Channel and local weather persons had to say this morning didn't turn out to be true for this afternoon, which throws the whole technology into doubt.

In the last few days, the first big storm didn't turn out to be more than heavy rain; the second big storm didn't happen at all, and, then, the eventual clearing took a lot longer to get here than what we were told.  Even hours earlier.

This is not the first time. This is the whole year.  And in an area that was rocked by tornadoes just a couple of years ago, hyperbolic predictions are dangerous, because we will get complacent when we should actually be scared.

Again, though, no blame.  My worry is much grander.  I have this nagging, increasing fear that the weather can no longer be predicted with any accuracy because we have screwed up the environment so badly that models and statistics are already becoming obsolete.  What has happened in the past seems not to apply to what might happen tomorrow, based on today.

I know that's alarmist thinking, and maybe no better than The Weather Channel.  Except that I have no market share to worry about and no statistical expertise to rely on.  All I know is that time and time again for at least the past five months, weather predictions have gotten it so badly wrong as to be completely worthless, and I wonder if the same alarm bells I hear are ringing in places that do weather for a living but that can't, for reasons both economic and societal, admit to us that they have no idea what is going on.

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

Epiphany #27: Snort Fort

Your mom snores.  But let's not fight about it.  I haven't heard her; I just know.

You snore, too.  Your precious child snores. Your lover snores.  Everybody snores.  Even your dog.

You snore on your back.  You snore on your side.  You snore (more) if you drink.  You snore if you don't.  No matter how ladylike or urbane you may be during the day, at night you are an unbridled Appaloosa galloping on the sand of Snore Lagoon.

The great myth of sleeping is the notion that some of us are snorers and some of us are not.  The only ones who are not snorers are those of us who are awake listening to someone else(s) snore.  They are the lucky ones, deep in dream and rhythm, while we lie in torment.

And if you aren't a snorer now, you will be sometime soon.  It is the natural night state of man.  And Woman.  Sometimes especially woman.

Last weekend, on a "guy trip" I was in a room with two other men.  In my moments of awareness, I listened to their duet--the deep bassoon coming from the far bed, the terrier snores of the man beside me.  At times, one soloed when the other came to the surface.  In the morning, when I told them about, one described in return how the other two of us were doing the same thing.

Truth is, we all snored.

There are exceptions, of course:

1.  Those who have medical devices and nose strips to help them sleep.
2. Those who live in perfectly-hydrated rain forest-like environs where the air is too moist to allow for friction in the nasal passages and throat.
3.  Those light sleepers who never get deep enough to really get that log-sawing sleep breathing going.

I don't really mind snoring much, except when I do.  Maybe the kind of apnea snoring is a bit troubling, when you wonder if the person is going to take another breath, but most times, if I'm not under some immense stress, I don't mind listening to the rhythm for awhile.  I can always roll over or block it with blankets if I have to.

What I do mind is that we have been made to feel, by advertising I'd say, that snoring is a source of shame, that a reflex action when we are completely unconscious is something we should be able to control or plan for or be considerate about.  Me, I say it's a two-way street.  Maybe snoring isn't the problem.  Maybe it's what ridiculously light sleepers some of us are.  That some of us can't settle our souls to go to the land down under cannot be healthy.

So let's quit pretending that there are couples out there who spend their nights in quiet, non-disturbing R.E.M. sleep, no snorts or submarine noises or little farts escaping from either of them.  Sleep is a recovery from a tiring day.  There's going to be some noise when we crawl through the wreckage.

Thursday, April 24, 2014

The Way We Mourn

This week, Death huffed and puffed and blew our little community down. A longtime school leader passed -- Bob wrote about it -- and a more incomprehensible level of tragedy befell a family as two small children and their grandmother died in a freakish accident.

Because it's 2014, these events transformed my Facebook, Twitter and Instagram accounts into modern Wailing Walls.

My high school classmates and friends, current students and young alums, coworkers and colleagues, hundreds of people in my circle took to social media and did at least one, and often several, of the following:
  • changed their profile pictures to show a sort of solidarity in mourning
  • posted pictures of themselves with the deceased
  • posted expressions of sympathy to the walls of the surviving family members
  • quoted Bible verses about grace or grief or the comfort of God's presence
  • mentioned that they were praying for specific people by name
The whole thing gives me hives.

What I see when I see this outward and very public outpouring on social media is a dangerous dance with a softer kind of narcissism that has infected most of our culture to one level or another, myself most certainly included.

What I see is one person after another trying to prove how close they were to the deceased, providing evidence to their world of friends and followers just how much pain and sadness they deserve to feel.

What I see is people desperate to turn tragedy into a Statement, often personal, sometimes religious, almost always more about the person making the Statement than about the person who died.

This is not a criticism of "them." It is a criticism of me. So, if you're reading this and have done or do any of these things, please trust that I'm not writing this to tell you you're wrong in doing these things. I'm writing because I do not understand them. Mourning is increasingly a Shared and Liked experience. The way we mourn as a society is adapting to new technologies, and I am not.

My daughters will gleefully tell you how pathetically soft I am. I cry. Quite easily, in fact. So it's not that I'm afraid to cry, or uncomfortable doing so. But I grew up in a family where the most painful emotions were the most precious of possessions.

Happiness? Joy? Fun? Playfulness? These are inexpensive trinkets. They are the gifts you can give to strangers and loved ones alike. They cost you so little of your soul, but they can brighten entire rooms, whole crowds of people.

But sorrow? Pain? Confusion? The feeling of being a tiny sailboat tossed in a tempest of emotions that your mind and heart can't manage? The sense of needing to get something out of you but not knowing exactly what it is or how to extract it? The feeling that tears are, ultimately, an expression of something much worse that is pushing itself out of your body in the tiniest of increments, drop by drop?

These feelings are mine, dammit, and they are giant squeaky-clean windows into my soul, into the darkest and most secretive corners. I hoard them like I would a winning Powerball ticket, like I would my first love letter from the girl in fifth grade.

I can think of no compliment I can pay a friend or loved one than being able to expose this rawness, these gaping wounds of my emotional core, to them. If I have cried in your presence -- not about E.T. touching Elliot's heart or Grug telling his daughter he loves her before preparing to sacrifice his life for his family's, but about the real pain of my real life in the real now -- it is the equivalent of claiming you as my blood brother or sister. I am cutting myself open and asking you not to shy away from the blood.

To write this out, and then to act like my way of mourning is somehow better, or superior, is foolishness. It’s insanity. Not only does my way of managing it seem, at a bare minimum, psychologically unhealthy, but it also seems every bit as self-involved and egotistical as the acts of those who bleed their hearts onto a status update.

Is there a right way to mourn? Is there some yellow brick road we are all supposed to tread when tragedy attacks us, leaving us with anything from a skinned knee to a weeklong stint in the ER to a paralysis that can freeze us for months or even years?

No. There’s only mourning in ways we know, in ways we’ve seen, in ways we believe or hope can cut us a path through the forest and back into some sunlight.

Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Epiphany #26: One Wedding And A Funeral

A funny thing happened nearly two years ago: the headmaster at our sister school and I joined in holy matrimony.  Well, not really, but because his wife's sister's daughter was marrying my wife's mother's brother's grandson, we found ourselves on the fringes of two families merged in marriage.

The wedding in Jacksonville was a fun affair.  I wrote about it in these pages.  And the headmaster and I, acquaintances at best for decades, found ourselves enjoying an extended chat over drinks at rehearsal dinners and receptions.  He knew at that time that his career was winding down, and, he talked to me of a simpler life after running a school.  He imagined himself teaching a couple of history classes at our school, and not much more.

Life doesn't wind down that way, and instead, after a messy ending at our sister school, he accepted an interim position up the road.  And, it is speculated, he was headed to another interim interview when his car went off the road and he died a couple of days ago.

Less than two years ago, I sat with him at a rehearsal dinner.  Tomorrow, I will sit at his funeral.

So I feel the connection, I feel the sadness, I feel the loss in ways that I might not have, in ways that I might not have wanted to.  Is it not one of the great strangenesses of life, one of the great beauties of life , that we cannot predict the connections that will come that were never expected, that never seemed possible, that make us laugh aloud sometimes at the impossibilities of our daily dealings?

I stumbled upon a Neil Young video today.  He was stalking the stage, giving a lead-in to playing Phil Ochs' "Changes,"and he was saying, "Life is short.  We all know that."  He was talking about Och's suicide and how Pete Seeger wished he had done something to stop it.  He was talking about how he had someone contact him and he tried and tried to return contact (through other people, because that's what musicians do) but that he was never able to get through and so a fellow musician (Kurt Cobain, I assume) also killed himself.  Young had no regrets.  As he says in another song, "Tried to do his best/ But he could not."

So we face another death this week. But not with regret.  The man who has died had always treated me and my family (both daughters attended his school) with respect.  I like to think that we treated him with equivalent respect.

The best we can do sometimes seems like not enough, sometimes seems irrelevant, meaningless.  Is it too ridiculous to say that treating someone decently while he is alive is enough, is all?  Is it self-serving and excusing simply to be able to say that, when circumstances threw us together, we enjoyed each other's company?

Weddings and funerals both tend to distill something within us.  Our extreme joy and our extreme grief come out at these times, and we "enjoy" a heightened understanding, oddly, in both circumstances, that life is indeed short.  For before anyone enjoys his or her first glass of wedding champagne or bite of wedding cake, everyone present must acknowledge that death will part us, all of us.

There isn't much during the daily grind that reminds us of that.  And so, I would say, for everyone within earshot, tomorrow is an important day.  It is the day that reminds us why we make every effort that we deem worth making and those that we must be pushed into making--the smallest friendship gesture of taking food across the street and the decision to go see a Bruce Springsteen this weekend, who is rocking at fever pitch against his own mortality.

We celebrate a life tomorrow.  Or lives, really.  His and ours.  Without apology, it shouldn't be any other way.

Wednesday, April 16, 2014


“You can get killed walking your doggie.” -- Heat

A day like any other in a tiny town in Georgia. Early spring morning, brisk and damp from an evening rain, but beautiful. The sun was just beginning to reveal itself on the horizon. The town elementary school was bustling and hectic as usual, busses and cars funneling in and out to drop off children for another routine day.

In an instant, the day was anything but routine, everything but normal.

A bus driver edges closes the bus door and edges forward to depart but does not see, below the line of sight, a 6-year-old boy standing, or walking slowly, in front of the bus. The child was killed instantly. Or we at least pray he was.

The nightmare has been reported all over our local news. Bloodthirsty idiots rushed to offer their opinions of the bus driver and everyone else remotely connected to the tragedy almost before the boy's body has been covered up, because why feel sad when you can have your own personal Jules "And you'll know my name is The Lord when I lay down my vengeance upon you!" moment thanks to social media and commenteratzi.

As quick as a lightning strike, a school, a community is struck. The hearts of two parents are torn like tissue. Adults hundreds of miles away feel a surge of panic over the uncontrollable fragility of life.


The word is verboten in the 21st century. We, being irrational control freaks, spoiled into believing all accidents can be prevented, cannot accept that a beloved boy could be killed in such a way without finding someone or someone's to blame. We'll seek to enact laws requiring front mirrors or front cameras on all buses. Because no one deserves this, and no amount of money should be spared to prevent it from happening again, as if we can litigate and legislate ourselves beyond our own mortality, beyond the mortality of those we love.

Experts are desperate to swing back the parenting pendulum, which has - we can only pray - reached its peak when it comes to children being micromanaged, controlled, manipulated, and scheduled. Today's children are delicate fragile flowers, except that flowers need dirt, and children can't even touch a doorknob without being doused in anti-bacterial wash.

"You're right. You're right. I know you're right." -- When Harry Met Sally

This is the line repeated time and again by Carrie Fisher's neurotic singleton. It can be loosely translated into "I do not have the strength of will or conviction stop myself from doing the moronic things I know I shouldn't do." That's what we are, as a modern parenting culture.

I know this because, even as we are deluged with articles in The Atlantic and other news outlets about grit, resilience, the perils of overprotection, the benefits of a (sometimes) unstructured and unsupervised childhood, we read about families who are raising their children on boats on the ocean and throw stones at them for placing their children's lives at risk for such folly. How dare they, right?

At 7 a.m. on a regular Monday, a boy was killed in front of his school during a routine start to the day. The parents, the driver, the school? None of them did anything wrong. It was an accident.

Perhaps, instead of taking this moment as an opportunity to judge anyone who could be complicit, who could have failed in this moment, we should embrace how much we take for granted all those regular boring routines performed hundreds or thousands of times every year that result in absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. We should be grateful for how often everything goes just the way we expect.

We've fooled ourselves into believing bad things only happen to stupid or careless people. Bad things happen, period. ("You're right. You're right. I know you're right.")

And maybe we should go easy on the families that choose to raise their children on the "treacherous" "dangerous" "deadly" open water, or other parents who choose many roads less traveled but chosen in the loving and committed interests of their children.

You can get killed walking your doggie.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Flash Gordon Kicks John Carter's White Martian Butt

John Carter, the epic failure of a movie you likely never saw, the movie that blipped in and out of theaters faster than you can say “After Earth,” is Flash Gordon for the 21st Century. This is neither pure compliment nor pure insult. It is the Flash Gordon we deserve.

John Carter, the original character, is technically Flash Gordon’s senior by 22 years. Edgar Rice Burroughs gave birth to Carter in 1912, while Flash first arrived in the early ‘30s. Surely Gordon is a derivative of Carter. In fact, from what I’ve been told by more than one sci-fi nerd, most great science fiction -- in writing, in comic books, in moving pictures -- owes ERB immeasurably for the universe he so deftly imagined a planet away in the young years of the 20th Century.

Being a trailblazer doesn’t always age well, however. George Lucas cited both John Carter and Flash Gordon as key influences for his Star Wars mythology. But for my generation and those following, we see John Carter and Flash Gordon up on the movie screen and only see how much the movies have been influenced by Star Wars.

Or, to put it another way, Edgar Rice Burroughs and Lucas are in a saber duel, and Lucas says, “When I left you, I was but the learner. Now I am the master.” To be fair, when Lucas tried recreating the magic with his prequels, the tide had passed him by.

I was only eight when the Flash Gordon movie hit theaters, and it arrived at the perfect time in my town, as my friends and I had honed ourselves on a full year of campy Batman reruns after school on one of the local channels. The movie, like the Batman TV show, perfect Camp Seriousness, that mystical gray area between something so hokey it cannot be taken seriously, and something unhealthily committed to Seriosity. Prince Voltan, the winged viking brute and perhaps the most beloved character in the film, is the Jimmy Fallon of the set, regularly cracking up at the insane hilarity of it all.

Yet. When Flash sticks his hand into the tree trunk in the thrilling game of death with Prince Baron, and when the two of them duel again on the spinning rotating spikey wheel of fortune, those who love the film find ourselves taking those scenes with the utmost intensity. Hokey or not, we really believe life and death is on the line.

Both Flash Gordon and John Carter rely on a suspension of disbelief that is difficult in modern times. We know that Mars cannot sustain life, and certainly not life that looks like Princess Whoseywhatzits. And we know that Topaz cannot possibly fashion a penis-shaped rocket that could possibly take its passengers 15 feet off the surface of the earth, much less into an entirely new dimension or galaxy or wherever the hell Mongo is.

The “tale of the tape” between the films is so terribly misleading.

  • Acting: Slight edge, John Carter
  • Plot: Teensy edge, Flash Gordon
  • Special Effects: Ginormous edge, John Carter

Yet despite being, measure for measure a better film, John Carter will never reach level of cult status of its predecessor, because it can find no campy joy in its pursuit. It expects us to take every moment of what is amusingly and distractingly absurd as sternly serious. Hell, the original trailer for the film played with Peter Gabriel covering Arcade Fire’s “My Body Is A Cage.” That’s not camp, my friends. That’s someone trying to make American Beauty in outer space. With Taylor Kitsch, bless his heart, trying to be Kevin Spacey.

What truly doomed John Carter, making what could have been a modestly enjoyable movie into something tedious, was the film’s nemesis. Instead of Ming, or Darth, or some clear-cut Very Bad Person, John Carter must fight… well, I’m not really sure. Three shape-shifting supernatural demigods whose motives and reasons for trying to puppeteer world domination of the red planet are nebulous, or stupid, or poorly explained. Take your pick.

The #BadGuyProbs don’t stop there, though. Why is one of them just chillin’ out in a cave on earth in the late 1800s? No clue. Why do they pick the biggest tool on Mars (a.k.a. Jimmy McNulty) as their future leader of choice? Because, apparently, he’s a moron and a tool. They behave like emotionally-wrecked versions of the three bad guys from The Matrix, except Agent Smith et al made a lot more sense, at least for a couple of movies.

Meanwhile, reporters live-blog their viewing of Flash Gordon. Flash will save every one of us. He stands for every one of us. John Carter will just save a bunch of Martians.

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Epiphany #25: Who Will Say When It's Time To Go?

There's a bit of a music controversy going on in Internetville.  It's involves the booing of B.B. King.  Seems some insensitives at a St. Louis show took to shouting and booing Mr. King part way into a show to the extent that Mr. King could not understand what they were saying and stopped the music altogether.

It would appear that what they were saying was, however impolitely, "Play some songs!"  Music veterans and aficionados everywhere have, of course, risen to King's defense, basically promoting two schools of thought:

SCHOOL #1:  He's B.B. King.  He's a legend.  You don't boo him.
SCHOOL #2:  You should have known what you were getting into.  This is what a B.B. King show is like.

And by "this," we mean, a show where B.B. plays a song, tells a ton of stories, plays another song, tells more stories and, in this case, leads the audience in a 15-minute singalong of "You Are My Sunshine."  The show in question seems to have been a particularly weak version of an ongoing pattern.

As you might guess from my tone so far, I am in neither of these two camps.  While I am not advocating the booing of a wonderful blues gentleman, I am wondering what is the recourse for an audience that has paid $95 for a music performance and not gotten much in the way of music?  I am wondering, why doesn't someone let Mr. King know that, as The Band once sang, it is time for him to hang up his rock 'n' roll shoes?  I am wondering, what is the obligation of a performer to his or her audience?

If you go to see Neil Young, is it fair to be disappointed that he's decided to play an entire record that you've never heard before?  Yes, disappointed.  But have you gotten your money's worth?  Yes.  If you go to see a post-"Winning!" Charlie Sheen do a combative, rambling, self-serving monologue tour, should you be surprised that you get just that?  Probably not.  If you go to see a blues legend perform, is it fair to assume that he will perform the blues?

I guess that's where it gets sticky.  How many blues?  How many songs?  Is a singalong a fun part of a show, but can it go on too long?

Mr. King is 88.  He is a national musical treasure.  But does that mean that he can do no wrong?  Perhaps more exactly, does that mean that his handlers can do no wrong?  I'm not sure.  But I'm not quite willing to let the B.B. King corporation off the hook for this one.

I hope that I wouldn't boo in that situation.  But I also hope that future audience members at a B.B. King show could be made aware of what they were going to see, that a night with Mr. King would be billed as a a few songs, good stories, audience participation, and a stellar band.

And, I guess, most of all, I wish that some music legends would grant themselves the right to step away from the road and to live last years in a different way.  Even knowing that it is hard for a B.B. King  to stop what he has been doing for almost his entire life, I'd want him to realize that there is a time for all of us to go, to stop, to retire, to end, and that there is nothing wrong with that.   I'd hope that someone close would help him to see that so that the audience would not feel compelled to.

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

First Listen Fallibility

Nobody gets a second chance to make a first impression. Is that true of a song?

The sounds that enter your ears the first time you hear a song are aural mirages. Just like the water you see is a deceiving combination of sunlight and heat, surface flatness and horizon lines, the first time you hear a song, you're rarely listening. You're in the car and yelling at the jackass who cuts you off at the merge. Or you're at your computer and your kid comes up to you and wants some water.

When it's not an environmental distraction, it's a mental or emotional one. We're pissed off at our coworker, or sad about the show we just watched, or distracted by the spat we just had with our spouse, or euphoric from news that our friend is in remission or got a new job. Or maybe we're just reading a magazine or frying an egg.

Even when you're listening intensely and intentionally, it can never be just you and a song. Few of us, especially adults, get the chance to approach a song tabula rasa. Ergo, replay.

Our connection with music is rarely about one night stands. If our bodies react physiologically to that moment when a song kisses our ear, licks our earlobe and whispers sweet nothings, then we'll by God find a way to meet that song again. We'll hunt it down and pay good money if we have to.

While we are not musically monogamous, we do seek long-term relationships. We want, as Howard Jones would say, an "Everlasting Love." We need a friend and a lover divine, in sonic form.

While dreamboat supermodel songs do exist, songs that are immediately hot and irresistible, whose charm and personality can survive all challenges for its love and affection, they're the exception. Not every song can be "Thunderstruck."* Most songs don't even want to be that skinny ass ho Rhodes Scholar who thinks she’s all that and a bag o’ chips, know what I'm sayin'?

Two weeks ago in New Orleans, we played a friendly game of "iPod Wars," a game where winning is as subjective as figure skating or Cupcake Wars, where your tastes are in the hands of the other ears in the game.

iPOD WARS RULES: Each participant picks a song. Said song is played for the group, and the group rates it from 1-5. A song must score a 4.0 or above average to make the “finals,” which qualifies it for consideration on a group playlist. Go around the circle until someone passes out or a really hot chick walks by.

One of my opponents-slash-friends in the game played a song. "Hayloft" by Mother Mother. I rated it lower than the other two judges. It was sort of punky-pop catchy and had this annoying love it or hate it repetition going on. "My daddy's got a gun, you better run."

Last week, I got the new Nickel Creek album. Serendipitously, they cover "Hayloft" on the album. It's the most upbeat poppy moment on the whole album. I knew almost instantly when and where I'd heard it before, and the knowing -- just the knowing that I'd heard it, even though I'd been unimpressed -- made me like the song more.

My original score was lower than it should have been, but not due to bias against my opponent. In my musical reality at least half the songs I truly love, my “5-star songs” -- 465 and counting, at present -- weren’t beloved on first listen. I’m guessing half would have earned no more than 3 stars. Mediocre song.

On my iPod or in my iTunes, I don’t even rate songs from my “All New” playlist until I’m ready to remove them from the list, which usually takes five or six months. Judging one too early is dangerous.

So, while I enjoyed iPod Wars, the game inevitably leads to inferior CD mixes, right? In large part due to our inevitably flawed participation, our inability to see greatness in a song until its fourth or fifth or 20th replay.

* -- I only chose “Thunderstruck” as an excuse to embed this most awesome of covers below by 2Cellos. Enjoy or be ashamed of yourself.

Monday, April 7, 2014

Epiphany #24: The Creation Of A Liberal, Part 1

Lately, I've been trying to figure out how and why I became a liberal.

And, to be clear, I am liberal first, Democrat second, since the Democratic candidate more often reflects more of my positions.

The question came to me because a former student, presumably for a paper/project he's writing for college, asked me about my memories of growing up during the Vietnam War.  Here are some of the things I remembered, with a little mental prodding:

--one student in 7th grade getting in trouble for wearing a black arm band for a day called Moratorium.  I didn't even know what the word meant.
--the long-haired kids who smoked, etc. refusing to stand up for the Pledge of Allegiance in homeroom each morning and the tension that created.  I stood up.
--the placing of a Humphrey bumper sticker on my notebook because it was the closest political headquarters to my house and, succumbing to peer pressure, my altering the stick to read "I'm not for HUMPHREY, are you?

I grew up in various suburbs around white people, with the only particular diversity being neither racial nor socio-economic, but religious and ethnic.  These were well-to-do places to live, upper middle class, most likely, and quite conservative.  I didn't especially know that, however, having no particular politics of my own.

But by 1976, when I was in the first batch of Americans allowed to vote in their teens due to the lowering of the voting age, I voted for Mo Udall in the primary and Jimmy Carter in the general election, and off I went.  So by then, I had been turned.

My own home voted for Nixon in 1960 against Kennedy; I don't know about 1964 or after, but here's maybe a clue--I'm not sure that my parents, or at least my father, voted all that often.  Maybe not at all.  And somehow, maybe the fact that he or they (my mother likely following his lead on this) couldn't find either candidate worth voting for was the crack that opened the door to my political understanding.

My father's parents lived about an hour from us, and they were reclusive types who only ventured from their small, western Pennsylvania town to spend a holiday with us a couple of times a year.  Mostly, we went there, a dreadful proposition for a boy between the ages of 10 and 18, when all of the political turmoil and unrest was going on.  For they not only didn't venture out of their town, they also did not venture outside their house, and a visit there consisted of a bland supper followed by everyone sitting in the darkened living room (a concession to my grandmother's untreated cataracts) talking about politics and society.

And maybe there was a clue there, too.  For while many of my grandfather's positions could easily be branded as "racist" (my grandmother was French and never realized that All In The Family was ironic), they pointed towards improving the race as a stereotypical whole, not holding it back, although my grandfather also liked to say that what he liked about France so much (he met my grandmother there during WW1) was that "wherever you went, everyone you met was a Frenchman."  Except him, of course.  Xenophobia meets....

My grandparents also distrusted the government.  Their issues ranged from education to food, and they were the first "health nuts" I ever knew, preaching pure foods and no chemicals and vitamins and fresh vegetable and all of that years before GNC even opened their doors.

And so for a boy who didn't spend any time on politics and who wouldn't have known which party his parents stood for without some discussion, the ideas that candidates and policies and social programs and living or working conditions could be better may just have been enough to push me away from those who wanted to maintain the status quo during the upheaval of the 60s.

NEXT:  How rock and roll taught me politics.

Friday, April 4, 2014

Boomer Loser

Boomer Esiason has earned an impressive amount of goodwill because of the work he has done on behalf of cystic fibrosis. He's been one of the leading voices (and wallets) in this fight for a long time, motivated by his son Gunnar's diagnosis more than two decades ago.

But then Boomer comes out and makes the following comments about New York Mets second baseman Daniel Murphy, who took a three-day paternity leave to be with his wife on the birth of their son and missed two Mets games in the process:
“Bottom line, that’s not me,” Esiason said on his morning radio show. “I wouldn’t do that. Quite frankly, I would have said ‘C-section before the season starts. I need to be at Opening Day. I’m sorry, this is what makes our money, this is how we’re going to live our life, this is going to give my child every opportunity to be a success in life.’”
My gut reaction to Esiason's comments was the following illogical conclusion: "Boomer is a douchebag."

And then I came to another worse illogical conclusion: "This is why so many athletes are douchebags."

Yes, a disturbing number of people, including Esiason's co-host and another talk show host on the network later in the day, rushed to agree with Boomer's douchey statement. Yes, I'm certain many a jock or jock sniffer had this or a similar reaction. A-holes are like wolves, and they tend to travel in packs.

But. If I dare give myself a moment's pause (sometimes it takes several hundred moments), I can realize this is all about another athlete who was doing the right thing. And he has athlete friends who support him. More pros now than ever are out there making similar "right" decisions. But taking that pause and gaining that understanding makes it less fun to write about, less fun to complain about.

(Because let's face it, when you're a hero or a goat just for taking three days of paternity leave, we're still in a weird cultural world.)

Such is how the virus of judgment infects us. One fallible human being's insensitivity or imperfection gets exposed in a large-scale way, and other fallible human beings take that moment of fallibility and jump to equally fallible conclusions about that person or about an entire group of people. This, in sad fact, is the entire purpose of most talk radio and many TV "news discussion" shows, to GOTCHA someone.

From Michael Richards to Steven Colbert, comedians are in the same boat as talk show hosts. Their job is, in part, to feed off of controversy. Go where the people are, talk about what the people are talking about. Comedians have an additional charge, being expected to expose hypocrisy or irony or plain imbecility about the human condition.

We expect these people to drive into the eye of the pop-culture or political hurricanes but then eviscerate them if they make a single wrong turn. Hell, even tornado expert Bill Paxton and his crew screwed up quite a number of times chasing those Twisters. Maybe if social media had been around in 1996, we'd have been backseat driving his decisions, too.

If our local paper posts an arrest story on Facebook, the post gets flooded with comments from people that say things like, "Save us the money of a trial and just hang him," or "I hope he gets shivved in prison." Not for a trial. Not even for an indictment. Just because of a freakin' arrest! Lynch mobs come pretty cheap nowadays.

For what it's worth, Boomer Esiason was back on less than 24 hours later apologizing. He was apologizing well before that. When you earn goodwill working with places like March of Dimes and say callous or insensitive stuff about parenting, you're gonna get some calls. Thankfully they called him on the carpet, and thankfully some part of him listened.

Were Boomer's apologies sincere? Was he apologizing because he pissed into the wind and didn't like the blowback, or because he genuinely realized how douchey his statements were? Does it matter? Will we ever really know?

In moments like this, when my frustration rises and my judgmental nature rears its head, I only know I'm better off when I can gather myself for a minute and ask, "What would Patty do?"
I heard somebody say
Today's the day
A big old hurricaine
Is blowing our way
Knocking over the buildings
Killing all the light
Open your eyes, boy, we made it through the night
Let's take a walk on the bridge
Right over this mess
Don't need to tell me a thing, baby
We've already confessed
And I raised my voice to the air
And we were blessed
Everybody needs a little forgiveness

Wednesday, April 2, 2014

Epiphany #23: The Rites Of Spring

Spring is sprung,
The grass is riz,
I wonder where
The birdies is.

--from Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In

It happens all of a sudden, even as it surrounds you, because the signs, the changes, are so small and seemingly slow that the shift from brown to green has some natural tipping point that most of us don't notice, even if we hunger for it.

Having cut my grass twice already and it hasn't even turned green yet (the weeds needed trimming), I can officially declare what the calendar has already confirmed:  Spring is here.  The junk I inhaled into my lungs confirmed it as well--pollen, dust from last year's leaves, and all of the microscopic stuff that is travelling through the air right now.

All around us, we see the rituals and reawakenings taking place, and while many of those rebirths mean a bunch of work as well, especially in the yard, it is good work, gratifying work, and most of us are happy to do it.

But what I like best about Spring is how its arrival ignites the human spirit.  Now that Spring is actually here, it is easy to forget the many ways that we humans try to nudge it along, force it, drag it into being.  When we get tired of winter, when we get Spring on the brain, there isn't much that can stop us from living the dream.  And so we act.

Having been both deep into the South and way up North over Spring Break, I saw various evidences of this, out and about and in my memory:

In New York City, on a brisk, windy day in the 40's, I saw couples sitting at outdoor tables at restaurants, happily eating and enjoying drinks because the sun was out, because it was late March, because the snows have come too many times.  Yes, in some places, there were portable heaters, but in other places there weren't.  It did not seem to matter.

In Chicago, the city imposes laws that dictate how long a restaurant can keep up its outdoor furniture.  According to my brother, who runs a restaurant there, left to their own devices, Chicagoans would be sitting outside as long as the day was decent, or even in down coats if there was just a pale winter sun.

In New Orleans, where Spring probably never comes dramatically because it is almost always warm enough, my friend and I stopped in front of the window boxes and gazed jealously at arrangements of flowers and pots of herbs, anticipating the growing season in our own yards and wishing it were here.

In New Hampshire, when I was in grad school, I remember one winter that it was so cold that on a sunny day when it finally reached 32 degrees, we played touch football outside in short-sleeved shirts.

So forget the dandelions and the sneezes, the picking up and hauling of broken limbs, the dead plants that will need to be dug up, or how your office is always either too hot or too cold in any given day or week.  These are but the creaky, wheezy signs of a world shedding what it no longer needs and making way for the new.  Spring never comes soon enough.

Tuesday, April 1, 2014

Disney Cruise Discoveries #1-3

My wife and children and I recently returned from a four-night Disney Cruise, where we traveled from Florida to the Bahamas and back. Henceforth are a collection of semi-random discoveries inspired by the experience.

Disney Cruises aren’t ideal for adults... but they are very very good for parents

Having arrived on board straight from a stretch of days in New Orleans on the annual Man-odyssey, the first night of scheduled events led me to believe the possibility of wild nights might continue aboard the Disney Magic.

In the "adults only" bar, an evening episode of “Match Your Mate” (copycat of The Newlywed Game) would be followed by a couple hours of music from a DJ and ample space for dancing. My wife, too exhausted from the drive down and recovering from a stomach bug, couldn’t make it, but I wanted to see what this cruise would offer us as a couple, so I went down solo, fully intending to be a casual observer rather than an active participant.

Once the three couples selected to participate in the game show had been removed from the audience, what remained was perhaps two dozen people and half a dozen staffers. The game show itself was quite enjoyable and worthy of a stiff drink. When the game concluded, the host invited everyone out to the floor to dance the night away with some great music, and the crowd promptly stood... and walked right out the door. Dang place emptied faster than Neyland Stadium after a loss to Vanderbilt. Alas, that game show was, easily, the highest-attended adults-only post-10 p.m. event of the whole cruise.

IT was clear the cruise wasn’t built for adults. But it was built for parents. It makes good parents happy, and it covers for bad parents.

First, you have to pay a premium for Wi-Fi, creating more than enough reason to abandon all social media for you and your kids. Right there, you’ve re-opened a door to human connection.

If you’re an attentive parent who craves active time with your child(ren), the options are plentiful. Dance parties and meet-and-greets with the mascots. Broadway-esque musical performances. Pools and arcades, basketball and leisure sports. You can spend as much quality time as you could possibly desire with your precious tots.

However, if you’re the kind of parent who doesn’t derive joy from kid time -- and let’s just admit these types exist and that most of us will never know which kind we are until it’s too late to do anything about it -- you are getting every penny’s worth from a Disney Cruise. You can drop your kid off with the hap hap happiest babysitters in the world after breakfast, and these wonderful young people will entertain your kid and others in their age group through lunch and even dinner. Your child can have legitimate day camp-like quality adult attentiveness and peer fun for more than 12 straight hours while you drink yourself into oblivion. This isn’t a joke or me mocking bad parents. I seriously can think of few better ways for parents who don’t like their kids but can afford to do nice things for them to spend time with their children. Sure, the best thing would be to become involved parents, but who are we kidding?

Motion sickness and control issues are siblings

Psychologically and genetically, I can’t prove this, but anecdotally the people I know most prone to control issues -- especially regarding travel -- are the ones most prone to motion sickness. The people who get most nervous when others are driving, the people who have the biggest fear of flying, these are the people most likely to get sick on a ship. I’m perfectly at ease in the passenger seat of any car, in any cramped seat -- window or aisle -- anywhere on a plane. That I had no troubles with the motion of the ocean isn’t surprising. Meanwhile, my wife struggled mightily on the open water. She’s also fidgety as a car passenger and hates flying. My mother has such motion sickness issues she wouldn’t even consider going in the first place. This isn’t some hidden statement about my being surrounded by women with control issues; it’s merely the closest two anecdotes in my back pocket. I’ve got more though. I swear.

That damn missing plane is our Albatross

For eight days, I was all but removed from the world. For five days, I had almost no connection to news from the outside world had limited access to the Internet. When we returned to dry land and Florida, eased into our car and started the engine, the very first thing to greet us on NPR was… the same f*#king GD overplayed story that occupied the airwaves before I disappeared. A single missing airplane. With absolutely nothing more known than when I dropped off the radar eight days prior.

We have geopolitical powder kegs simmering all over this wonderful world of ours, with potential implications we can’t even begin to predict or appreciate, but who cares about that nonsense so long as we can play our own live-action version of CSI and Sherlock vicariously through journalists?

As a culture, we will not lift ourselves from the endless intellectual slope down which we gradually roll until we can stop obsessing about what is, relatively speaking on a global scale, trivial. Missing planes. Murdered child beauty queens. Serial shark attacks. When these get more airtime than geopolitical actions easily comparable to the assassination of an archduke, we’re losing our cultural sanity.