Suffering and Charity

My mother in law is dying.

Right around the time my dad was diagnosed with his cancer last fall, so was she with hers. The alarm of the "C" word notwithstanding, we weren't surprised that she was sick; she hadn't been to a doctor since my wife was born, and frankly never really took great care of herself. We were all a bit worried most of the time about how she was doing: her knees, her diet, her habits, etc. There was talk about diabetes, for example, but it went in and out of family talk like a bad rumor. When you asked about this or anything else health-related, you'd get the patented topic change my mom-in-law has always been the master of. Even now, days after hospice care has begun, we're scrambling to notify cousins because she insisted everyone be kept in the dark. If it's true that you're only as sick as your secrets, this woman has been doomed a very long time.

At first, she, and to some extent, everyone else (except my father in law, who by now has probably worried himself into his own health crisis), pretended that everything would be fine. What with the family practice of denial in full effect, and my dad's rapid and obvious decline going on at the same time, it was hard not to. Indeed, at first it seemed everything would be fine. She made it through three rounds of progressively ass-kicking chemotherapy, and survived. She made it through a mastectomy, related 'body work,' and subsequent rehabilitation, and survived. In fact, she not only survived these steps, she was recovering. Hair returning, alert and volatile as ever, her prospects were good as little as a week ago.

And then something changed. Whether it was a creeping problem that only just crossed the line into dangerous, or something new and truly awful, we'll probably never know. She was no longer lucid and her body began to shut down. Discussions were had, decisions were made, and now it's this sad, terrible waiting game. Everyone's sort of on call for...the inevitable...and this makes everyday life hard to get through. Work, kids' school schedules and homework, a pending 17th birthday, and everything else routine about your life fades into the background of this looming event, not to mention the effort to make every last minute count for something. I know from my own experience that even the dull, mundane moments spent with a dying loved one become monumental (at least in memory) after the person passes, and I'm making every effort to afford my wife as many of them as she can stand. It's a terrible way to exist, and a terrible way to die.

Dhiara, our Indonesian exchange student, and my third daughter, told me that her culture, which is predominantly Muslim, has very different views on this existence. When you're struggling to make every day count, and seem as normal as possible to three small kids, and operate your own life because you really have no choice, without allowing the impending death to take over your life, you're pretending. It's the kind of pretending that children do, and it necessarily involves selective denial of hard fact and emotional distress to facilitate "normal mode." There's something terrible and unnatural to it, and yet everyone must do it at some point. Despite my inner discomfort with the whole idea, before Dhiara said this, it never once occurred to me that anyone would do anything different. Although I'm not yet clear on the Muslim/Indonesian way, I do believe it may be worth looking into. I don't care how much suffering and endurance are part of the Christian way of doing living (and, ahem, dying), there must be a better way to care for yourself and your dying loved one.

And yet, everything is not terrible. Normal mode is a welcome relief sometimes, even with selective denial nagging at my conscience. I'm lucky enough to have a job and boss that is family-friendly, and well aware that the only reason we all come to work is to gain means to provide a quality life for ourselves and our families; job fulfillment is a desirable side effect but not necessarily the goal. And church has kicked in, today letting me know that there's a committee of women organizing dinner for the next week for our family. Of course, it's much more than some committee: it's people we've known for years, people we've trusted with the care of our children, people we've cried and laughed with, people whose children I've read to and made snacks for and played trains with on Sunday mornings.

It's sort of sad that it takes an event like this for me to realize that our family is not completely alone, that it's okay to need, or at least accept, help. It opens my eyes to things my worldly experience makes me forget: charity, kindness, friendship. It's only a short step away to remember that these are all expressions of love, and that's something I am still learning how to accept and express in many ways. For now, I will simply appreciate it and be thankful, and direct the energy it saves me to my wife, who is about to undergo a very painful experience, and will need all the love I can give her.

Your prayers are appreciated.

SCW

Snobs & Bigots

I'm losing my cool. Aside from the title of this post, I'm going to refrain from expressing any of the thoughts I'm having about the place where I live or the people who run the school district. Instead, I'm going to put the evidence to you, and allow you to decide.

1. An excerpt of an email from our superintendent, 7 February 2007:

"Finally, are we a Schools of Choice district, or will we become one? The answers are emphatically NO and NO. Boards of Education must intentionally and by resolution opt in to that program; ours never has and has no future intention of doing so. It would mean opening our district to all residents of Oakland County on a virtually unrestricted basis, something we know our constituents would not want. So if you hear rumors to that effect, please know that they are without foundation."

2. Last fall, there was an incident where a high school student felt threatened enough to bring a handgun to school. He lost his nerve and threw the weapon in some bushes, where it was recovered. When the district reported the incident and attempted to answer parents' questions, one of them was overwhelmingly whether the group of students threatening the gun-toting kid were residents or tuition-based kids. As it turns out, they were all residents, students at the other high school. (No email excerpt or citation.)

3. Also last fall, there was a fight at a football game, something nearly unheard of in our district. Once again, the district attempted to inform and ease concerns of parents who, once again, eagerly questioned the origin of the students involved. Once again, all were residents of our illustrious and privileged and nationally recognized district. I happened to not only witness the fight, but help break it up, and was surprised that witness's accounts didn't lead to the district some way or another mentioning the student's skin color. (Again, no email excerpt or citation.)

4. The latest offense: Below is the entirety of an email sent today from the assistant principal of a middle school:

"This morning at approximately 7:35 a.m. an East Hills student observed a suspicious vehicle driving through the Heathers Club complex. The student was not approached nor was there an attempt to engage her in conversation. The vehicle was described as a small cream colored compact car driven by an African American male between 40-50 years old. The Bloomfield Township Police department was notified and will continue to investigate the incident."

And my response:

"Ms. [Assistant Principal],

"Forgive my intrusion on your day; an acquaintance of two district principals, I realize you may spend a good portion of your evening responding to the email sent out a few minutes ago regarding the report of a suspicious vehicle in the Heathers Club complex.

"I am mailing you not to express concern about the incident, but about the announcement itself. I was offended at the apparent tone of prejudice, both socioeconomic and racial. While it can be said that nothing in the email is blatantly inappropriate, it's clear that both the student who reported the vehicle and you yourself (and by extension, the BHS District) thought the fact that an older black man driving a compact car through an exclusive upper class neighborhood created an inherent danger. As an intelligent, tolerant person, and as a district resident, this severely disturbs me.

"I am not familiar with the Heathers Club complex, so I cannot say whether the anonymous driver had any right to be on the streets therein, but two particular points in the reported incident bother me: the driver was not on school property, and the student was not approached. I realize and respect the responsibility of you and the District to inform students and parents of dangers, both real and potential, but I am at a loss as to how this incident justifies any such concern.

"The attitude of exclusivity shown here is a dangerous symptom intolerance and ignorance, and I urge you and other District representatives to examine the subtle signs of both that regularly present themselves in the everyday business of the Bloomfield Hills/West Bloomfield area. We cannot afford to pretend these things only exist in less privileged areas, and we cannot raise tolerant, diversity-minded children in any environment where seeing someone who doesn't exactly fit our expectations causes a legitimate safety concern.

"Thanks for your time. Kind Regards,"

(et cetera)

* * * * *

Update 20 Feb 08: I received two responses this morning, one from each recipient of my original email. To paraphrase them, the car in question apparently slowly passed the reporting student, a 6th grade girl, several times, and the driver stared. At one point the car stopped for 2-3 minutes. The girl got scared, which is understandable, and told someone about it. The email was sent on the advice the author's administration and local police. Apologies were profuse, and the word "certainly" was used in each response regarding the intent not to offend. Also, a follow-up email was sent district-wide by the superintendent addressing my concerns and clarifying the situation.

All this is very nice, and does actually justify public notice, but I stand by my assertion of subtle signs. It seems ironic to me that in a community that, united by great forces (wealth and greater-than average education), would like to believe itself risen above the common ignorances that plague society has fallen back one of humankind's greatest flaws: the I'm Better Than You complex.

Another update: names removed.

Quick Note to my Coworkers

If you'll take a look, you'll notice there are yellow lines painted on the ground outside our building. A quick estimate and you'll probably find that the spaces between the lines conveniently fit most automobiles. In fact, you could say there are a 'lot' of such 'spaces' you could probably use to place, or let's say 'park,' an automobile in. I've noticed many of you driving automobiles here each day, and wanted to point this out to you. Because, it seems, nobody understands this.

Sure, yes, I know there are big piles of snow at the ends of each row of this 'parking lot.' Some of the yellow lines are covered, and some of the 'parking spaces' aren't big enough for an automobile anymore. But that's really no cause to ignore all the other yellow lines, or the full-width spaces, is it?

Of course not. Have a nice day.

Eulogy

For my dad. November 20, 1944 - January 31, 2008

* * * * *

My dad, Mike Simoni, was many things to many people. He was, in fact, more things than I ever realized during our time together. Today I'd like to tell you some of the things he was to me, and maybe to you, too.

My dad was a generous man. "Give you the shirt off his back" doesn't quite cover it, but "give you the couch from his living room" might come close. He'd buy things for himself only to give them away. Whether you were family, a neighbor, a friend, or a stranger in need, no matter how much or little he had, he would go out of his way to provide for any need he perceived.

My dad was a dreamer. I remember walking to the store with him for lottery tickets, his brief stint with the numbers prediction book s, and all the things he said he'd do when he won "the big one." One of his dreams come true was the property he finally bought up north, where we spent not nearly enough weekends together. Another were the salmon fishing trips he started taking with his buddies from work on the Benzie River. On his doctor's advice, he took his last one in October, despite his cancer diagnosis, then only days old. My dad was a dreamer right to the end: when he first began treatment, he talked about his recovery, about buying a dog and a Cadillac and driving to Arizona.

My dad never lost his sense of wonder. At a very young age, he and my sister and I would sit and watch Nova and Carl Sagan on PBS, and though I was small, probably only a toddler at the time, his awe and mine were equal. The last time I heard the word 'wildebeest' I was probably in his lap. As an outdoorsman, he was always mindful of the beauty around him. He loved and respected nature, and had a connection with the Earth I always admired.

My dad was not an artist, but he had an eye and an ear for the beautiful. He was a gifted gardener, as any of his neighbors can attest to. Despite his almost crippling practicality, he never failed to notice a sunset, the smell or warmth of a campfire, the sound of a salmon jumping in the river, or the beauty of architecture.

My dad was a patriot. He joined the Army at 17 and served six years as a paratrooper, jungle expert, and jump master in the 508th Airborne Infantry Regiment at Fort Kobbe, Panama, in what was then called the Canal Zone. His love of country didn't end with his service, though. He proudly flew his American flag even at the campgrounds, and was only slightly less tolerant than myself when someone displayed it improperly.

My dad was a blue-collar union man. At an early age I learned the meaning of solidarity, and never forgot that organized labor pulled our family through some very hard times. Dad knew the value of hard work, and the worth of an earned dollar. He loathed apathy.

My dad had an ironclad sense of justice. He knew what he thought was right, and never wavered. He stuck to his guns, and his right to bear them. Anyone who was brave enough to debate the man on anything immediately gained the whole family's respect. Sometimes we called him stubborn, but to imagine any of his opinions rooted in spite would fail to acknowledge the solidity of the beliefs he based them on.

My dad was candid to a fault, he said what was on his mind whether you wanted to hear it or know it or not. Sometimes he was rude; sometimes it was on accident, other times not. But no matter what he criticized, it was never malicious. Even when the words hurt, and even when they were wrong, they were always spoken out of a genuine intent to do right and express truth.

Maybe you knew this man I'm talking about. Maybe you recognize some of the things he was.
Maybe you've seen them in yourself.

For my part, I see my dad and all the things he was in me, and in my brother and sister.

I see my dad in the way my sister looks at someone who hurts children. I see him in the way she pursues her own happiness, sometimes even at the expense of her well-being. I see him in her convictions and the way she carries herself despite the odds against her every day.

I see my dad in my brother's committment to excellence, and satisfaction at a job well done. I see him in Joe's tireless pace, his sense of duty, and his love of using the strength of both body and mind to create a beautiful and useful thing.

I see my dad in myself in the way I feel after a day's work in the garden. I see him in my own simple satisfaction at a fire well built and shared with friends. I see him in the way I reprimand myself after a thoughtless unkind word. I see him in way I worry for my children when I reflect upon my own faults.

My dad was not what we usually would call a great man, but he had as great a heart as any hero. He was a man who was always hurting, physically and emotionally, but the pain he felt through life could never squelch his character. Though he suffered an epic betrayal that ultimately destroyed his innocence, his sense of goodness and morality held fast. No matter what he did in life, he gave it his all, and no matter what he loved, he loved fiercely and without refrain.

My dad was a good man: a better man than I knew, and a better man than he allowed himself to believe.

Although my dad is gone, taken from us to a better place, his laughter and his smile are his legacy. His love knew no distinction of family or friend. Let each of us carry him in our hearts, remembering what he was, and what he continues to be for everyone he knew.

I love you, Dad, and I will miss you forever and ever.

Questions

What do you say to a dying man?

What do you say, indeed, to the man who raised you, as he lay helpless in a hospital bed, only able to moan and huff? Do you recount the years of lost childhood? The memories of violent nights? The chair broken on mom's back, or the toy record player thrown down the basement stairs because my sister and I argued over it? The fight over the silk screened jean jacket when I was 17? No, there's no time for anger or bitterness.

Are you supposed to keep it light, sticking only to the topic of what the kids are doing? Are you supposed to reaffirm the promises made two months ago, that we will go fishing together this summer, and work on that fence? Are you supposed to make up for lost time, years upon years of not talking, even over mundane topics? Are you supposed to lay the sap on as thick as it will go? No, this is not a time for falseness.

Are you supposed to take out your shopping list of emotional needs and guilts, unloading each one to a man who cannot respond, and wouldn't know what to say if he could, for the sake of clearing the air? Are you supposed to be serious and dark and of formidable emotional stamina as you discuss the deep meanings of your relationship even as it comes to an untimely end? No, this is not a time for business.

Are you supposed to...?

How many of these questions I've run though my mind in the last 24 hours I'll never know. And more are coming. I don't have any answers to any of them. My conclusions are guesses, arrived at from a combination of gut feeling and TV drama. The conversations I am having with my dad are one way, and I'm not much of a talker. There are almost 35 years of baggage to mull over between us. Both of us are regretful of what we've ignored, and there's no time to remedy any of it, except for me to say that I enjoyed spending time with him this summer, and know he enjoyed it, too.

I spent--we all spent--every visit to my parents' house dreading the leaving moment, watching the time bomb in the easy chair tick tick tick with every red-white-and-blue can to his inevitable breaking point. We even had a signal when the invisible line had been crossed, when the point of no return had been breached, when nothing we said or did or told the kids would change his reactions. We knew then we had only so long to get out of the house before the next time Brendan screamed or Sophia played the piano over the TV audio he'd snap. This is how we always handled things, and when Dad got confused or mad or threw a fit over it we just rolled our eyes and talked about him later at sibling get-togethers.

So now, what do say to this man, after years of circling the threatening fire, daring not to take a burning branch and call it what it was? Sure, I did love him all along, and I learned to accept him the way he was, and (eventually) live a healthy life despite his unhealthy influence. In the last year, I made significantly more effort to get to know him, to not just avoid or work around his addiction and anger, but to stand stalwart as it passed through and around me, in hopes of getting a glimpse of its originator. I am thankful that I made the decision to do this, not because he was dying (even though he was at the time, and none of us knew it), but because it was necessary to finally create a real bond with my father, if not between father and son, then between men. I am both thankful and bitter, because I intended the effort, 100%, to be the beginning of some healing years, not as a requiem to a life of misunderstanding this man who did everything he knew how as best he could, but still came off as a failed and abusive parent.

I am mad as hell that this chance has been taken away from me.

Maybe that's what I need to say, for starters at least.

hours

It is only a matter of days now, dozens or perhaps hundreds of hours, before my dad succumbs to his cancer. I am faced--all of us, I think, are faced--with the prospect of what to do with those hours.

This is nothing like I imagined it. Early on, I thought the chance of recovery was slim, but still believable. I made real efforts to maximing the value of our time together, but real life--work, kids, marriage, money, friends, et cetera--asserted their hold over my life as usual. Dad was in and out of the hospital. Each time, he'd recover from whatever condition sent him there within a few days. Or recover enough that he felt "100% better" by the time he left. But when he went again, it was always for something a little more dire. During one visit, his last before being admitted to ICU a week or two later, he walked around the floor with me, slowly but surely, and we talked. Having never really talked to him like that for longer than a handful of sober minutes, it was awkward, and we both knew it, but each of made a noble effort. It was embarrassing when he'd do things like get bossy with the desk nurses, or call the very cute one "honey," but that's Dad, and I was just along for the walk, and the thought that, despite my embarrassment, if any one of them thought badly of my dad for it, they could go to hell.

This is how I thought it would be until the end. My belligerent old dad, being his belligerent old self until, well, he died. But this wasn't the reality of it at all. The truth of it became a slow decline into an over-medicated state of mindlessness. When he came home from ICU, he could barely speak. His responses to comments and questions were only a few words each. Sometimes he'd start to say something, but never finish the first word. Because he couldn't speak above a loud whisper, even these fleeing thoughts were meaningless by the time I could ask, "What did you say, Dad?"

Now, a scant week after his return home, he is barely aware of his surroundings. His body is destroyed, both due to his disease and its treatment, and his mind is deprived in the name of comfort. I cannot say goodbye to this man. I cannot tell him, during his final hours, what he meant to me. I cannot express my fears and be comforted, or comfort him of any fears he may express to me. All I can do now is hold his hand ask, "Are you warm enough, Dad?" and hope he can give me an answer.

I pray for some clarity. I pray for peace. I pray for these for both he and I, and everyone else dealing with this reality. I will hope for a moment of connection before he is gone forever when he will know what is in my heart, that he may take it with him when he goes. What I will say or do in that moment, should it come, is as much a mystery to me now as what I will do with my grief when it comes, but I pray for it just the same.

And despite all else, I will say goodbye, I will tell him what he meant to me, and I will comfort fears, both his any my own, in the knowledge that no matter what, he's my dad, and that will never, ever change.

Sorting Myself Out

(Written 2 February 2007)

The path to this place in my life is riddled with as many failures, successes, embarrassments, triumphs, fears, and doubts as anyone's. I'm really not that different than most white American men in the middle class Midwest. I'm okay with that.

I make the generic statement that every person is unique. I believe it to be true for both Divine and biological reasons, nature and nurture combined. Okay: easy enough to understand. But what does it mean to be unique? To truly understand your gifts and limitations? To know yourself well enough to make the most of every day, and therefore life? These are questions I struggle with, and one reason I chose to write here. I only know at this point that I can think and speak for myself, which is something of a rarity, that I am intelligent and talented, and that I want and know I can achieve more out of life.

Throughout my 33 years, I have fit into several pre-drilled pigeon holes, but none completely. What I really need at this point is some real definition and priority. My first attempt at this will be to sort out which of these holes I fit into and which are most important.

Today I am especially focused on fatherhood. When most people meet me for the first time, it is usually in a family setting, so this is entirely appropriate. I became a father for the first time in 1998, at the age of 25. I had no idea what it was that made me think I could do it. Of course in theory, it all seems fairly straightforward, if not complicated and messy on occasion. But parenting, I found, takes more than a plan.

We describe Anthony as the perfect first child. He was easy to soothe, slept through the night at 6 weeks, attentive, happy, healthy...all the things you read about in the first paragraph of each chapter in the "What to Expect..." books. He was (and remains) a very tender child with an empathic connection to the feelings of those around him. This alone disturbed me.

My past is troubled, and my marriage imperfect. There were many times during Anthony's early years that I experienced things I had no idea how to handle, and I reacted accordingly. I tried to shield my new son from as much of this as I could, but I knew almost immediately I could not hide my feelings or mood from him. As any new parent knows, there are few choices about the various duties of child rearing. Feeding, changing, bathing, dressing, napping, playing, and bedding down of the kid takes place whether you are ready or stable or not. Failure to do these things is unacceptable, at least when trying to establish a routine with which your infant will hopefully begin a long successful life. But when you can't think because your mind is racing, it's 7 o'clock and dinner still hasn't even been talked about, and you are trying to sort through the bills because not all of them can be paid this month, the last thing you need is a stinky diaper. And it takes a toll on you. Anthony could see this a mile away.

I beat myself up about it, and wondered: How would this child turn out if he had healthier parents? If he'd never seen his father cry, or heard him shout at his mother? As real life churned around us both, I slowly saw Anthony's perfect infant view dull. His reactions to things became more subtle and less enthusiastic, and I wept the loss this innocence. What I did not see at the time was the beginning of a new personality, and the natural attrition of things that change in every baby as he grows into toddlerhood.

At some point, I realized that I, we, his parents, would never be perfect, and though our problems would take a toll on his and our lives, we had the responsibility to carry on and do our best. Sometimes that meant chalking up a bad day to something that, maybe, would be different tomorrow. Sometimes it meant looking in the mirror and doing something about those problems. Sometimes it meant apologizing to the little boy who, despite his age and inability to understand, deserved better than what he'd been handed.

Michigan Primary

Yesterday, voters in my state had the chance to be heard. Republicans and Democrats* came together in the common cause of democracy to decide who will represent their parties in the run for President this fall. It was a time of great pride in America to partake in such a process--the process that allows me, a common citizen, to make my voice heard and take part in one of the greatest societies on Earth today.

Or it would have been, if only the Democrats* hadn't screwed it up.

What's big in the news today is the fact that Hillary Clinton won the Democrats and Mitt Romney won the Republicans. There's endless analysis and speculation all over the newsphere about what it means, blah blah blah. What's not really in the news except around here is the fact that only one major candidate--Hillary Clinton--was on the Democratic ballot.

Last fall, Michigan's Legislature made the decision to move our primary from (don't know when) to January 15. Apparently, they wanted us to be more like Iowa, one of the early states who gets to be some key indicator and thereby have more influence on the final outcome. It was also supposed to have some effect on our crappy economy. Again I say--blah blah blah. Whatever their intent may have been, it seems they ignored a rule by the Democratic National Committee to start most state primaries after February 4th.

In an act of party loyalty, most Democratic candidates both withdrew their names from Michigan's ballot and banned active campaigning in the state. Now, I'm not big on party loyalty--or any kind of loyalty that lends itself to accepting the wide brushes modern politics apply to what, in my opinion, demands a much more complex, personal approach--but let's face it: Hillary Clinton, Barack Obama, John Edwards, and all the rest of the Democratic candidates are counting on the DNC's support in November, and they sort of have to toe the company line, or (presumably) get left in the political cold of obscure third parties*.

One Democratic candidate, however, while she didn't campaign in the state, did not withdraw her name from the ballot. Have you guessed who? That's right, Hillary Clinton. Let me first say that I love the idea that we could possibly have a female President next year, even if it is Hillary. It doesn't make sense to me that one of the greatest societies on Earth can't bring itself to seriously consider anyone for President who isn't a white man. Hell, we even threw a fit about a Catholic white man, and he turned out to be one of the most popular presidents in our history. It should be a global embarrassment that dozens of other countries (some for centuries) have had female leaders, while in the United States just the idea of a woman running is a novelty.

That said, back to Hillary. The reasons for her campaign's decision to ignore the DNC's hard line are unknown to me (my ears not being very keen to politics), but what's clear is that she obviously didn't give a damn what the party thought. The Obama and Edwards campaigns urged Democratic voters to select "Uncommitted" on their ballots if they supported either candidate. The final outcome of the Democratic primary was 55% Clinton, 40% Uncommitted. I wonder how many people would have voted for either absent candidate if their names had been there. I wonder how many people, confused by both the process and the ballot SNAFU, put a mark down for Hillary just because they didn't see the name they wanted. I wonder how many people opted for the Republican ballot instead. I wonder how significant it is that the bill changing the date was introduced by four Republicans*. I wonder.

And what of Hillary's disposition in her party? Will she be booted because she wasn't a good Democrat by pulling out of Michigan? Do you think, say, the Libertarians would have her now? Or the Greens? Of course this isn't a real issue: she will remain on every Democratic ballot in every other state left, and this will pass mostly unnoticed on the national level. If Hillary ultimately is elected, what does her Michigan decision say about her future administration?

The truth of the matter is that Michigan Democrats were cheated out of their right to choose the candidate of their choice, plain and simple. Writing in a name was not an option. The Michigan Democratic primary was an embarrassment and a farce, and every senator and representative who voted to change the date is to blame. In their effort to make Michigan's primary more important, all they did was undermine what value it already had--at least as far as the DNC was concerned. What's ironic is that Michigan has both a Democratic governor and a Democratic House. I know for a fact at least one lawsuit attempted to block the change, but the case was quickly struck down and got ten seconds airtime on the morning newscast.

"Tonight Michigan Democrats spoke loudly for a new beginning," said Clinton Campaign Manager Patti Solis Doyle (in this article). But that's not what happened at all. What did happen is the good old fashioned political machine kicked in. Voters got trampled, and democracy took the hit. This is exactly why the high estimates for voter turnout were 20%, and the main cause of voter apathy. My usual reaction to a person who doesn't vote is the impulse to slap them, but next time I hear someone say "Why vote? It won't change anything anyway," I might just agree with them. At least if they're a Michigan Democrat.

* Though I'm a huge fan of any good conspiracy theory, I'll make no speculation on the true intent of Michigan Republican senators Michelle McManus, Cameron Brown, Bill Hardiman, and Michael Bishop when they sponsored Senate Bill 0624(2007). Another consequence of the date change was to effectively eliminate any third party participation in the primary. So which party was it that really screwed up the primary election?

More information on Public Act 0052 of 2007, and an excellent resource for Michigan voters.

===================
UPDATE 6 MARCH 2008:
===================
Seeing as how the Clinton-Obama race has come to a head following all the state's primaries, and with the Big Day approaching for the would-be opponent of John McCain, folks are making quite a stir over Michigan and Florida's discounted primary results. Two articles:

Florida, Michigan seek exit from Democratic penalty box - CNN.com

If allowed, Florida, Michigan could tip nomination - CNN.com

Ode to America

This morning I opened my email and found an old article supposedly written following the 9/11 terrorist attacks by Cornel Nistorescu, a Romanian newspaperman. Despite its topic, I was skeptical of its authenticity. After a quick look, it passed the test of believability.

I suppose this a bit is outdated, but I submit that it's never too late to praise the praiseworthy. I also tend to be a bit extreme sometimes in my patriotism, something I will never apologize for. So I'm turning over the "just for me" sign today, and turning this blog into a public forum. Here it is.

* * * * *
Why are Americans so united? They would not resemble one another even if you painted them all one color! They speak all the languages of the world and form an astonishing mixture of civilizations and religious beliefs.

Still, the American tragedy turned three hundred million people into a hand put on the heart. Nobody rushed to accuse the White House, the Army, or the Secret Service that they are only a bunch of losers. Nobody rushed to empty their bank accounts. Nobody rushed out onto the streets nearby to gape about. Instead the Americans volunteered to donate blood and to give a helping hand.

After the first moments of panic, they raised their flag over the smoking ruins, putting on T-shirts, caps and ties in the colors of the national flag. They placed flags on buildings and cars as if in every place and on every car a government official or the president was passing. On every occasion, they started singing:'God Bless America !'

I watched the live broadcast and rerun after rerun for hours listening to the story of the guy who went down one hundred floors with a woman in a wheelchair without knowing who she was, or of the Californian hockey player, who gave his life fighting with the terrorists and prevented the plane from hitting a target that could have killed other hundreds or thousands of people.

How on earth were they able to respond united as one human being? Imperceptibly, with every word and musical note, the memory of some turned into a modern myth of tragic heroes. And with every phone call, millions and millions of dollars were put into a collection aimed at rewarding not a man or a family, but a spirit, which no money can buy.

What on earth can unite the Americans in such a way? Th eir land? Their history? Their economic Power? Money? I tried for hours to find an answer, humming songs and murmuring phrases with the risk of sounding commonplace, I thought things over, I reached but only one conclusion...

Only freedom can work such miracles.

Lunchtime Thoughts

At lunch today, I sat in a 2-person booth and read posts. The coney was very crowded, no surprise considering I got there at five after noon. I sat in the smoking section. Even though I'm not a smoker, I've found that most often, when one is seeking to be ignored at his table by others at their tables, it's best to choose the smoking section. This is partially because groups with small kids don't sit there, and whenever small kids are around I have trouble concentrating on anything but them. The place being as crowded as it was, it was very smokey.

No matter, thought I, and plodded into the plots of Phoenix7 and USS Arapaho. I was blissfully into cold flow when my senses became acutely aware of...something. I looked up unconsciously and discovered a new smell: something very pleasant and vastly different from that of the lingering haze around me. It was then I saw that a woman had just settled beside me in the booth opposite the little cream-and-green-checkered wall separating our rows.

She was not necessarily an attractive woman. Although all I could see of her was the top of her head, she seemed to be a smallish woman. Her hair was a short, spiky blonde, and she had the top of her ear pierced with a not very subtle stud of some kind. She wore glasses.

I went back to my reading, still struck by the effect this person's smell was having on me. I enjoyed it subtly throughout the rest of my lunch. At some point, I decided to mention it to her. I formulated some comment: "Pardon me, if you don't mind me saying so, you smell very nice" or something like that.

By the time I stood to leave, I'd lost my nerve. I put on my jacket and looked at her, prepared to rationalize myself right out of speaking up. She returned the look, full in the face, and smiled. She was not extraordinary, but something connected between us. I reconsidered my comment, but nothing came out. The smile I offered in return was barely a smile at all. I said nothing. As I walked off to pay my check, I chided myself for not being honest enough with myself to acknowledge the energy others occasionally give me so freely, abundantly, and, apparently, thanklessly.

* * * * *

So I've sort of rediscovered a hunger for language.

This comes after a handful of months in doldrums, caused by who knows what...emotional reaction to my dad's cancer, financial worries of the holidays, seasonal changes, quarterly men's cycle...whatever it is, I've resolved to get a handle on it.

Yesterday I jokingly told a coworker I was 'turning over a new leaf.' "Another one?" she replied. Yes, I thought. "Gotta keep trying 'til you find I find the right leaf," I said. Today, I was talking to my Jane Austen buddy and described my resolution as something different than the traditional thing people make and break on an annual basis. I compared the cycle to a pay period. Couple days before payday, typically I don't have a choice but to pack a lunch and go hungry at snack time. It's how things work. I'm making (perhaps forcing, but time will tell on that judgment) a similar assessment of 2007. My resources had simply run out. Since 01 Jan, I've got a clean slate, a full emotional pocket. Practically, I know the main difference is just attitude, but I understand enough about how I work inside to create an emotional and physiological environment to either make or break this change. And two weeks into the new year, I'm doing great.

So as I've said, I'm rediscovering an old love. As it happens, this rediscovery comes a few months (hrm, imagine that *refers to 'handful of months' reference above*) after I made the hard decision to break clean from my responsibilities in the art of language. I simply wasn't doing the job, and the organization was suffering as a result. A week or so ago, with Me08 in full effect, I went back to the org for some casual writing, maybe to help out if I could.

Going through the posts was a joyful, painful process. I instinctively edited, then made notes in the margins, and finally ended up full-on bitching about some of the mistakes in grammar, spelling, and style I noticed. I wrote across one paragraph in angry, black ink THIS MAKES NO [EXPLETIVE] SENSE. A small part of me shouted from deep, deep within "I told you so!" But I paid no heed...after all, Me08 doesn't stop and linger at the energy blocking stuff, he rolls on.

And so now I'm faced with a new quandary: how to apply my rediscovered love. And whether. I could just keep writing, helping in small ways, the smallest being to set a good example. I could go volunteering for some online editing, but I fear I may become swamped. I almost wrote "swamped again" but I'm not sure it applies. After all, the reasons I quit last year, though certainly valid in their own context, may or may not have had anything to do with my schedule. Whatever it was, it doesn't matter now. What matters now...is now.

Addendum: Edited for politeness.

Disclaimer: A majority of the writers I work with are both talented and creative, including the one who got the expletive on his post. The truth is I'm a grammar snob. So sue me.

Welcome Back Ira

Since the acquisition of my new vehicle last June, a very bright and sporty 2000 Jeep Cherokee, which is fathoms cooler than my previous vehicle (a drab and efficient 1997 Ford Escort LX), I have been without one key component to my everyday commute to work: the oh-so soothing sound of Ira Glass on the mp3 podcast of This American Life. Conveniently, he always splits the show into two segments, roughly in the middle, and though I know this is a necessary part of being on public radio, it almost feels like he does it just for me: half the show on the into work, the other half on the way home.

Don't get me wrong: having my new truck very fun, gas mileage notwithstanding (16-17 mpg vs. 30 or so with the Escort), especially with our newfound winter weather, but even though it came with a really cool aftermarket Pioneer stereo, with removable face and CD player and option for a subwoofer and such, I was loathe to listen to morning radio. Granted, I was without a car at all for a few weeks, which sucks supremely, but the victory of my Jeep was tainted by the loss of being able to her my daily TAL episode. My old car wasn't flashy, but it did have a cassette player, and with a cheap tape adapter I was able to bring a good share of my CD and mp3 collection into the car with me. There is no such adapter for CD players.

But now that era is at an end. After a long period of shopping for, buying, and returning crappy FM transmitters and auxiliary connection equipment, after hours of various Google searches for combinations of "Pioneer DEH-P3600 adapter/connector/auxiliary/mp3," and weeks of looking for instructions how to get to the back of my hardware, I have finally installed the thing with just the right plug at the end to make my old-school mp3 player talk to me again. And Ira with it.

So it's a new year, a new Me, and a new chance to make right with the world, but a welcome return to an old habit. Welcome back, Ira. You've been missed.

Addendum: My Automotive History

2000 Jeep Cherokee (no nickname...yet) [June 2007]
1997 Ford Escort LX ("The Green Car")
1994 Ford Escort ("The Blue Car")
1999 Chevrolet Blazer (only new car) [1999]
1986 Cutlas Calais (no nickname)
1977 Malibu Classic ("The White Ghost")
1978 Buick Century (my first car, $500 at HS graduation) [Summer 1991]

Only a Dad

From a fatherhood blog I feed to called Total Depravity.

* * * * *

Only a Dad
By Edgar Albert Guest

Only a dad with a tired face,
Coming home from the daily race,
Bringing little of gold or fame
To show how well he has played the game;
But glad in his heart that his own rejoice
To see him come and to hear his voice.

Only a dad with a brood of four,
One of ten million men or more
Plodding along in the daily strife,
Bearing the whips and the scorns of life,
With never a whimper of pain or hate,
For the sake of those who at home await.

Only a dad, neither rich nor proud,
Merely one of the surging crowd,
Toiling, striving from day to day,
Facing whatever may come his way,
Silent whenever the harsh condemn,
And bearing it all for the love of them.

Only a dad but he gives his all,
To smooth the way for his children small,
Doing with courage stern and grim
The deeds that his father did for him.
This is the line that for him I pen:
Only a dad, but the best of men.

Doctor's Orders

In the October 2007 News Edition of American Laboratory (Vol. 39, No. 19), Dr. Dan Schneck's editorial talks about the difference between actual passage of time, r, and one's individual perception of time, n, in terms of how each can be biased to create the sensation that a day is 'dragging on' (r<n) or 'flying by' (r>n). FYI, he cites hyper/hypothyroidism; cellular metabolism; sensory, physiological, and energy stimuli like music, chemicals like caffeine and various drugs, and meditation; and other less quantifiable variables like one's innate n. The whole editorial is here (PDF format), in case you're interested.

This discussion brought my brain to something I read by another person who's out of my league when it comes to understanding oneself, Dr. Judith Orloff. In her book Positive Energy, part of the 'ten extraordinary prescriptions' is to find one's own personal pace. This is something like what Dr. Schneck calls n, though she doesn't go into the science of what makes n or how it can vary. Dr. Orloff says that, among other things, working at any other pace besides your own leads to being inefficient, sloppy, and dissatisfied, no matter what your perceived level of success, even if you're moving faster than your natural pace.

These two discussions, and the link between them, ring a bell in my brain and heart loud and clear. Here, I am starting to dig into a barely prospected lode abound with gems of inner happiness and success rivaling anything 'traditional' indicators might provide (college degrees, professional title, income, vehicle, zip code, etc.) I know that if I am ever to be effective and productive in this world, I must (MUST) get busy with the spadework. While I do try to be a simple man with a simple life, I know that this sparkling boulder sticking out of the ground in an out-of-the-way place in my life is only the iceberg tip of a treasure I am meant to discover, explore, and share. To what end I am not certain; maybe it will define my life, maybe it is only a means to a greater end, or maybe there is one person (probably a child) waiting to be shown a single iota of this wisdom, something that can only be delivered with a full understanding, and I am the designated messenger. The answer I only expect will become clear when this life has ended. Hopefully, that's enough time to fulfill the role that's been set aside for me.

Stay tuned.

draft

Inside here
is a world you can't imagine.
It is both wild, and ornate.
It is as cultured and refined
As it is spontaneous and chaotic.
It is draped with things of beauty
And rank with dis-ease.

Inside here
are things I long to share.
Music and pictures and words
to fill the soul a thousand days over
Flash in every thought,
Pure and childlike.

Inside here
Are things I cannot bear.
A Monster resides in the depths
poisoning the fresh waters of creation,
and goodness.

Beware as you enter
that you do not cross his path.
For his evil is lascivious and sweet and clever,
And taints the purest of things.

Welcome, Old Man Winter

CNN Story: 'Nasty' winter storms cause traffic deaths, delays

Of course by now, everyone knows we in the northeast-midwest US had our first real winter storm over the weekend. And let me tell you...it was wasn't a doozey. It wasn't extraordinary. It wasn't anything different than what I've been waiting for the past six weeks.

Deaths are terrible and delays are regrettable, and accidents, sometimes tragic ones, certainly do happen. But this is winter. Can everyone above the 40th parallel PLEASE stop complaining about:
(1) the inevitable winter weather,
(2) the first sign of the season that the Earth is tolerating the dramatic change we're inflicting,
(3) a wonderful gift of beauty and fun for kids of all ages, and
(4) a fantastic excuse not to have to pick up semi-frozen dog poop from the yard?

Is it just me, or have the last 10 years or so been rank with whining about summer heat, spring rains, and winter snow and ice? Disasters notwithstanding, it seems to me that natural seasonal changes do nothing but piss people off, causing them nothing but inconvenience because they might actually sweat while working in the garden, or have to shovel the walk in winter. What is wrong with these people? Californians put up with how many months of drought (and then wildfires), Katrina victims are still living in fermaldehyde-ridden FEMA trailers, and we're upset because we've forgotten how to drive on a slippery road, or our flight was (for safety reasons, remember) delayed? Puh-lease.

Driving past the near-million-dollar homes I see on my way to work today, I saw no less than three luxury vehicles stuck halfway out of their professionally plowed driveways, and yesterday during the end of the snowstorm, I watched numerous 4-wheel drive vehicles with high-end brand names (including a Hummer) spinning wheels in the snow because the well-manicured ladies or silk-shirt businessmen behind the wheels haven't a clue how to operate them. Am I missing something, or has expectation of nature to conform to human comfort zones become the norm?

There are lots of things to be upset about, and lots of legitimate problems we have as individuals, communities, and a species in general, but it strikes me as counterintuitive when part of everyone's solution is the exact opposite of trying to fit into a natural order with the world. It's nice to have air conditioning and a furnace to keep the house comfortable, but when the ambient air temp falls outside your ±5° tolerance, do us all a favor and complain elsewhere. Even the French are probably less whiny than you.

As for me, what I'll remember most about this weekend's storm will be my little kids all bundled up with their kid-sized snow shovels, helping me in the driveway (or shoveling the grass around the tree, depending on their mood), little bootprints inside my own because the depth of the snow was higher than my daughter's legs, snow angels and giggling, red chapped cheeks smiling at me through the window because my son, cold as he was, was having too much fun to care about hot chocolate, and the slightly-achy feeling in my shoulders and back, and very satisfied feeling in my heart, after hanging my snow shovel on the garage hook and coming in myself. These memories will remain and feed my soul long, long after whatever might come of the activities I would have otherwise engaged in without the gift of snow we received.

Eleven Tuesdays, part 3

This Tuesday, 4 December 2007, my dad came home from the hospital. As of a late last week, he was able to get out bed and sit in a chair to watch TV, a near-miracle compared to previous weeks. I haven't been to see him yet, but he sounds good on the phone. It was nice to hear him talk about simply wanting to take a bath and go to bed. He has no more IV's and can wear his own clothes (technically, he never quit that--the man never once wore a hospital gown and insisted to be allowed to wear his own pajamas the entire hospital stay). I hope, maybe 99% in vain, that his home life now is spent so simply, taking in small pleasures. He will find out the status of his tumors in the coming days or weeks, and hopefully keep himself as healthy as he can. I sincerely fear, and disgustedly expect, to find him sitting in his chair when we visit, the smell of smoke still lingering and a red and white can in his hand.

Maybe I'm not giving the man the benefit of the doubt, or I'm underestimating any new appreciation of life he may have gained, or maybe I'm just being a selfish jerk, but a huge (HUGE) part of this whole ordeal for me has been the fact that, during my dad's hospital stay, he did not have any opportunity (Thanksgiving aside) to engage in his usual addictive behavior, i.e., smoking and drinking.

I do not think he has been clean this long my entire life. I believe it was probably scary: he probably had no idea who he was unaffected by his vices. I know I didn't. During my visits and conversations with him, however, I liked that person very much. He spoke of hope and sometimes faith. He talked evenly, even if it was sternly, without that unpredictable time-bomb of rage due to blow at any moment due to a disagreeable word or opinion. He shared himself with me in ways I cannot ever remember him doing, and finally accepted me as-is when I shared myself. I've always known my dad is a good man with a giving heart and soul and a sharp, critical mind, but I've only seen shadows of it beneath the surface of that smoky amber pool he lives in. During the last 11 weeks, I've met and gotten to know the man I always wanted to be my father. I am so desperately, vehemently afraid of who I will meet when I cross my parents' doorstep, that the man I grew up with will have once again taken over the man I met so recently. But I suppose all these things are lessons in acceptance, and I, of all people, cannot hold anyone's Evil Twin against him.

What the future holds for my family is beyond my understanding, something I am thankful not to have to carry the burden of. I will keep hoping, praying, and learning both about myself and my dad, whomever he may be, and loving him no matter what. I am not finished with any of the feelings, reactions, confusion, and sometimes turmoil I've experienced the last few months, but I do hope they make me a stronger, wiser, better person, and that I can make the most of each moment as a result.

Eleven Tuesdays, part 2

It was on another Tuesday, 6 November 2007, when my dad was admitted to the hospital because he wasn't eating or staying hydrated.

What we'd learned was that his cancer was stage IV, inoperable, and had spread to both lymph nodes, both adrenal glands, and his left hip. There were three tumors in his lung and three tumors on his femur which were interfering with the ball joint and making most movement involving legs very painful. They also found a blood clot in his lung which posed a more fatal, immediate danger than the actual cancer.

He was scheduled for radiation therapy and given morphine for pain, mostly due to his hip. He was still smoking early on. Over time, he went from a well-intentioned scaling back of his usual activities (smokes and Budweiser all day), to a few beers with his meds to help him sleep, to not being able to smell even an open bottle of wine without getting sick and puking up what little he'd eaten that day. His mood was deteriorating, and as his emotional state declined he became downright hateful to my mom. He would barely eat because it hurt to swallow. I suspect there was an huge amount of self-anger and self-pity in him, which is certainly expected for someone who learns he could be dead soon (and it's his own damn fault), but per his nature he hid all that behind an increasingly vitrolic wall of non-emotion.

It was partly this which led my dad to his hospital admission. He had driven himself to his radiation treatment when the doctor basically told him he had to go to the hospital and stabilize. An ambulance took him. I left work early to pick up my mom so she could bring his truck home. When I walked into the room, my father, a 62 year old man who'd inspired such fear and violence in me, broke down and reached for me as a child would.

I don't know what happened then. I cannot name the emotional or spiritual mechanism that caused it, but my heart solidified. I hugged my dad without thinking, sat with him and held his hand, asked him questions that allowed him to tell me things he needed to get out, and supported his crotchety decisions even when he raised hell with the nurses over his blood thinner. This was not a reaction like the one I experienced while driving to Benzonia, a patronizing reaction due only to my own fear and selfishness, this was 100% heart and soul love like I'd never felt it for my dad, like it was a natural thing I'd been doing my whole life, possibly even longer.

I visited or called my dad almost every day to ask about his meds, his treatments, how much he was eating and how he was resting. Over time, all the staff of his floor/section learned what I'd learned about my dad: that no matter how sick he is he's still a jerk when he doesn't get his way. My dad spent his 63rd birthday in the hospital, and when we took the kids to see him he was such an ass to my mom I wanted to slap him; I didn't care that he'd done 14 chemo treatments in ten days. He also spent Thanksgiving in the hospital, though he was allowed to come home for a few hours, during which time I visited with my wife and sister, and again he treated my mom so abusively I wondered why she bothered taking care of this man, dying or not.

After his return to the hospital, his blood pressure would not stabilize and he got an infection. The chemotherapy was killing him by this time and we all began to wonder if dad was going to ever make it out of the hospital. I could not visit my dad because they were requiring gloves and masks in the room, and I'd caught a cold. All of this, as well as a childish spat with my sister over the Thanksgiving weekend, put me into a spin I'm only beginning to recover from. But again, I'm being selfish.

Eleven Tuesdays, part 1

I know it was a Tuesday, but for some reason the date 26 September 2007, a Wednesday, sticks in my head. It doesn't matter which is right. That's the day I found out my dad has non-small cell lung cancer.

The emotions I felt that and the days immediately following were difficult to identify. There were pain and fear, to be sure, also other less son-like or familial feelings. There was anger (my dad's been smoking since his early teens and everyone, inlcuding him, knows full well the cause of his disease), admiration (the way my dad handled the news and discussion about his disease, treatment, future, etc., was so uncharacteristic of our past relationship it was actually a refreshing change), even relief (not related to the change in relationship, but something much darker and more selfish).

This news came early in the week preceding the annual salmon fishing trip with my dad (and occasionally my brother) in Benzonia. It was a sombre thing, preparing for this trip. Normally I'd be reserved and closed, ready to defend against any criticism or return any generic lashing out due to uncooperative hardware, physics, weather, etc., in kind. I typically become a different man when I'm with my dad out of habit and necessity. Due to the grave news of the week, however, this didn't happen. I was open and ready to help no matter how filthy the language or energy was that happened to be thrown my general direction. I was making an effort to remember that this man is my dying father, and it was damn near pathetic. I believed that this may be our last fishing trip together. It still may be.

Truth be told, it was refreshing and relieving to unchain myself from reactions to my father's life of ire. What I discovered was a fear beneath it, a very childlike fear. In my eagerness to spend such precious last weekends with him, I wanted to talk to him, to ask questions and hear answers, to learn who this man was who had raised me, or tried to as best he could. I made a very dramatic effort at discovery worthy of any Hollywood performance.

But I discovered something else, too. As we drove, despite my dad's frailty and sickness, he was still smoking at least one cigarette per hour (actually, a great improvement for him) and carelessly spewing his negative talk and occasional prejudices like nothing had changed. I was surprised, I was saddened. I was sobered.

What I'd discovered was that no matter how sick my dad gets, he is still the man I've known my whole life. He is still a mean old fucker when he wants to be. The news of the disease hadn't changed him the way it had changed me, and this was both disappointing (selfishness) and reassuring (stability).

Throughout the fishing weekend, his crotchetiness resurfaced in new expressions of father-son interaction. He practically called the National Guard when I failed to return from going to get food. He thought I meant McDonald's down the street when I'd actually gone to a local bar for a burger and beer, then scouting out the local bike trail. While visiting with his friends at another campsite the next night, we both had drinks, but he had the gall to criticize me for going back to party after I'd carried his drunk ass back to our camper. More than once, I had to remind him that I'm a grown man. By the time we drove home, I was content to read my book and settle for intermittent conversation between long bouts of silence.

So finally, I discovered something else: I must love my dad the way he is, no matter what. Whether he's sick or healthy, a saint or an asshole, he is who he is, and he's also my dad. True, he may be dying, and I must not waste any time, but to change who I am as a result of his cancer, or try to change who I think he is, would be to cheapen the relationship we've slowly built as grown men over the last handful of years.

I still do not know that much more about my father. I never got the stories about his Army days, or the girl in Panama he occasionally talks about, or the places he's lived, or his history with him mom and sister, or why he hasn't spoken to his own father in 30+ years, or the jobs he's had. But I do know much more about myself, and am much more accepting of who my dad is and what I do have with him. And for today, that will be enough.

Lapse

So I'm watching this movie, or something, and there's this guy in it. He's doing normal stuff, at his job, working around the house, interacting with spouse and/or kids...and then there's a conflict. I've seen movies before like this. I'm in this guy's head, I know what he's thinking, how what's happening or what people are saying is making him feel, and I know he could flip out any second. Part of me wouldn't blame him, would even cheer for him as he crashed the car into the divider, let the fragile kitchen light fixture fall to the floor because it just wouldn't go in right, turned and screamed at his wife right there in front of the kids.

Then I wake up to the realization that I'm not watching a movie, or reading a book, or witnessing a scene at a restaurant. It's not another man in the conflict, it's me. And it's not someone else's problem to solve, it's mine. And it's not another person for whom I have no responsibility on the edge of making a rash, potentially dangerous decision, it's just only me.

It's not a "what's he going to do?" moment, it's a "what am I going to do?" moment.

How I learned this kind of escapism I don't know, but what really puzzles me is what triggers it. I'll just be going along my merry way, tasks of varying ends and importance, and I find myself in that dream world. If I could solve that mystery, I would no longer have the momentary relief of wondering how this third person is going to reconcile this or that, or solve this or that problem, deal with this or that person, or get through this or that day...but I might, oh I hope I might, be able to better face the real life that I am living, love the real people I am with, and make the best out of every day I am given.

(written 7/7/2007)

Clue

There is something inside.

Sometimes I can just hear it rattling around, other times, it's like a stone preventing a wheel from moving. Sometimes, I nearly forget it's there, but others it's a malignant mass in my soul, threatening my very existence.

I cannot determine exactly where it came from; I cannot name it or the things it does. All I can see are the symptoms of sickness it lays upon me: moodiness, indecision, denial, depression, addiction. These things control my days and dictate my actions, and I am powerless over them. How can I ever get to their source? It is more than enough work to cover the tracks of this devious specter, let alone deal with the perpetrator himself.

There is, at times, peace. How and when it comes are functions of a dozen or hundred things, most of which I can only name in those peaceful moments. Those moments come and go and are only remembered like artistic scenes in a film I can't remember how long ago or with whom I watched. It is an endless cycle of chaos and a fruitless endeavor to make any lasting peace of my days.

The Rhoda Files

I had the odious pleasure of digging out several emails from an old teacher today, Ms. Rhoda B. Stamell.

I befriended Rhoda during my last attempt at finishing my bachelor's degree in spring 2005, in the World Masterpieces 2 course at LTU. Most of the other students were idiots anyway, but for some reason I, and a few others, stood out immediately. First I considered her a mentor, but her lack of boundaries and the flash-in-the-pan roles she assigns various people in her daily dramas confused the interaction considerably. I ate it up like candy.

She made no distinction between teaching and acting, and, accordingly, called her classes The Rhoda Show. Students are easily bedazzled by anyone willing to perform as eloquently and immersively as she can, and what inevitably developed was a sort of Stockholm Syndrome in which we all gave her glowing reviews in post-semester evaluations in exchange for her perverse use of our attention. During the course we had passing social correspondence, but afterward it really opened up.

I read some of her short stories; I bought her fat anthology; she gave me a rough draft of her novel. She was completely raw and stripped of any social facade or traditional boundaries between friends, or at least those between people with a 38 year age difference and the huge cultural gaps we shared. Our exchanges could be intellectually hostile and mentally stimulating at the same time. I thought that meant I was accepted as-is, but I was wrong.

Apparently, I am having trouble letting go of the wreck that came of our contentious friendship. Below are excerpts from past emails in which I expressed parts of myself as explanations of behaviors or comments she'd questioned. I think they reflect something I'm beginning to see more of and don't really like. Her words are not mine to share with you, so, with small exception, they do not appear here.

A few days after these emails were passed, she ended our relationship lock, stock, and barrel with four simple words. She rescinded an invitation for her 70th birthday party. The following April, however, when her book was finally published, she didn't forget me in the blanket notice she sent out.

I suppose I'm still angry about it. Comments on this post will be read, but may result in you getting flamed. Leave your email at your own risk.

* * * * *
8/22/05

It's a home-grown chaos I carry, but it dictates my sense of purpose and urgency. It's a foggy night that can't be rushed through, and the high beams only make things look worse. Not much of a serve, but it's what I do.

Right now I'm neck-deep in addiction and my greatest feat would be catching up on my VHS tapes of Stargate: Atlantis and Battlestar Galactica. I'm now 4 weeks behind. Despite how it sounds, don't call Child Protective Services just yet; I'm not a complete washup.

8/24/05

[Rhoda said: "...it is important to become fully involved in learning and investigating the world. The only way to do that is to become more educated and to step outside the narrow circle we all draw to make sure that we will feel safe. We aren't safe, of course, but the circle makes us think so.]

8/31/05

You should know that I have no intention of coasting through life on my existing education. I throw my own blocks down, I know, but kicking myself in the teeth for not being on the ball doesn't work to keep me motivated. I just have to work hard each day to do what's important.

10/28/05

I don't know what exactly your tone is, but things like "Really" and "And how do you like that, Lincoln?" make one thing clear: you're not enjoying our correspondence.

It's true: I am still young, have not seen much of this world, do not have a documented formal education, grew up wanting for material possessions, and hesitate because I fear failure. I have many faults. But our differences are not so great that I can't know you. My grandmother, my PhD'd colleagues, and the 3 year olds in my Sunday School class accept me despite any presumptions I make, correct or otherwise. Why won't you?

I know by now I've pushed you far over the edge, and maybe you'll even rescind your birthday party invitation. Maybe you'll badmouth me to your composition students. Maybe you'll say you never liked me to begin with. You don't like these arguments, not when I stand up for a contradictory opinion. This much I know, because you have taught me.

Free Lunch

There is such a thing; believe it. Especially when you go into Jet's for a slice and pop (who can beat that at $2.75?) and they're out. Well, except for one cold, lonely slice which was by far not the best example of what I've found to be the greatest pizza ever. They offered me the cold slice for free while I waited for a fresh one, but I declined. So I sat and messed with my phone for eight whole minutes, and when it came time to pay for my steaming, saucy, foil-wrapped treasure, the counter guy waved me off. "You're all set," he said, "thanks for waiting."

Who am I to argue?

On the Terrible, Embarrassing Ignorance of America

So apparently during a questions/answer period following a talk at Carnegie Hall, Harry Potter author J.K. Rowling revealed that Professor Dumbledore is gay.

Personally, I accept that homosexuality is as natural, healthy, and Divinely granted a trait as heterosexuality. Sure, it wasn't Adam and Steve(n), sure the Bible says 'abomination', but what I keep coming back to is that (1) if God made us all, he made us ALL, and (2) if God loves us all, he loves us ALL. Why can't we love each other?

Also, to all folks who compare homosexuals to pedophiles, I'd you to have a look at the sexual orientation of the last ten people you can find who were convicted of pedophilia or child pornography, or any other the thing you compare same-sex love to. ...was that enough time? What did you find?

Two people loving each other isn't terrible or disgusting only when they're opposite sex. It's an ironic statement about a society that condones heterosexuality with all its inherent gender conflicts, but condemns anyone seeking love and acceptance from a same-sex partner. Any two people loving each other is a beautiful and rare thing, and when any two people find each other who can love and care for each other throughout a lifetime, it's wondrous and joyful, regardless of the gender of those two people.

On Dumbledore...I could be wrong, but was there ever anything specific about his skin color? His hair color is white, and his eye color is blue, but are we sure he is Caucasion? What if, before the first movie had been cast, Jo had revealed that Dumbledore was in fact of African descent, and instead of Richard Harris, Sidney Poitier was the ideal man to play the troubled, fatherly old wizard? (Or Samuel L. Jackson..."It's the wand that says 'bad mother fucker' on it.") Just a thought, people.

The books are what they are, regardless of the backstories and histories the author envisioned for each character, and regardless of what she says about them now. As with every work of art, it will be viewed through the lens of the society that beholds it, in the context of the society that created it. As a fan, I applaud Ms. Rowling for answering a fan's question honestly. As a friend of gay people, I hope that the single largest effect this "revelation" has on us as a whole is to force us to examine our own hearts, our own presumptions about the world, and possibly, our own ignornace and prejudices.

Now, for your entertainment value, I present my responses to some comments following CNN's article:

* * *
jkarre wrote: "I do not want my young, impressionable child believing for one second that choosing that [gay] lifestyle is acceptable sometimes or any time. This is truly sad."

What is truly sad is the ignorance you are perpetuating in your children, and the hate they will pass onto anyone they meet who leads such a lifestyle, or any other kind aside from the one you've taught them to believe is right and moral. Shame on you and any parent who spreads intolerance.

* * *
William wrote: "If she really thought it was important, why didn't she incorporate it into the stories?"

Because it ISN'T important, any more than every character's implied HETEROsexuality is important in every other mainstream story, including this one. Anyone who's paid attention to a word Ms. Rowling's written or spoken about these characters will know that in order to create the HP world, she made them into real people with lives and pasts and issues--a necessary practice for any writer. This is especially necessary for Dumbledore, a central character mentioned hundreds of times in a composite story of seven volumes and thousands of pages.

* * *
Sue wrote: "The author's statement really makes the books and the movies deceptive and many parents wouldn't have bought the books nor let their children watch the movies had this come about sooner. Fortunately their was no outright homosexuality in the books or the movies to make matters worse."

Where is the deception? Was there some point in the text that secured your knowledge of Dumbledore's orientation as straight? If there was, I missed it. Also, where in any of the stories does any romantic relationship figure in, aside from husband/wife couples and teen crushes? Would you feel better if Ms. Rowling addended the novels now to include a list of women Dumbledore had been with in the past?

* * *
kat wrote: "JK rowling is an idiot." (and that's it)

Well look at the big brain on kat. Thanks for that wisdom.

* * *
D wrote: "You would have to go and ruin the Potter series by making the headmaster of the children's school gay. You disgust me now."

Do I really need to address this one? Poor D, such a victim. Think of all those wasted hours in seeming enjoyment and wonder! Imagine all the good quality stuff you could have been reading, instead of the evil, terrible gaymongering Harry Potter series!

* * *
Kirk wrote: "...the promotion of homosexuality in a children's book, even indirectly, is terrible. We already promote sex as something to do with whomever and whenever you feel like, to further teach our children that it's ok to be gay and that it's 'normal' is shameful. It's far from normal and everyone knows it."

Normal, healthy, unhealthy. What is healthy is knowing and being who you are without pretenses or falseness, especially based on fear of someone else's reaction. What's unhealthy is pretending to be something you're not, trying to live up to someone else's ideals of how your life should lived.

The concept of "normal" is the only one I vaguely identify with, but only as it comes to mean "average," "acceptable," or "socially ubiquitous." Guess what else is considered normal? Prejudice and hate.

* * *
Joe Smith wrote: "This subject does NOT need to be addressed in a book for this audience!"

Guess what, Joe, it wasn't addressed in any Harry Potter book. It is never implied, alluded to, referenced, or even (though you seem maybe to have thought so) denied.

* * *
bliss wrote: "wow on top of witchcraft now we add homo stuff wow its sad the series is over sales would have been lower"

i know bliss wow terrible that such an already sinful series of awful stuff makes the novelist the richest woman in england wow and now she decides to double the insult wow for shame (response edited to be better understood to the target individual)

* * *
Xysea wrote: "It doesn't change a thing. He's a beloved character no matter his sexual preference. Seriously, we've come much farther than that as a society. Haven't we? Haven't we??!!"

I'm afraid, Xysea, that we have not.

The B Game

Some days, you got it going on. You're on top of every task, diligent and taking initiative like nobody's business. You impress everyone with your punctuality, attitude, insight, and humor. Clients and bosses, coworkers and strangers alike everywhere you go just know when you shake their hand, address them by name, flash a confident smile, or just walk past: today is your day. You're on your A-game.

Today is no such day for me.

These other days are not so productive. You flub an explanation to a customer, misspell words on your monthly report, dump messy samples all down the workbench, and fall asleep during the safety committee meeting (while they're discussing the issue you brought up). These are the days you simply wait out the afternoon until it's time to go home, believing everyone should just be thankful you even showed up in the first place.

Today is one of those days. Today, I'm on my B-game.

I'm not knocking the B-game. Indeed, without it, you'd have no game at all on those non-A game days. And let's face it: the non-A-game makes up a majority of our days, unless you're Dr. Phil or Richard Simmons. We've all lived for weeks or months (or longer) at a time between A-game days, and gotten though it just fine. The kids get fed, the couch gets picked up (more or less), we still make it to work five days a week, and some way or another the remote control never disappears for more than a day or so. The long and short of it is, the B-game is the blue collar hero of our daily existence.

So I say we promote the B-game. Oh sure, those A-game days (and those damn people who always seem to have A-games, the A-Gamers) can have their glory, making the big sales and bringing home the gold-plated bacon, but I'm content to celebrate my B-game as a trusted mainstay, as an old friend with the loyalty of a beloved yellow dog, as something to be relied upon when that fickle A-game abandons us for greener pastures, as so often happens. Let's all raise our glasses to the B-game, folks. Hear hear!

Thanks, B-game, for standing by me no matter what.

The IKEA Conspiracy

This is a warning for all civilized humankind. I have discovered a clandestine group of otherworldly beings who've infiltrated our society with the intention of overthrowing it. They will do this by flooding our homes with their devices which, initially, seem harmless and even useful, but will suddenly rise one day and overwhelm us through their numbers despite their size and cuteness.

The name of this group is the Intergalactic Kingdon of Euseless Accesorizing, or more simply: IKEA.

They have begun landing starbases all over the globe. Beginning in Denmark, IKEA spread rapidly throughout Europe and recently crossed the pond to the US of A. Maybe you've seen these starbases: large, gaudy things beside highways near shopping centers, they require a huge landing area painted with yellow lines. Once settled, the public flocks to these places of shininess and space-saving utility, eagerly entering the tens of thousands of square feet of neat little gadgets and cute little things, shelling out sometimes hundreds of dollars each* to bring these trinkets into their homes--INTO THEIR HOMES!

Even my own modest home has begun this transformation. What started with a new cutting board quickly became a completely new set of silverware (which wasn't really needed, we were only missing a few things after the move) and has recently included new salt-and-pepper shakers (we sure weren't missing either of these) and some kind of cute little sugar dispenser (my ceramic bowl thing was working just fine, thank you very much). We also have cork trivets, spiral-wire laundry hampers and closet organizing things, these big butterfly-shaped hooks for kids' backpacks, and a plethora of furniture and accoutrements for my daughter's room.

The IKEA conglomerate has discovered our culture's penchant for their wares and is making solid use of it. They seem to focus their marketing efforts on our wives and daughters, offering quick, cheap solutions to little bothersome household mainstays and shiny, new alternatives to things we already have.

What we do not yet realize is that once IKEA have completely replaced all our furniture and kitchen tools and shelving and entertainment centers, these items will somehow be used against us to force our wills to do IKEA's bidding. This is when the mothership will arrive, and then we'll all regret replacing our very fine spoons and salt shakers and sugar bowls with the cute little glass-and-steel contraptions we have been duped into acquiring. Mark my words: we will all be sorry!

There is only one way to stop this infiltration of our relatively peaceful consumerist existence. We must rise up and fight this force that so many of us have so willingly allowed to take over our lives and fill up our homes. Go back to your old silverware, even if there are a couple spoons missing. Take your kids' shoes out of the hanging spiral thing and put them on the floor where they used to be just fine. Accept that you have to take the top off the sugar container and put a spoon in to get it out, rather than simply tipping the little chimney over your cereal. In short--rough it a little, folks, or one day we will all be commiserating in an intergalactic chain gang with the dozens or hundreds (who knows at this point?) of other civilizations the IKEA have overtaken.

This is my final appeal to humankind before it is too late. I already fear retribution for my discovery, already the cutting board and knife set are suspicious. I will do my best to update you on the fight, but I make no guarantees as I will be operating in the IKEA-free wilderness of traditional kitchen wares and big bulky entertainment centers without matching shelves for my media. Let's remember what makes our species great, and let's all fight to preserve it.

Yours Sincerely,

etc.

* IKEA is also an huge economic power. I will explore this later, but I think they are working with the Chilean Mafia.

Madeleine McCann

Just so we're all clear now, let's repeat for everyone's sake: you DO NOT leave a three-year-old (or even two three-year-olds) alone while you go out to dinner, no matter what people say about the prime rib.

You do not do this even if she is almost four. You do not do this even if you are at home, let alone on holiday in another country. You do not do this regardless of how much money you have and how secure you think your resort is. You simply do not do this. Ever.

I'd like to say the McCanns have learned this, but even if they have it's moot at this point. Their little girl is gone, and I believe the world will never know for sure what happened to her, just like Jon Benet Ramsey.

I was not a parent when Jon Benet disappeared, but the story seemed fishy from the start. We all know it. The news photo of the little beauty queen is a permanent image in all our minds, and so are the nagging questions that began from the start. Why would parents push such a young child so hard, for something the girl wouldn't even have a concept of? Just recently, we made the conscious decision in our household to withhold using the word 'pretty' as a generic compliment to our daughter. We never tell our boys how handsome they are when they try on something new, or do something cool. Of course my little girl is the most beautiful on the planet, but I want her sense of self-worth to come from being told how smart she is, or how nicely she follows directions, or hums music when she dances, or even how well she matched her socks and dress. Not just how 'pretty' she is. No wonder men rarely give two craps beyond if their hair is combed and women are valued by their looks and objectified not only by men, but by themselves and each other.

But there I go, off on another tangent. Ahem.

Anyway, clearly something is fishy here, too. And I'm a parent this time. Not only does this story strike me generally, it also strikes personally. I imagine how I would feel one of my kids disappeared. But it doesn't take a parent to recognize the fish factor. Nice family on vacation in Portugal, great. Tragic disappearance of a cute little girl, terrible. Parents so upset they cause a worldwide stir, refusing to go home until she's found, having meetings with the pope, and soliciting support from Jo Rowling and David Beckham...ooookay whatever. But has anyone besides me questioned what the hell the mom and dad were doing AT DINNER when their daughter disappeared? Of course, we all have! If there is a worldwide concern for the safety and whereabouts of Madeleine, why is there not a worldwide outcry at the abject negligence of Kate and Gerry?

Well, finally someone is asking the big 'what the hell' question. The Portugese police announced that both mom and dad will be named suspects. Big surprise? If you say yes, you're either biased or not paying attention. Or Forrest Gump. They were suspect from day one, tragedy aside, and now that Madeleine's blood has (allegedly) been found in a car the couple rented everyone ought to be withholding sympathy for the pretty, tragic woman we see in the news pictures pending her clearance by police. In any case, the 'outrage' Kate and Gerry McCann and their friends are expressing is blatant disregard for the loads of support they've received from millions of strangers. If they expect the whole world to care about what happened to them, they should be expected to face the inevitable with a little more dignity. One news source says "the family have been concerned that the tide of public opinion in Portugal has turned against the couple." Ya think??

Of course, we all hope Madeleine is found alive and reunited with her family. Nothing would make me happier in this situation than for me to be wrong about my suspicions and look like an ass for expressing them. None of us would like to think that any parent is capable of committing acts against children, especially their own. But we all know people, some of them parents, do commit heinous crimes against children--that evil does exist in this world. And I will reserve judgment on whether even these questionable parents fit into that group of wasted flesh.

For now, let us all hope and pray for the best. And please let's remember to never, EVER leave our three year olds alone when we go to dinner.

(updated 10/22/07 to remove erroneous references to Madeleine's brother Sean)

My Jealous Mistress

I have solidified in my brain what I've always intuitively known: that no matter what else I become in this world, no matter what else I do, I must write.

How I came to this I cannot recall; indeed, it's kind of an old realization at this point. The beginning of 3:15 '07 I immediately noticed a change in myself after agonizing to create when the mind is supposed to be blank. Part of what I realized is that a sure sign of being gifted with an art isn't necessarily that you're better than others at the thing, but that engaging in the thing serves to lift you wholly, putting you in a better place emotionally and spiritutally.

That description sounds dangerously like the definition of an addiction, except addiction doesn't feed the spritual self. I figure it this way: gifts of this type are divinely granted, and following through aligns you divinely. Ergo, spiritual uplifting.

So here I am now, finally seeing what's been tugging at my sleeve my whole life: that I am a writer, for better or worse, like it or not, professional or recognized or otherwise. Me and this destiny are married, and that's all there is to it.

So now comes the hard part. This isn't the first time I've encountered a life-changing realization, then had to either make good on it or live the rest of my life knowing I'm falling short of my potential. Potential is so easy to duck when you're mired in life, unable or ill-positioned to see it. Success becomes a burden when you know your upper limits (if there is such a thing); ignorance, in this case, truly is bliss.

But of course this is counterintuitive. Ignorance is bliss the way malnutrition makes disease preferable to health: it only provides a convenient excuse for failure. And failure is the same whether there's a good reason for it or not. Although knowledge of one's potential doesn't empower one to achieve, it does enable one to grow more fully into that person they were meant to be. Despite the threat of looming failure once ignorance is removed, the rewards for success are far greater than the happiness ignorance offers in stead. Indeed, just knowing one's previously perceived upper limit is no longer there can be a boon in and of itself. Now you know, and as GI Joe says, "knowing is half the battle!"

So here I am, the already thin veil of ignorance gone, at the beginning of my own battle for success. This prospect is not welcome, I will stubbornly and hardheadedly say up front. Already I struggle with self-image, one more potential reason to fail is daunting. Already, my plate is full with life roles and ambitions, long-term and short. Of course, writing has always been among those ambitions, but now bills and mortgage and groceries and college funds are at risk, and those ambitions that would keep me gainfully employed have taken priority out of necessity.

Not, of course, that writing isn't a good paying trade. But as they say, it's nice work if you can get it. The artist's plight is that his life is defined by struggle until that moment of discovery, that Harry Potter moment that took a British single parent riding home late on the subway and made her richer than the Queen. I am no longer prepared to sacrifice my place in the world to wait for such a moment; though meager, I have much to lose, and so my art, my writing, must take a back seat to what I have become accustomed to calling 'real life.'

Somebody said art is a jealous mistress, and any mistress worth her salt will punish you if she's not getting her due attention. Polymnia is punishing me: make no mistake. Don't get me wrong, I'm not reluctant to give her due, I just...lose track. I do get mired, in many things, most necessary for my material survival. I am fed intellectually, but I know there will be a critical point when those other parts of me, the emotional and the spiritual, will demand equal attention, and then I must give in. Then, there will be no choice, and the transition will be painful and terrible.

So I make this choice now, incrementally and subtley. I'm woefully out of practice; my creativity levels are at an all-time low. Time-wise, I'm swamped. Thank God writing doesn't cost money. But one way or the other, I must indulge this need, appease this hunger. Or it will consume me, and the cost of that is one I cannot bear to imagine.

Appendage: I owe part of my inspiration for this post to Tony Woodlief. Thanks again, Tony.

Baby, Don't Ya Cry

So, I just got back from an advance screening of the movie Waitress. Now, I won't tell you that I've never seen a better film, or a sweeter film, or a more appropriate date movie. (Okay, scratch the latter; this may be the best date movie I can remember seeing.) But what I will say is that it was a pleasure to watch. It was funny without being cheesy, and it was not overly chic-flicky. It was just a damn nice movie.

I'm sure there are cinematic flaws and shortcomings, to be sure. I'm no expert on great movies, but I sure know that I was drawn into this story, into the characters and their lives. I was pulling for the good guys and damning the bad beneath my breath. Keri Russel had me from the get-go. The bad husband actor made a really great, pathetic bad guy. The two other waitress actresses, including Adrienne Shelley (RIP), were perfect complements to Russell's character. Nathon Fillion...let's not even bother with that justification: suffice it to say he's as good as ever.

All around, this movie more than stands alone as an artistic accomplishment. Never mind the fact that it was the big (mainstream) break of Adrienne Shelley, yes, who also wrote it and was murdered last year after its completion, and never mind the droves of disgruntled Firefly (and now Drive) fans that will flock to anything with Mr. Fillion just to prove to Fox that more than one executive needs his head examined. It's funny, it's witty, and it's touching, and I highly recommend it to anyone facing adult life's slings and arrows.

Especially if you're on a date.