An Open Letter to CompuSystems, Inc.

To Whom it May Concern:

I attended Pittcon 2007 from Feb. 25-Mar. 3 in Chicago, a conference for which your company was contracted to compile contact data. According to your records, my badge was scanned at 23 vendor booths.

Initially I thought the badge scanning system was brilliant, but now I have a spam problem.

Maybe I neglected to read the privacy statement on the Pittcon website, or maybe the exhibitors are simply being unscrupulous. In any case, before Pittcon, my company's spam filter caught on average 5 unsolicted emails per month. After Pittcon, this number has jumped to as many as 10 per day.

When I say 'spam' and 'unsolicited email' I am not talking about services offered by vendors that did not scan my badge. In fact I seriously doubt any of these companies had booths at Pittcon, unless I missed the company whose domain names are achancetochange.org, holyspirit.com, mysteryshopper.net, and doubeclick.net. I know spammers will typically fake domain names to make their emails seem more legitimate, which may be the case in deanfoods.com, navy.mil, qwest.net, and k-state.edu.

I assure you, none of these unsolicited emails are legitimate contact attempts being mistaken for spam. One clue is the array of rediculous subject lines. I will detail a few below:

• Fahrenheit sunburn
• follicle liter
• Far east potency
• By the time I rolled into Havana the next evening…

The list gets more interesting from there, and today included something regarding Brad Pitt's anatomy and his penchant for home video.

I do not know what recourse to expect, but I will say that I never once believed that the professional and efficient job of data collection done at Pittcon would jeopardize my privacy. What is clear is that someone who got my email address at Pittcon has sold it to spammers, and this is a clear breach in trust between your company, Pittcon organizers, and conferees like myself.

Unless this situation is cleared up quicly, I will strongly recommend to anyone who attends a conference with data collection by Compusystems that they create a disposable email account for vendor contact.

Regards,

et cetera

Groupie

It's official. I'm coming out of this closet, and announcing to the entire world via the World Wide Web: I'm a This American Life groupie.

(If you're totally clueless, I won't hold it against you. After all, the show was on for about seven years before I stumbled across it. But now you can no longer use ignorance as an excuse. Surf to http://www.thislife.org and get with the program. Haha...the program. I kill myself sometimes!)

Some months ago, I wrote that I'd acquired a large number of mp3 files of past shows. The means are unimportant, given that you can listen to nearly every single show FOR FREE online (see aforementioned URL). And since that time, since that shady acquisition, I have listened to no less than four programs per week, going through nearly two year's worth of weekly hours filled with short story readings; expositions on common, everyday freakiness; tales of childhood wonder and lover's woes; of triumph and failure and fiasco...all padded and carefully packaged within the delicate confines of Ira Glass's soothing commentary. And all, no less, during my daily commute.

What is it that would make me give up my 89X morning shows? What is so wonderful as to knock aside winding down with Arthur Penhallow on the way home? Well, it's hard to explain. But I got some interesting perspective during a couple of theater visits.

The first time I stepped out of my radio with TAL was in Chicago, home of Chicago Public Radio station WBEZ, where TAL is made and broadcast from. I was sent there on business (my first trip; an extended journey of both distance and professional development...but that's for another post) and delighted to find that at 7:00 pm on my day of arrival, I would have the chance to listen to TAL live...well, not live, but as it was being broadcast on its home station. I was ecstatic. Nevermind that the reception in the hotel room, despite being a mere 12 blocks from Navy Pier, where the WBEZ offices and tower are located, was horrendous. I ended up listening via streaming media on the laptop. Which I can do from home, in the Detroit area. My enthusisam was unabashed.

This was an extremely fortunate night for me.

Turns out that, since I am usually working during the Detroit broadcast at 3 pm on Fridays, my TAL diet typically is composed of episodes a handful of years old. Yes, I have been downloading the podcasts as they become available, but figured I'd get through the old ones and then catch up with the new eventually. What I'd been missing is the announcement that the TAL crew WAS GOING ON TOUR, doing the show live in theaters across the country. Well, only six cities across the country, BUT STILL. And, as it turned out, their Chicago appearance would occur on my last night in the city.

O. M. G.

Of course I called Ticketmaster, the Chicago Theater, and all the discout ticket vendors I could find in search of a seat in the same room with Ira Glass, Sarah Vowell, David Rackoff, and Dan Savage, not to mention the hundreds of other fans that would be there. Allow me to digress further--nobody (NOBODY) else I know listens to this show. In fact, most people have never heard of it, and the ones that have sort of poo-poo it as artistic and/or liberal arts drivel. But finally, FINALLY, I would be able to talk about the show with other folks who enjoyed it at least as much as me.

If only there were tickets available. Technically, there were, but only in the wheelchair-accessible section of the theater. And they couldn't sell me those unless I, you know, was in a wheelchair. Which I'm not. I briefly considered the fact that the clerk on the phone didn't know me from Adam, and wondered where I might come up with a cheap or borrowed wheelchair for the evening...but that only lasted for about 0.0025647 seconds. I might occasionally search for illegal mp3 downloads, but I'm not that low. I conceded that I better listen to the new episodes more often, and decided to suck it up.

Pittcon came and went, day after day. I saw all the vendors and the technical folks and listened to all the talks and collected about a million pens and a laser pointer and a flash drive and some fake caribeaner keychains with little compasses and all sorts of coroporate convention swag. And then it was the last night. I rode the Metra back from McCormick Place and started walking. But not to the hotel. To the Chicago Theater. I just had to know if there were any seats--anywhere--that I might have.

Well, there weren't, but being that the show was a mere 3 hours away, they let me buy a seat in the wheelchair section.

What I can say about walking back to the hotel isn't exactly like floating, and what I can say about the few hours thereafter isn't exactly like being nervous, but I struggled to plan exactly everything. As it turns out, I didn't plan well for dinner and arrived way too early. But I got to stand there and listen to some of WBEZ's donors as they picked up their complimentary tickets, listened to a station executive talk about Ira Glass's reluctance to acknowledge his radio superstar status, and met a nice guy with bad teeth whose donor nametag said Ricardo Phillips.

The show was remarkable. I will not attempt to recount the flow of humor and emotion that flowed between the audience and the performers here; I will only say I should have written about it then. I met a very artsy woman with whom I couldn't quite connect, though we tried very much to be socially compatible. I visibly bristled her when I said that the value of art depends on its cultural context, and she recovered by saying she was a collector of professional jargon and asked me about the conference I had attended. She particularly liked the world 'spectroscopy'. An artsy friend of hers (who also bought his ticket that day and got in the third row...bastard) mistook us for a couple and his interest in me lasted only until he was told otherwise. But I still shook his hand and introduced myself. Suffice it to say I'm no social butterfly and never will be good at meeting strangers and treating them like old friends.

I won't forget the show for a good long time, hopefully not at all. The performances were just like on the radio, only read at a podium and microphone. Last Friday, bits of the New York show were played as the new episode (What I Learned from TV, #328), and a 4 minute film can be viewed here (though I don't know for how long). I laughed, I cried, and after about two hours, it was over.

What happened next was beyond expectation. As I was leaving, walking slowly past one of the doors into the theater, I saw Ira Glass come back on the stage. He was talking to some people on the side, who seemed to be waiting for him. Some seemed even to know him. I wandered back inside and watched, in a dumbstruck awe, while Ira had a conversation with a patron (who seemed to know something about Showtime). I stood only a few feet away. When they were done, I spoke up. I didn't know what was coming out of my mouth. I just said it.

"I just wanted to thank you," I said. And for what could easily have been 45 seconds as 8 minutes, I had a short conversation with Ira Glass. I had a short conversation with Ira Glass. I shook his hand, he asked my opinion on the excerpt from the TV show they were making, and he asked what I do for a living. For that brief few moments, were were buds, just like when he rides to work and home with me in the car every day, but I was doing some of the talking, too. And then he thanked me for coming, and I turned to leave. Only then did I notice there were a dozen, maybe more, people standing around there. Maybe they were waiting for the same chance to meet him, maybe they were just watcing. But they didn't even exist during that short conversation. Nobody else did. It was just me and Ira Glass in the whole room, and he gave me his full attention and was interested in what I had to say. And that made me feel incredibly good.

Of course I beat myself up for not saying XYZ, for actually allowing ABC to come out of my mouth, and for not paying more attention to the moment. I came to terms with the fact that I may have looked like an idiot, that he may have not actually thought I was best friend material, and all the other stupid facets of self-doubt one might go through after meeting a person one admires. And I was better for it.

So that's how that went. The entire evening, from stepping off the Metra to finding the open-late-deli walking back, was a whole package I will continually open and rewrap for myself.

My second foray into the flesh-and-blood world of This American Life was this weekend at Eastern Michigan University's Pease Auditorium. Ira Glass spoke on invitation of the Ypsilanti District Library. He was onstage all by his lonesome, and his talks were not specifically TAL-related. He talked about what it's like trying to succeed in the world of creative media, rules to set for yourself, roadblocks you should not sweat, and the marks of success, notably Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies. I dragged my poor wife, who was coerced by the promise of a nice dinner and a hotel-night out, not to mention the tickets were only $10 and "I already bought two, so you have to come with me."

I was mildly skeptical that she might not enjoy the whole ordeal, at least until the show began, after which I believe that she would see the beauty of the experience. I was wrong. She was not in the least resistant to the plan, made overnight arrangements for the kids and enjoyed it through and through. She is an artist herself, a writer with talents that I, the aspiring amateur, struggle with even a basic understanding of. Things I can only express in clunky, mechanical prose, she sprinkles and dazzles into each nook and cranny of her dialogue and the overall harmony of her pieces. She laughed, she cried. So did I, but not just because of what Ira, my old friend, was saying, or the clips of his days as an NPR reporter, or the way he laughed at himself and allowed us to laugh along with him. I did so because not only had I experienced this evening which so fed my creative center, but I was sharing it with Nancy, and her center was being nourished, too, with the same spritual and emotional food. And that's something we too seldom ever experience together.

So now, though I'll probably remain the only TAL junkie in the house, both of us now share something I once believed I would only enjoy alone. Now when Ira or any of the other TAL personalities come to town, I won't be alone as I once feared. Now, it won't just be me waiting at the foot of the stage for the chance to thank a somewhat obscure, shy Jewish reporter for the way his interpretation of life has affected my own. Now I'll be doing it with a partner.

Now we're both groupies.

Emerging

Ahem. Testing 1-2-3. Is this thing on?

Seems I've been negligent of late in being honest with myself and staying on task. That's what this is, after all, Dear Reader: it's for me to stay on the straight and narrow, keep hold of my dreams and remember both that I am mortal and must live each day to the fullest as well as remember I am only mortal and must give thanks for every morning I wake. It's not here for you. Sorry.

But feel free to enjoy it anyway.

Since I updated last I had another kid's birthday party, my first real trip for business, and a birthday of my own. The new house is still largely in the same state it was when I reluctantly agreed to move even though full repairs weren't finished, the old house is still full of crap we haven't spent the time or energy to pack or purge, and I've become addicted to crack. Well, World of Warcraft anyway, but what's the difference, really? Maybe WOW is cheaper, but I can't say for sure.

I'm certainly in no state to begin sharing details on those details just yet. I am goaded into action by bad news, news I want to write about but am out of practice in doing so. I am so completely disappointed with this cruel world. So. Terribly. Cruel.

I am trying every day to make a small difference, even if it is within my own household. And I do not know if I am succeeding. In some ways I am reaching out to others, mostly kids. In Sunday School with my 3-4 year olds, in Cubs with the Tiger Scouts. But I believe I could do more. I should do more. I should share more of what I have, even though it falls short of my own expectations. I believe I should be truer to what's inside.

I'm slightly more motivating just having said it.

A Letter to My Son

Dear Brendan,

Today, my son, you are seven years old.

If you will, allow a father his ruminations, and trust that his own patience for them will sufficiently limit their length. It's hard to believe it's been that long, that you are so big, and growing ever faster. What you were the day you were born, what you have meant to us these last 2,557 days, and what you are becoming are never so sharply in focus than the morning of your birthday, when I stand at your bedside and stroke your hair while you sleep, or the night before, when I sometimes cuddle with you and whisper how special and precious you are.

You and I both know we don't see eye to eye. I'm willing to accept that we may never share so much common ground as your siblings and I. But as we occasionally joke, I love you no matter what: when I'm angry, tired, crabby, happy; whether you're screaming or smiling at me; whether you're respecting Mommy or not. The things that make you different from me, from your brother and sister, are the things that make you more special than I ever could have hoped before I held you in my arms.

I've said before you have the biggest heart of anyone I know, and I don't think that will ever change. You are so like Mommy in your pure capacity for love and compassion, in your temper and sense of justice. I see so much of her in you.

You and I have had our share of troubled times. Unable to feed you as an infant, as I was your brother, I think I lost many precious hours. The day you rolled off the bed and fractured your skull, you were in my care. I didn't know you could roll so well, and thought there was time to brush my teeth before you needed anything else. You have always been stronger than we thought. In an effort to step over you into the bathroom (you weren't yet walking) I kicked you with my heavy work boot one day. You test my patience more than any other child I've known...or at least it fails the most with you. And last summer, we were out climbing, sharing a special afternoon together in Virginia, and you fell off that rock because I failed to catch you.

I thought I'd lost you that day, Brendan. It is the most real fear I can ever recall in my whole life.

I am so sorry for all these things.

Despite my difficulty bonding with you, I think we are a very unique pair. I think that over these and future years we will develop a respect and understanding for each other that many other father-son pairs take for granted, including the relationship I will have with your brother. I think that you will grow to be a man who understands what it is to love in the face of difficulty, who knows the purpose of a struggle in life and sees it as a challenge rather than a road block.

Today you will get a glow-in-the-dark junior sized football because I know nothing about Pokemon cards (and let's face it: neither do you) and I cannot (as I have explained) afford a RoboRaptor. I think you will like the football, but in case you don't I will allow you to throw it to me just so you can muscle me to the ground right after I catch it, or fumble it on purpose so you can recover it and make the winning touch down, even though I know you'll know I did it on purpose.

I think it's really cool that you have the first birthday in the new house. I will enjoy showing you off and asking about your school day in front of grandparents. I will enjoy talking about our Cub Scouting together. Today I hope that, through simple things, you will know that I love you.

Teaching Self-Victimization

A few nights ago we all sat down to watch the US-Mexico soccer game. We crammed into Santos' room, since he is, after all, the only real fan of professional soccer in the house, and were introduced to the world sport that we, as Americans, really have no appreciation for or understanding of. I have to admit we may be missing out on something quite cool.

So we six sat...well, except our oldest, who has even less interest in soccer than your typical adult American. The rest of us engrossed as we were, we took little notice of his disinterest. I asked if he'd like to sit down, and he indicated that he would...in the seat I was occupying.

Here is where the scene freezes, almost. My initial response was that no, I'm sitting in this chair. As he left the room dejected, I realized what he was truly after: attention.

His request wasn't meant to find a comfortable place for his rear end, but to get throw a minor wrench in the works and be noticed, and hopefully get someone interested in doing something else with him. I was the person he came to for this.

Now of all the good things I am, something I am not is a model parent. I really have no idea how to handle most of the more subtle aspects of parenting. My first reaction to this situation is that I do not allow this child to dictate my actions, and therefore if he wants to sit with us he will find another place to do so, and if he does not he will do something else in another room. My next reaction is that he is only eight years old, and is already lacking in proper confidence and means by which to express himself and his feelings (courtesy of his parents, who also lack these things in varying degrees), and did his very best to say what he needed to me, his father. So I sat in a quandary for a slice of a second.

I decided that offering him my seat would probably have the greater effect of showing him that I noticed and cared about his feelings, and possibly also of encouraging him to spend this time with us, which I knew, as bedtime was quickly approaching, would only amount to fifteen or twenty minutes total. The scene resumed, I made the offer (which was accepted) and I squeezed in next to my wife. In hindsight, I should have offered him my lap. I'll beat myself up about that later.

After a few moments, I realized that my plan had failed. I think he perceived my concern for his feelings, but that was only good enough for so long. Now he was in the chair he asked for (not because he wanted that chair, mind you) and he was stuck doing something he really didn't want to to. His plan had failed too--that is, his plan to get someone to spend time with him. So he started hemming and hawing, doing all the unconscious things we've taught him to do that trigger concern in other people, and prompt them to ask, "What's wrong, Anthony?" And so like Pavlov's dogs, we did.

"I'm bored!" he exclaimed with an agonized voice. Here the scene changed again, skewed by the lens of our frantic dysfunctional reaction to our son's alleged distress. Right away, my wife and I reacted. It's sad and comical, really. We concern ourselves with our child's welfare so deeply that we do not even want him to be bored. Intuitively, I know that letting him alone to deal with boredome will teach him to self-stimulate, solve problems, and ultimately think on his feet. But I am very well trained, and reacted immediately before even thinking.

My brain kicked in mid-consolation, as my mouth was offering him a list of things he could do rather than sit here in the room with us. "It's okay if he's bored, honey," I said, feeling almost guilty that despite all my ideas about coloring or finishing that chapter or turning on the other TV of having a snack, here I was abandoning my firstborn child in a desert of nondiscovery. And as terrible and rediculous as it felt before it came out, suddenly the scene changed back to a linear simplicity once spoken. The lense quickly dissipated in a giant sucking sound, and all was well again. Even Anthony. Although slightly distressed at having been given free reign over the last ten minutes of his night, he just got up and trotted out, and found something to do without a fuss, which, by the way, he was quite happily into by the time we asked him to brush teeth and say goodnight to everyone.

I don't honestly know how often these scenes occur in my house every day, but I'm willing to bet it's more than I could count on one hand. Obviously, I react...we all react...with subconsciously predicted precision each time. I don't really know if this is contributing to the self-victimization of my children, but I don't feel it's healthy. I do not want them growing up waiting for someone else to tell them what to do or how to handle conflict. I want them to know what they want, get it for its own sake, and be able to deal with problems as they come. I don't want them to isolate, but I want them to be independent. By the reactions I saw in myself and my son that night, what I'm really teaching him is if someone else doesn't provide a solution for you, you can blame your negative feelings, and the consequences of actions you take because of those feelings, on that person. And I am appalled at that.

I know my only way out is to learn better how to parent myself and transfer that to the parenting of my children. I'm as guilty as anyone of self-victimization, and I need to learn to recognize the signs and stop them before the automatic action-reaction machine kicks in. So I'll be working on that, and asking for help. And hopefully, as Mr. Woodlief points out so very eloquently in his SitG post More Light, I can overcome myself and teach my children to be better, more whole human beings than me.

By the way, the final score was US 1, Mexico 0. Viva Estados Unidos!

Stranger Than Fiction

Alright, let's talk about Lisa Nowak.

I know, I know. She's all the buzz on the national media scene. I'm usually resistant to pop news stories, especially ones that run dozens of stories per day on mostly voyeuristic subjects. But this one has me by the short hairs, so indulge me. Or not (that little 'next blog' button up top there is just for you today).

The synopsis: Lisa Nowak, a married (separated) Navy officer and NASA astronaut, drove 900+ miles in ~14 hours to confront the girlfriend (single Air Force officer Colleen Shipman) of another Navy officer and NASA astronaut (divorced William Oefelein) with whom she is known to have had at least a one-sided romantic interest. Yes, 'love triangle' is big in the news. It's better than a movie.

Truth, as they say, is stranger than fiction. Cries of wonder abound in the news coverage about what could have happened to such an accomplished woman that would drive her to such ends. We as a nation are aghast that one of our heroes has done something so unthinkably...ghetto. That's right: I think what most alarms us is that a member of this elite corps of Americans is now overqualified for an appearance on Jerry Springer.

Fact is, this is a very sad situation, and it has nothing to do with the rest of America. It has everything to do with the three adults involved and the Nowak family. If we as individuals insist on being affected by this situation, a requirement for opening our mouths (or columns, or blogs) to speak on it should be first asking ourselves why we hold certain people to higher standards and assign hero status to such folks.

While I'm not refuting that some people ought to be held to a higher standard and/or be granted hero status, I am simply saying that we need to examine the reasons before we spout off or feel betrayed.

Here are my thoughts. What Lisa Nowak has accomplished in her life is very admirable. Her space.com bio is here, and we can all agree it's pretty impressive. Certainly anyone would be praised for wanting to achieve the things she's done, moreso for completing them. Even admission to a military academy makes one elite, let alone finishing and being granted a commission. And let me straighten out a fact: she's identified as a Navy Captain, which most folks don't realize is equivalent to Colonel in the other services--that's just one rank below General.

Maybe I'm engaging in a little hero worship of my own here. So be it.

At the end of the day, what this whole story proves to me is that no matter how accomplished, how educated, or successful we may be, none of us are immune to our humanity. We all have feelings and emotions and things that send us into childish fits. We all have weaknesses and are prone to bad judgments and mistakes. Lisa Nowak had such a fit, and made such a judgment. She was caught and put in a cage, paraded down Main Street, and is currently on display at our American Town Square. Just check your favorite news site every 10 minutes.

Before we feel sad for ourselves over our lost hero or national pride, before we feel sorry even for Captain Nowak, we ought to first consider what this has done to her family, namely her son and daughters, for whom this will be probably a life-altering, maybe life-defining, event. Lisa Nowak's greatest struggle following this will not be going to trial, possibly prison, possibly being dishonorably discharged...but reconciling with her children.

And before we blame Captain Nowak (she'll get what's coming to her, rest assured), let's take a close look at what the media is doing. True, the words I've read in the news stories over the last two days have been pretty objective and cleaned pretty well of anything human or emotional. But I have a serious gripe with the use of her mugshot as a comparison to other photos. On one side we see her NASA publicity pic, a pretty smiling woman, a woman who has done more with her life at age 43 than most people will in their whole lives, and on the other the dark haggard face of a...what are we supposed to see anyway? A criminal? A freak? A homewrecker? A skank? What does a person look like who carries these labels? Like this? Because the woman in that picture is still the 43 year old senior Navy officer with a Master's degree in aeronatical engineering who's been aboard the space shuttle. Seriously, guys. Comparing anyone's best to their worst will yield the same results. It just won't usually tear down public opinion on what we believe is a 'common' American with normal standards of behavior.

What a lot of us are looking for here, including NASA, is a cause or trigger, something they can point to and say "yes, that's what we missed, this is what we need to do differently next time." I've got news for you folks: the problem was there all along, and can never be taken away. No matter what psychological screening process astronauts are put through, every one of them will have the same issue: they are human, living human lives, with marriages and families and credit scores and debts, with qualities good and bad, with flaws and strengths.

The tragic irony of this story is that without these human qualities that make us what we are, we are nothing more than machines. Those that would hide their vulnerabilities are not brave, they are running away from something that defines them. We hold high such figures that present us with stories of unmatched dedication and perseverance, that have accomplished things in their lives we think mean something, and then we tear down those same people when their humanity emerges from behind the veil. The only time we recognize this is after we realize that a fallen hero was, in fact, just like us. How many examples do we have as a culture of the officer-president-hero-JFK's who we quietly acknowledge, after the fact, was a womanizer?

We must not take this, yet another chance, to tell ourselves that being or doing makes one person better than any other. We must resist the compelling urge to hold ourselves higher than this woman who left her family and career to do something that could potentially (and probably will) ruin the whole life she's known. If we feel better than Lisa Nowak the obsessive philanderer, we should be scolding ourselves for putting Lis Nowak the hero astronaut above us before we realized she was human.

The Color of Love

This morning, per my habit, I looked at a couple news items online. Like most internet users, I grow increasingly immune to the various means of advertising placed on websites of all kinds. My eyes scan past the banners, the Flash animation, the cute little games, and the free iPod offers with automatic precision. Today, however, one ad did catch my eye.

It was a Sprint ad, and the first frame said something like "the colors of love." What followed were pictures of phones in the three prominent colors. I shall detail them for you:

"Forgot our anniversary" silver
"Spent too much on golf clubs" pink
"Thursday is poker night" espresso

...

So what have we seen here? Nice phones, yes, in admittedly attractive colors.

And what have we learned?

First, we need to assume that these phones are being marketed to men with female partners. Then we can make the following conclusions:

1) only men make such mistakes as forgetting anniversaries, or do so with characteristic frequency

2) one good way to make up for spending too much on one thing is to make a completely unplanned additional purchase

3) it is a bad thing for a man to plan to spend an evening away from his partner

4) men can make up for their boyish folly by buying their partners stylish and expensive gifts

5) women will accept such gifts as restitution for the named transgressions, and possibly many others

This is yet another example of our social understanding of men as simplistic baboons and women as fawning materialists. Is it wrong to be disgusted at these assumptions? Yes, we are all simple creatures with primal urges and instincts. But if we're going to communicate on that level, let's not pretend it's all we are. If you want to sell me a phone, I'm more likely to listen if you begin appealing to my sense of utility (a basic male quality in my opinion) than the guilt I feel at having 'wronged' my wife.

This ad is funny in the way that the Super Bowl Snickers ad was funny. There's enough media attention on this issue that I needn't go into why it was inappropriate. I admit I didn't notice any distasteful content, being the straight middle-class WASP that I am, but reading comments and thinking more I realize the truth. It's not exactly gay-bashing, but how many boys who might be questionong their sexuality were sitting on couches with their fathers, brothers, uncles, and friends, and had it confirmed that yes, being gay is an awful thing, to be remedied only by stupid acts of "manly" prowess? How many of them laughed with the crowd and were secretly crushed at seeing how the men who love them would react to a possibly inevitable truth? (And just how manly is it to rip out one's chest hair, anyway?)

Disclaimer: This whole rant might be one more example of me taking myself too seriously. If it is, then I have misjudged the world around me and the lot of you may continue living your lives, no matter how superficial, judgmental, consumerist, or shallow I might think they are.

Dirty Ball Blues

An original song by me:

Oh, I got the dirty ball blues

Every time I move my mouse
It gets stuck on the desk
If I use a pad it don't help
Makes me feel so bad

Chorus:
Oh I got the blues
Yeah the dirty ball blues
It's been such a long time
Think I been paid my dues

Used to be I could mouse
All around that pad
Don't matter how much or where I went
I di'n't ne'er feel so bad

Refrain:
Well now I bang my mouse
up and down
on the desk
I go to town
with that thang
don't do no good
seems to me
like it should

[Chorus]

Can't make no good man
Put up with such a po', po' thang
So I fin'ly got to Best Buy
Spent me a little twang

Now my mouse is happy
It's got a lil red light
It glides around the mousepad
And feels so, so right

[Chorus]

Swing Low

I'd like this to be one of those blogs where intelligent men ponder their lives using wit and humor: reflecting on their successes and an occasional failure, describing their relationships with their children in glowing anecdotes, going on about the blessings of marriage, critically yet poignantly discussing world events and how their unique understanding would help us all.

But this won't be one of those blogs, because I'm not one of those men.

While it is true that I have successes and failures, beautiful children, a lovely wife, and strong opinions that I am not afraid to discuss, I am missing something. I do not hold my head high as other men do. Even those with less fortune in life, even those who live in perpetual ignorance, even those who are bitter and resentful...these men I do not feel at par with. These are men I feel inferior to.

It was said that "if a man makes himself a worm, he must not complain when he is trodden upon." I'm not complaining. But I am wondering what makes me different. It's not humility, not anymore. I used to be content to be a man who didn't toot his own horn, who knew his limits and lived within them, who was satisfied with modest blessings in life and happy to begin each day fresh. But of late, things have change. Or more accurately, I have changed.

Oh, I'm not so fundamentally different a man than I was a year ago, five years ago, even ten. I've grown, matured, to be sure, but as years pass the gaps in my person I expected to fill with experience and wisdom remain empty, even have grown deeper. This is disheartening, and sometimes, on days like today, maddening.

* * * * *

Those words were written on a different day, and I declined to post them, primarily due to fear of criticism, or perhaps revealing too much about myself, my problems, and my sensitivities. Fact is, I'm going to encounter criticism anyway, if for nothing else than my lack of attentiveness or job performance. Fact is, I'm going to reveal my weaknesses with the sudden absence of strengths--strengths everyone in my life are accustomed to.

The kind of man I am does not come to light through one blog post, one workday, or one encounter with a stranger or friend. I do believe I have more low days than I ought to, and I really can't waste time lamenting faults or mistakes or omissions of character. I need to find my way back to the path.

The kind of man I am demands that I do justice to my true self, that purer simpler self who struggles in a busy crazy confusing world; demands that I satisfy my curiosities; demands that I be honest with myself first. But what I've learned about humans tells me the Self is most often the person we lie to.

I've done a fair bit of lying to myself, but also have I seen many truths. Obviously there is still work to be done; I can only hope I am granted enough days to do it.

SCWA

Pet Peeve

CBC News writes (here http://www.cbc.ca/world/story/2007/01/24/somalia-airstrike.html):

"For at least the second time this month, the U.S. has sent one of its heavily armed AC-130 gunships to strike what are described as suspected terrorist targets in southern Somalia, the Washington Post reported on Wednesday.

"The AC-130, based on the same airframe as the workhorse Hercules transport of the Canadian Forces, can lay down withering fire from side-firing cannons and machine guns while circling ground targets."

* * * * *

Wait just one minute, CBC. The Hercules transport is an American aircraft, not Canadian. We were gracious enough to allow other countries to purchase them for their own militaries. Not just yours, and not just this aircraft. Dozens of governments fly the likes of the C-130, F-16, and KC-135 every day in defense of their own airspace, all thanks to the generosity of the American military.

So do us a favor, and if you're going to criticize America, her military, or her role across the globe, do try to refrain from taking credit for the airframe of one of the most versatile aircraft in use today--at least when it's of American design.

Oh, and you're welcome.

Balance and States of Well-Being

When I was a kid, possibly early teens, I embarked on the extraordinary effort to learn how to qualify life. I'd heard about the trendy biorhythms and emotional IQ and such, and while it seemed kitschy, it also struck me that there must be some way to measure one's internal prosperity.

What I came up with were what I called the states of well-being: physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual. I know these are all over now; my physical therapist brought them up in conversation one day, and my wife attended a work conference where they discussed them (as well as a fifth: synergistic, but I don't buy that one yet). But honest to God, when I was just a lad, I discovered them all on my lonesome, and for a long time I was sure nobody else knew beans about them. I guess I should have published a pamphlet or something.

Anyway, in my amateur philosophizing, I concluded that to establish what I called Balance, each state of well being (SWB) must be attended to. I aligned them on a plus sign, with each pair of complementary SWB's across from the other: physical/emotional, and mental/spirital. I arrived at the conclusion that there was a spiritual SWB not really by observation, as with the others, but by an absence of the thing. I knew people who were healthy, smart, and had it together, but who still weren't happy. I didn't know exactly what was missing, just that something was. I even resisted labling it spirituality for a long time, steeped as I was in my logical view of the world, but it's what fit, so it stuck.

Once I had a basic scheme, I tried to figure out ways to quantify each SWB. I really couldn't, not in a traditional numeric sense anyway. All I concluded was that one had to keep working, possibly improving, in order to maintain that state. But what to work on? That was my next question.

I compiled lists of things that a person might do and/or achieve to keep up with each SWB. The physical list wasn't exactly a no-brainer, I actually used the US Army Physical Fitness Manual for much of it, but it basically is stuff you ought to do to stay healthy and fit. The mental list was more work; it basically says that while you don't necessarily need to earn a PhD, you do have to do your brain justice and keep learning a variety of new things, even mundane stuff, for its own sake. Emotional well-being wasn't an easy list to populate, being very short on it myself (especially at the time) so I filled it with things I thought emotionally healthy people did. Turns out I was right on some accounts: relationships with family and friends, maintaining a personal code of conduct (I later referred to the Air Force Core Values), character, and honesty with yourself are all things I thought might be required. The spiritual list remained blank for years (actually, it's still blank on paper) until I learned about healing arts, body energy, and other such things that usually makes people roll their eyes at me.

Well today I am at the realization that I really need to get back to work on my Balance. I've had too many ups and downs the last several (insert your favorite time interval here; they all apply at the moment no matter how small) to ignore my overall health any longer. Ironically, what I need to work on the least, at my second discovery of my SWB system, is my spiritual self. The rest is buried beneath layers of dysfunction and self-neglect.

So if anyone's reading, send a nice thought my way today. I could use it in a big way. Thanks.

A Life Without Beauty

Long ago (in high school) I had a Stagecraft class that was taught by the guy who ran the theater program. Now, let me first explain that this was no ordinary school. This is a very prominent private college-prep type school. I was a boarder on scholarship from an inner-city environment, and it was kind of overwhelming. There is a dining hall that looks like the Hogwart's Great Hall in the Harry Potter movies, statues overlooking lakes, a founding manor with a mansion and accompanying gardens and fountains, world renowned architecture, the whole works. So our school had its own performing arts building.

Now, let me explain something else. I was not a very art-minded person, which is ironic when you consider the school. This class appealed to me specifically because of the building aspect. I had to have an art class, and weaving just wasn't my bag (we had our own studio complete with a few dozen looms). Our main job in the class was to build sets for the school's productions (3-4 a year, I think) and, when showtime came, set up risers and chairs, take tickets, man the snack booth, and perform all the various technical things necessary for such an event. My specialty was spotlight.

Dr. Charles Geroux was the teacher's name. In addition to teaching us that you can build anything out of 3/4" plywood, 2x4's and drywall screws, he tried his best to present us with a world full of splendor. He assigned us speeches and presentations. Once per semester he'd bring a banjo and sing us folk songs he hoped we knew, though we never really sang along. He was a thespian, and he did his damndest to bring out the thespian in all of us via the medium of lumber and handywork.

One day during a discussion, the point of art for art's sake was brought up. Finally, I'd had enough. I did not understand the point of it all, and said so. Why does something have to be appealing or decorated or look pretty or invoke thought if it already does the thing it's supposed to to? Fountains, okay. Statues, sure. Paintings and music, brilliant. But bridges? Fences? Furniture? Give me a break.

Doc Geroux smiled calmly. You know the archway between Marquis and the Dining Hall? he asked me. Yes, I think so, I answered. Take a walk up there and read it, and come back and tell me what it says, he instructed. Of course he knew what it said already, why couldn't he just tell me? Nevertheless, it was a nice day, and being given permission to walk the campus during class was nothing I would argue with. So I walked up there, strolling casually the brick walkways, under limestone archways, past the Gateway of Friendship, through the fountained quad, between the statues of twin greyhounds near the courtyard entrance to Marquis Hall, and to my destination. And there on the arch were the words "A life without beauty is only half lived."

Now, all the arches (and there are plenty) are carved with quotations by great thinkers and such, and I'd taken very little notice during the whole of my time there. In fact, the quad, with its central fountain, the bricked walkways, the tower overlooking the campus, the green copper roof of the campus across the lake, the serenity of the gardens, had all escaped my significant notice. I know this now, but walking back I probably felt indignant, resisting the realization that was struggling within, knowing full well the lecture I was sure to receive upon my return. I did not stroll back casually as I had on the way there; I had no interest in enjoying some free time during the rigorous eight-period schedule.

When I did get back, I was asked the phrase, which I repeated. The Doc was an even better teacher than I realized. He didn't lecture me. He didn't present my folly to the class as something punishable or to be scoffed at or rejected. He allowed me to dwell on the experience, he let it soak in.

I recall very little of my childhood, even at the age this occured, but to this day that memory has never faded. I've never had to sit back and tap my chin trying to recall the phrase on the archway between Marquis and the Dining Hall. And since that day the way I saw the campus, and the world, changed. The way I lived my life changed.

Which brings me to today's tangent, a news story titled "Parents question plan to replace school tower." Atop a Dearborn middle school sits a beautiful clock that has fallen to age and disrepair. The district has already approved $416,000 from its building maintenance fund to replace the clock, and yet some parents don't think it's worth it. In one parent's words, "It's not necessary for the students. It's not really important."

What would Doc Geroux say? I think he would be appalled. Honestly, the thing is beautiful. It's even mostly still functional. I give serious kudos to the person who proposed using district funds to replace it, and to those whose approval was necessary to make it happen. The article says that even though the money to repair the clock "come[s] from the district's budget for building maintenance...some parents say they would rather spend the money on something that directly benefits students."

How is this thing not benefiting them? The money is reserved for stuff like light bulbs and contractors, not books and teacher salaries. If the clock isn't benefiting them, what about marching band, or choir? What about the sport's programs? Are they benefiting the students in any way? Sure they are. Are these ways measurable? Absolutely. Turning our kids' brains into calculators is not education. Teaching them to think critically, to see the world and call a kettle black without losing hope, to be charitable and expressive, to better humanity--this is education. Art helps provide that. If parents at Woodworth Middle School realy want to know how their majectic clock might potentially--directly--benefit their kids, they should take more than traditional academics into account.

Get Your Coffee Off My Car

I'd just like to remind Dr. Michael J. Fugle, DO that it's rude to put your cup down on someone else's car while you unlock your own.

I can say this to him because yesterday he did just this as I sat inside the car listening to the final moments of TAL #106, Father's Day '98, before my physical therapy appointment. I heard two men talking as they walked out, and thought nothing of it. I saw one was in a white coat, the other an older guy. Some kind of professional, to be sure, but perhaps a salesman, vendor, landlord, maybe even a patient. He was carrying a styrofoam cup and some papers. My car was parked next to this big silver SUV.

Older guy waves off the younger white coat and walks to the rear of the SUV. Then he sets his cup on my deck lid. I assumed he'd pick it back up immediately, even if he hadn't noticed me sitting there. But he didn't. He fumbled with some keys or such, then walked between the two vehicles and unlocked his. At first I thought he'd leave it there, which definitely would have made me brave enough to vocalize my displeasure as he reversed out of the spot. "Excuse me," I'd say politely, "you left your coffee ON MY CAR." Really, the embarrassment on his part would have been plenty to justify a lack of well-deserved rudeness on my part. But he didn't leave it; he remembered, collected it, and moved off. All through the ordeal, which lasted all of about twelve seconds, I tried to make eye contact with the guy. I'd have smiled and nodded (see aformentioned embarrassment/rudeness tradeoff), but it never happened. All I could see were his jacket and his papers.

Margot, the therapist, was watching from inside, I found out a few moments later, and told me who the guy was. She said he did apparently notice that my car was NOT unoccupied before pulling away. "I kind of don't give a damn," I told her, "about his coffee, I mean. What would he have done with it if I hadn't been parked there?"

Really, the nerve of some folks.

Sexism is Funny

Here's some dandy amusing spam. Trouble is, the Spanish word for computer IS ACTUALLY FEMININE. Why is it so funny for everyone to bash men, but so sexist for anyone to bash women? In any case, enjoy.

* * * * *

A Spanish teacher was explaining to her class that in Spanish, unlike English, nouns are designated as either masculine or feminine.

"House" for instance, is feminine: "la casa."

"Pencil," however, is masculine: "el lapiz."

A student asked, "What gender is 'computer'?"

Instead of giving the answer, the teacher split the class into two groups, male and female, and asked them to decide for themselves whether "computer" should be a masculine or a feminine noun.

Each group was asked to give four reasons for its recommendation.

The men's group decided that "computer" should definitely be of the feminine gender ("la computadora"), because:

1. No one but their creator understands their internal logic;

2. The native language they use to communicate with other computers is incomprehensible to everyone else;

3. Even the smallest mistakes are stored in long term memory for possible later retrieval; and

4. As soon as you make a commitment to one, you find yourself spending half your paycheck on accessories for it.

The women's group, however, concluded that computers should be Masculine ("el computador"), because:

1. In order to do anything with them, you have to turn them on;

2. They have a lot of data but still can't think for themselves;

3. They are supposed to help you solve problems, but half the time they ARE the problem; and

4. As soon as you commit to one, you realize that if you had waited a little longer, you could have gotten a better model.

The women won.

* * * * *

Miscellany: Grinch

This is one of my favorite holiday pieces. Give it a listen. Or if you're so inclined, read the text below (reproduced without permission). Truly, it's much better in audio.

Commentary: Grinch's True End, by John Moe

================
The Grinch’s True End

An Open Letter
By John Moe

TO: THE GRINCH
FROM: MAX YOUR FORMER FRIEND AND DOG

Dear Steven,
It’s been several months now since you left and I remained here on Mt. Crumpet in the home we built together. I think it’s important that I share my feelings. I hate you Steven. Hate; hate; hate you.

For years we stood for something. We hated the Whos. Like we always said if it weren’t for Christmas and the Who’s infernal screeching of “carols” we would have had absolute quiet all year long and isn’t that why we moved to Mt. Crumpet in the first place, Steven? Every December our meditation, gardening and literary work were shattered with “Wahoo-Boraice” or whatever that stupid song was. Have you learned it yet? Well have you? The Whos ruined our lives. Annually. And then you joined them. And why? WHY?! Because you heard them sing. Who was I living with all those years? Honestly, if you know, tell me Steven.

And, by the way, there was nothing wrong with your heart. I have, in our big file cabinet, a report from the Dr. that says while your heart was abnormally small (5th percentile), it was completely functional and unless you attempt to run a triathlon, you’re fine. And all that aside, your heart has nothing to do with your emotions. You left your Zoloft here, by the way. If you haven’t picked up a new prescription, I will send it down to you but you
should really renew it.

Alone up here on Mt. Crumpet my thoughts have turned to that night. In retrospect, there were many mistakes. You shouldn’t have worn a Santa suit. Also you should not have engaged Cindy Lou Who – at all. I’m not sure what inverted Stockholm syndrome took place while I waited on the roof, but I do know that it all could have been solved with a hard shove and a quick exit. Additionally we should have stashed the Christmas crap and then left town right away – the shore, Cozumel, my parents’ place even.

But really the problem was the Whos. They’re stupid, Steven. People who get robbed and then sing with joy are stupid people. And now you’ve gone to live with them, in a … what? Hut? – I can’t blame them anymore for being who they are. Perhaps I can’t even blame you for being who you evidently were all along. Perhaps I can only blame myself for seeing you as the one I spent all those years with. The one I thought shared my yearning for solitude and my deep and justified hatred for everyone else. But that was not you. You are a Who. Enjoy the roast beast. Whatever. Jerk.

Max
================

Moving Day

It looks like roughly 24 hours from now, I'll be ready to officially change my residence.

Not that we're ready to move by a long shot. Nothing's packed, parts of the house are a perpetual mess, and we made a plan only yesterday only yesterday regarding how we might move all our stuff. Seriously, I only want to bring about half of it. I imagine a great mound of broken or unused toys, unworn and ill-fitting clothes, broken furniture that made its way to corners of the basement because it was too large for the trash, building scraps, junk mail that has piled up, and general crap that has permeated our household the last eleven years. I suppose now is the time to plan for that long-coveted dumpster I've been fighting for so long. Now is the time to purge.

Of course, this sort of purging is a good thing. Making your house and your life cleaner is a good thing. Moving up in the world is a good thing.

On the surface, this move is just that: a move up. The house is bigger, the neighborhood is better, the city is safer, and the schools preferred. But this seems an empty victory to me. Several small details make me feel that, although facts are this is better for the family, this will not feel right for a long time. I am afraid to tell anyone this--they all seem so happy for us. And I don't want to explain those details; some are embarrassing.

Maybe what I should be doing is focusing on the good parts of this whole deal--and those abound. Just the chance to start over in an empty house is overwhelmingly uplifting to me. The possibility of having more room for concievably less stuff makes me giddy. Having a bedroom door will be a luxury. The ride to work and the kids' school is markedly shorter, which means less driving and gas. The yard is bigger, and although it can't be fenced I look forward to playing with the dogs this summer and planting a bigger garden without crowding the swingset. There are mature trees. There is a garage and a front porch suitable for sitting to watch the rain.

But what I can't shake is the fear that something is terribly amiss. I'm sure my sense of dread is caused more by the typical new year's malaise and my own personal issues than anything real, but for me it's real enough and cannot be ignored. Lately I've had trouble putting to practice lots of the life skills I gained only recently in my adulthood, and this makes coping with the house anxiety even more acute.

SCWA

Elusive

After months of putting it off, I finally decided to sit down and figure this out. I had to, you see; it was sitting there in my Outlook box waiting to be solved, and I had to empty the box before leaving work for the year. Which is tomorrow.

What I found was that, no matter how proud of my MENSA sample test scores I may be, I am no genius. Think you are? Give it a go.

No, I won't post the answer. I looked all over the web for it to no avail, and you'll get no better. I will tell you this though: it takes me 15 clicks.

Schmancy

Over the last week, I've had the privilege of dining (that's right 'dining,' not eating) at two very fine restaurants.

Historically, I am not a great gastronome, no lover of fine food and drink. There have been many times I've wished I didn't have to eat at all, such a bother I've found it to be sometimes. But those times mostly come when I am bored with the (lack of) selection, or want to spend time spent cooking/eating/cleaning doing something else. But being a necessary thing, I learned to keep it simple and suck it up.

Simple is definitely not a word useful in describing my recent dining experiences. First, a holiday lunch at Maggiano's Little Italy brought a tilapia dish crusted with something light and toasty and textury. Side dishes and drinks were not as memorable, but the highlight of the meal was the cheesecake. The slice was a good three inches high and four inches wide at the round end. OMG, and the strawberry topping...I was a freak. Of course, cheesecake is one thing I'm always a freak for.

My second big deal was a birthday event for my wife and half of another couple at Laffrey's Steaks on the Hearth. Apparently some Detroit icon, this little place is deceiving in its size. The steak was probably the best I've ever had. This was just a steak, but the texture and juice and flavor (woody and smoky and red) still make me salivate to imagine. I also had a twice-baked potato (which I *must* learn how to make) and sauteed mushrooms with it. Okay, so this was a simple meal, but well worth both the drive and the price (which is saying something; plan $50/person) for any special event you can think of.

With the holidays afoot, there is lots more good eating in store for me in the next several days, but after that it's back to my old routine: looking forward to a weekly visit to Taco Bell for lunch, and the fanciest non-special-occasion dinner being baked mostaciolli, both of which are fine by me.

Don't Let Nobody Hold You Down

This is a post a long time in the making. [Disclaimer: this post discusses racism and prejudice. If it makes you uncomfortable, maybe you ought to read it anyway. In any case, it's my blog; there's a "Next Blog" button up there you can click of you want.]

For years, I've been an avid watcher and listener of anything dealing with the various prejudices of the world. Some I've been known to practice, even currently. I'm not always proud, but I'm always human. Not that prejudice is ever justified.

Racism, however, has always been of particular interest. The notion that some people are to be treated differently, particularly better or worse, than other people because of how they look was introduced to me at a young age. I made friends with a neighber named Joseph. I don't know how old I was; like most childhood memories I can scrape up I can't readily identify whether I was 4 or 8 or 12. But there I was, playing in the alley and the vacant lot where a house had burned a few years before with Joseph one day, and then shunning him the next. My dad had told me that I wasn't allowed to be his friend because he was black, and probably gave me some evidence this was a good idea, because I remember not arguing (that wasn't allowed anyway) and not feeling hurt the first time I purposely ignored my former playmate.

From there, I suppose it went the same way one would expect. We were a low- to mid-income white family in the inner city near a major industrial complex; maybe half the street was minority, black and Hispanic, and my dad was fraught with not only the preconcieved notions he'd grown up with, but what he saw around him. It was a time when crackhouses were popping up all around us. There were two on our street. Adolescents stood on the corner near the empty lot for hours at a time, then would lean into a car window, make some exchange, and walk away. Sometimes they got in. The lot was only three houses away from ours, so it freaked my parents out. The kids were always black and male. Then one day (I was still small enough to be inside the house playing, oblivious), someone came to the door knocking furiously. I only heard about it after he'd run off, but it was one of these kids from the corner. He told my mom to please let him in, that someone was trying to kill him. She didn't, and he ran off down the alley. She was visibly shaken; my dad was visibly furious when he got home.

None of these things necessarily affected me directly, but they definitely convinced my dad that he was right. The n-word was frequently used. He once told me that even a white person can be a n-er, depending on how he or she conducts himself. Aha, I thought, it's not color that defines it...but no. Upon my realization, I was quickly reminded that *all* blacks qualify for the word. My dad's prejudices weren't just against blacks, though. He told Pollack jokes and raved about the communists and Japanese. I never heard anything about Jews, but that's probably only because we never knew anyone that defined themselves as such. As an older man now, probably less bitter at the world but just as confused about how to express it, he still carries his racism and predudices.

While none of this made sense to me growing up, I toed the line. I learned much later in life that nothing ever really satisfies my dad except his addictions, but that was beyond me as a teen. I told endless strings of racist jokes along with my adolescent buddies, and laughed, while never really believing in them. I'd had bad brushes with "bad" black people, but far more decent relationships with black coworkers, friends from school, and neighbors. I never told my dad about them. I also had a disproportionate amount of bad brushes with "bad" white people. Not only did it feel unnatural to be racist, it was statistically unfounded.

So after a time, I practiced racism, and other prejudices I'd learned, as most people practice any distasteful but socially expected thing. Alone, there was none. When someone mentioned it, either stranger or acquaintance, I pretended to think the same thing. In this way I know I perpetuated a greater amount of ignorance than I hope I ever encounter again. My racism, after a time, had become fixed. I didn't like it any more than a rock in my shoes, but when the shoes cannot be taken off and shaken out, you live with it. It changes the way you walk, the way you organize your life, the way you see the world. So it was with this. But truthfully, my own personal racism, with its meager roots, was the least of my issues growing up. Maybe that meant I never focused on it. Maybe it meant I valued friends, no matter what color, more than my dad's social ideals. I have never really tried to figure out how large a role it played in my formation.

After leaving home at age 16, I entered a new world, one I was not entirely ready for. It was filled with people who, generally speaking, had lots more money than my family could ever hope for. There was a greater variety of cultures, including several of the Eurasian types and different religions I'd never seen. The balance was way off in my opinion. What I was used to was maybe 50-60% black, 20-30% white, and the rest a mix of Hispanic cultures (you *never* confused the Puerto Ricans with the Mexicans; you'd likely get your ass kicked). And that was it. I was comfortable with that. At school, it was very different. There were virtually no Hispanics. There was a smaller concentration of black kids, but a majority of them were from affluent households, so they were different than the kids from back home, even though the two places were only 15 minutes' drive apart. There were American kids who'd grown up overseas, people who didn't speak English very well, and nearly everyone was unafraid. Culture shock was severe, but I began to adjust.

The turning point in my life, prejudiciously speaking, came with a showing of American Pictures. The opening idea was that every white person was racist, every man was sexist, every straight person was homophobic, every Christian hates Jews and Muslims...you get the idea. Of course this is shocking to a group of intelligent adults, and we were just a group of high school students. The presenter tapered off these generalizations, but stressed that deep down in the core of everyone's humanity, we really only understand other people like us, and therefore, we really only like *them*... not anyone else. Not anyone different. And so he began.

American Pictures was, as its name suggests, mostly a slide show. The guy basically hikes his way across some place and photographs it in all its glory and squalor. It doesn't sound tremendous, but they were pictures of poverty, abuse, injustice, preference. They showed things that soeciety hides. There were explanations with some of the pictures, or groups of pictures, that told the circumstances. There was music, I think. In the end, after what was probably two hours that seemed like an instant, I was changed. Probably an unintended (or otherwise, but it's inconsequential either way) side effect was that I was slightly ashamed to be white, male, not-dirt-poor, and Christian. These things I could reconcile right away--what I'd really learned was that, while I could not change who I was, I could change how I view and treat the world and all the other humans therein. And in this way, I can reinvent myself.

And so I did. What I found was that once I stopped laughing at the jokes, nobody told them anymore, not around me. I found that, while at one time one unchallenged slur in an overcrowded fast-food line would silently make everyone blame the single minority worker behind the counter for the delay in getting their nacho belgrande, any open disapproval of any mention of racism would quickly take on a life of its own through the others in line, and the slurer was forced to leave out of shame. What I found was that once I had been given proof of what I truly believed anyway, that I was no better (or worse) than any other person, that my worth was defined solely by the things I'm in control of, that, while perception is 90% of reality, I decide how people will view me based on my behavior, was that everyone else has exactly as much control as I do.

Maybe I'm an idealist, a Forrest Gump. I know the world is far from perfect; I don't expect it to ever be. I know there are cultures, even (especially?) in America, that I have no understanding of where prejudices and racism are part of everyday life. But while my understanding of the world is incomplete, I know that my experiences, even in their limited context, mean something. I might be a dreamer, but I am no fool.

Locally, Michigan residents had the chance to abolish affirmative action in government and things like public university admissions. It passed by just under 60%. I took my views to the polls with me and all that, but what really got my goat over the whole issue was the way the opponents of the measure marketed their wares. One such device was a flier that was put on my doorknob about three times. It showed a black and white picture of Martin Luther King, Jr. marching ahead of a group of people of mixed race. I thought that was nice, and if that's all it showed, I suppose the flier could have been for either side of the argument. Equality, civil rights, and all that. But above the picture, in bold letters, it said: Don't let nobody put you down.

At first I looked for quotation marks. Phrases like this aren't proper, so I naturally assumed this one had been spoken by someone like Rosa Parks, or maybe it was something like Malcom X's 'by any means necessary.' But there weren't any. Maybe this is racist the way the SAT is preferential to native English speakers, but the incorrectness of this bold slogan, "Don't let nobody put you down," struck me as inherently counterintuitive. I supposed maybe the fliers were intended for a majority black audience. But then I realized that is a racist thought by itself, because it assumes that blacks won't either understand or respond to the properly, grammatically formatted statement: "Don't let anyone hold you down." In the end I was sufficiently disgusted and threw the damned thing away, but the thought lingered, bitterly, in my head that by wording it in such a way that such thing would only perpetuate more ignorance, and possibly, more racism.

Here I cite a blog by a very old, dear friend of mine: The Minority Report . The author has given me a unique perspective on what it might feel like to be a real minority, not just a white kid in a mostly black school. Racism is not dead (also see here), and the only way we will truly defeat it is by not teaching it. Unfortunately, I think the only way to understand just how wrong it truly is is by becoming a victim. Fortunately or otherwise, that is very unlikely to happen to most (white) Americans. Hopefully though, the exposure of stories of extreme prejudice will help us open our eyes. And once our eyes are open, maybe we could all take the time to remove our shoes and shake out the stones.

Update: Would Tara Connor had been booted if she'd been black?

Update: By Any Means Necessary still fighting MCRI (January '07)

Update: U-M halts fight against Prop 2 (January '07)

This American Life

Every Friday at 1500 EST, I try to tune into my local public radio station (101.9, WDET-FM) and catch my favorite radio show, This American Life. I'm a closet fan. I don't know anyone else who listens to it--anyone else, really, who listens to public radio on a regular basis at all, except my sister. I'm not part of some Detroit cultural elite. I just love the show.

Maybe it's Ira Glass's voice. Maybe it's the short musical vignettes during and between acts. Maybe it's the humanity of the stories, the laying bare of those things which make normal people cringe or cry, or laugh out loud at inappropriate things. The show is definitly known for its unique human quality, and humanity is something that is definitely lacking in not only commercial radio (for which, I suppose, it must be praised, as this is precisely why many of us tune in [to tune out]) but open society in general.

Try it sometime. Walk into a drug store and start talking about feelings. Not yours, just in general. One of two things will happen. The stranger who is the cashier or pharmacy tech or stocker, or whomever, will either (1) look at you in disbelief, or at least discomfort, or possibly with contempt, and may or may not begin deriding or condescending you as oversensitive, liberal, homosexual, or something else...or (2) something will connect with the person, an event upon which you will be understood to be in a sort of temporary, two-person, micro-society. Secrecy is included in all such agreements, as all others outside this short-lived, newly formed organization will be assumed to immediately jump to all conclusions in (1) about both of you.

Try it in a bookstore, a place where culture (supposedly) lives a little more freely. At least in the large places (Borders, B&N), it's more allowable to open up, but you're still subject to some of the same labels. You can only go so far into why you think The Good Earth is worth the money and time. You cannot call it beautiful, not unless the person you happen to be speaking to shares this view (something you will only find out by baring your own opinion). You cannot say how Ellison affected your professional direction, or describe the excitement of Moby Dick on your kids' faces, without being viewed, at least by a majority, as some kind of...freak.

I don't mind being a literature freak. I don't mind that when I asked to borrow the BBC Pride & Prejudice DVD's from one coworker, another balked at my lack of manly qualities. It's part of who I am. I don't mind that I have no one to laugh with about Jonathan Goldstein's "If This Ark is a Rockin', Don't Come a Knockin'." But sometimes I'd like to. Sometimes, it would be nice.

So in the barren land of human life, a weekly dose of humanity is refreshing and welcome. Come next Friday at 3, count me in.

Madison McBurney

This morning there was a news item that I found as part of my morning start-the-computer-and-get-ready-for-the-day routine. The headline was "Dad charged with murder." I knew this would be a trigger for me. I'm a bit obsessive about fathering/child issues, as anyone who knows my well-worn soapbox can tell you, but I read it anyway.

Basically, this local guy got so frustrated with his 11-month old daughter that he threw her into her crib. I'll spare the details, but she died the next day. Her name was Madison McBurney.

This story is first and foremost a tragedy. Anytime a child is killed, especially as a result of abuse or neglect, it is tragic, and this is all the more horrifying because the parent is the perpetrator. This story, however, if it is unique at all, is only so by degrees.

Frustration with children is something every parent knows, especially new parents. No where in the "What to Expect" books does it tell you how to handle when your baby won't eat, won't sleep, won't stop crying, doesn't have a fever or some fluke ailment like the shaft of a pillow feather sticking him through his clothes, and the doctor says there's nothing wrong. No, only experience can teach you what to do then. Contrary to first instinct, it isn't nothing. While the only thing you may be able to do for the child is gently shush and soothe, and maybe run the bath if you've had enough sleep, your first priority is your own sanity.

We all hear jokes about it. "The reason God makes babies so cute is so you don't kill them when they're small," we say. A close friend came up with the gem of a phrase "they're treasures, let's bury them." We laugh at these things and understand them to characterize a universal rite of parenthood and a common thread that connects all parents, usually by grey hairs. Until recently, I was actually horrified by these sayings. They seemed to completely disregard the total awe and absolute love you experience at this precious time. I know now I was simply taking myself way too seriously, but certainly in the context of today's news, they are, once again, horrifying.

I know the frustration of the man who was Madison's dad. Right up to the moment when he lost track of that first priority, his was no different than the daily emotional toil of millions of moms and dads. I have felt it, and come right to the brink. I have held a screaming child and gazed out a second story window and imagined quiet, and hated myself for it. Of course, I was solidly met by reality. There would have been two landings that day if any. Brendan now is still the most frustrating child in our household, but he also has the biggest heart of anyone I know, including all the grandmothers and clergy I've ever met. I told the story of the window the first few times as self-therapy, seeking the validation of my fellow parents, who, while shocked, did not condemn me (bless them), and later as a funny story of real parenting frustration and reward. I also use it as a quiet lesson to myself about how love is tested and practiced, and in this context, it is one of the most valuable experiences I've had.

I have no intention of defending Madison's dad. In his own right, I'm sure he is aware of his mistake, although the consequences for it very likely escape him. In this respect, this is a much larger tragedy. A child is dead, but a family is destroyed. I resist the urge to comment on every story I read like this (see aforementioned soapbox), as they are certainly overnumerous, but this one nagged me as I tried to shake it off.

Maybe that's a good thing. If this story has any impact, let it cause other parents to examine their own reactions and reiterate that first priority during those moments of insanity. Let it, possibly, cause one man or woman to take a timeout, lock the bathroom door behind them and remember their child's smile through the tears, noise, vomit, and poop. Because these moments, the smiles and laughter, the finger paintings and stick-figured heads, the bedtime stories and goodnight kisses and hugs, are as real, and a more abundant part, of the parenting experience than anything that might frustrate us.

I'm Rea-dy

Today I have an appointment to talk to my boss's boss regarding a promotion recommendation that was made last APRIL. He (or someone) has been dragging his feet and I've had nought but procrastination and pooh-poohing on management's part. This is the boss who is known to fire people who cross him; I'm staying positive. Let's just hope I don't end up getting wasted in the Goofy Goober or finding seaweed stuck to my upper lip later.

An Open Letter to Allison Aubrey

In response to http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=6556831

Dear Ms. Aubrey,

Regarding your NPR report called "Moms and Pros Tackle Head Lice," I was disappointed that, once again, dads were not mentioned as participants in common parenting issues.

I am a working father of three who has earned a few stripes of my own in the lice battle. Not only do the kids get nitpicked whenever there's a reported case in school, but my wife and I check each other just to be sure. I can handle a nit comb as well as any mom I've met. I know I'm not the only male parent who's on duty in this respect, not to mention countless others, including infant feeding, diaper changing, bath giving, potty training, homework helping, backpack checking, and dozens of other jobs to be done around a house with children.

As a reporter, I urge you not to forward the stereotype that many men suffer as parents: that they are uninterested, unskilled, and as a whole inept in the art of loving and caring for children.

Kindest Regards,

etc.

Heater Woes

The heater in my car is seriously pissing me off. First, it was working erratically. It was like a lottery, with a 30-40% chance of winning. On days that I'd lose, I'd have to scrape the window and run the car about 10 minutes before actually driving it. Warm air would lazily waft up the defroster vent and lightly graze the windshield creating a wavy ribbon of clarity, from which I could rub and warm a path to the center of my sightline and safely (somewhat) make it to work. Then, it stopped working altogether. I accepted this and made the window-rubbing routine a regular part of my morning.

An attempt at maintenance proved fruitless. I checked the relays, the breakers, and fuses; I dismantled the blower motor while laying upside-down on my back, feet in the air, on the half-reclined passenger seat; I jimmied a tool to remove the oval radio-heater cluster (why can't Ford just have screws like everyone else??) only to yank the guts out from behind the warm-cool control knob due to the insufficient length of the attached cable. I *think* the problem is the high-low knob, a four-way switch of some sorts, but darn if I can't pull the cluster far enough away from the dashboard to remove the mechanism. And how, then, will I be able to test it?

After several days of making peace with my car and the many processes necessary to make it happy, the heater started running again halfway into my morning commute today. It irked me in a big way. I have to give kudos to my father in law, who helped every way he could, including checking out the service manual from the library which included a picture of the official radio cluster removal tool that I managed to recreate from a clothes hanger.

No, I can't take it to the dealer. Who has that kind of money? But as winter moves on, I am sure I will be more and more willing to pay $200+ for a repair that might concievably cost me one day's lunch at Taco Bell if I could just figure out some minor details.

On another note, I have been on a string of futuristic conspiracy movies, and I'm not entirely happy with the catalog. I rented Aeon Flux and The Island, and I must say I'm not very impressed. The former, I'm sure, is a great animated series (as I understand its origin to be), but the big screen did not elevate it beyond two dimensions. The latter was better, deeper, but entirely too long. I was not surprised after watching it that the director is also responsible for the likes of The Rock and Armageddon. Maybe it makes me socially inept, but I really have no clue what anyone saw in these kitsch sensationalist over-dramas. But I digress. I'm sure there will be a few more movies of this genre before I'm done, just because I'm such a nerd, but I will relegate control of the DVD player tonight to my lovely wife, who has been hankering for some Pirates of the Caribbean 2. And who can blame her, really?

Today's Tangents

So there's a guy at work who's the most negative person I know. He just exudes this purplish-black energy, and it trails him wherever he goes like smoke. Or maybe it's negative in the sense that it sucks away positive energy, like a black hole. Whenever he talks, he juts his teeth out at you and forces his voice out, even when it's not loud. When he's pissed about something, everyone knows it. He's the elephant in the living room that everyone makes room for and nobody ever calls out.

It's been an interesting day. I had lunch with an old friend with whom I could talk for hours. After lunch, my headache was gone, even though I sucked down Mountain Dew for most of it. One of our topics of discussion was careers.

This week at work I'm evaluating myself for our annual review period. I'm not very far off the mark I set so many months ago, except that I thought 120 hours of training by year's end was reasonable (I've done 36). But for some reason my sense of accomplishment flounders as I read some of my objectives and assessments. They just don't seem like they'll get me anywhere.

Last year at this time I was blossoming: learning new things every week, and practicing what I would eventually become the local expert at. This year I'm so underwhelmed it's annoying. I know my focus is elsewhere; I know my energy is different; I know my interests are not the same. But you know--my goals should not be any different now than they were then. Because guess what? I haven't done anything significant in the past 12 months. Maybe my own realization is what's got me down.

Maybe this is what I need: some slap in the face, some view from the mirror. what it'll get me is, so far, a mystery.

Tater Tomater

Today in the lunch line, I overheard a couple of conversations. I'm not much of an eavedropper, but when there are twenty people waiting to order their bacon cheeseburgers and Frostys, it's the best entertainment available. Especially when said twenty people are all within 8 inches of each other.

The minor conversation was between two women, middle-aged, discussing some younger woman in their office whose boyfriend is in Iraq. One said to the other that this young lady makes up things to be angry at him over so she doesn't worry so much. I thought that was tremendously sad. Here is the poor guy across the globe fighting and living in conditions unthinkable to typical Americans, and his girl is making up crap to hold against him just so she won't have to cry at night. I hope she gets dumped soon.

The other conversation was between an older man and woman near retirement age--or that age I think retirement is supposed to occur. That was their topic of discussion. The man was wearing a suit and tie, talking about how his brother bought a house last year for $510,000 that is now only valued at $420,000. The woman said her husband is a physician, and he cannot retire because they can't sell their house. Obviously, neither of these folks has never had to worry about clipping coupons or the price of a gallon of milk, at least not in decades. It was also clear that despite their economic positions in life, they were sweating bullets over money.

It got me thinking. I'm habitually worried about money to begin with. I don't make much and way too many of those dollars go out than stay in. I've never paid much attention to the economy; I've always had a steady income, meagerly middle-class though it may be, but now that I've begun aging out of my irresponsible youth I realize I don't have the luxury of ignorance much longer.

I'm worried about retirement; I don't know how long I will have to work, and I have absolutely no clue if or how I could ever save the requisite $2 million or whatever it is before I can expect to retire. I don't even know if I can keep my job that long.

I'm worried about my kids' college savings. I want them to succeed, like any parent, and I believe them to be truly unique individuals that can change the world given the chance. They'll never get close to that chance without formal education, and I can barely put money in a savings account, let alone save for three tuitions.

I worry about the value of my home. Our house is no crown jewel, but homeownership is still something to be proud of. Now, with the neighborhood going to hell and the schools a mess, I wonder if it's something we should forfeit for the chance to "trade up". Two weeks ago, I had the ironic satisfaction that we couldn't afford to move anyway, so the drop in housing prices was something we could ride out, at least as sellers. Now, I'm not so sure.

I worry about my health. Sure I worry about everyone else in the family's too, but ever since I broke my arm I have wondered what would have happened if it'd been more serious. The way my insurance is set up currently, it would be much preferable for me to die in a serious accident than come out disabled in any way. How would I provide for my family? Who would take care of them if I couldn't? And even if nothing bad happens to me, I'm already seeing the effects of three years out of my twenties. If I don't get on the stick, ten extra pounds will turn into God knows what. Will my health outlast my children's dependence on me?

In this season, the key is to be thankful, and I'm trying to remember that. But for now, the balance between staying positive, laughing with and kissing the kids, going out occasionally for nice dinners, getting Nancy that thing she really wants for her birthday; and taking care of business: making an extra house payment, saving for tuition, paring back at Christmas time, and generally staying way way in the black....is eluding me. At least through December, I will err on the side of thankfulness and carefully measured denial. But after that, I somehow have to try again to cope with it all without making plans that begin by upping my life insurance.

0938

I'm in a state of unrest today. Even though I've upped my water intake and paid more attention to my health, I can still feel a drop in basic health. Maybe I'm fighting something. Maybe it's because I haven't stopped in 7+ days and have many more busy ones to go before next Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, when, despite the holiday, no one sits still and relaxes.

I don't want to do any GC injections today, or mass spec runs, or IR scans. I eyeball the dismal morning through the window and dread walking out there to the LN2. Even though I was all abuzz earlier in the week about what I needed to get done, none of it is of any interest now. I feel sedentary and restless at once. I feel disturbed. What I really want to do is write.

Not that I have some great thing I have to get out, or something to get off my chest, but I feel the need to express today and see what comes of it. Most of the days I'm here, I enjoy my job. It's interesting and rewarding, I work with smart, professional people who not only care about their work but are genuinely decent and friendly. But today I'd rather be alone with the keyboard.

I need to be careful at times like this. I tend to isolate, then forget about creating, then chaos ensues. It's a fine line with me.

Unconditional

There are some days when I am moved more than normal to show love to my children. This never implies that there are days I am not moved to show them love; rather, only that most days I only bother them so much with requests for hugs and kisses and questions about their days at school and the like. Other days, I am much more excessive with my affection.

Today will be one such day.

Usually these days are brought on by a sad story that forces me to appreciate the presence and health of my children regardless of everything else in the world that is wrong. Today isn't much different. In my search for worthwhile men's/father's interests and resources, I came across a blog called Total Depravity. Via this blog, I was led to another in which I found the story of how the author's firstborn, a girl, died. The link is here. Be warned--this will wrench you and make you cry. Save time afterward for grief, and probably a good deal of pouring an overgenerous amount of attention onto your kids.

So today I will go home and pour my love onto those three little beasties, knowing full well that within 24 hours or less one or more of them will very likely yell at, lie to, disrespect, mutteringly curse, or otherwise defame me and/or their mother. I will do this for its own sake, because, in spite of everything else these children may be, they are still my beautiful, precious, Divine gifts, and deserve to be treated as such. Even when they pour juice over their shoulder behind their seat in the truck when they think they aren't being watched.

The Twelve Steps of Prosecution

This really irks my ire:
http://www.cnn.com/2006/LAW/11/14/amends.plea.ap/index.html

Full text follows:

* * * * *
A 12-step apology leads to a guilty plea
POSTED: 1:19 p.m. EST, November 14, 2006

CHARLOTTESVILLE, Virginia (AP) -- A man who sexually assaulted a fellow University of Virginia student in 1984 and then apologized to her two decades later as part of the 12-step Alcoholics Anonymous program pleaded guilty to the crime Tuesday.

"This began as an effort to make amends," William Beebe said in a statement outside of court. "Twenty-two years ago I harmed another person and I have tried to set that right."

Beebe, 41, of Las Vegas, Nevada, entered his plea in Charlottesville Circuit Court to one count of aggravated sexual battery for assaulting Liz Seccuro during a party at a fraternity house.

Under AA's ninth step, alcoholics are advised to make amends to those they've harmed. Last year, Beebe -- a member of AA -- decided to write Seccuro a letter to make amends for assaulting her.

Seccuro, 39 and living in Greenwich, Connecticut, said Beebe's letter reopened old wounds when it arrived in September 2005. She eventually replied to his letter and the two entered into a two-month e-mail correspondence.

In their e-mails, which Seccuro provided to The Associated Press, Beebe told Seccuro he had long been haunted by what he had done, and wanted to atone for having harmed her.

But Seccuro became upset when his account did not match with her memory of the assault, which she describes as violent and savage. She was 17 years old and still a virgin when Beebe attacked her, she said.

In December, Seccuro called Charlottesville police to report what had happened. As there is no statute of limitations on felonies in Virginia, Beebe was arrested in Las Vegas and extradited to Virginia.

Beebe had been scheduled to face trial November 27 on charges of rape and object sexual penetration. He could have faced life in prison if convicted of those charges.

Prosecutor Claude Worrell told the court that one of the main reasons his office agreed to a plea is because the investigation revealed that more than one person may have assaulted Seccuro.

Under the agreement, the state recommended that Beebe serve two years in prison. Formal sentencing is set for March 15. Beebe will remain free on bond until then.

During his court appearance Tuesday, Beebe glanced at Seccuro often, his expression almost serene. Seccuro -- flanked by her former sorority sisters and husband -- stared straight ahead, avoiding his gaze.

When Beebe entered his plea -- "guilty as charged" -- Seccuro bowed her head and wiped away tears.

Outside of court Tuesday, Seccuro said tearfully, "I think that the idea of closure for any victim of a sexual assault is not reality. There is never closure.

Seccuro went public with her name and story, hoping to inspire other sexual assault survivors to seek help. She launched a donor fund called STARS -- Sisters Together Assisting Rape Survivors -- to raise money for programs helping rape victims and their families.

Copyright 2006 The Associated Press. All rights reserved.This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, or redistributed. [sorry, AP]
* * * * *

First, two points:
1) William Beebe did the right thing by apologizing for his actions and taking responsibility, and
2) Liz Seccuro had every right to take William Beebe to court and seek prosecution.

But this situation is sad. Making every effort toward sensitivity, I can't understand why Mrs. Seccuro would prosecute Mr. Beebe after 21 years because he tried to make amends. Let's clarify: I understand fully why Mrs. Seccuro would prosecute Mr. Beebe. But why *only* after he tried to do the right thing?

I suppose Mr. Beebe should have left his apology at that, rather than try and argue with his victim about the details. Some would say it was stupid of him to even come clean in the first place; I'm not in that camp. It takes a lot of courage to admit you've done wrong, especially if such an admission has legal ramifications. As a person with problems of my own, and plenty of my own skeletons, I can respect that.

I suppose Mrs. Seccuro could have pressed charges in 1984. But I will never experience the fear of rape, so I can only give her the benefit of the doubt. It takes a lot of courage to go public with such a violation, to tell the world you were raped, with the implications that come with not having pursued it. As a person who has lived with shame and cowered in fear of exposure, I can respect that.

But this story still unsettles me. My comments will end, though, by putting myself in neither Mrs. Seccuro's nor Mr. Beebe's shoes, but those of Mr. Seccuro. How would I feel knowing my wife's first sexual encounter had been rape? Knowing that the woman I loved had been violated so? What were his thoughts when he found out? What if he didn't know before the rest of us? I imagine how this man must feel, and I am left somewhat, but not completely, satisfied with the results.