Back when my self esteem sat at the bottom of the adolescent well, looking up, I listened to every new taunt and sneer as if it were constructive criticism. I had a "friend" who would greet me with a list of what he considered to be my faults, most of which were found in my appearance, though some were directed at my choices of friends and extracurricular activities. "Zitface, birdsnest, tuba," was how this litany started. The first one was obvious. The second was a reference to my unruly mop of hair. The third was a double swipe at both my weight and my participation in band. If I had to be in that group, couldn't I at least play a cool instrument? Who plays the tuba?
I did. And I wore glasses. And I didn't have a single clue about how to go about getting a girlfriend. That was, according to my "friend," the reason he was taking all this time and effort out of his otherwise busy day to describe my limitations. It was in hopes that I could do something about the craters on my face and run a comb through my hair and get some cool clothes and maybe stop being all the things that I was. Carrying that lunchbox didn't help matters at all.
This is why I flinch when I hear my son and his friends "playing" with each other, as they describe it, and one of them lands a verbal punch in what I assume is the other's emotional solar plexus. They like to call my son "Unibrow." I see it as a genetic reminder of the prodigious caterpillar that crawls just above his father's eyes. It is distinct and proud.
To me. It may also be part of my son's motivation to try contact lenses. We both started wearing glasses when we were about five years old. We have the same kind of lazy eye. He's a lot more courageous than I am because he is willing to stick his finger in his eye. For the sake of beauty. Or maybe it's convenience. He doesn't have to worry about his glasses getting left behind or sat upon or crushed in any tumultuous way. He just has to stick his finger in his eye.
I suppose this is how I know that evolution is real.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Tea Ball
It wasn't that long ago that pundits and their like were suggesting that the Tea Party had run its course here in the early twenty-first century. Just a few years ago, Nevada GOP Senate candidate Sharron Angle, floated the possibility of armed insurrection in a radio interview: "I hope that's not where we're going, but you know if this Congress
keeps going the way it is, people are really looking toward those Second
Amendment remedies and saying my goodness what can we do to turn this
country around? I'll tell you the first thing we need to do is take
Harry Reid out."
Eight years ago, Michelle Bachmann asserted, “If we took away the minimum wage, if conceivably it was gone, we could potentially virtually wipe out unemployment completely because we would be able to offer jobs at whatever level.” The same woman who assured voters in Iowa three years later, “…the very founders that wrote those documents worked tirelessly until slavery was no more.”
After the 2012 election, when only four of the sixteen Tea Party candidates won their races, it appeared that the Party of Tea was on its way out.
Well, now we have the IRS to thank for its resurgence. All that whining about how they weren't being treated fairly turned out to be true. Katrina Pierson, a Dallas-based tea party leader said, "This is the defining moment to say 'I told you so.'" Oh, and apparently they are rubber and we are glue. Sticky, messy glue that smells a little like Benghazi. Never mind that this is the group that gave us "legitimate rape,"and covergirl Bachmann who reminds us that, “There are hundreds and hundreds of scientists, many of them holding Nobel Prizes, who believe in intelligent design.” The Tea Party's odd, poorly constructed clubhouse was about to collapse under its won stupidity, and now it would appear that the Internal Revenue Service has swooped in just in time to save them from their own ridiculous beliefs. "What's happened here is a reminder of, this is what happens when you expand government," Senator and Poland Springs spokesmodel Marco Rubio said in an interview with The Associated Press. "That and the disaster that is Obamacare is going to be a real catalyst in 2014 and beyond."
Meanwhile, the disaster that is The Tea Party lives to fight another day. When was the last time the IRS did something nice for you?
Eight years ago, Michelle Bachmann asserted, “If we took away the minimum wage, if conceivably it was gone, we could potentially virtually wipe out unemployment completely because we would be able to offer jobs at whatever level.” The same woman who assured voters in Iowa three years later, “…the very founders that wrote those documents worked tirelessly until slavery was no more.”
After the 2012 election, when only four of the sixteen Tea Party candidates won their races, it appeared that the Party of Tea was on its way out.
Well, now we have the IRS to thank for its resurgence. All that whining about how they weren't being treated fairly turned out to be true. Katrina Pierson, a Dallas-based tea party leader said, "This is the defining moment to say 'I told you so.'" Oh, and apparently they are rubber and we are glue. Sticky, messy glue that smells a little like Benghazi. Never mind that this is the group that gave us "legitimate rape,"and covergirl Bachmann who reminds us that, “There are hundreds and hundreds of scientists, many of them holding Nobel Prizes, who believe in intelligent design.” The Tea Party's odd, poorly constructed clubhouse was about to collapse under its won stupidity, and now it would appear that the Internal Revenue Service has swooped in just in time to save them from their own ridiculous beliefs. "What's happened here is a reminder of, this is what happens when you expand government," Senator and Poland Springs spokesmodel Marco Rubio said in an interview with The Associated Press. "That and the disaster that is Obamacare is going to be a real catalyst in 2014 and beyond."
Meanwhile, the disaster that is The Tea Party lives to fight another day. When was the last time the IRS did something nice for you?
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Party At Ground Zero
It's all over now. As my son is fond of saying, "Nobody died." He got that from me, but it did come as a relief. His first big high school-type party was held in our basement over the weekend and nobody died. Huzzah.
Well, there are plenty of reasons for this, not the least of which was the sheer lack of percentages. If he had been the host of the kind of rager where Guido the Killer Pimp would be in attendance, a death might be more expected. If his exhortations on social media had been such that the guest list would have numbered in the hundreds, or even the forty that he had initially invited, then we might have been in for some trouble. Instead, we had nine pretty well-mannered kids show up. They played Xbox and listened to dubstep at volumes just loud enough to make the floor beneath our feet vibrate. Kind of like those chairs at the state fair.
There were a couple of girls who showed up. They stayed for about half an hour. That was when the music got turned down. We knew there were girls because we could hear their voices. They didn't come up the stairs to meet the parents. They had places they needed to be. Once the girls were gone, the thumping bass returned, and we started cooking the frozen pizza.
Considering the damage these young men did to the food that we bought for fifteen to forty guests, I suppose we should be grateful that there weren't more hungry mouths to feed. There was plenty of soda consumed, enough to make a couple trips to the recycling bin. We can only assume that this heightened the sensation of driving virtual cars on the Xbox while being subjected to electronic beats that began to alter the heartbeats of the grownups upstairs.
And before you knew it, it was ten o'clock. Five hours of this frolic had taken its toll. Eyes were bleary and nerves were frayed ever so lightly. My son chose a pair of the heartiest souls to stick around and keep the party going for a couple more hours. No dancing. No Pinata. No more throbbing beats. Just a few more laps around the virtual track before they fell asleep under the Christmas lights.
When I went down to check out the carnage the next morning, there were three bodies. Worn and slightly frazzled, but still very much alive. When they came up for breakfast, there was no lingering need for one last race. They ate real food, and washed it down with juice without carbonation. We returned the guests more or less the way we received them.
But we may never be the same.
Well, there are plenty of reasons for this, not the least of which was the sheer lack of percentages. If he had been the host of the kind of rager where Guido the Killer Pimp would be in attendance, a death might be more expected. If his exhortations on social media had been such that the guest list would have numbered in the hundreds, or even the forty that he had initially invited, then we might have been in for some trouble. Instead, we had nine pretty well-mannered kids show up. They played Xbox and listened to dubstep at volumes just loud enough to make the floor beneath our feet vibrate. Kind of like those chairs at the state fair.
There were a couple of girls who showed up. They stayed for about half an hour. That was when the music got turned down. We knew there were girls because we could hear their voices. They didn't come up the stairs to meet the parents. They had places they needed to be. Once the girls were gone, the thumping bass returned, and we started cooking the frozen pizza.
Considering the damage these young men did to the food that we bought for fifteen to forty guests, I suppose we should be grateful that there weren't more hungry mouths to feed. There was plenty of soda consumed, enough to make a couple trips to the recycling bin. We can only assume that this heightened the sensation of driving virtual cars on the Xbox while being subjected to electronic beats that began to alter the heartbeats of the grownups upstairs.
And before you knew it, it was ten o'clock. Five hours of this frolic had taken its toll. Eyes were bleary and nerves were frayed ever so lightly. My son chose a pair of the heartiest souls to stick around and keep the party going for a couple more hours. No dancing. No Pinata. No more throbbing beats. Just a few more laps around the virtual track before they fell asleep under the Christmas lights.
When I went down to check out the carnage the next morning, there were three bodies. Worn and slightly frazzled, but still very much alive. When they came up for breakfast, there was no lingering need for one last race. They ate real food, and washed it down with juice without carbonation. We returned the guests more or less the way we received them.
But we may never be the same.
Monday, May 20, 2013
Image Problem
There was a lot of tumult in our house last week. Not only did we have a son turning sixteen and all the attendant excitement that surrounds such a passage, we also had to contend with the re-designing of Princess Merida. If you missed it, and who could believe in a world of Benghazi and IRS investigations, the folks at Walt Disney decided to elevate their fictional character, Merida from the film Brave, to full Princess status. That means she gets to be featured right alongside the rest of the princessly pantheon that includes such notables as Cinderella, Snow White, and Belle.
Good deal, right? Except first they had to gussy her up a bit. That meant dropping her gown off her shoulder a bit, then giving her just a little come hither through the heather in her eyes. And the part that got the most objection was the loss of her bow. It was the part of Merida that set her apart from some of her other peers. She is a crack shot and wasn't going to simply give up her life to be married to live happily ever after. Never mind that these wishes eventually get her into more trouble, you'll have to see the film to find out about that, but when you're selling dolls to girls you probably aren't thinking "action figures."
Never fear. There was enough outrage stirred in that first week to get The Mouse House to reconsider their makeover. Hundreds of thousands of parents, kids and fans of Merida petitioned to have this redo undone. As is their way, Disney capitulated, and has reverted to the way she appeared in her Academy Award winning movie. A triumph for the people. It made me wonder what Katniss Everdeen would have done. I'm also thinking of putting together a petition to ask for the pre-Beghazi Obama restored to the White House.
Good deal, right? Except first they had to gussy her up a bit. That meant dropping her gown off her shoulder a bit, then giving her just a little come hither through the heather in her eyes. And the part that got the most objection was the loss of her bow. It was the part of Merida that set her apart from some of her other peers. She is a crack shot and wasn't going to simply give up her life to be married to live happily ever after. Never mind that these wishes eventually get her into more trouble, you'll have to see the film to find out about that, but when you're selling dolls to girls you probably aren't thinking "action figures."
Never fear. There was enough outrage stirred in that first week to get The Mouse House to reconsider their makeover. Hundreds of thousands of parents, kids and fans of Merida petitioned to have this redo undone. As is their way, Disney capitulated, and has reverted to the way she appeared in her Academy Award winning movie. A triumph for the people. It made me wonder what Katniss Everdeen would have done. I'm also thinking of putting together a petition to ask for the pre-Beghazi Obama restored to the White House.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Welcome To Paradise
Living in Oakland has dulled me to certain sensations. When I hear a car alarm, I do not scramble to the front window to see if someone is breaking into our neighbor's Lexus. The sound of helicopters in the air are no longer a point of fascination for me or my Oakland-bred son. He tends to sigh and turn up the television. Then there are those moments when urban living still gives me pause.
I got an e-mail from the director of our after school program late one evening. I read his concerns, passed along from one of his staff, that one of our kindergarten students might have ringworm. There was dry, scaly skin on her neck that may or may not have had a circular pattern. It was good of that after school mentor to take the time to notice this. This wasn't a shock. Over the years I have discovered any number of cases of ringworm, lice and assorted other issues with our kids. So much so that I tend to ask, mostly in passing, if mom or dad have had that looked at. If not we make a quick visit to our school nurse, who comes in on Tuesdays and Fridays, or to our secretary who hands out ice packs and motherly advice while making the necessary phone calls and keeping the process moving.
I forwarded the e-mail to my principal. The next morning she wrote back, letting me know that this little girl was "fine." She had just come back from having surgery to remove a bullet that was in her neck.
Wow.
It took me a moment to let that sink in. She's five years old. She just had surgery to remove a bullet. From her neck. All the car alarms in my neighborhood went off at once. A dozen helicopters hovered overhead. This was going to forever alter my definition of "fine."
Welcome to the Big City.
I got an e-mail from the director of our after school program late one evening. I read his concerns, passed along from one of his staff, that one of our kindergarten students might have ringworm. There was dry, scaly skin on her neck that may or may not have had a circular pattern. It was good of that after school mentor to take the time to notice this. This wasn't a shock. Over the years I have discovered any number of cases of ringworm, lice and assorted other issues with our kids. So much so that I tend to ask, mostly in passing, if mom or dad have had that looked at. If not we make a quick visit to our school nurse, who comes in on Tuesdays and Fridays, or to our secretary who hands out ice packs and motherly advice while making the necessary phone calls and keeping the process moving.
I forwarded the e-mail to my principal. The next morning she wrote back, letting me know that this little girl was "fine." She had just come back from having surgery to remove a bullet that was in her neck.
Wow.
It took me a moment to let that sink in. She's five years old. She just had surgery to remove a bullet. From her neck. All the car alarms in my neighborhood went off at once. A dozen helicopters hovered overhead. This was going to forever alter my definition of "fine."
Welcome to the Big City.
Saturday, May 18, 2013
Security
When she said her name was James Bond, I knew that I had hooked into a situation that I needed to disconnect. I knew she probably shouldn't be hanging in the front hall of an elementary school as the children were making their way home and to their various after school programs. It took me a few moments to negotiate her toward the front doors and down the steps, on her way to have that oddly disjointed conversation with the next person with whom she made eye contact.
It took me until the next day to consider what might have been at stake. I've dealt with a great many adults who have come to our school seeking their children, answers, satisfaction. Some show up with clear minds and purpose. Others are clouded by anger, frustration or poor choices of chemicals. Most of them show up with the focused intent of their child's well being. They don't always stop and consider the well being of the kids around them or the adults who are there to try and help them.
That's why I stopped to see what I could do for James Bond. She was peeking into a Kindergarten room, and so I made the inference that she was looking for a child in that classroom or hoped to find her son or daughter in the after school program. "Can I help you?"
What followed was a bizarre stream of consciousness that fell from her lips as I listened for any sort of sense. The underlying thread seemed to be her interest in children. All children. She also expressed interest in my children. Apparently her children had gone or left or were taken away. It was hard to track because many of the words were mumbled or slurred. I listened as she continued to shake my hand and I began to consider that this might not be a mother or grandmother or aunt or friend of any of the boys and girls. "Can I help you find someone?"
This was a question she never heard. She kept on about her worries about the children. I decided that it would probably be best for our children if we moved the conversation out of the middle of the hallway. I wanted to help, but I felt my responsibility to the kids at my school. Gently, I moved with her, still holding hands. When we reached the doors, she seemed to grasp the direction we were heading and let go. "Good luck," I said as she walked out into the afternoon sun.
I watched her go. Then I turned around and looked at the children making their way to wherever it was they needed to go.
It took me until the next day to consider what might have been at stake. I've dealt with a great many adults who have come to our school seeking their children, answers, satisfaction. Some show up with clear minds and purpose. Others are clouded by anger, frustration or poor choices of chemicals. Most of them show up with the focused intent of their child's well being. They don't always stop and consider the well being of the kids around them or the adults who are there to try and help them.
That's why I stopped to see what I could do for James Bond. She was peeking into a Kindergarten room, and so I made the inference that she was looking for a child in that classroom or hoped to find her son or daughter in the after school program. "Can I help you?"
What followed was a bizarre stream of consciousness that fell from her lips as I listened for any sort of sense. The underlying thread seemed to be her interest in children. All children. She also expressed interest in my children. Apparently her children had gone or left or were taken away. It was hard to track because many of the words were mumbled or slurred. I listened as she continued to shake my hand and I began to consider that this might not be a mother or grandmother or aunt or friend of any of the boys and girls. "Can I help you find someone?"
This was a question she never heard. She kept on about her worries about the children. I decided that it would probably be best for our children if we moved the conversation out of the middle of the hallway. I wanted to help, but I felt my responsibility to the kids at my school. Gently, I moved with her, still holding hands. When we reached the doors, she seemed to grasp the direction we were heading and let go. "Good luck," I said as she walked out into the afternoon sun.
I watched her go. Then I turned around and looked at the children making their way to wherever it was they needed to go.
Friday, May 17, 2013
That Blowed Up Real Good!
This summer has the potential to be a blockbuster at the box office. Not necessarily because the movies will be so very good, or that we will finally find out what happened to those star-crossed lovers in "Before Sunrise." Instead, the reason for all that traffic at your local superfaplex is due to the promotion of the films inside. TV and magazine ads have been screeching at us for months about this or that tentpole franchise sequel, the one that will come and save us all from our June or July doldrums.
Don't get me wrong. I love me a good slab of butter with my popcorn. I've already lined up to participate in the celebration of "Iron Man 3" and the umpteenth iteration of "The Great Gatsby." I have watched as my family's thirty-ish dollars adds to the opening weekend take. I'm reminded of David Letterman's admonition before "Stupid Pet Tricks": "Ladies and gentlemen, this is only an exhibition. This is not a competition. Please, no wagering." And still I feel compelled to root for this or that movie to succeed or fail, as if I had some stake in the success or failure of any of these bits of celluloid. Or digitally projected 3D entertainments. In IMAX and 7.1 Dolby.
I could blame Steven Spielberg. "Jaws" made summer blockbusters as important a seasonal sign as the first snow of winter or the first manager fired in Major League Baseball. Way back in 1975, it really helped that, aside from a gigantic budget for its day, it was a great movie. It also sold a lot of tickets after that first weekend because families weren't home waiting for the newest releases on Netflix. Of course, on the opposite side of the ledger, ticket prices have gone up since I spent the summer of 1977 confirming my geek credentials by going to see "Star Wars" every other weekend.
Or I could once again surrender to the sound and fury that is the summer blockbuster. I can also hope that Shane Black or Baz Luhrman don't end up issuing apologies for their work a decade down the road. Like Michael Bay did for "Armageddon." That's okay, Michael. Even The Great And Powerful Oz makes mistakes.
Don't get me wrong. I love me a good slab of butter with my popcorn. I've already lined up to participate in the celebration of "Iron Man 3" and the umpteenth iteration of "The Great Gatsby." I have watched as my family's thirty-ish dollars adds to the opening weekend take. I'm reminded of David Letterman's admonition before "Stupid Pet Tricks": "Ladies and gentlemen, this is only an exhibition. This is not a competition. Please, no wagering." And still I feel compelled to root for this or that movie to succeed or fail, as if I had some stake in the success or failure of any of these bits of celluloid. Or digitally projected 3D entertainments. In IMAX and 7.1 Dolby.
I could blame Steven Spielberg. "Jaws" made summer blockbusters as important a seasonal sign as the first snow of winter or the first manager fired in Major League Baseball. Way back in 1975, it really helped that, aside from a gigantic budget for its day, it was a great movie. It also sold a lot of tickets after that first weekend because families weren't home waiting for the newest releases on Netflix. Of course, on the opposite side of the ledger, ticket prices have gone up since I spent the summer of 1977 confirming my geek credentials by going to see "Star Wars" every other weekend.
Or I could once again surrender to the sound and fury that is the summer blockbuster. I can also hope that Shane Black or Baz Luhrman don't end up issuing apologies for their work a decade down the road. Like Michael Bay did for "Armageddon." That's okay, Michael. Even The Great And Powerful Oz makes mistakes.
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