Squeezing It In

 Every four years we are gifted with this additional day. The one that provides endless amusement for grade schoolers and dads who enjoy being obtuse about the date and time. Things that really should be absolutes, but science has insisted that every four years we square our accounts by scooping up the fractions of a day and bundle them all together into February 29. All that acclaim we toss in the direction of Nicolaus Copernicus, but it was Julius Caesar who suggested that we needed to squeeze a few extra minutes into the calendar to align us with the stars. 

Otherwise Astrology wouldn't work. And you wouldn't know which day to get out of bed and ask for a raise based on some quacky bit of animal and fish lore dreamed up by a bunch of drunken Greeks. 

So now, in these more enlightened times, we hold on to that quarter day for four years and then stitch the bits together to make the day with which you are currently gifted. 

My wife has suggested that we use this extra time to do our civic duty: voting. Make it a national holiday and remove the excuses that preclude so many of us from doing our democratic duty. 

Yes. I said "duty."

Of course this works for our rather quaint insistence that we vote for presidents every four years. But it doesn't account for those stray special elections for vacated seats and state propositions and local concerns. It also fails to recognize the willy-nilly lack of election cycles in places like Canada and Great Britain where elections seem to happen on a whim. 

So, in an effort to maintain some of that air of responsibility but recognizing the rest of the planet does not have our same boring cycle for picking its leaders, I would like to make the following: Leak Year. Every four years on February 29, you should go around your house and fix leaky faucets. Or squeaky hinges. Or any other deferred maintenance you have set aside for "when you have the time." Here it is. Got a toilet that runs a little too long? Not after today. How about your kid's bike that just needs a little air in the tires? Done. Or maybe you could just use the day to sit down and make a list of all the things that you would like to fix. 

Four years from now. 

Thank you for your time. 

Foul Play

 The mayor of Las Vegas, Carolyn Goodman, had this to say about the Oakland Athletics relocating to her city: “I personally think they’ve got to figure out a way to stay in Oakland.” Ms. Goodman made this suggestion just a few days before pitchers and catchers were supposed to report to spring training. 

She didn't say this back in November, when Major League Baseball unanimously voted to let the A's pull up stakes and move to Sin City. It seems that Mayor Goodman is having difficulty getting the ownership of the team to settle down on the site the city had originally proposed. Instead, the formerly Oakland A's have selected a much smaller parcel that would put them closer to The Strip. And will necessitate the tearing down of The Tropicana Hotel. 

Which means that the mayor of Las Vegas has had a chance to get a little taste of the kind of shenanigans for which the Athletics' ownership is so widely known. Here in Oakland, where the A's have been located since 1968. Before that, they played ball in Kansas City, and before that they were in Philadelphia. So it's not like they were a Bay Area institution. 

Except they were. Four World Series victories over their time in Oakland, the most recent being the "Battle of the Bay" that coincided with the Loma Prieta earthquake of 1989. During that same span the Oakland Raiders moved to Los Angeles. And moved back. And the San Francisco Forty-Niners moved on down the road a piece to settle in Santa Clara. The the Golden State Warriors, who were clever enough not to tie themselves eponymously to any particular city hopped across the bay to a glitzy new arena. And all the while, since before I moved to California in 1992, the Athletics have been looking for a chance to move to their very own ball park. Thirty or so years later, no deal has been made. The wretched confines of the Oakland Coliseum with its sewage problems and its multi-use configuration is more suited for a tractor pull than a baseball game. 

Which never kept the fans from coming out and supporting their team. Until last season when it became obvious to everyone in organized baseball that the trick wasn't to put a good team on the field as much as it was to make deals that would last in perpetuity for the owners. The A's were the worst team in the major leagues last year. And now with the prospect of another year in limbo, it isn't likely that any big contracts will be signed to bring extra talent in for this team without a home. 

Mayor Goodman seems to think the A's belong in Oakland. If only the owners of the team would listen. 

Rubbing Our Collective Noses In It

 A very good friend of mine suggested many years ago that it would be appropriate, if not required for every video game death to be accompanied with a video game funeral. It was her contention as a new parent whose son seemed destined to experience a great many simulated final exits so there should be a commensurate moment to mark those who passed. Aside from the scoring bonus. This became our own family's sentiment as our son began to test the first-person shooter waters. The fact that he was limited to games in the Star Wars universe that provided him opportunities to kill faceless Stormtroopers and alien beings who certainly deserved to die didn't keep us from flinching at the body count. 

Killing without conscience seemed like a bad idea. 

Not that I didn't spend my own youth chasing my friends around the neighborhood with a cap gun, snapping off round after round in hopes of mowing them all down. The rules of our game were not unlike freeze tag. If the Gunner, that was me, shot you then you were to lay still until someone else who was still alive came by to tag you. It didn't occur to me back then that I had the job of taking life while the other kids were able to restore it. An odd choice on my part considering the rest of the pacifist tendencies I professed as a child. 

Which is probably why I did not argue long and hard for a prohibition for shooting games in my home once I had a kid of my own. Buried somewhere in there was this feeling that we all have a streak of homicide within us and it would be best if it had an outlet that could be tapped for maintenance purposes. Being able to talk about the distinction between reality and make believe seemed important. Thirteen years ago when I was writing about this, it was something I wanted to express as a defense for walking that thin line. 

All of this came tumbling back into my head after I read what John Mellencamp had to say about our country's gun problem. Not the virtual ones. Not the cap guns. The ones that have made guns the number one killer of young people in the United States. More than motor vehicles. More than cancer. Mister Mellencamp made the following suggestion in the aftermath of the shooting in Kansas City: “If we as a country want to find the collective will within ourselves to change our gun laws, let’s stop playing silly political games. Show the carnage on the news. Show the American people the dead children and others who have been struck down. Show us what guns and bullets can do to the human body.” I would also like to point out that the shooters in the post-Super Bowl shooting were newly minted "adults," aged twenty-two and eighteen. Eleven of the victims shot that day were under the age of sixteen. 

None of them were Stormtroopers. None of them were aliens. None of them were bad guys. And it will take considerably more than a tag from a friend to make their wounds heal. 

There is no reset button. 

If The Shoe Fits

 "It's gotta be the shoes!" That's what Mars Blackman would have had us believe back in 1989. It wasn't the extra long shorts. It wasn't the short socks. It wasn't the haircut or the vicious dunks. 

It was Michael Jordan. Who many people believe was the greatest basketball player of all time. The shoes he wore, designed specifically for him, originally sold to the public for $64.99. Back in 1985, this was an outrageous price for a pair of sneakers, but plenty of folks ponied up the cash in the hopes that maybe in fact it was the shoes. 

Four years ago a pair of game-worn autographed Air Jordans sold at auction for $672,000. And somehow, in 2020, this price did not seem outrageous. 

If you have read this far, you are probably already putting together your imagined response from me.

I will say that this makes sense. 

What doesn't make sense is a former game show host best known for cheating at golf selling his own personal brand of sneakers for $399. These spurious gold lamé high tops with a chunk of an American flag plastered around the ankle went on sale just one day after a court in New York City fined the twice impeached former president $355,000,000 for fraud. A "lucky" bidder was able to get an autographed pair of these Made In China kicks for $9000. Roman Sharf, the founder and CEO of luxury watch dealer, Luxury Bazaar was the "winner" of the auction. 

I am certain that somewhere in all those numbers an equation can be generated to determine just how "important" each of these shoes truly is. From out here it looks like the early favorite would be Michael Jordan. Mike has had his share of financial setbacks and challenges, but his revenues remain ahead of his fines. Mike came back from retirement and played with the lowly Washington Wizards. Legacy untarnished. He played baseball for fifteen minutes or so with the Chicago White Sox. Legacy untarnished. He hasn't played competitive basketball for more than twenty years now, but his shoes still sell. 

The guy who regularly cheats at golf believes that selling sneakers will dig him out of the whole in which he has inserted himself. His legacy is secure. But not in a good way. 

Miss Walsh

 I have lost count of the dedicated folks with whom I have had the privilege of working with here at my school. This little urban oasis of education. Every so often, at the end of the school year, as we struggle through those last days of cleaning and boxing up to prepare for what is to come after two months away, I make the rounds to say farewell to those who are departing. For one reason or another, not everyone has the same trajectory I do: A straight line. Off they go into the world to seek their fortunes elsewhere. I give them this same advice: "There are no ex-Horace Mann employees, only recovering Horace Mann employees."

Then we have a good chuckle, a handshake or a hug, and we set off into the future with whatever it holds. 

This is different. Miss Walsh, our stalwart veteran of the Second Grade is packing up this week, ostensibly on maternity leave. She's done that before. And then rushed right back to her post. A dedicated partner at home has worked with her to make this first child work alongside her dedication to her job. Sometimes that meant baby came to crawl around on the rug while mom set up her room. Sometimes that meant leaving a little early to be there for a doctor's appointment. But there was never a question about where her focus was. Her second graders were her kids. Their care, feeding and continued progress through the education system was her primary focus, just behind that of her own flesh and blood. 

Well, now she has chosen to dip back into the parenthood pond, only this time she is planning to take some extra time away. She wants to be able to spend some real mommy time with her children. Not the ones in her classroom. The ones she feeds and talks to and puts to bed each night. She is leaving to be a part of their lives and not just the lady who takes over from day care. She will be day care. 

Which leaves an island size hole in the second grade that will be nearly impossible to fill. I can remember when Miss Walsh came to us as a pup, full of excitement and enthusiasm. Years of study, meetings, parent conferences, early mornings and late nights have helped to shape a model educator. We will strive to find someone to take her place, but we won't replace her. She is that grain grain of sand that after nearly a decade of irritation has emerged as a pearl. We have been fortunate to have her. 

And her children, here and at home, are lucky to have been under her care. 

What Happened Nex

 Tragically, this is not a new story. At least in terms of the institutional cruelty and communal savagery that exists when it comes to trans youth. Sixteen year old Nex Benedict died a day after a fight in the bathroom in their high school bathroom. During the altercation, Nex's head hit the floor. Nex was suspended from the school and was sent home. They were dead a day later. 

School officials, who chose not to report the incident at the time of the fight have "launched an investigation" into the circumstances surrounding this child's death. A school resource officer went to the hospital only after they were summoned by police to the hospital where Nex was pronounced dead. 

A day after the fight. 

This happened in Owasso, Oklahoma. Oklahoma's governor has signed several bills that required students to use bathrooms that match their sex assigned at birth citing safety, banned the use of nonbinary gender markers on IDs, restricted gender-affirming care and banned transgender girls from participating in girls' sports citing fairness. Oklahoma's governor, Kevin Stitt, maintains a close relationship with Libs of TikTok, a group that churns out anti-LGBTQ+ rhetoric with baseless accusations and fear. 

To suggest that this environment had nothing to do with Nex's death is unconscionable. Not just in Oklahoma, but across these less-than-United States. So an investigation, led by the school district and government authorities who maintain these intolerant views, will be made. The school's website has already made their case: “Students were in the restroom for less than two minutes and the physical altercation was broken up by other students who were present in the restroom at the time, along with a staff member who was supervising outside of the restroom.”

Perhaps from my own interest in what lies beneath the rocks on Al Gore's Internet, I chose to review a few of the comments beneath one of the articles describing Nex's death. I was happily surprised to find that most of the discussion centered around loss of a young person. The curious bits came from the qualifying statements that preceded some of the sentiments: "I don't support this trans-stuff, but..." Accounts of students being bullied for any number of reasons tend to bring out sympathy for the victim, but in this case it is far too late. Where was the care for Nex when they needed it most?

Maybe the investigation will bring some measure of justice. That would be nice. But it would also be too late.  

We Interrupt This Program

 An accounting error made it possible for students and staff of Oakland schools to have a four day weekend. Somewhere within the brain trust that controls where and how things are arranged within the district, the little detail of 2024 being a leap year escaped the calendar makers. Each school year is carefully plotted to bring our collective educational focus to bear on one hundred eighty instructional days. Somebody downtown skipped right past February 29 and Bingo, one hundred eighty-one. So it was decided that the only rational thing to do was to tack an extra vacation day onto a pre-existing day so the problem would just disappear. 

But somehow that information didn't trickle down to everyone. The Friday after Valentines Day and before Presidents Day became a bonus day of rest for those of us who wake up early and stay late. Except the announcement of this treat was somewhat occluded. I was fortunate enough to be chatting with my principal about plans we might be making for the upcoming three day weekend when she let slip that it was actually four, and suddenly I was awash with questions and doubt. How could this be? Since when does the school district just give us all something without asking for something in return? Like the raise we all got a couple years back and then found out we were all going to be required to stick around on Wednesdays to do extra tutoring with our students. Not an unreasonable ask, but all part of the give and take of being a public servant. In one particular instance, our uber-dedicated second grade teacher who is preparing to go on maternity leave was shocked to find out that she had one less day to prepare her students for her absence. This constitutes chaos in her universe. 

And the parents of our young charges were similarly impacted. "What are we supposed to do with our kids for that extra day?" None of them actually vocalized this concern, but it was apparent in their mild antipathy as they picked up their progeny on Thursday afternoon. Nobody asked them how they felt. Not that the kids would have insisted on sticking around for that extra day in February. 

But no one asked me. Would I just as soon have pushed on through to the end of May, and then be rewarded with one less day at the end? I think that could have been arranged, if some sort of survey was made among the staff. Since that didn't happen, I found myself by Monday finally relaxing into the vacation rhythm. I woke up at my usual time. I fed the cat. I looked at the headlines. Then I did something I never do: I went back to bed. I slept for an additional two hours. 

Even on my day off, I'm still learning. 

The Real Choice

 I very much appreciated Stephen Colbert's admonition to us all last week. “I know how numb we’ve become, but it’s not normal. No other candidate for the presidency has ever had to pause his campaign to defend himself in multiple courts. And I’d like to point out that in all seven of his cases, no one — no one — doubts that he did these things. We’re just sitting around patiently waiting to find out if the wheels of justice will grind fast enough for there to be any consequences.” He continued: “And the media is covering it like it’s any other political story, like it’s all horse race. But in this horse race, one of the horses is old, while one of the horses is old, has hoof-in-mouth disease, and keeps quoting horse Hitler."

It was apparent from his tone that he was not "just joking." Each day that continues with this parade of unprecedented disruptions of the normal course of our democracy is wearing us all down. Here in this quiet spot of Al Gore's Internet, I won't shut up about the ridiculousness of a presidential election in which one of the candidates has been found guilty of multiple crimes and has faced a closing circle of fate that leaves us asking the question, "Can he serve the country from a jail cell?"

With a straight face. 

Stephen's old boss, Jon Stewart, used his return to his old spot at the news desk on Comedy Central to compare Biden and this corrupt former game show host. He seemed to want to show off his legendary even-handedness by saying that both men were old and we needed someone fresh and new. I can't argue their relative age, nor their fleeting capacities in decline. But what is at stake is more about how we have come to this place in history. If the relatively benign presence of Joe Biden bothers you, please feel free to work over the next four years to find another candidate who will deliver us from same. The choice here is devestatingly clear: It's not about memory slips, it's about moral slips. Character counts, and I will continue to support the candidate who has one. This is not a contest. It is not either/or. 

I understand that this corner of ersatz wisdom is my way of preaching to the choir, but I hope that we will all take this distinction to heart and speak out about the real difference between Joe Biden and the the guy quoting Horse Hitler. 

POV

 Like so many human types around me, I am prone to clicking on videos that exhort me to do just that. i must see them. They are put there for my reaction. And all of yours. Sometimes it's an easy "Awww." Or maybe a chuckle. 

Then there are those that are for the specific intent of outrage. "Can you believe this happened?" asks the header. Seeing, it seems is believing. At least that is the hope for most of these minute slices of what we are inclined to believe are realia. It is here that I would like to sound clever by invoking Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle, but since this has more to do with physics than it does with human behavior, I will back off slightly and suggest that the fact that we all seem to be staring at one another and intermittently taking video to post on Al Gore's Internet makes it all but impossible to to discern truth from fiction. 

In my own life, I cite the example of my wife insisting that we recreate clever moments from our everyday interactions for the purpose of showing the world just how clever we are. I do not tend to be a very good sport about such rehashing, leaving my poor wife to suffer through the memories of what might have been. How we could have had all those likes. How someone, spotting our collective cleverness would have scooped us out of obscurity and placed us in front of real cameras that would record us doing all those clever things. Except by then it doesn't seem that clever anymore. 

Which brings us to the topic of pets and children. If you are one of those evil manipulators who stand by with your smart phone continually on record in hopes of catching some spontaneous cute crash or amusing catastrophe, I have a message for you: Put The Phone Down. The embarrassment and possible concussion you will be promoting through the exploitation of your loved one will not be subsumed by the adoration of strangers. They will not be paying for the therapy or corrective surgery needed to repair the damage of that one "perfect" video.

And then there are those who seem to be carrying out a daily search for confrontation. In parking lots, check out stands, street corners, and all those places where unpleasant interactions are now being mined for content. "Catching" someone being stupid or rude or both isn't that difficult. Putting your phone into the equation is not going to take things down a notch. Selective editing and giving your personal context won't change the fact that someone was caught being less than their best. With very few exceptions, this is not grounds for a class action lawsuit. This is a chance for commenters to line up and express their two cents worth of opinion from the safety of their keyboard. Is that the validation we were hoping for?

This comes to you from the mind of a teacher, who has been shuffled past hundreds posts of fellow educators and students acting less than their best. Security camera footage of adults caught in the act of being caught confirms the existence of what we already knew. 

Sooner or later we are all going to catch on to the idea that we are all being watched all the time and should act accordingly. Like it was some sort of belief in a higher power. Creepy, huh? 

Do Not Collect $200

 I awoke with the image of a Community Chest card in my mind. It states "Band Error In Your Favor - Collect $200." I wondered if there will be a new version of Monopoly in honor of the worst real estate tycoon of all time: Donald J. Trump. 

We could start with those cards. "Judge fines you $354,000,000." Or "Pay the woman you defamed $84,000,000." How about "You are not allowed to do business in New York for three years." I'm guessing that bank error card would come in handy about now. 

In my neighborhood, we learned not to play Monopoly with the kid down the street. He insisted on being banker, and had his own set of rules that seemed to apply to most any circumstance that would have him paying any money out. The slow-witted among us did not notice that he simply placed hotels on his property. He didn't start with the requisite four houses. In most cases he didn't bother to pay for the hotels either. They just showed up and we poor saps paid him rent. He was always willing to swing a deal like trading you Baltic Avenue for Park Place. "So you can have a Monopoly," he would grin. I knew he was stuffing money under the board for "emergencies." He is the one who clued me in on the sale of the Get Out Of Jail Free card. He would charge whatever the market would bear. 

And now, the streets and avenues of Trumpoly are shrinking. The squares he has left to land on safely are whittling down to a precious few. The Tower with his name pasted on it will soon be a Starbucks. He has a billion dollar golf club in Florida to which he can retreat, if you believe his estimates. His sons who looked forward to a life of relative leisure and guest appearances on Fox News are confused by all this new math. They will soon be making an offer on Baltic Avenue themselves. 

Of course, the half billion dollars in fines will be appealed. And stupid people will send this wretch their hard-earned money to bring him back to solvency. And you can be sure that he has come cash stuffed under the board for just such an emergency. But the squares that say "Go To Jail" are starting to appear everywhere. 

It took me a while, but I eventually learned not to play Monopoly with the kid down the street. Let's hope that everyone gets the message that there is no art in this man's deal. Just a clown painting. 

Precedence

 My first presidential memory is also one of my first memories. I remember my parents gathering with relatives to watch the funeral of John F. Kennedy. I remember the dark basement, and the reflection from the television on the tiles of the floor. 

Lyndon Johnson was a caricature whom I learned to blame for the war in Vietnam. A big saggy fellow with a Texas drawl and a penchant for abusing his basset hounds. How could I have known that LBJ was a saint compared to the guy who came after him?

Richard Nixon was my entrée into politics as a blood sport. Anyone who found it necessary to sit in front of a national television audience and announce that they were not, in fact, a crook must be the biggest crook of them all. 

Then there was the asterisk that was Gerald Ford. I remember the Whip Inflation Now buttons and his earnest attempt at bringing our nation back from the brink, but mostly I will remember Chevy Chase tumbling all over a stage in New York City. And his wife made it okay to go to rehab. 

The nicest person to ever be President of the United States was Jimmy Carter. The peanut farmer from Plains, Georgia was my first rooting interest in an election. He is also the reason I discovered that Playboy magazine had interviews. 

Ronald Reagan was an actor who was really good at acting like a president. Hindsight has given me the perspective of seeing him as a public servant as much as he was a right-wing zealot. He's also the guy who tried to make us all believe in trickle-down economics. Don't believe it. Not now. Not ever. 

Next up was the faint echo of his former boss, Kennebunkport's own George H.W. Bush. Whatever charisma was left in the Republican's tank couldn't outlast the time George threw up in the lap of the Japanese Prime Minister. 

Which made room for the lusty Democrat William Jefferson Clinton. This was the first guy I ever voted for, after sneering at "the process" for so many years before. It was cool that they had Fleetwood Mac play for them, but not so cool that he was harassing his interns. 

My wife would like to believe that George W. Bush was just a bad dream she had after going to bed on election night and waking up to the news. Suddenly, his dad didn't look like such a zero. At least he wasn't a war criminal. 

Barack Obama was the first president that I felt might actually change things. I put a lot of hope in his administration. All that hope didn't bring about as much change as I had hoped, but the residue makes me believe that it is still possible. 

But not if someone like Donald Trump can win an election in these United States. The former game show host showed up as damaged merchandise and proceeded to make me doubt the future of our great republic. 

That's why Joe Biden was such a relief. The virtual antithesis of the mob boss who soiled the office before him. Still waiting for that hope and change, but I will currently settle for another four years of fending off MAGAts 

Why Does It Matter?

 Police continue to search for a motive...

The cause has really become entirely secondary. One person was killed by gunfire. Another twenty-plus were wounded. Twelve children ranging in age between six and fifteen were admitted to local hospitals for gunshot wounds. 

Because someone really didn't like Taylor Swift? 

Because someone really wanted the San Francisco Forty-Niners to win the Super Bowl?

Because the sun came up in the east?

People attending a celebration of a Super Bowl victory don't expect to be shot. Killed. Maimed. Wounded. They were going to a parade, not to a war zone. Of course this may be the problem. If you go somewhere that has that many Americans in one place, maybe you should expect some sort of mass casualty event. The chuckleheads who insist on parading about with their guns to rub everyone else's nose in their Second Amendment rights are indistinguishable in those situations from the ones who show up with intent to kill. 

The victory we could all be celebrating would be the week without a mass shooting. Authorities have so far "ruled out terrorism." Once again, I feel compelled to point you in the direction of any of the pictures or videos of the event in Kansas City last Wednesday. That look on the faces of people scrambling for cover is terror. 

America has a terrorist problem. It starts with the rabid insistence that we need any more guns. If you have an ax to grind, good luck making your point with it. If you have an AR-15, any numbskull with an itchy trigger finger can wreak havoc in seconds. 

Take the guns out of this equation, and the motive doesn't really matter. That's where the mental health system steps in. Time to start putting our priorities on stemming the tide of madness instead of handing them killing machines. 

Misspoken

I said a bad word.

Not here, mind you. This blog is carefully engineered to be readable by those most chaste and pure without worry of stumbling across naughty words and phrases. Implications and allusions? I cannot deny and/or verify those, but my aim is to steer clear of four letter words as a practice. This is reflective of my job and my work with children. And their parents. 

To wit I was once confronted by a pair of first graders for using "the S word." I searched my own utterances for any references, specific or other, to feces. I replied to this pair of upturned faces that I had no recollection of such colorful language. They looked at one another, and they agreed they should remind me, in a whisper: "You said 'shut up.'" 

And they were exactly right. In a moment of frustration with the noise level, I had spoken the unspeakable. Mind you, these same children use that phrase with impunity night and day, with regular reminders from adults who surround them that this is not the way to get someone to be quiet. "Please be quiet" are the acceptable words, and then we move on from there. 

I made particular note of this, filing it away as a forbidden phrase, and made a mental note not to fall into that trap again. These same first graders have moved on to middle or high school, I can't remember exactly, but the memory has stuck with me. So much so that whenever the volume becomes too much for me and most of the students in my room to bear, I rely on the more socially acceptable, "Shush!" It is a deliberate switch to provide the exhortation of the excised words with the closing "shhhh" that can be drawn out for effect. 

"But you said," the kids will begin.

"No. I said 'shush.'" The distinction clear, but the effect being very similar. 

Am I getting by on a technicality? You bet I am. But it's one upon which I will hang my hat. Until such time as the goalposts are moved yet again. 

Hey Abbott!

 “Our hearts are with those impacted by today’s tragic shooting and the entire Lakewood Church community in Houston. Places of worship are sacred. I have been in contact with Mayor Whitmire and offered the full support and resources of the State of Texas, including Department of Public Safety officers and Texas Rangers, to help this community and help bring swift justice to the criminal who committed this heinous act. Join Cecilia and me in praying for this community during this difficult time and for the brave men and women in blue who acted quickly to respond to this tragedy.”

That's what Governor Greg Abbott had to say about the shooting that occurred in Joel Osteen's megachurch this past Sunday. I suppose we can all agree that everything's bigger in Texas, since Pastor Osteen's parish is housed in what used to be an NBA arena where the Houston Rockets used to play. Now it is packed with worshippers numbering in the tens of thousands every Sunday. It was between services on Super Bowl Sunday that Genesse Ivonne Moreno showed up with an AR-15 style rifle and opened fire. The shooter's seven year old son, who was dragged along on the occasion, was shot in the head during the gunfight that commenced as two off-duty police officers working security for the church fired back. Moreno was killed. The boy remains in critical condition. 

There are lots of ways this could be stirred. The most obvious thread to follow is Moreno's history of mental illness. That, coupled with a number of prior arrests and a very contentious custody struggle back in 2022, doesn't seem to correspond well with the fact that she bought the weapon she used at the church legally. This "heinous act" committed in a sacred place of worship was made possible by (wait for it) the gun laws in the state of Texas. Time will eventually sort out just exactly why a mother would bring her seven year old son to a megachurch to shoot the place up when her little boy in tow. Apparently there was a lot of trouble with Ms. Moreno and her ex-husband as well as her neighbors who had been trying to get authorities' attention for months. 

They are now paying attention. Hearts, thoughts, and prayers. Thanks Governor Greg.

Timing Is Everything

 Outside our school is a ring of heavy machinery, tearing up the streets. Not just outside the school, but for a block up and down on either side. Tractors, dump trucks, backhoes, all running full tilt from seven in the morning through the bulk of the instructional day. The mild relief we receive comes from the fact that the heat in our school remains unfixed so we are keeping the windows closed to diminish some of the extraneous noise.

Which is considerable. 

Grinding up old pavement and putting new asphalt down. All the attendant chatter of the crew is drowned out by the machinery, but surges to the fore as soon as something shuts down. Which is noticeable because just about the time the drone becomes a noise in the background, the pulsing stops. All that leverage one gives to ward off the sound threatens to topple over when it isn't there anymore. 

And all of this would be a challenge in any environment, but at an elementary school you have the unique feature of children's fascination with all that hardware. Monsters chewing up their street and spitting it back out. Little Bobcat frontloaders dodging in and out. Sweepers trailing behind, moving debris to the gutters. 

Just try and get a group of first graders away from the fence and try to coax them back inside for math. Nothing could ever be more mundane than the pursuit of knowledge when tractors are the alternative. 

Somewhere in here is the reality of the working week. It's the same one for teachers as it is for the crew working to fix the street outside our school. The neighborhood was awakened bright and early with sirens and a PA announcement demanding that cars be moved or would be towed at the owners' expense. This special bit of cacophony came before the diesel contraptions began their churning. The families of our students were tasked with finding a place for the car and getting their children dressed and off to school. Full attention is at a premium on the best days, but this makes rainy day recess look like a walk in the park. 

Which might be a better solution, now that I think about it. Taking all these kids for a hike until the din subsides. And we are left with the usual racket that accompanies elementary education. 

With A Little Bit Of Help From My Friends

 When I was young

So much younger than today

I believed All You Need Is Love

But then again it was these same guys

Who told me to Hide My Love Away

A Real Love

Wtih Love From Me To You

And just in case you forgot

P.S. I LoveYou

They warned me against 

A World Withou Love

But now those days are gone

And I'm not so self assured

I want her to know that I respect her

I want her to know that I appreciate her

And I Love Her

Fatherly Wisdom

 A very long time ago, I told my father about how after just a year working at a book warehouse I had been made manager, and not long after that I was elected to this employee-owned company's board of directors. His reaction was to tell me that he wasn't sure if that said more about the company or me. This was my father, after all, whose reaction to most any complaint about the food in front of us was "It's all gonna be poop in four hours anyway." My dad didn't mince many of his words. A very loving and funny man who periodically headed straight for the guard rail in order to get his car back on track. 

Metaphorically speaking. 

It was this warts and all outlook that caught me while I was being made aware of the fact that a co-worker had submitted a lovely tribute to me and my work ethic to our district's Staff Shout Outs. "David has been a teacher here at Horace Mann for the past 25 years! He is the epitome of 'going above and beyond' his job. David is the first to arrive in the morning and greets every single student who walks through our gates. He works tirelessly to ensure that all of our staff, students and families feel safe and welcomed. He is currently our Computer and PE Prep teacher, but he does so much more and NEVER misses a day of work unless it is a true emergency. We're so grateful for him!" I repeat this here at the risk of feeling that I am honking my own horn, but since I am not an itinerant own-horn-honker, I can tell you that while being quite flattered, my immediate reaction was to think of my father's appraisal: "Who d'ya suppose they got to write that?" He might have joshed. 

Not that there was anything within that accolade that I would argue with, I am simply not used to having the light shine so brightly on me or my accomplishments. The fact that my attendance was one of the things this person chose to laud me for suggests that I am very good at showing up. Every day. Unless there's a true emergency. A short list of some of the true emergencies that have interfered with my perfect attendance include jury duty, kidney stones, and a dying and then dead mother. Besides, taking a day off sometimes messes with my ability to remember all the students' names. 

And if I'm there to meet them at the gate, they can remember me, right dad? 

Playing With Your Food

 I am fortunate to have a indoor cat. Many of the creepiest behaviors of felines are for the most part avoided because of this confinement. Like the way that some house cats will return from their jaunts outside with nearly dead things that they want to share, sometimes batting their mangled remains about on the kitchen floor in a show of superiority and grandiosity. 

I bring this up, in spite of the fact that our toothless cat is less than likely to exhibit this tendency anytime soon. I had visions of a large predator tossing about its prey that was far too innocuous to be a meal, but still allowed it to celebrate its place on the food chain as I watched Young Tucker Carlson "interview" Vladimir "Felinus Atrocious" Putin. Those of you familiar with Young Tucker's journalistic talents can probably imagine how this went. 

For its part, the Kremlin itself had hyped Carlson's credentials, claiming he was the only Western journalist granted permission to talk to Putin in two years because his position is "in clear contrast to the position of the traditional Anglo-Saxon media." For the rest of us, we can solidly assume that Vlad just wanted someone who would sit there, slack jawed, while Russia's talking points were expounded upon and Putin's own peculiar view of Ukrainian history was laid out for those dim enough to lap it up. 

These pointy heads covered with red baseball caps are just the audience the big cat wants to reach. The ones who stare off into space, waiting to be told more lies. The ones that cheer on congressional Republicans as they continue to block a sixty-six billion dollar Ukraine aid bill. Among the many "facts" that Putin was able to roll out without any pushback from Young Tuck were dubious claims such as the 2014 Maidan protests, in which Ukrainians took to the streets to demand freedom from Russian control, were a CIA plot. Or that the invasion was a bid to "de-Nazify" the country, and not a campaign of revanchist conquest it is in reality. All of this without any kind of response from the dimwit who gave the bad guys two hours to bat him around along with the hundreds of thousands of Ukrainians who have died since this illegal invasion began. 

Ironically, this will probably boost Young Tuck's online presence. Even more than his last big interview with a conspiracy theorist who goes by the name of (checks notes) Catturd. Which pretty much brings us full circle. 

Everywhere All At Once

 Elvis is everywhere.

He's in your cheeseburgers. 

Elvis is in Nutty Buddies!

Alas, Mojo Nixon will now be a part of everywhere as well. The man who gave us the wisdom found in that song for the ages, whose real name was Neill Kirby McMillan Junior, has gone to the "Who was the guy who did that thing?" section of the great beyond, remembered by so many as a "one hit wonder." For a while in 1987, Elvis is Everywhere really was everywhere. On MTV. On Arsenio. Inside of my CD player. 

I bought the whole album. And played it. Not just for the hit, but for the deeper cuts. Tunes like "Lincoln Logs," "I Don't Want No Foo Foo Haircut On My Head," and my own personal favorite, "The Polka Polka." And two years later, I bought the followup, Root Hog Or Die, featuring the somewhat controversial track "Debbie Gibson Is Pregnant With My Two-Headed Love Child." The one that had a video MTV refused to air. 

Which made harder and harder for Mojo's personal brand of psychobilly to be everywhere. Now I had to go and find him. On records he made with the Melvins. And Jello Biafra. And eventually his band, the Toadliquors. Mojo was playing a gig with that band aboard the Outlaw Country Cruise the night before he was found dead in his cabin. There was no immediate cause of death listed. He was only sixty-six years old. My own suspicion is that he finally achieved that perfect state of Elvis-ness and simply ascended into the heavens. Ironically, he is survived by Don Henley, to whom Mojo once dedicated the ode "Don Henley Must Die."

The world is a little quieter with Mojo gone, and no one who encountered him even briefly would say that he did not stomp on the Terra, right up to the end. He will be missed, but every time you feel just a little bit of Elvis inside of you, know that Mojo Nixon is everywhere. 

Aloha, Mojo. 

Bottom Of The Ninth

 If you are only tracking the defeats of former game show host and every court's least favorite defendant, then you might be missing the big picture. 

On Tuesday, the Republican Majority in the House of Representatives failed to deliver its base on three major points. GOP senators put the kibosh on a border deal that has become a curious and somewhat ridiculous political football. Funding for border security has been cynically stapled to legislation regarding further support of Ukraine, Israel and Taiwan. While Mitch McConnell was trying to get a deal done, he got the messages from the folks down the hall that the House would not allow any such law to pass. So the "crisis" at the southern border that burns as such a bright issue for so many conservatives will have to go back on the shelf, unattended once again because the right wing has tipped the scales so far that compromise of any sort has become as difficult as passing a big fat camel through a very small needle. 

Strike One. 

An aid package for Israel went down to defeat in the House as well. Nearly two billion dollars in military funding because Democrats refused to support a bill that did not include similar money set aside for the war in Ukraine. But it wasn't just Democrats voting against the plan. Several hard-right Republicans hopped on the opposition train because the legislation didn't include spending cuts as well. 

Strike Two.

Then there was the matter of impeaching homeland security secretary Alejandro Mayorkas. This has been a promise made and insisted upon by just about any Republican congressman with a microphone in front of them for months. Hungry for what must seem like retribution for the two impeachments of their rumored-to-be fearless leader, the most televised version of the Grand Old Party went after the guy they felt had kicked the gate to our southern border open. After weeks of hearings filled with little or no substance, with a focus on undermining the policy decisions made by the Biden administration. In the end, not enough of their own could be persuaded to hop aboard and their effort failed. 

Strike Three. 

And just when you thought that there couldn't be any better news, a federal court decided that the nominal leader of this dysfunctional band of malcontents is not immune from prosecution for the crimes he committed in and around January 6, 2021. 

I am not sure which ones are insult and which are injury, but you can go ahead and add it all up to a very bad no-good horrible week for the Red Team. 

Ah Fortuna!

 Meanwhile, somewhere out there, a presidential campaign continues to wheeze and whine its way toward the bottom of this year. 

I have purposefully stayed away from discussion of the many and varied ways in which this circus has only become more ridiculous as the clown have left the GOP clown car, and the focus continues to be on the biggest clown of them all. Imagine being Nikki Haley, with her own set of peculiarities, unable to make a dent in the orange psycho's base in spite of being just this side of completely objectionable. 

Nevertheless, she persisted. 

The wailing from the right continues its persistent moan about the border and the economy and the way things were so much better back when things were being run by a former game show host who alternates appearances in court for defamation with those for fraud and soon for mishandling top secret documents and (checks notes) Election Interference. And still manages to sneak in the all-too-frequent rally in which he performs his greatest hits and complains how no one understands his suffering. 

The Republican Party has a choice. They could take their chances on former governor of South Carolina Haley, with her baggage, or the guy with a laundry list of indictments and a streak of misogyny that can be seen from outer space. Nikki Haley has never lost an election. And she will probably win a few primaries. Specifically those that have her as the only candidate, but this should not diminish the fact that a woman is running once again for the highest office in the land with only the aforementioned he-man woman hater as the competition. 

Which doesn't seem ironic as much as it does tragic. 

Please understand that there are several mythological beasts that would receive a vote from me before I supported Nikki Haley, but this thing we call the Democratic Process seems to have skipped a beat somewhere along the line. Not being under federal indictment should count for something, shouldn't it? She outlasted all those other clowns, but maybe the end of the trail comes when she realizes that it's her former boss that's pulling the strings. 

How unfortunate for all of us. 

Haves

 Andrew was sitting outside the principal's office. School had been out for more than half an hour, and though he was sometimes reticent to get himself to after school program, he did not show up as a kid who just didn't want to be in class. 

"Andrew, are you okay?"

"Leave me alone," he glowered from behind half-lidded eyes. The streaks on his face said he had been crying. His sadness, as was his way, had crystalized into vague antipathy.

I tried again, "Andrew, is there anything I can do?"

"Leave me alone." Each word given emphasis. He was not currently taking calls. 

I checked with our after school director, who related to me the story of a young man who had gone to see about getting a yo-yo from our fundraising campaign. This young man was extremely disappointed to discover that the entry-level yo-yo came at the princely price of ten dollars. He did not have ten dollars. He was very frustrated. A bunch of other kids, translated at the time by this young man as "everyone," had yo-yos. He did not. 

This young man was Andrew. Now the frustration with his circumstances had a hard edge. Inconsolable, he sat just around the corner from where the yo-yos were being sold. The easiest possible solution would have been to buy him a yo-yo and move on from there. But this path was fraught with danger. What if his parents had already told him that he could not have a yo-yo? Andrew's parents were famous for their continuing negotiations with their periodically recalcitrant son. The list of "if-then" in their household was everchanging. 

"Maybe we could call dad and see if he could get you a yo-yo when he comes to pick you up?"

"I already called him," he grumbled. "He said no."

Which relieved me of any further deal making on that end. I tried another tack: "Did you ask one of the kids in your class if you could try theirs?" This suggestion was met with harrumph. For so many of the kids at my school, ownership is the important thing. Having something is very different from using it. Not that different from most of the rest of America, but the distance between the haves and have nots is felt more acutely. 

The after school director and I eventually coaxed Andrew out of his corner with the possibility of next week. The sale would continue. More opportunities for yo-yos. A few more days to raise ten dollars. A few more days to finagle the situation. And a snack. Andrew was happy to have a snack. No one else got a second snack. 

On Hold

 The first time I can remember getting a phone call that changed my life was just before Memorial Day in my ninth grade year. I talked on the phone with a friend who was interested in what I had to say about all the churning thoughts and emotions that were swirling about my adolescent head. We talked for two and a half hours, and this conversation served as the seed for my Great American Novel, in which I laid out my vision for avoiding heartbreak and dealing with disparate personalities in that time of great upheaval. Or at least upheaval that seemed massive from my perspective. For those of you who tune in here regularly you have that interaction to thank for what you are currently reading. The fire that was lit way back then that got me sharing all my words with anyone with the time to read them still burns brightly here. 

Not all these phone calls were happy, of course. In college I came home to an empty apartment with a message from my mother telling me not to call back but to come straight over to my parents' house. Proving that I have never been great about following explicit directions, I called my mother. She was in tears and insisted that we shouldn't talk on the phone. Didn't I get the message? So, being the dutiful son that I am, I hopped in my car and drove across town with a head full of possible outcomes to be met by my mother and father at the front steps with the news that my friend and roommate had been killed in a car crash. I still wonder if it would have been better to have received this information in person, where I collapsed onto my parents' front lawn or if I could have had that moment in my living room near a couch. 

Then there was the time that I called the girl that I had been visiting in California. We had only parted a few hours before, having spent a little extra time hanging out together in the San Francisco airport after I had missed my flight. It was just enough time to consider all the possibilities, and on the plane ride back to Colorado I made up my mind to join her there on the left hand side of the country. This was the beginning of our great "What if?" adventure, and it continues today.

Most recently, I was availed of the convenience of a cellular telephone and Bluetooth earbuds for receiving calls on the go. All this technology allowed me to get the news from my older brother that my mother had passed. I was halfway up the hill near my house, running to shake off the worry that I would soon be getting the update that came just the same. It was a quick call, and it was then that I turned around and came home to make a series of my own difficult phone calls. Each time I run past that spot now I get a twinge. But I keep running. 

These are not all the phone calls that have shaped the course of my life. I expect the list will continue to grow and evolve. I'll continue to pick up if you call. Just to see what happens next.   

Letting Go

 Carl Weathers was a bad guy. I know this not because any character he played in some movie had him using a PC instead of a Mac. No friends, long before the advent of the home computer, the die was cast for Mister Weathers. 

He was an Oakland Raider. Sure, he only played eight games for the Silver and Black, but this marked him in my book. He was the enemy. 

So it came as no real surprise when he showed up as Apollo Creed in the Rocky movies. Yes, I know that the intense bond between the Italian Stallion and his arch nemesis grew to something akin to brotherhood, but I couldn't ever really trust him. He had already committed to the "just win baby" philosophy. 

Not only did he seem intent on finding every opportunity to pummel Sylvester Stallone into hamburger, but he also sent Arnold Schwarzenegger off to the jungles of South America to be preyed upon by a Predator. 

And then there was the three long months that I had to stare at the cardboard standee of him promoting his starring role in the home video release of Action Jackson. The fact that if I had held onto that instead of some of the other detritus from my video store days, I would be sitting on almost three hundred dollars. 

Then there's the ultra-creepy way that he keeps showing up in ads for The Kick Of Destiny, a part of the celebration of all things Super Bowl this weekend. The fact that the game will be held this year in, you guessed it, the Las Vegas Raiders' stadium makes the circle complete. 

Carl Weathers died last week at the age of seventy-six. And as it turns out, he was a pretty decent fellow with a sense of humor about himself and what he did. So while he did stomp on Sylvester Stallone from time to time, he also managed to find some time for the Terra as well. 

Aloha, Carl. I forgive you. 

Eyes Wide Open

 For those of you who have come here looking for updates on Taylor Swift, I apologize. Today I will return to a more familiar ax to grind. 

The trial of Jennifer Crumbley continues with the defendant taking the stand in her own defense. If  your recollection of the players in each of America's mass shootings is not as refined as mine, I will remind you that Ms. Crumbley is the mother of the teenaged gunman who killed four people at Oxford High School in Michigan. Her son has been sentenced to life in prison without parole for his murders. Now mom and dad are in court facing charges of involuntary manslaughter. 

On the day of the shooting, the Crumbleys were called to the school for an emergency meeting about their son and what school officials called "a cry for help." Mom and dad checked in, and left their son at the school to return to work. They left their son behind. Shortly after that, the gun that Ethan bought just four days earlier took the lives of four fellow students and wounded seven more. He was fifteen at the time. 

The old saw about "we never believed this kind of thing could happen" really doesn't play very well here. During the search of the Crumbley home after the shooting, Oakland County Sheriff's Detective Adam Stoyek testified they found an open gun box and an empty box of ammunition for the 9 mm Sig Sauer handgun used in the shooting, as well as gun range targets with bullet holes taped to the shooter's bedroom wall and an empty bottle of whiskey next to his bed. They also found two more weapons in a locked gun safe that could be opened with the default code of 0-0-0.

Jennifer and her husband were found hiding in a warehouse after they failed to appear for their own arraignment. Sounds pretty normal for a concerned family unit, doesn't it?

Ultimately, I have a shred of understanding for the Crumbleys. If getting married is a crap shoot with a fifty percent chance of failure, raising a child in the United States can only be seen as doubling down on that initial bet. But just like driving a car or operating heavy machinery, its an activity best performed with your eyes open. 

Wide open. 

The Show-Me State Of Affairs

 If you're like me, and if you weren't, why are you reading this? 

If you made it to this line, then I'll assume you're along for the ride, and the ride is this: We have reached the inevitable canyon of ennui some of us refer to us as "the dead week" between the Conference Championship games and the Super Bowl. 

Feel free to use that last sentence as your exit, I know that certain among us have no real interest or tolerance for sports talk.

But I'm talking about True Detective stuff here. Way back on January 9, three Kansas City Chiefs fans were found frozen to death two days after their team defeated the Los Angeles Chargers, sealing their playoff position and sending them off on the road to the Super Bowl. The host of the party, whose back yard in which the corpses were found answered the door with a glass of wine in his hand dressed only in his underwear when police knocked on his door. 

Thirty-eight year old Jordan Willis, of the wine and underwear, told authorities that he had been "asleep for the past two days" and had no reckoning of his popsicle pals. The current investigation is not one of foul play, but of foul play but of brutal amounts of beer and the possibility of other drugs being involved. A fifth member of the watch party left the scene at eleven that night and the other four were still alive, inside, and watching Jeopardy. "Um, what is hypothermia, Alex?"

There are currently two schools of thought: A tragic accident after a day of partying just a little too hard, and the one that suggests something more sinister. The most nefarious theory gone so far as to imply that the incident could be linked to Willis’ work as an HIV scientist with the International AIDS Vaccine Initiative’s Neutralizing Antibody Center, Schief Lab. 

Meanwhile, Mister Willis has moved his things into storage and checked himself into rehab. Which seems logical, but I wouldn't want to count out the obvious connection between these horrific events and Taylor Swift.

Be honest, if you read this far, you knew that was coming. 

A Love Story

 So let's say that you're a successful professional in your thirties. Like many people in your circumstances, you have found dating and relationships difficult to manage because of your dedication to your chosen field. Long hours, lots of travel, and those around you distract you with opportunities and experiences that keep you distracted from simply settling down. 

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, a person appears in your life that just might be "the one." After all that time being focused on your own life and passage through the highs and lows of your profession, someone has made you think that maybe, just maybe, there could be something more.

Yes, I am inserting my own spin on the romance between Travis Kelce and Taylor Swift, but I can't help but imagine that things are hard enough for two thirty-somethings to come together and make a commitment to one another without any hype at all. Go ahead and sprinkle the Grammys and a Super Bowl on top of that and things could easily go off the rails. Speaking of those pop culture rites, it has already been announced that Miss Swift will be making the arduous and draining trip from nearly halfway around the world to see her boyfriend play in sports' biggest spectacle. Contrastingly, Mister Kelce will be unable to make it to Taylor's big night just a short hop away in Los Angeles. 

If this doesn't scream situation comedy I don't know what does. I am certain that both of these folks are mature adults and made these decisions amicably with their eyes on what is truly important: their deep and abiding love for one another. Still, I am sure that the potential discord that exists must have been as challenging as any playoff game or world tour. To imagine that these two superheroes exist in a world without friction is ridiculous. Then to imagine that they can shut out all the noise generated by the media, the fans and the haters that surround them. 

So I have decided to root for them. Not necessarily to win awards or football games, but to persevere in their human drama. I would hate to think that they would break up because of something the commissioner of the NFL did or something Sean Hannity said. They should follow their bliss. No matter how overwhelming it might seem to those of us in the cheap seats. 

Numbers Game

 So much of my self esteem is wrapped up in numbers. 

I recently wrote about the game-ifying of my movements thanks to Artificial Intelligence. Breaking down the quality of my day based on the number of steps my watch believes I have taken sits at the top of this worry I have about not being good enough. Meeting and exceeding my goal for tramping across the ground around me is a priority for me. 

And once I have made it that far, then I head to the shower where before I step in I stand on the scale to see if somehow I have managed to shave off a pound here or there. Or if I have somehow managed to gain weight in spite of all those aforementioned steps. 

Then there are the numbers that don't get the kind of play that these easily captured points of data get. Starting with my blood pressure. Once I found myself hanging around with other sixty year olds, my doctor felt that my systolic had creeped into the region of concern, if not outright panic. So besides taking a tiny pill daily to make that number smaller, I have also broken out our family blood pressure cuff to take periodic measurement. And since my visits to the doctor have confirmed that my blood pressure tends to go up when I am aware that my blood pressure is being measured, it sometimes takes me a few tries and some calming meditations to get an accurate reading. "Hmmm. It says here that I should have splattered across the room five minutes ago."

Add to this the barrage of data thrown at me after each doctor visit. Cholesterol, red and white counts, and a battery of tests that happily skew solidly into the range of "normal," and I am equipped with enough information to go see a specialist to run more tests that will most certainly bring me news about my continuing deterioration. 

Then there's my pulse rate. My pride and joy. On several occasions I have gone to donate blood and had the techs ask, "Is it normally this low?" At which point I tell them that I run most every day and ride my bike to and from school. "Oh," they nod, "you exercise." Which is exactly why I feel worthy of showing up to give away some of my precious bodily fluids. 

In spite of all those numbers that suggest that it may not be such a great idea. 

Ride On

 I was on my way out to hop on my bicycle when that old resentment rose up: If I had an electric car, I wouldn't have to get up an extra ten minutes earlier to pedal my old carcass up and down the hills to school every day. 

And just as quickly, the angel on my shoulder began chirping about how much good I was doing the world by continuing to commute by bike. Gas savings. Exercise. Insurance. Being a good role model for all the kids at school. 

Yeah, but a radio. And a heater. And ten less minutes of exertion every morning. 

The angel chirped back: What about those days when you're invigorated by the ride home and working off all that added stress? You love that. 

That's true. But what a relief it would be to not have to dodge traffic and all those idjits in their shiny metal boxes acting as if the roads were their exclusive domain. Double parking. Pulling out in front of whoever they feel like. Roaring up behind folks on two wheels and reminding them in the most colorful language possible that this is their exclusive domain. 

Of course, that would put me back in the race with all the other idjits. I would like to say that because of my unique perspective as a bike commuter for all these years that I am somehow more evolved than those whose perspective is limited to their safe space inside their own vehicle. I would like to sat that. But I have also been made aware, occasionally, of just how easy it is to fall into the crack of doom that is rush hour malaise. If you turn the radio up loud enough, you can hardly hear the screams of the poor souls you almost hit or the curses from those you just cut off. 

So, I went on down to the basement, and pushed the voices in my head to the back and focused on getting my helmet, turning on my front light and back flasher, and rolled my sleek machine out for another day of dodging and weaving. 

Survival can be so exhilarating.