This Is A Test

 Here we go.

The big turn we take each year into the End of the Year: Spring Break.

When we come back in a week, we'll start all the motions that send a message to the staff and students that we are preparing to close up shop. This is nowhere more apparent than the preparations we make for our mandated state testing. 

Over the years I have become less agitated by the specifics of high stakes testing and more philosophical about the way we turn children into points of data after a year of treating them as individual intertwined successes and challenges, each one capable of so much in so many different ways, but lacking in others. But, sure as the days are getting longer and the pollen count goes up, we're going to toss them all into the centrifuge and see what the computer spits out. 

As the computer teacher I do my best to prepare our seemingly unsuspecting young victims for the onslaught that awaits them. We look at practice tests and take them for a spin in the simulations. We let them know that no matter how much we try to get them ready that week of sitting in front of a screen will most certainly have an impact on them. 

I'm not talking about "your permanent record here." I stopped believing in that a long time ago. Instead I try and prepare them for a reality in which the effort they put in will be expected and the impression that they care is what we are really looking at. It's those who idly click on random answers and finish in record time that upsets the whole apple cart. 

These are children, after all. They are part of the mass that looks up after writing a sentence and asks, "Is this enough?" They would like to believe that there is a bell somewhere that will ring, signaling time is up and they can move on to the next ridiculous task put in front of them by grownups. Or maybe recess?

But here we are all complicit. We know that the true measure of each student will not be found in those hours spent testing. It will come as a composite of all the hours spent in classrooms and on the playground and in the hallways and the cafeteria. 

But we still hope they do really well. 

Con-Sense

 My family and I drove across the Francis Scott Key Bridge in Maryland. Once. A long time ago. There was a small part of me that shuddered upon seeing the video of its collapse early Tuesday morning. A cargo ship lost power and crashed into one of the supports, bringing the entire structure down. Two people were rescued, and another six were feared lost as the connector for Baltimore's urban and suburban districts was gone in a matter of seconds. The victims were on the bridge. None of the cargo ship's crew were injured. 

It could have been much worse. Had the accident taken place during daylight hours. This branch of I-695 carried significant shipping traffic as well as commuters. Things could have been much worse. Which made me think about another bridge collapse a long time ago. 

When the Loma Prieta Earthquake struck the Bay Area back in 1989, the double-deck Cypress Street approach to the Bay Bridge pancaked, trapping motorists in their cars, and the Bay Bridge itself experienced a massive failure as a section of the top deck broke and fell down on the lower. Forty-two people died at the Cypress site, only one died as result of the Bay Bridge collapse. This loss of life would have been far greater had there not been a World Series game taking place in San Francisco at the time. People altered their commutes to avoid traffic or missing any part of the game between the Giants and the Athletics. 

That was in another time. No one suggested that the deep state was somehow to blame for the tragedy. No one claimed that government agencies had plotted together to make something happen to its own citizens. 

Welcome to 2024, when every catastrophe has a conspiracy lining. Utah State Representative Phil Lyman had this to say: "This is what happens when you have governors who prioritize diversity over the wellbeing and security of citizens." You would not be alone if you were left scratching your head in wonder about this assertion. Speaking of heads, the pointy heads that come up with this kind of malarkey have also suggested that Boeing's recent trouble has everything to do with Diversity, Equity and Inclusion and not corporate greed. 

Of course, they might have taken the opportunity to connect the once upon a time trip the author of this lefty blog took to the events in Maryland. That makes about as much sense. With apologies to sense. 

Down But Not Out

 I hurt my leg last Friday.

I did it bowling. 

Yes it hurts. 

For a while this past week I felt that I should get those three phrases printed on a T-shirt for me to wear in order to some of the caring but institutionally redundant questions about the brace on my left knee. The concern was legitimate, but over the course of a trip down a hallway I would be asked a dozen different times by a dozen different people, old and young about the limp I was showing as I hobbled from place to place. Several times, because of the attention span of your standard elementary school age child, I would answer the same questions from one bright upturned face just steps away from where I had given the exact same answers. 

All of which speaks to the relative excitement generated by the smallest tweak in Elementary School Reality. Most often this is found in the reactions students have to haircuts. Over the weekend someone shows up with bangs, or a fade, it's big news. And seemingly everlasting torment for the child who was simply trying to improve their personal grooming. 

As for my knee, it's kind of an old story. It's the same one that I wrecked nearly forty years ago by jumping out of a swing. That cautionary tale was apparently not enough to get me to consider just how vigorous I needed to be when it came to our faculty bowling night. When I woke up the morning after, the stabbing pain I felt around my tibial plateau was a reminiscence I did not need. Nevertheless,  I persevered. I went to school, but left for an hour to go see a doctor. 

Put through my paces over the course of a brief but thorough examination, it was determined that I had a sprain. No permanent damage. Just a reminder of that once upon a time when I thought I was indestructible. 

I'm not. And now I'm paying the price for believing that I was. 

Every time I limp down the hall. 

Rules Of Engagement

 You know me and massacres. I try not to miss an opportunity to ring the "guns are bad" bell. 

There was a shooting last Friday that left at least one hundred thirty-three dead and scores more wounded. This was not the act of a lone gunman. The motive in this particular case was clear, a departure from the standard. And this one didn't occur in a mall or a church or a school in the heartland of America. 

It didn't happen in America. 

It happened in suburban Russia. At a concert hall, packed with people. A number of gunmen, as yet undetermined, burst in and sprayed the crowd with automatic gunfire. On the way out, the assailants set fire to the place, hampering rescue efforts and creating even more chaos. 

Firearms are allowed for private citizens over eighteen with a registered permit in Russia. Of course if the bad guys with guns are from Isis, originating in Afghanistan, those rules don't matter as much. Contrary to many of the U.S. shootings, officials were quick to make the link between the massacre and terrorism. The war in Ukraine is now in its third year, so government types in both Moscow and Kyiv were quick to point fingers at one another in spite of the Isis statement on Saturday in which they said the attack had come in the “the natural framework” of the ongoing war between the extremist group and countries they accuse of fighting Islam. 

You may remember Isis as the bad guys in the United States' decade-long slog through Iraq. U.S. intelligence types had been monitoring potential retaliation by the group after a series of airstrikes by Russia. These were not considered terrorist attacks. These were attacks on terrorists. These are the justifications made for killing during wartime. 

Meanwhile, over here in the relative calm of these United States, we continue to average a hundred men, women, and children dying from gun violence each day. Sometimes the motives are known. Sometimes the assailants are terrorists, or act like them. Russia doesn't tend to keep score the same way we do, but the last time data was extracted, they came in at about one tenth the number here in America. 

So we mourn the dead and wait for the day when the killing stops.

Everywhere.

 For any reason. 

Missing Link

 Looking back, I wonder if my life would have been radically different if I had participated in either the Boy Scouts or Little League. Certainly for many young men, these were rites of passage when I was coming of age. But not for me. 

The Boy Scouts were deemed unnecessary by me because of my participation in Y Indian Guides. This group was founded on the father-son bond, which was very strong in my family. My dad was invested enough to take all three of his sons with different tribes through this experience, and eventually became a big chief of cultural appropriation, wearing a feathered headdress and everything. My older brother was a Boy Scout. He was way into all the wilderness and knots and so forth. I was far too much of a homebody, not willing to spend weekends away from mom and dad to go out and pitch a tent. If I was going to do that, I would just as soon do it a few dozen yards away from the back door of our mountain cabin. Where the comic books were. 

It was that same mountain cabin that worked against any of us participating in Little League as well. We spent our summers tucked away in the woods, living that somewhat pioneer life and taking time out for practices and games with a thirty mile round trip each time would have done absolutely nothing for the isolation vibe we were trying to instill. I suppose had any one of us three boys shown a predilection toward baseball that my parents would have made the sacrifice. My mom was a champion room mother and both mom and dad were band parents in the extreme. They sewed uniforms and sold concessions at the football and basketball games. They showed up and turned out. They were devoted to their sons' extracurriculars. Baseball just didn't fit in that mix. I was, myself, prone to dropping the very occasional pop fly that might find its way to right field where I was inevitably assigned due to my almost criminal lack of ability. 

Which didn't stop us from playing a lot of softball down in the meadow. The whole family would amble on down the driveway from the cabin to the sloping green field where we would take turns bashing the ball that would eventually be retrieved by one of the neighbor dogs who made their way over the hill to see what all the fuss was about. We knew that it was time for a break when the golden lab who was our most persistent outfielder wandered off with the ball in his mouth to lounge in the creek. 

So maybe I didn't miss much after all. Maybe all those pledges and uniforms. And all that potential ridicule and hazing. 

Not that much at all. 

Long, Sad Trip

 Apparently there are a bunch of folks up in arms about the way things went down around the turn of the century at Nickelodeon Studios. For those of you unfamiliar, Nickelodeon is a cable TV channel catering primarily to younger viewers. Maybe you watched some of these shows: Drake and Josh, All That, Boy Meets World, The Amanda Show. A new documentary has brought to light a great many unsettling behind the scenes experiences that would not fit in the category of "safe for kids." 

In the late 1990s and early 2000s, making those funs shows for a youth audience was anything but safe for the kids who were manipulated and preyed upon by producers and other adults left "in charge" of this group of young people. All manner of harassment and unsafe work environment accusations are coming to light as the victims, now adults, are coming forward to shed light on the pitfalls and struggles of young performers at the turn of the century. 

But it's not exactly news, is it? My mother told me stories of the horrible ways Judy Garland was treated when she was just a little girl. A little girl with a dream of someday flying over the rainbow. Instead she was put through a mill and ground up until she couldn't sing anymore. Her onscreen pal Mickey Rooney wasn't treated much better, given pills and shots to keep him up and working, then more drugs to get him to sleep at night. And then the cycle would start right back up again. 

Then there's the story of Michael Jackson, whose talents were wrung from him all while being kept in isolation without ever being given a chance at a real childhood. Who or what he might have become if he had been allowed to live life outside the bubble created for him by his parents and his handlers will never be known. And it takes a special kind of torment to turn a member of the Mickey Mouse Club into the freak show that would become Britney Spears. 

Toss in a little Tatum O'Neal and Drew Barrymore, and you've got a pretty compelling case against children ever being allowed anywhere near showbiz. Ironically, Patty Duke's "coming of age" was on the big screen in the form of Valley of the Dolls, and what would have been Judy Garland's last film appearance. From which Judy was fired because "she couldn't keep up with the pace." 

What a long, sad trip it's been. 

Awful

 Change is bad. 

I am very unhappy that the closest In 'N' Out to my house is closing. It's closing because of crime in the area. The Taco Bell in my neighborhood is now closed to dine-in patrons. Only drive thru, thank you very much crime in the area. I can still drive not too far out of my way to get a Double-Double, and if the charm of Taco Bell was found in its dining area, I must have missed something along the line. 

So that will have to be. 

But now I understand that they are coming for my Chips Ahoy. According to reports, the bakers of one of America's favorite cookies are "reimagining their ingredients." 

Sorry folks, but I live through the New Coke debacle of 1985. This was back when Coca Cola was a staple of my bachelor diet, and when it was announced that there would be no return to "old Coke," it made me want to do something radical, like writing a strongly worded letter. Happily, before things got too far out of hand, there was Coke Classic, and then the final surrender to the relegation of New Coke to the stuff of nightmares and furniture refinishing. 

I retired from swilling Coke by the liter some time ago, and my peanut M&M habit was mitigated by substituting Chips Ahoy. Which his why this development stings. I bake my own chocolate chip cookies from scratch, so I know how they are supposed to taste. Not like Chips Ahoy. They are the McDonald's version of the cheeseburger. It is referential to the one you might make at home, but the vaguely graham cracker aftertaste and the chips are mostly there to break up the monotony of the cookie. They taste more like Chips Ahoy than they taste like chocolate chip cookies. 

Which is fine with me. Because that is how they have always tasted. Now some Gen Z executive is going to refine the cocoa and introduce Madagascar vanilla into my sea of sameness. 

Why? Aren't things confusing enough? It's enough to turn a guy to a life crime, breaking into Taco Bell dining rooms to have a cheeseburger. 

Depdendable

 You can stop wasting your time going to the cinema. There is nothing worth seeing anymore. That is if you believe Roger Ebert. “No movie featuring either Harry Dean Stanton or M. Emmet Walsh in a supporting role can be altogether bad." Harry Dean passed away back in 2017. M. Emmet Walsh followed him into forever this past week. 

No more movies. 

Which turns out to be okay. That is if you are currently scratching your noggin or stroking your chin about to whom I am referring, you can look forward to a list of more than two hundred television and film appearances from Mister Walsh, and another two hundred some from Mister Stanton. You would be fine starting with either man's oeuvre, but since M. Emmet passed so recently, let's begin with him. 

Any man who showed up with speaking roles in both Escape From The Planet of the Apes and Blade Runner must be onto something. Go ahead and toss Blood Simple and Raising Arizona on top of that. And he was the guy who tried to shoot Navin Johnson in The Jerk. There's only a couple hundred more to choose from, but this would be a career for just about anyone else. 

M. Emmet Walsh showed up in the late sixties. His first screen appearance was in Midnight Cowboy. He played a bus passenger. Very convincingly. He did a lot of television too. A rumpled couch of a man, he showed up looking world-weary and then just got more and more fed up. Whether he was a cop on the beat or a neighbor who had seen just a little too much, Walsh was the definition of a working actor. For nearly sixty years, he was "that guy" in movies and on TV that stayed just this side of exasperated. And then someone would push him just a little too far. Or not far enough. 

But Roger Ebert was right, as far as that dependability goes. Or maybe he was the coach, or the PE teacher who had stuck around a little too long. Not long on compassion, especially with that Jarrett kid. But I might remember him best for his portrayal of an addict in Clean And Sober, describing the anxious waiting for another fix. 

Still a couple hundred left to go. M. Emmet Walsh stomped on the Terra, and he will be missed. Tremendously. 

Born To Ride

 Ride bikes. 

That was an activity. When I was a kid in the suburban seventies there were many weekends, afternoons and vacations that were spent doing just that. 

We lived on a cul-de-sac so the concern about cars and other traffic aside from our two wheeled conveyances was minimal. Hours of my youth was spent on the banana seat of my Schwinn Stingray, pedaling from one end of the block to the other. My brothers and the rest of the neighborhood kids swarmed around me on their bikes, and we didn't need a destination. 

We just needed to ride. 

"Go outside and play," was a both a command and a suggestion. The actual activity that would fill up the rest of our day was yet to be determined, but since I had a couple of built-in playmates in my brothers and access to more than a dozen more once I walked out the front door, being alone was not a concern. But contrast, finding a moment alone was something that was at a premium in those days. Once I hit the front walk, someone was there abruptly, wanting to know what the day's activity was going to be. 

Ride bikes. 

Certainly this was the low end of the creative spectrum, but once we had all saddled up, there was plenty that could be accomplished aside from just rushing furiously form one end of the street to the other. There was Chase. And Bike Tag. And Cops and Robbers. All of these were made instantly more dangerous because of the varied level of skill among the kids who were playing. Riding a bike full tilt at another kid only to pull up short, skidding to a stop next to them and reaching out: Tag. Many times the simple physics of these interactions went awry and resulted in trips to someone's mom to administer a swab of hydrogen peroxide and a band-aid. Or two. That kid or kids would be champing at the bit to get back outside to show off their wounds with a peek behind that adhesive strip. They wanted to get back out there. 

To ride bikes.  

From The Inside

 In news that yours truly found significant, James Crumbley was found guilty. In Michigan last week a jury found James, the father of school shooter Ethan Crumbley, guilty of four counts of involuntary manslaughter. This was the second time a parent was found guilty essentially as an accessory to the murders committed by their children. The first was a few weeks back when Ethan's mom, Jennifer, was convicted of the same crime. 

The message sent here is that ignoring your child's homicidal attentions and intentions can get you into trouble. The old saw about how "we had no idea" did not hold sway here as the trial spelled out all the ways that the Crumbleys as a family mismanaged the potential of their son's murderous rampage. Highlighting this list would be the part where school administrators called the parents to an emergency meeting at the school to discuss the picture young Ethan had drawn of a gun and a person being shot. Neither of them told staff members he had access to a weapon, and they said they couldn’t take him home, citing a busy work schedule. This with full knowledge of the murder weapon their son had purchased just days before. 

At his sentencing, the youngers Crumbley had this to say: "We are all here because of me today, what I did. Because of what I chose to do. I could not stop myself," he said, adding: "My parents did not know what I planned to do, they are not at fault."

For his crimes, Ethan was sentenced to life without parole. His parents face fifteen years each not for pulling the trigger, but for making it a lot more likely. 

For his part, James Crumbley told his sister that he was going to make it his goal in life to destroy Oakland County Prosecutor Karen McDonald, saying that she was going to hell soon, that she better be scared and that she was done. 

Done. In the same way the Ethan's four classmates were "done" back in 2021? 

Something about rotten apples not falling far from a rotting tree. 

Speaking Their Minds

 Okay, after the State of the Union speech, there was a lot of talk about how we were stuck with the choice between two old duffers. Those same voices were the ones who marveled at how tough Joe Biden sounded. 

But you know what? I checked the transcript. Nowhere in the State of the Union address did Joe Biden refer to a "bloodbath" if he didn't win the upcoming election. Nor did he say that he would be a dictator if he did win. Not for a day. Not at all. 

The guy with multiple indictments facing him spouted this at a rally last weekend: “Now if I don’t get elected, it’s going to be a bloodbath for the whole — that’s gonna be the least of it,” he added. “It’s going to be a bloodbath for the country. That will be the least of it." The former game show host was regurgitating in front of a crowd in Ohio, trying to make a distinction about the auto manufacturing business but he couldn't find any better words than "bloodbath." Until he landed on this one: “If this election isn’t won, I’m not sure that you’ll ever have another election in this country.”

To be clear, Joe Biden has made a point of making sure elections in our country are safe and fair. He did not foment insurrection, starting a years-long delusion about how we count. Which wouldn't be so bad except for the legions of red-baseball cap wearing lemmings who lick up whatever bile he spews. 

And ask for more. 

Worse still is the fact that it is not just he rank and file rally-goer that seems powerless to resist the man who cheats at golf more than he cheats on his wives. Republicans in Congress continue to dance and dodge around any legislation that might solve the very problems that they insist are destroying our country. 

"For the good of the party." The Grand Old Party. The elephants whose memory seems to have failed them. The ones who seem to have traded in their jobs as legislators for full-time campaign shills for the man voted by scholars as the worst president this country ever had. 

Worst. Bloodbath. Dictator. Some of this really should start to sink in. 

Pairing

 Hey, my son is going to be twenty-seven soon. Last year he celebrated by being forcibly removed from our insurance. Not by us, his parents, mind you. It was the state that had their wicked hand in that one. But it signified the way in which adulthood is thrust upon us. 

I say this with full knowledge and recognition of the two years he spent living in our basement after college and during the height of COVID. We were not going to shove him out of the nest just to prove a point. We are always pleased and happy to have him drop by from his busy grownup life when he has a few spare minutes.

But we understand that the day to day affairs of his life are just that: his life. When he started buying his own groceries, we had to take a step back and hope that in addition to his regular stops at the meat counter that he would also remember to pick up a little produce to go along with all that carefully prepared beef. 

And we also wait patiently for anything that feels or sounds like an update on his relationship status. More than anything else, I suspect that he would be happy to have his parents' tacit approval of any and all partners he may or may not entertain. We don't get a vote in this. We know this from experience. Our son's private life is called that for a reason: it's private. 

Nevertheless, I found myself wondering as he continues to wander toward those mile markers that defined my own life like turning thirty, would I be relieved and enthusiastic about any coupling in which he might find himself? How could any human hope to be good enough to pass muster? And simultaneously, how could I not have anything but love and respect for anyone he deigned to be worthy of his attention? 

I can remember the warm reception all my friends got when I brought them home to meet my parents, and when I finally found one I wanted to marry, they seemed to be as relieved as they were happy. This might have been because they didn't see me pairing off with any great number of potential mates. I was not one of the preeminent daters of the past century. 

And neither, it would seem, is my son. At least that is the way I understand it from out here in the reserved seating. What goes on in the mosh pit is another matter for the younger set to settle. But I do look forward to meeting the person one of my favorite persons chooses to grow old with. Older, that is. 

As We Know It

 Anybody else around here remember when the world ended? 

It was about four years ago. Everyone went home and hid. People were dying by the thousands. Refrigerator trucks were parked outside hospitals to keep up with the corpses as they were rolled out to make room for the wave of victims who were contracting the virus that spread faster than anyone could imagine. 

We stayed inside. We learned to watch streaming video. We learned to order food and groceries online. We learned to wash our hands. 

No one wanted to talk about it much, but there was a fear that we might not all get past this one. More than a million people died. While we scrambled for a way to keep ourselves safe, before there was a vaccine, we coughed and wondered if we might become part of that horrible statistic. We "hunkered down," as my mother used to say. The enforced closeness tested plenty of relationships.

I was pleased to discover that my wife and I were compatible enough to endure a pandemic. I was happy that once I finally contracted the disease it came from my lovely wife who decided to tempt fate with an overseas journey. There was a lot of moaning and groaning, but no visits to the hospital was necessary. 

And as soon as there was a vaccine available, we stuck our arms out for the needle. 

Meanwhile, we taught and took our meetings on something called Zoom and learned the value of K95 masks. We also learned that there are people who will, no matter the reason or cause, argue with what's good for them. Denying science went hand in hand with denying election results. Medicine and math became points of contention. Conspiracies came in flurries and once again,  relationships were tested. 

Somehow, we came out the other side. The world did not, in fact, end. 

It just changed forever in ways we are only now beginning to understand. 

Four years ago. 

Streaking

 I found myself doing something I try not to do: Generate ultimatums. 

As I was running up the hill near my house, my legs were reminding me of all sixty-one of my years. And it made me think, not for the first time, that I didn't have to do this. 

I could find an alternative way to exercise. I could discover something that worked up a sweat and worked my cardiovascular system in a similar fashion. One that didn't come with the complication of tired joints. 

I also know that there are many and varied options to the pain. Younger men than myself have surrendered to knee replacement surgery. Which brings its own flurry of insurance and logistical hoops through which I would need to jump. Bad knees and all. 

Which is where I rationalize, as the miles go by, that it's not so debilitating after all. It's not the sub-ten minute mile I used to work toward, but it's getting up and getting out.

This is about the time that I make this weird equivalency: Would I rather give up running or writing this blog? They are both lifelines in my world of seemingly endless repetition. They are both, at the end of the day, optional. I choose to do both of these activities. Daily. That's where it crosses over into compulsive. Finding alternatives to that need to check the box and fill in the blank every single day is the part that starts to lock up my gears. 

What's the matter with taking a day off? If you were to ask any sane person, they would counsel calm restraint. Just let your mind and body tell you how to proceed. 

I'm sure that's what Cal Ripken's brain said around the time he passed Lou Gehrig's consecutive game streak. "Why not just stop? Two thousand one hundred thirty-one games is a remarkable accomplishment. Go ahead and sit this next one out."

He didn't. He kept going for another five hundred games. 

So if you see me running around the neighborhood, that's pretty much what's going through my mind. 

Plain Kate

 I don't care about Kate Middleton. 

Okay, I care about Kate Middleton in the same way that I care about all of my fellow inhabitants of the rock called Earth, but I am struggling to stay interested in the whereabouts of a young mother who was last seen entering the hospital for "abdominal surgery." Why should I care?

"Because she is part of the Royal Family," comes the answer from somewhere behind me.

They Royal Family from whom we separated nearly two and a half centuries ago? The ones who have a whole wing of Netflix devoted to them? The ones who have absolutely no say in the day-to-day policy and governance of our former enemies across the pond? The ones whose life of privilege continues to fascinate those of us who are not Kardashian? 

Well, sorry. That never got the needle to jump off of "don't care." 

Yet, here I am, devoting time and space to the discussion of the latest "tragedy" to befall this terribly inbred group of soap opera stars whose relevance has been all but snuffed out beyond their ability to generate tabloid fodder. 

Which sort of makes what your are currently reading just that: tabloid fodder. 

To be completely transparent, I am not above digging around in the dirty laundry of families whose sole interesting factor is their momentary flash of fame. But these royals have been hogging social bandwidth since 1603, with a brief Republican Break from 1649 to 1660. Which, considering the short attention span of your average hairless ape, is pretty impressive. But they haven't really ruled much of the world for a century now, and once they gave up Hong Kong back in 1997 they tend to rule primarily the gardens behind the castles they continue to maintain at taxpayer's expense. 

But here in America, we can't help but keep one eye on the Monarchy, just out of our genetic predisposition. Once a colony, always a colony, I suppose. Then there's the whole Disney-infused fascination with princesses, which always seems to work out in the storybooks, but not so often in real life. One need look no further than Kate's late mother-in-law, the tragic Princess Diana of Wales. Since that was way back in the late twentieth century, around the time that Hong Kong was given back to China, I suppose the Royal Family pot needs a little stirring. "Abdominal surgery?" 

Sure. Why not? 

Do-Gooder

 In the world of politics, and sports, there was this news: Steph Curry suggested that, once his days of playing basketball are over, that he might consider a career off the court. "I have an interest in leveraging every part of my influence for good.”

Mister Curry, known to his friends, family and most of the rest of the planet as Steph, has already had a huge impact on the world around him. He used the occasion of the release of his second book for children, I Am Extraordinary, to discuss his future with a reporter from CBS News. Then there's the map of the Bay Area that is littered with signs of Steph's attention to the place that brought him to fame and fortune in the shape of playgrounds and youth programs. Oakland is the center of his Eat Learn Play Foundation that he and his wife started in 2019. Students there have been supported not just in healthy food and excellent equitable places to play, but in their efforts to ensure that every student can become a proficient reader by the end of third grade. 

If he didn't already have my vote for winning multiple championships for his adopted hometown, his generosity and activism would. For the past two years, I personally received a membership to Master Class, with an eye toward moving up the career ladder. Or taking a class from Gary Kasparov to improve my chess game. And while he continues to strive for another NBA title, he is creating scholarships for women's sports, and lifting them up to the level he believes they should be. 

Yes, I understand that nailing three pointers in the closing seconds of an NBA game is very different from creating public policy. There are plenty of actors, athletes and other nominal celebrities who have made forays into the political arena with widely varied results. But wouldn't it be nice to have a hero?

A hero who helps build playgrounds and lifts people up. A hero who remains committed to his ideals and manages to be a devoted family man while pursuing a career that has continually defied the odds? 

For now, there are no immediate plans for Steph to hang up his sneakers, but when he does, I will be ready. Ready to vote for someone who does good. And well. 

All Wet

 Raining again. 

Can't help but think of my mom. 

She always used to say, "We need the moisture." This was her standard reply no matter what the season when water fell from the sky. It didn't matter if it was rain or sleet or hail or snow. It didn't matter how many inches or feet. "We need the moisture."

When I moved from Colorado to California, we had periodic discussions about the precipitation levels in our respective locations. When I told her we were getting rain, she would often ask if I couldn't "send some it our way," over the hills over the mountains, halfway across the continent. Because that was the way it worked. 

There were times when, in spite of my best efforts, I couldn't make this transference happen. When we had a deluge, one that had caused flooding and all sorts of alerts and damages, I could sense my mom was tensed in anticipation. 

Then there was only a sprinkle east of the Rockies. A shower of disappointment, if you will. 

Then there were those storms that bore down on my old hometown without ever making an appearance on the left coast. Blizzard conditions. Swollen streams and rivers. Where did all of that come from without first making at least an appearance on the left coast?

These days the weather is pretty much my own. With my mother gone, I don't have a Colorado correspondent for comparison. 

But I still sneak a peak at the weather over there. I want to say on top of these things, meteorologically speaking. 

We need the moisture. 

Blue Bird

 It grinds on me, a little bit, that I can no longer automatically post these blog posts on Twitter. I used to be able to shout out to the world from my comfortable little corner of Al Gore's Internet using the amplification supplied by that little blue bird.

I still call it Twitter, but journalists and the like are now prone to referring to it as "X, formerly known as Twitter." And the benign and not-so-oft putting verb "tweeted" has been replaced by "posted." The fun, it would seem, has gone along with the thrill. Just like my automatic posts. 

It's a business deal. Much like the way Tech-Daddy Google swooped in way back in 2003 to devour Blogger. I am certain there were Blogger folks who reacted in a similar way to Twitter zealots when their machine was engulfed by a giant. This was just before yours truly began scribbling on this outlet, so I didn't notice the way the furniture was arranged or the wiring was any different. 

Until Elongated Mush paid four billion dollars to spoil everyone's good time. He took away that little blue bird and replaced it with an unknown quantity from an algebra book. He let the Nazis back on. He started using it to promote his own scary world view. This little corner where people used to gather to complain about the red carpet fashions and the red hatted fascists has been converted to a place where I now regularly get ads for The Epoch Times sprinkled into my timeline. For those of you were unfamiliar, as I was when it first started to appear, The Epoch Times is a media conglomerate that likes its news the way we drive here in America: to the far right. They like the unvaccinated, QAnon, election denier angle on things. I don't claim to know a lot about computer algorithms, but it seems to me that the clicks I click on the artist formerly known as Twitter should be bringing me kinder, gentler left wing content rather than the January 6 apologists and fans of a certain former game show host. 

Alas, the new owner of this former bastion of free speech is currently busy twisting this once snarky place into a snarling vision of his own ugly imagination. A place where lies get amplified and anyone who points out that the emperor has no clothes or business doing so gets banished. And of course there are cat videos. 

Why don't I just leave? Because I don't want to leave when there is a point to be made in the name of truly free speech. There are still those who fight the good fight, calling out the nastiness and hypocrisy. It's free, after all.

And sometimes there are cat videos. 

Figures

 Over the last week I went down a bit of a rabbit hole. This wasn't a political vortex or a path down nostalgia lane. This was all about numbers. 

I have written here before about my love for teaching math. This came as a bit of a surprise since most of my enthusiasm for mathematics was knocked out of me by an ill-tempered high school instructor of elementary functions. He was not a fan of my approach to my senior year, which included a predilection toward the class clown end of the spectrum. But that didn't mean I didn't care about the math. This did not register on his end and he gave me the option of dropping his class before he failed me for my attitude. 

I dropped the class. 

And it was almost twenty years before I found my way back to math. 

Helping kids find patterns and connections in numbers and shapes and strands is fun for me. Watching them piece together the world around them through mathematics is a joy. This also gives me a chance to extend my own appreciation for figures and calculation. This past week had me sharing with fourth graders the fact that the product of any two even numbers is an even number, and the product of any two odd numbers is an odd number, but the product of an odd and an even number is always an even number. Which was intriguing enough for them, but after I was done with the class, I found myself wondering why there weren't more even numbers than odd if that was the case. I brought this dilemma home to my wife, and made my conjecture that this might have something to do with prime numbers. Together we imagined a sea of numbers and pictured the products of even numbers lighting up, then odd numbers in another color, then prime numbers in yet another. 

Later I turned to Reddit, where I found a thread of folks who had similar cogitations. I felt validated for having this somewhat vague quandary. And pleased that there was still some mystery left for me in arithmetic. Forty plus years after being kicked out of Elementary Functions, I was still thinking math thoughts. 

It felt good. 

Doubt

 I am going to try and give Katie Britt the benefit of doubt. Specifically I doubt that it was her intent to go on national television and create a ready-to-air parody of the Republican Response to the State of the Union Address. I doubt that she expected to spend days after her appearance on everyone's social media being roundly criticized and laughed at for her earnest and we assume well-meaning attempt to disagree with the other party's leader. I doubt that she would have imagined that this opportunity would put her team in defense mode, rather than being the ace in the hole she was anticipated to be. 

A little background: Ms. Porter is the first woman to be elected to the U.S. Senate from Alabama and the youngest Republican woman ever elected to the Senate. These accomplishments should neither be denied or ridiculed. Furthermore it bears noting that California, that liberal bastion, is about to slip back into that realm of states without a woman senator after more than thirty years. Alabama has one. Once again I doubt that it was her state's or her party's intent to have her become a laughingstock. 

How could this have happened? 

I blame the patriarchy. For all the victories women have had over the course of our history, they continue to fight their fight in a rigged game. Who makes the rules? Men. Who calls the shots in the Republican Party? Men. Who said, "Katie, I think we should shoot your response in the kitchen. Not in your office. And if you wouldn't mind delivering all of your lines in a hushed whisper, that would be great." That advice came from a man. I know this because I have spent a lot of time hanging out with men and I know that so much of what they say about "fairness" is predicated by the scraps they are willing to toss around after they have finished gorging themselves on what they can force down their power mad gullets. 

Katie Britt was there as a counterpoint to the women who have been horrified by the man who sexually abused E. Jean Carroll and then defamed her to the tune of eighty-four million dollars in defamation penalties. The man who proudly boasts that it was he who overturned Roe v. Wade. The man who cheated on his pregnant wife with a porn star. The man who bragged about walking around backstage at the beauty pageants he owned, leering at naked women. 

Does it surprise me that Katie Britt was set up for failure by the party that has chosen to go all-in on this monster? Not a bit. But unfortunately I doubt that she is fully aware of how badly she was played. 

The Two Houses

 Two towns in Texas, separated by three hundred miles: Eagle Claw and Brownsville. Consistent with every bit of branding established over decades and especially over the past eight years makes it clear which would be the landing zone for Republican candidates and where the Democrats would show up. The difference came clear to me as I reflected on Cobra Kai. 

If you missed this little gem of retro-fun on Netflix, it is based on the Karate Kid films, and tells the story of two Karate Guys: Daniel and Johnny. One grew up following the path of his late sensei, Mister Myagi. The other lost the state championship by following the ways of the Cobra Kai dojo, and his fortunes have gone in another direction. He now drinks Coors. But once the series gets rolling, Johnny picks himself up and starts to put himself back together again. Eventually he runs afoul of his old sensei, the guy who instructed him to "sweep the leg" back in the eighties. Danielsan revives his master's style and begins training the area's youth in "Myagi-Do." Johnny takes his troubled band of teenagers to his new dojo, which he names "Eagle Fang." While the two middle aged Karate Guys try to work on their own middle aged crises, their young charges regularly trash one another's social gatherings and school functions, putting countless innocent extras at risk. 

This all came to me in a rush the morning after the State of the Union address by Joe Biden. The leader of the "for defense only" dojo who came out and spit the fire that an eighty year old man can. And the name-calling response from somewhere in South Florida where the former game show host continues to beg for money to help him pay off the half billion dollars he owes in fines. The Brownsville Dojo versus Eagle Claw. All the talk of revenge and retribution makes good TV I suppose, but it doesn't go very far when it comes to solving the problems facing us. 

Brownsville Joe called out his "predecessor" in hopes of getting him to tell his supporters to pass the bipartisan immigration reform bill that was quashed by the aforementioned Eagle Claw leader. This feels like a pretty empty gesture, but it's exactly the kind of thing that takes place during an election year, not unlike the brinksmanship being played with our country's budget. It's not about coming together to solve problems, but rather to stick a finger in the problem and exacerbate it. If you keep picking at it, it will never heal. 

Tune in this season as Eagle Claw and Brownsville continue to square off in anticipation of the Battle Royale in November. Don't expect things to get a lot better in the meantime. That's bad TV and bad politics. 

The Angel

 Approximately a million years ago, a man walked into our school asking what he could do. This happened before I got here, so it's really pre-history we're talking about here. This man was a graduate of Oakland public schools and in the wake of yet another flurry of violence in the streets of cities across the country, he decided to devote some of the time he had to giving back to the people and places that made him the success that he had become. 

He could have written a big check to the district or swooped in to pay for everyone's lunch, but instead he asked if he could get a regular gig coming in to read with students who were struggling. Which he did. For several years. When budgets were being cut and help was hard to find, he was there, doing his part and then some. 

Which didn't keep him from writing an occasional check. Like the one he wrote to help revitalize our tired old school library. New books. New tables and chairs. And suddenly it was a place where kids wanted to be, not a place they were sent when they hadn't finished their work in class. It was a great place to pull up a chair and read with a student who needed just a little of that one-on-one magic.

When I arrived as the new Computer Teacher, I was introduced to our "business partner," a title that never fully described the commitment he had to our little corner of East Oakland. After a year or so of working with a room full of ancient Mac LCIIs and a bunch of tractor feed printers, he came to me and asked "what it would take" to get a new computer lab. Initially I gave him a lowball estimate that would allow us to get a marginal replacement for the tired old equipment in my room. He smiled, patted me on the shoulder and asked if I could try again. "What would you really like to have in here?" He pointed into the room that I had brought back from the brink of extinction, and I started to imagine. 

It took a while, a couple years, but when all was said and done there were twenty-eight student PCs, a new laser printer, and furniture for it all to sit on. Our benefactor even showed up to plug them in and help sort the trash. 

Best of all, this was an Internet-ready room. As we began to drag CAT-5 cable around the hallways to connect us to Al Gore's invention, we began a new era. We were connecting to a whole new world of potential curriculum and possibility. The same Internet that students now don't think about when they sit down in my room and read a book from a library they have never seen. They just know it's there. 

Time passed and our generous angel stopped making his regular visits. Which is sad, but he paved the way for so many kids, making a smooth path where it wasn't always smooth. 

On behalf of all us Horace Mann Jaguars past and present, Thank you Jeff Schwartz. 

Darling Nikki

 Prince, god rest his purple soul, once wrote a song with the title, Darling Nikki. I warn you before you click on the link that it is naughty. So naughty, in fact, that it was one of the very first to garner a warning sticker from the Parents Music Resource Center way back in 1984. Interestingly, there is a backward vocal track toward the end of the song that when played forward says, "Hello, how are you? Fine, fine, 'cause I know that the Lord is coming soon Coming, coming soon." I'm not guessing that Tipper Gore, wife of Vice President Al Gore probably caught that subtlety, what with their minds being filled with the thoughts of becoming President one day. 

Al never became president. Some believe this was because of some malfeasance connected with ballots being dumped in swamps and eventually the Supreme Court got mixed up in it. When the ruling came down Al was out and George W was in. Then the World Trade Center came down and we went to war for more than a decade.

All because of the distractions created by that little ditty by Prince. 

Okay. Maybe it was a little bigger than the fourth track on Purple Rain.  

But I can't help but wonder if Al Gore had his mind on the big picture instead of getting Congress to put stickers on records, maybe things would have been different. No ballots in swamps. No Supreme Court ruling. Al wins and navigates the world through the troubled waters of the early twentieth century where peace and prosperity reigns. Purple. And he is able to focus on climate change, which was his central focus for all those years. 

Now Nikki Haley has bowed out of the Republican race for President. To say that she fought a good fight would be a little like saying that the Denver Broncos "fought a good fight" when they were beaten by the Miami Dolphins seventy to twenty this past season. The twenty points the Broncos did manage to score suggested that there was another team on the field that day. They brought their uniforms and everything. The just weren't ready to play in the same way the Dolphins did. 

In this analogy, Nikki Haley is being portrayed by the team from Denver. Her miniscule delegate count suggests that she was not able to withstand the ugly momentum of the MAGAts. And now she will be stepping aside to allow the matchup between old white guys to carry on at full volume. 

I suggest you try and drown it out with some Prince. 

Get That Cat Out Of The Cradle

 Miss Walsh's baby was born just a few hours after Miss Walsh made a very Miss Walsh-ish appearance at the school just to "drop a few copies off" in hopes of helping her substitute be just a little more prepared. This is precisely the odd level of dedication that we have come to expect from Miss Walsh. 

And once again I want to appreciate and validate her choice to take a year off to spend with her burgeoning family. They should not grow up wondering when mommy is coming home or just exactly who mommy is. 

Which got me to thinking about my own voyage through parenthood. I was there in the delivery room. I was there for the first three months of my son's life. Much to the periodic chagrin of the boy's mother. Then, just as abruptly as my life had changed in oh so many ways, I was dropped into my career as a teacher. My wife has described the post-partum terror of being left alone with this incipient human and how lonely she was trying to figure out how this thing worked. 

I already knew how I worked: nose to the grindstone. Dedicated and loyal. I was the breadwinner and though there wasn't a lot of bread to win back in those days, I wanted to provide in the way that I could. This included working year-round at my year-round school, becoming that mythic fixture of an employee about which stories have been written and songs have been sung. 

But I really wanted to be at home with my son. 

A fairly large conflict of interest there. 

As milestones and anecdotes stacked up, I continued to work and come home in time to spend as much of our child's waking hours as possible together. Which seemed like a lot at the time. But looking back I wish that it had been more. I benefit from a very close and forgiving relationship with my son, who found room in his heart to forgive my absences and allow me the opportunity to make up for those lost moments when our schedules permit it. The same can be said for the woman I left in a hostage crisis with a newborn. 

I am only now becoming clear about the regrets I stacked up back then. And I'm working on the forgiveness. From them and from me. 

How Long Can This Go On?

 I tried to imagine how I could stand the next eight months of leadup to the 2024 Presidential Election. I am already at saturation point for the level of ridiculousness. Last week saw both candidates making an appearance at our southern border. It was what we have become attuned to: a photo opportunity. A chance for everyone to see these elderly gents amble about, being shown rocks and dirt and barbed wire. Each was shepherded about by handlers and given ample chance to be seen. Then they shared some of their thoughts about the situation down there before they ignored obvious questions and left. 

What effect did any of this attention have on border policy? Absolutely none. It would have been shocking if either of the major candidates for President of the United States would have said something along the lines of, "You know, I had a look around down there and what I saw was profoundly disturbing. We are treating human beings like cattle. Those who are simply trying to make it across what is inhospitable territory are doing so at the risk of their lives. Just for a chance to have a little of what we here in our great nation." Or even, "What I saw down in Texas made me sick. Why aren't we simply executing those who make the mistake of crossing our border illegally? Send a signal. Try to enter at your own peril. America for Americans!" Nothing so clear cut. Just more of the same old same old. 

One old guy says that the current border policies are an attempt to overthrow our government.

The other old guy says he is just trying to undo all the harm done by the other guy. 

Across the river, desperate lives and conditions wait for their chance to be part of the problem and its solution. 

Which makes me flinch in the extreme. How awful do things have to be for you to line up for the opportunity to be handled, mishandled, shoved and pushed and managed in hopes of a better life for you and your family? Where is the compassion for the wretched refuse? And would you be willing to sign a release for us to use your photo as an example of "wretched refuse?" If it wouldn't be too much trouble, could you please sign an oath of allegiance to the country that tried to kill you on the way in?

Eight more months.  

When The Stars Aligned

 Back in early 1985, a group of singers gathered in a studio to do their part to help those starving in Africa. A very cool idea, but it wasn't theirs originally. Bob Geldof, lead singer for the one-hit wonders The Boomtown Rats, brought a bunch of English pop stars together and recorded "Do They Know It's Christmas," an all-star charity single that was the fastest selling single in British history until Elton John reworked his "Candle in the Wind" for Princess Di's funeral. Elton's record made more money, but it was split up among a variety of charities favored by the late royal. The English supergroup sold more than two million copies across the globe, raising more than twenty-four million dollars for famine relief. They called themselves, with traditional Brit irony, Band-Aid. 

When all those American pop stars crammed into A&M recording studios on January 28, 1985, they had to walk under a sign taped over the entrance that read, "Check your ego at the door." Many of them had come from a night of celebrating at the American Music Awards, hosted by one of the authors of the song they were going to record, Lionel Richie. Bruce Springsteen showed up. Cindy Lauper came. Huey Lewis was there. Bill Joel and Ray Charles participated. The list of who sang "We Are The World" read like a Who's Who of mid-eighties pop. Tina Turner. Diana Ross. Stevie Wonder. And Michael Jackson. 

There were some notable no-shows: Madonna couldn't fit it into her busy schedule. Prince and his ego couldn't agree on the circumstances under which he would stand in a room with "the competition." Eddie Murphy didn't show, but Dan Aykroyd did. Sheila E was there, as an enticement to lure her boss and paramour Prince to the gig. It didn't work. Waylon Jennings walked out for a while as the artists argued about including some Swahili lyrics. 

In the end, they finished the record just about the time the sun was coming up the following morning. People drove back to their homes, hotels, or the airport, and waited for the release of the record two months later. March 7, 1985 we in the world got to hear "We Are The World" for the first time. The single sold more than twenty million copies. It might have gone to the top of the charts sooner if not for the ubiquitous Phil Collins, whose song "One More Night" slowed the charity single's rise. But since Phil sang on the Band-Aid record, I suppose we should forgive him. 

Thus began a period of musical activism. In the summer of 1985, a global event called Live Aid featuring most of the acts from both sides of the pond, occurring simultaneously in London and Philadelphia. Phil Collins played on both sides of the Atlantic. Madonna showed up for this one, but Prince still stayed home. Not long after that, Bruce Springsteen's guitarist Little Steven Van Zandt together ro record "Sun City" with an assemblage of many of the same conscientious folks to form Artists Against Apartheid. Bob Dylan, who showed up that night at the A&M studios wondered aloud “Wouldn’t it be great if we did something for our own farmers right here in America?” And thus Farm Aid was born. 

Thirty-nine years ago, music was going to change the world. Looking around the planet these days, I can't help but think that there's just not enough music. 

Rock Of Ages

 "Never trust anyone over thirty," was the adage that was tossed around frequently when I was eight or nine years old. But I do think it's important to consider that age and wisdom are often found in the same place, if only because a person makes enough wrong turns that eventually they start making the right ones and suddenly the know exactly how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop. 

That being said, I would like to point out that last week Roger Daltrey celebrated his eightieth birthday. He has been married to his second wife for fifty-three years. He outlived the drummer in his band by forty-six years and counting. He was diagnosed back in 2015 with viral meningitis, and after a lengthy convalescence, he was able to go back into the studio with the other surviving member of the Who and record a new album in 2019. Then he and Pete went out on the road one more time. 

That was way back when he was in his seventies. 

I bring this up because this is the fellow who, at the ripe old age of twenty-one, declared "hope I die before I get old." 

Ah, youth. 

Here was are, pushing the limits and definitions of age around to suit ourselves, complaining about putting an eighty year old man in the White House. Mick Jagger is eighty years old. He and some of the other Stones just put out a new album that is as good as anything that the have released in years. They are hittng the road to play stadiums full of fans from eight to eighty. With a guitar player who is also eighty and has looked it for the past forty. 

I have tickets to see a seventy-four year old Bruce Springsteen later this month. I would have seen him some months ago, but a bout of peptic ulcer disease kept him from making that date. Age is just a number we tell ourselves. Those of us who are over thirty, anyway. 

All In The Family

 Recently there was some talk about "crime families" in reference to the leadership of our nation. It was made by everyone's favorite theatre critic, Lauren Boebert, the Colorado Congressperson currently in search of a district to represent. She let this tweet fly on February 27: "The Biden Crime Family will go down as the most corrupt political family in American history."

This assertion was and continues to be in keeping with her search for a moral high ground in her attempt to disgrace the current president. No matter that her lord and master is the one who is currently involved, along with his sons, in multiple litigations against their family. Never mind that she really should think more than twice about hurling stones around the glass house in which she finds herself living.

We'll skip the review of the "Beetlejuice" incident, and the ugly divorce proceedings and skip right to Representative Boebert's eighteen year old son. While her own crusade to impeach Joe Biden has been all but evidence free, authorities in Rifle, Colorado picked up young Tyler Boebert last Tuesday afternoon after a string of recent vehicle trespassing incidents and property thefts in the area. Ms. Boebert's son faces twenty-two counts altogether, five of which are felonies. The charges include criminal possession of ID documents with multiple victims, conspiracy to commit a felony, first degree criminal trespassing and theft. Investigators identified the teenager  in part because he was caught on surveillance footage wearing a hoodie with the name of his mom's recently closed gun-themed eatery.

So, not exactly the Sopranos, but not the Cleavers either. 

All of which makes me glad that my public profile does not allow a lot of curiosity about the skeletons in my family's closet. The bus numbers and stop signs I borrowed from the city when I was a teenager. My recreational research into the effects of alcohol and various other chemicals from my college years. That time I stole penny candy from the neighborhood Ben Franklin. And the list goes on. Never arrested. Never charged. Embarrassed and guilty in front of my parents, but have tried to leave a clean slate in my adult life, including trips to the theater when I was able to keep my hands to myself thank you very much. 

And for the most part, able to avoid screeching hypocrisy. 

Poor Richard

 There was a time, back in a previous century, when Hollywood was handing out sitcoms to any standup comedian who had a solid ten minutes and did not want to be on Saturday Night Live. Come to think of it, if memory serves me right, there was a time during which no one wanted to be on Saturday Night Live. 

But in the late eighties, it became something of a goal for the standup set to find their way to a three-camera taped in front of a live audience half hour showcase for their talents. Some of these succeeded far beyond expectations. The gold standard being Seinfeld, which told the story of a young comedian named Jerry Seinfeld and all the wacky situations a young comedian might encounter. Like the time he and his buddy decided to pitch a sitcom to NBC about the adventures of a young comedian who...

Well, you get the idea. In spite of this lazy brilliance, there were a lot of misfires. Not everyone remembers that Ellen DeGeneres had a sitcom before she started being everyone's happy talk host. And if you do remember the cleverly titled "Ellen," you probably remember the TV milestone she and her producers generated when they decided to have the character of Ellen come out to a prime time audience. But you may have pushed the fact that this was a somewhat desperate attempt to attract viewers to a show that was floundering in the ratings. That shining moment could not keep the show from collapsing under its own weight one season later. 

From the ash heap of this period, from the rubble of Brett Butler, Jeff Foxworthy and Robin Williams, I pull the discarded remnant of pop culture known as Anything But Love. The draw here was not the standup, but rather the star of all those slasher films from earlier in the decade, Jamie Lee Curtis. Her romantic interest was Marty Gold, played by the intensely neurotic Richard Lewis. For me, Richard was the draw. Having watched Richard come of age during regular appearances on David Letterman's show, I was a fan. Richard was definitely an acquired taste, with his nearly constant fidgeting and fits of anxiety that flirted with the edges of pain. The pain that he turned outward from inside. All the hypochondria, the social fears, the threat of failure. That was appointment television for me. 

Jamie Lee Curtis would eventually win an Oscar. No Oscar for Richard. No Emmy either. But he did land a plum role on his pal Larry David's show Curb Your Enthusiasm. He played an older comedian who was friends with the guy upon whom the character of George on Seinfeld was based. He was a natural. 

Richard went to that big open mic in the sky last week. While he was here he trembled and shook and kvetched on the Terra, and he will be missed. Aloha, Richard, see you in my fever dreams. 

Breaking All The Rules

 I'm going to break the first rule: I'm going to talk about fight club.

Then I'm going to break the second rule: I'm going to continue to talk about fight club. 

I'm going to continue to break rules one and two until something changes.

And don't think that somewhere down deep inside the anarchic piece of me that reveled in the novel and the film of that name isn't completely at odds with me about this decision, but I'm talking about fourth graders here. 

Nine and ten year old boys who arranged an afterschool rumble in the bathroom for the expressed purpose of recording and streaming it to their nine and ten year old audience. That anarchic piece was shouted down immediately when my common sense teacher brain kicked in. Safety was my first concern. Right after that came this question: "What do you suppose gave them idea?"

It would be easy enough to toss a blanket over social media and be done with it. Then again, it says right there on the Tik-Tok website that you must be thirteen years or older to have an account. Isn't someone at home monitoring their child's use of their space age telecommunications apparatus? It would be disturbing enough if the boys had arranged a bout in the bathroom over some perceived slight or lunchroom transgression, but the added level of broadcasting it for the prurient interests of a group that would most certainly reach beyond our school walls made it much worse. 

In my mind. 

The mind that had been occupied at the time that this was all going down by a meeting about posting pictures and videos of our students online and trying to discern exactly what tack to take when deciding which kids and whose faces we were allowed to put on Al Gore's Internet for everyone to see. The school district has recently moved to an "opt-out" policy where at the beginning of the year parents are asked to check a box only if they objected to having their children's image put out there for all to see. Everywhere. All the time. 

I can guarantee the same parents who flipped on past that box on the questionnaire are the same ones who don't bother to check on their children's tech use. The outrage I felt as an educator and a parent was not mirrored by the reactions of the parents of the boys involved. None of them had the words "victimless crime" at hand, but that was the overriding expression of their concern. Kids, after all, will be kids. 

I heard that little voice in my head start to speak up, but I told it to shut up and go back to 1999.  

Incident Report

 A few days ago, our cat got out. This happens periodically, but not enough that we have erected any sort of barrier or gate to prevent such an event. We have a general response which is to stay calm and assume that the crisis will end in much the same way that it always has before: our cat back inside the house. 

When this most recent breech occurred, I arrived home to the news after the cat had a half hour head start. We adopted him from the neighborhood, and don't expect that he will wander too far afield. There are about four places where he might land, all of which are a short walk from our front door. 

Nevertheless, I went into house protection mode. I become unsettled easily when things are not in a particular order. The cat not being inside is one of those elements of chaos that set my nerves on edge. I went outside to check on those places where I have often seen the cat making good on his moments of relative freedom. Not the back fence. Not in front of the apartments next door. His two landing spots across the street were devoid of his presence as well. I returned home to stare out into the front yard alternately with trips to the back door to see if he had showed up there. 

My wife kept a calm vigil, reminding me that the cat has been with us for three years and has always found his way home before. Usually this return has accompanied meal time. But as darkness began to fall her composure began to slip as we each pondered all the possible fates that lay outside our control.

This is when I started thinking about the pending government shutdown. This happens all the time. We expect that common sense will prevail and once Congress reminds itself that they need to come home in order to eat they will do the right thing and make the budget work. Even though all kinds of danger exists for us all if a compromise is not reached, the cats on Capitol Hill will stay out as darkness falls. They have all kinds of cat concerns to look after beyond the obvious one: providing a budget to keep the government from shutting down. 

Eventually, the phone rang and the neighbor across the street let us know that our cat had come by to hang out on her back porch. My wife walked over to retrieve our pet, our house pet, who seemed less than pleased about being dragged back to the confines of the place where he has been kept warm and fed and safe for the past three years. Where there is always a warm lap in which to sit, and any number of places to rule from his roost. Crisis averted. 

For now.