Vote

 When I turned eighteen, I did not rush right out and register to vote. That was the summer of 1980, and I had talked myself into a place where my vote wasn't going to matter. My youthful idealism had only lasted as long as what I look back on now as my youth. I had become disillusioned by the seventies and watching a horrible president resign from office only to spend his waning years staring out on the beaches of San Clemente and obfuscating with David Frost. The battle may have been won, but the ascension of Ronald Reagan suggested that the war was far from over. 

I surrendered. 

At least I did when it came to the national scene. Instead, I turned my gaze outward. I joined Amnesty International, mostly because of my own conscience, but Bruce Springsteen's involvement made it much cooler. The eighties were a bit of a blur. College and all the distractions that it held for me kept me from recognizing my adult responsibilities. 

It was 1988 when my conscience came calling in the form of a very good friend who would eventually get her degree in political science. She poked me with a question about political prisoners in other countries, and asked how I could reconcile my involvement on their behalf if I wasn't willing to participate in the very act that so many of those souls in foreign prisons had fought, and in some cases, died for. 

It turned out that the very thing that I thought made me deep was actually making me shallow. My first ballot was cast for Michael Dukakis. If you don't remember him, don't feel bad. Keeping track of the also-rans in politics is a little like tracking the shipments of those T-shirts and hats that they print up in advance for the losing team for the Super Bowl. 

You may have guessed that tasting defeat on my first trip to the ballot box might leave me bitter and resigned. It had the opposite effect. When I finally backed a winner in William Jefferson Clinton, I knew that this would be no walk in the park. Patton Oswalt has said that no matter how great you feel about the person for whom you vote, they will always eventually find a way to disappoint you. 

But that's the game we're all in. Together. 

On this Election Day, celebrate while we still can. Flex that muscle. Be a part of the future. 

Away Team

 For a period of time, my wife had a captain of the USS Enterprise guiding her way in her travels across the galaxy. To be more precise, she had THE captain of the USS Enterprise staring back at her from the dashboard, in the form of a two-inch effigy of Jean-Luc Picard. It was early on in our relationship that I uncovered her secret nerd obsession. I was the primary nerd in the coupling, but her connection to Star Trek: The Next Generation, subsequently TNG, was deep and abiding. So much so that she was wont to tell those who would listen that she sometimes wished that Jean-Luc was her father. 

Alas, late last week she lost her father figure. Not the one on the dashboard, but rather the actor who embodied all that thoughtful and precise energy. 

Patrick Stewart followed Walter Koenig, who portrayed Ensign Chekov in the original series, or STTOS, where most people will go eventually. Leaving a void in the chain of command in Starfleet. 

I confess that my relationship with TNG was negligible, but I understood that my wife had seen all the episodes and had taken away meaning that she applied to her everyday life. This was felt most keenly in an installment from season five, Darmok. This one features Captain Picard, stranded on a planet with an alien whose metaphorical language is not compatible with the universal translator. Eventually, the understanding of the phrase, "Darmok and Jalad at Tanagra" becomes the key to the pair's eventual escape and a bond that will last at least as long as the series itself. 

Which may sound as if I am denigrating my wife's taste in sci-fi, which could stem from the fact that Patrick Stewart was already a signpost in my fantasy world, having already appeared in both Excalibur and David Lynch's underappreciated Dune.  Eventually, after having moved on from the captain's chair on the Enterprise, he found a seat in Professor X's wheelchair. Any of these credits might have solidified him in the pantheon of nerd fixation, but it was Picard that spoke directly to my wife. 

In a very distinguished, low Shakespearean tone. Which was nice. And he did not to take himself too seriously, as some captains of starships have. 

Patrick Stewart was a staunch defender of LGBTQ+ rights, and considered applying for US citizenship in order to push back on the ugliness of the first Trumpreich. 

He stomped on the boards, and the bridge, and on the Terra. He will be missed. Aloha, Sir Patrick. 

User

 I am a fan of pain relievers. They have become, as I have grown older, my drug of choice. This has been a journey from St. Joseph's Baby Aspirin to the twelve hour relieve of Naproxen, known in the trade as "Aleve." So intent on relieving discomfort, the makers of Aleve even sell bottles of their little pills with an Arthritis Cap. I have yet to step up to that particular level, but I am pleased and happy to know that it exists for future reference. 

Having taken "the pledge" many years ago, that pretty much sums up my daily intake outside of a few prescribed medications I take for being old and cranky. And then there's the fistful of vitamins my wife tricked me into taken a few decades back. Now I just take them as a matter of course because who doesn't need vitamins?

Come to think of it now, I may be taking a lot more drugs than I had initially assessed. This reflection does not, however, lessen my concern for the Food and Drug Administration being given the end-run by the idjits under the direction of Robert "Not the Good" Kennedy Jr. who would like to see peptides more widely available. Never mind the testing. Just get those peptides out there for consumers to snap up. At issue are six untested versions of these chains of amino acids such as insulin or endorphins. Except these peptides are created in labs and the guy with a brain worm wants folks to be able to buy and ingest them without having to know if they are safe or not. 

But they could make you young again. Or pain free. Or turn you into a twisted mass of tortured flesh. 

In the meantime, I will continue my pain management regimen using the Aleve that was approved by the FDA back in 1994. As for getting older, I have decided to be okay with the reality of someone moving the ground just a little further away every time I need to pick something off the floor, and since I have worn glasses since I was five, just about the time I noticed my receding hairline, I figure it's just a natural course of events. 

And while Mister Brainworm keeps pushing the unchecked use of peptides, he continues to scoff at the "magic" of vaccinations. 

Which I received two weeks ago. 

I guess I take a lot of drugs, don't I? 

End Of Summer

 May god bless my mother. 

I know how much effort she put into Halloween for her boys. The house was decorated with all manner of pumpkins, witches and skulls. The pantry was stuffed with candy not just for her own three sons who never met a Snickers they could not consume, but for the trick or treaters from our neighborhood and beyond. 

As I have mentioned here before, I grew up in an era in which the focus for October 31st was on children. In retrospect, this is a little odd, since the origins of Samhain, a Gaelic holiday in which "the dark half" of the year was welcomed in. The veil between the living and the spirit world was thinnest then, and "treats" were left out for the mischievous things from the other side. 

It wasn't until the Pope decided in the eighth century to absorb this festival of spookiness into "All Hallows Eve," as a prelude to "All Saints Day." 

It was sometime in the early to mid twentieth century that my mother, a little girl back then, worried about being invited to a friend's Halloween party. She lived in the tiny mountain town of Granby, Colorado, and at that time it was mostly a wide spot in the road across the Continental Divide. She was nervous about going out into the night. She was nervous about being part of a gathering. She was nervous. 

She passed a lot of this social awkwardness on to me.

But on that particular evening, I was still a potential knot of anxiety. She sat on her bed, staring out the window of her bedroom, which opened onto a vacant lot, and from there she would see her neighbor's house. All lit up and decorated for the occasion. She stared off into that night and watched the revelry with her ghost costume wadded up next to her. It seemed to her that the festivities were taking place across some vast space. Trapped in a world of her own apprehension, in spite of her parents' urging, she never left her bed. 

That was my mother's Halloween memory. 

As mentioned earlier, I had my own struggles with social events, but they weren't centered on All Hallows Eve. My mom made sure of that. Plenty of Snickers and a house lit up like one of those Celtic bonfires. 

Thanks, mom. 

Passages

 I remember it well: Pajama Day, October 2026. 

I had spent the morning passing out Jaguar Cards to all the kids who showed up in their jammies, as our school's Spirit Week had decreed. This is often a tough sell to kids past third grade. I was pleased to see that we had a good number of fourth and fifth graders, even some boys, who chose to join the party. 

The Pajama Party. 

As for me, I wore what has become my go-to PJs for such an occasion: Captain America T-shirt and matching flannel bottoms with my cushy red, white and blue robe over the top. I want to believe that I have grown past the worry of appearing as some sort of spectacle on days like this.

Days like this. 

This was no ordinary Pajama Day. 

This was the Pajama Day that I submitted my separation papers to the Oakland Unified School District. If you have been tracking my career path for any period of time, you might be aware that I have a pending date with retirement. Motivated by the math as much as anything else, I have decided to take my thirty years and get while the getting is good. Sending that document to the "Talent Division" downtown is the most concrete step that I have taken on this journey. 

Sure, I have spent some time fretting about the finances, and negotiating with my principal about what the "best time" might be for my departure. Not unlike the way I used to describe the planning that goes behind a wedding, pushing a rock off a cliff at some point and hoping that on the date and time that was agreed the rock will land on the prescribed X without crushing anyone, the die was cast. 

Now there is some tangible evidence to the event. "Separation" sounds so final. I get a little nervous thinking about life without my job. 

Without Spirit Week. 

When Pajama Day becomes every day. 

Participation Ribbon

 I voted. 

I say this with the confidence of making all those little marks on a piece of paper and sealing them all up in an envelope, signing that envelope and carrying it to my nearest ballot box. A couple days after I had deposited my ballot in the box, I got both a cordial email and a text from the California Registrar of Voters assuring me that it was secured and it would be counted along with all the others that were going on this same ride to democratic principles. 

Mind you, I will not be in the room where all those votes are counted. I am taking their word for the tally at this point, which gives me the tiniest bit of comfort. A week or so later, I made the same pilgrimage up to that same ballot box, carrying my wife's and her mother's envelopes, giving them nothing but assurance that I put them in the correct slot and their votes were now in that same trustworthy care of the State of California. 

What could possibly go wrong? 

This opens quite the paranoid can of worms. Like maybe that box is just a combination scanner/shredder. Once my envelope is accounted for, it becomes mulch. Or perhaps the very conscientious and duty-bound individuals who are transporting the contents of that box are related to the postal carrier who "dropped" someone else's ballot a block and a half from their home. While running around my neighborhood, I spied it laying on the ground, picked it up and carried it to the address marked on the outside, depositing in the mailbox. I have not doubt that had I made personal contact with the individual named on that envelope that I would have been showered with praise and appreciation for going above and beyond my duty as a citizen. 

Or maybe that person had discarded their own ballot in the first place, disgusted by the mounting concerns over voter fraud and security. I haven't gone back to check. Because it's best not to poke too hard on this whole process, especially since less than two thirds of the eligible voters in this country exercised that right in 2024. More than a third sat at home, only vaguely aware of the effect that their non-participation was impacting the yuck in everyone else's yum. 

Even if every one of those wallflowers got up off their couch and participated in the relatively simple act of voting, I would not be assured of the Blue Wave that I believe we so desperately need, but at least I wouldn't have to wonder if there were any race-changing ballots left out on the street somewhere. 

Get up. Stand up. Stand up for your rights. 

While you still have them. 

And Again

 There is an old superstition of sorts about how people, famous people, tend to die in threes. I suppose one could attempt to bear this notion out by looking at any give stretch of posts on this blog to see if there exists that sort of grouping based on my celebrity obituaries. This suggests that there is some ghoulish cadre of folks out there scanning the news for additional luminaries to pass away once one goes. And then there's the issue of what happens when that fourth one dies and we all have to wait for two more. 

To fulfill the prophecy. 

This sort of morbid math runs parallel to the way people like myself track "mass shootings." This past Saturday in Tallahassee, Florida gunfire erupted after a homecoming football game. If this story sounds familiar, that could be because it should. You read about it here less than a month ago as I was decrying the shooting at Dooly High after a homecoming game. This one was at Florida A&M. Nobody died. Twelve people were injured. Six of them were children. We can refer to this as a "mass shooting," but we cannot call it "mass murder." Spraying bullets around a crowded area indiscriminately without any casualties doesn't lessen the impact for those who witnessed it. "Tonight, our thoughts are with the victims and their families as they face the devastating impact of this violence," said Tallahassee Police Chief Lawrence Revell. "It is especially heartbreaking to know that children are among those injured."

I have no issue with Chief Revell's assessment. I will also mention that at this point, authorities had made no arrests. They could only say that "an altercation" occurred before the shooting broke out. 

Like what happened back in 2025 in Leland, Mississippi. 

Or in Baltimore in 2023. 

A cynic might suggest that guns don't kill people, Homecoming kills people. 

But I'm no cynic. Nor am I a mathematician, but the only way this all adds up for me is that young people shouldn't have to die to watch a football game.