Beautiful Noise

 I spent last weekend by the sea. 

Which is a little ridiculous since I live in a city by the bay, which is just a hop skip and a San Francisco from the sea. 

I just do not make my way over there very often. 

This past weekend, my wife and I slept with the patio door to our hotel room open pretty much day and night to hear the sound of waves crashing against the shore. All day. All night. In the morning, I awoke to the sight of pelicans gliding over the rocks, looking for their breakfast. In the evening, we watched the sun drop into the ocean, and waited for the lines of orange, yellow and purple to fade into the darkness. 

I suppose I can explain this fascination by explaining that I grew up in the extraordinarily landlocked land of the Continental Divide. Before my clan settled in Colorado, they were ensconced for generations in Kansas. A sea view was nothing if not a curiosity. The closest I came to cavorting an natural bodies of water outside of the local swimming pool was the beaver dams in the creek near our family's cabin before the beavers packed up and left because of all those kids spoiling their nice work. 

The Pacific Ocean is a different thing entirely. It gave me a sense of the infinite. Staring off into the distance, I had to imagine that there were people and places over the edge somewhere, but for my purposes, this was forever. This did not stop the waves from attempting to make their presence known at the other edge of their reach. Tides came in. Tides went out. I stared at them in awe and appreciation. As we made our way down the shore, my wife and I saw the signs reminding us of riptides and currents that would sweep us away if we were foolish enough to go wading or, heaven forbid,  attempt to a swim in all that churning. 

So we walked until we found a beach where the waves raced up to our feet, and we felt the chill of water that nobody bothered to heat. We were mindful of all the ways that this mass of salty water could make our lives difficult or sad.

But mostly we listened to the sound. 

Not the traffic on the highway four blocks from our home back in Oakland. Not the jets overheard. Just the endless churning, the slow attempt at changing the coast line. Someday, the hotel in which we took all this in would drop off the cliff and into the sea. But not last weekend. We listened to the sound and it lulled us to sleep. 

I dreamed of the sea. 

Parting With Part D

 The Second Trumpreich wants to end Medicare Part D Premium Stabilization Demonstration at the end of 2026. This temporary program was termed a "bailout" by the weasels in the ruins of the White House, with the assurance that, "Premiums will go up by less than ten dollars for most ⁠Medicare recipients, with many even seeing lower premiums." 

How about that? Just before I get to dip my toe into all that Medicare goodness. All those phone calls in the middle of the day, asking what plans I have: A, B, C and D? I have cruised along for most of my adult life with pretty solid health care coverage, thanks to my employers. Now as I begin to ponder life out from under that protective wing, I have to consider what life will be like on a "fixed income."

Meanwhile, the orange sack of protoplasm skips off to Walter Reed for a cognitive test and proof of his continued existence every time he breaks wind. Paid for by you and me. The guy who has grown his personal fortune by more than two billion dollars in the past year and a half pays nothing out of pocket. 

Nothing. 

Zero.

Zilch. 

Nada. 

Eighty years old and billions in the bank, how is this thick slab of meat ever going to understand that a change of "just ten dollars a month" could mean a meal or two? Not that this slob ever seems to miss a meal or the nap that seems to follow shortly thereafter. 

Of course, two billion dollars raised from a sketchy bit of crypto business would go a long way toward solving this shortfall, but I guess that's just not the way these things work. 

Is it? 

Fare And Square

 Recently as I have traversed the highways and byways of Oakland, I have noticed that city buses flash, in addition to their destination, a message on their front reader boards. They all read, "Fare Required." 

My initial reaction was a grumbly, "Well, duh." 

Then I started to think about it. Not too terribly long ago, when this city and the rest of the world struggled with the realities of a global pandemic, people hopping on busses without paying their three dollars seemed like an unnecessary bit of contact for a ride across town. As long as everyone remembered to sit more than six feet apart, there shouldn't be any trouble. Bus drivers were essential workers and helped ferry other essential workers to their essential work. The notion being that once COVID was over, we would settle up. 

A quick check with Alameda County Transit tells me that these headsigns are there to promote folks helping to stave off the budget deficit that currently exists within the company. We are reminded that further losses could result in reduction of services. Further reduction of services. That previously stated price point of three dollars per ride comes as a result of people sneaking on the bus for free. 

Not really. Like many government agencies, the way that money is spent by AC Transit on things that may or may not result in a more efficient or, heaven forbid, cost effective bus ride. For example, the media campaign currently underway to remind citizens that you are required to pay your fare as you get on the bus. 

Of course you do know that paying fares are not the sole funding source for city bus lines. Which is why just up the road from Oakland in Petaluma, California they have a fare-free bus system. Consider for a moment that those buses are running along their predetermined route on a predetermined schedule at times when there is no one aside from the driver on board. Should the bus driver just pull over until someone pops up with a couple of bucks to get it back on the road? 

Well, for the time being, Oakland is raising its fares and reminding us all that it is required. Meanwhile there are other large cities across the globe, including the entire country of Luxembourg that has done away with bus fare. Entirely. 

I suppose buses in Luxembourg can use those signs at the front to remind people to floss. 

Not Yet

 The time has come, the walrus said, to speak of other things. Of shoes and splits and ten K times, of cabbages and kings. For the purposes of this discussion, the Walrus will not be Paul. The walrus will be me. 

Or I will be the walrus. Which is I find a little odd, since this was the way a grade school classmate described me when she was accusing me of ruining our class picture. Connected to this mild derision was the feeling I have endured for most of my life: being the round kid. The one who got picked last. The one at the back of the pack. 

Struggling. 

When my father invited me to join him running the Bolder Boulder race with him back in 1982, it seemed like a lark, of sorts. That's when I took up the sport, and I have been running ever since. 

Except now it's not really "running." To "run," one must have an aerial phase, or a moment when both feet are off the ground. There was a time when this was something I accomplished with relative ease. It provided me a means to the end of not being quite so round, and though I had already passed the phase of life in which teams were being picked on a regular basis, I flattered myself that I would no longer be the last one waiting to be selected. 

These days, I still head out every day with the intent of covering two to five miles, depending on how much locomotion I have experienced or will experience throughout the day. In my mind, I am still churning out the miles. Every so often a neighbor or friend will encounter me along my selected route, and lately they ask the same question: "Out for a walk?"

And I know they aren't far wrong. There was a time when I was committed to a mile in under ten minutes. Now I creep along somewhere in the fifteen minute area. Chugging along. I don't stop, unless someone needs to ask me directions. Then it's back to plodding. 

Ultimately it's about the cardiovascular, which I have been assured by medical professionals is just fine thank you. This does not keep me from noticing when someone else breezes by me as I am making my way toward my destination. In my head, I tend to do a quick assessment: how old do you suppose that guy is? how many miles has she run already? how did that seventy year old guy just pass me by walking when we were both going downhill? 

I take comfort in knowing that it's not a race. As long as I lace up my sneakers each day and head out to perambulate in some fashion or another, there is no finish line. Not yet. Not for me. 

Gone But Forgotten

 Ron Howard has taken a lot of abuse over the course of his career for what happened to his brother. Not his real brother, Clint, who has received ample support from the roles big brother Ron has been able to send his way over the years. Seventeen of them at last count. Instead of real life, I prefer to turn our focus to life on the little screen: Whatever happened to Richie Cunningham's older brother Chuck on Happy Days? Somewhere along the early episodes of the second season of that very popular series, Chuck just ceased to be. The Chuck Cunningham Syndrome may not get the attention that Richie and the gang brought Jumping The Shark, but it is a very real thing. 

Don't believe me? How about if I were to ask you about Carol Geller? You know, Ross Geller's wife. On Friends. Now for the bonus round: How did the show's writers and producers wind up her story? What about their son, Ben? They eventually disappeared into TV ether somewhere around the eighth season. Rachel and Joey and Monica and Chandler and Phoebe just went on without any real notice or care. Besides, by this time Ross had been married a bunch of times and became a father all over again with Rachel. What's an ex-wife and and her wife going to do to compete with all that? And young Ben? He would be thirty-one years old by now. 

What do you suppose he got into in all those intervening years? I get it that the struggles of a young man growing up in Manhattan being raised by two mothers could never compete with the seemingly endless hijinks and hilarity brought to us by the gang of Friends, but the powers that be did see fit to bring Gunther on for the final episode. 

It's about closure, right?

So I think there's a play or a Netflix series that could be made out of all those discarded characters from various TV shows a la Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. Chuck, Ben, Carol and Mandy from the West Wing could all hang out somewhere in a hazy ill-determined reality in which their characters are waiting for a call to return to work. Back to the life they had been living until some executive decided they weren't "gelling" with the rest of the cast. 

I blame Fonzie. 

Passing Through

 Many years ago

I considered myself a poet

Because of all the thoughts

That could not be contained

In a sentence or paragraph

I once wrote a poem entitled

You Can Come And Go In My Life

I did this for two main reasons

To express how deep I was

And how much I was willing to grow

As it turns out all those years ago

I was not kidding around

You have come and gone in my life

And the good news here is that

Each time you have gone

You found your way back

So here we are decades later

Having created a center

Around which we can orbit

Navigating our way through

Space and Time and Always

With a sense of place

A place we call home

Gravity Isn't Just A Good Idea, It's The Law

 Forty years give or take a month ago, I experienced what has become over time a defining moment for me as a human being. 

I jumped out of a swing. 

Many of you have heard this story before. It is significant in the annals of "Why Doesn't Dave Drink?" Because I did. 

A lot. 

And on that one particular July night in the year of our lord 1986, I polluted my brain chemistry enough that the relatively simple act of jumping out of a swing, which I had been doing since I was a small child in a variety of settings, caused me to question not just my place in the universe but also my participation in the prevailing culture. 

Whew. 

That was the first week, anyway. It would still be another few years of bacchanalia for yours truly as the laws of physics seemed to need my attention as did the status quo. Jumping out of that swing meant that I would spend another semester in college to complete the fringes of what would become my Bachelor of Arts degree in Creative Writing. It would still be those few more years figuring out that knee surgery was probably the least intrusive way that I could have received the message: Slow down. 

I wasn't listening then. 

I'm listening now. Each time I have to manage my hop down from a set of stairs or the dull ache that comes when the weather changes I think back to that night and wonder why I needed to live so close to the edge for so long. Nothing that I couldn't bounce back from. Not back in the day. The payback, as it turns out, came much later. 

George Bernard Shaw once suggested that youth was wasted on the young. I'm guessing there was a swingset somewhere in George's past.