Moral Outrage

Hillary Clinton is looking into a new cause. Apparently universal health care just wasn't driving the grinding wheels of political stardom fast and furious enough. Now she's looking into how to get those filthy violent video games rated correctly. Don't get me wrong - I'm no fan of "Grand Theft Auto - Anywhere," but this one just kind of reeks of photo-op to me.
Wasn't it Al Gore's wife, Tipper (still sounds dirty after all these years) who spearheaded (still sounds dirty) the Parent's Music Resource Committee all those years ago? Thanks to that effort, families are free to spend hours peeling off that annoying "objectionable lyrics" sticker to see what R. Kelly is really wearing. It was another shot in a neverending war - Elvis Presley and his gyrations, the Beatles and their haircuts, and that David Bowie - what kind of freak is he anyway?
Probably my favorite bit of unnecessary fuss about rock and roll centers around the song "Louie Louie." I quote from LouieLouie.net: "In the mid 1960s, many people considered this subject a very serious matter. Rock and roll was considered a subversive movement, and governor Matthew Welsh of Indiana actually used his powers to restrict airplay of this song. Of course, all of this controversy helped spur more record sales, as teenagers rushed to the record store to buy the record that shocked, or at least confused their parents. It was no accident that the extra notoriety contributed to the popularity of 'Louie Louie' as one of the greatest party songs of all time."
Just what is the upshot of the culture wars? Increased fascination and revenue, primarily. Now, finally "Grand Theft Auto" will get the rating it deserves: M. I can see the lines of outraged consumers waiting to return their smutty filth back to the smutty filth peddlers who peddled the smutty filth to them in the first place - but couldn't you show me how to get to the naughty bits one more time, first?
Here's one to ponder: Is society a mirror of culture, or does culture just follow in the wake of society? Are there things I don't what my son to see? You bet. Are there things I don't want to see? That list might be even longer. In the meantime, let's try and keep an eye out for some or the real bad guys.

He's dead, Jim.

My friend Mike just e-mailed me the bad news: Scotty is dead, Jim. The passing of one of the great accents of our time bears a great burden for our society. How can we go on in his absence? I don't think I can hold 'er much longer, cap'n.
Star Trek conventions were already getting a little sparse. Bones is gone. Sarek/Romulan Commander has passed on. Even Captain Kirk has moved to VH-1. The United Federation of Planets is feeling it down deep, where no man has gone before.
Still, how many times did Montgomery Scott save the galactic bacon of the starship Enterprise and all those who served upon her carpeted decks? He was asked to do the impossible week after week, and later when he moved to the big screen, he had to design a transparent aluminum tank and transport two humpback whales into it - all the while dealing with faulty Klingon wiring. He wasn't simply an engineer - he was a magician.
If Engineer Scott were alive today (I know, just a little while ago he was - but...) he most certainly could have gotten the space shuttle off the pad and back into space where she belongs. He had a much deeper and abiding love for his ship than his captain. Kirk was always looking for ways to trade his machine in for the lives of his crew. He was a real "people person." Scotty never got himself blasted so that he had to be brought back to life by some miracle of imagined physics. He was at his post, waiting for the next ridiculous order. Scott was never happier than when things were at their worst - mechanically speaking. Kirk would make some hair-brained suggestion, and Spock would always back him up. Scotty just had to make do - "Warp 10? Aye sir, I'll do my best." Back to work, Scotty.

Woof.

INSPECTOR CLOUSEAU: Does your dog bite?
INNKEEPER: No.
CLOUSEAU leans down to pet the dog, who makes a snarling leap at him. CLOUSEAU pulls his tattered glove and sleeve back and retreats to the doorway.
CLOUSEAU: I thought you said your dog did not bite!
INNKEEPER: It's not my dog.
And so it goes. Strangers routinely approach me when I'm out with my dog, Maddie - asking me just that: Does your dog bite? I have a number of responses for that question. Most of the time I tell them, "No, she's a friendly one. She just sounds vicious." For the obnoxious teenagers who want to make our lives more difficult I say, "Only when I give the secret command." And still other times I tell them, "Not yet."
Part of owning a dog is never knowing for sure when they're going to go off. Maddie has an irrational hatred of anyone wearing the uniform of the U.S. Postal Service, but she's best friends with the UPS guy. She is one of the most patient dogs around children I have ever encountered, but the only two humans she has ever seriously tried to gnaw on are kids. Does that mean I shouldn't trust her around small people? I get a little nervous when she starts to get into her herding mode, but generally I presume safety.
When I'm out running with her, kids stop me and ask if they can pet my dog. I'm happy to do it, and so is Maddie. It makes me feel good to know our dog is the goodwill ambassador for canines - unless you're the mailman.

The Future's So Bright...

I've lamented to many over my frustration about not having a flying car, or even a personal jet pack, but it's 2005. Two thousand and FIVE for crap's sake - where is the future we were all supposed to be living?
I remember watching Creature Features in my parents' basement when I was a mere slip of a lad (well, a roly-poly sort of slip) and watching "Frankenstein 1970." The film was made in 1958, with Boris Karloff assuming the role of Doctor Frankenstein this time. The big futuristic trick here is that the mad scientist is using an atomic reactor to bring his monster to life. The irony that was lost on me at the time was that this oh-so-futuristic notion was chronologically only about two years away from the time I was watching the movie, so there wasn't a lot of time to get that kind of technology up and running before I turned eight. So, if you're keeping score at home, thirty-five years later, there is still no way to use a nuclear reactor to bring a corpse back to life.
While we're on the subject of irresponsible use of atomic energy, how about "Space 1999?" The pilot episode synopsis: In the year 1999, the 311 inhabitants of Moonbase Alpha are stranded when the Moon is hurled from Earth's orbit when nuclear waste is ignited by magnetic radiation. Not only did our satellite stay boringly in orbit through the turn of the century, none of the really cool looking vehicles suggested in the show have come to exist, and we're still waiting for the next shuttle launch before we can get around to making a permanent base on the moon. That would make us 0 for 2 on possible futures, right?
So what's still coming up? How about "Soylent Green?" IMDB's plot summary: In the year 2022, the starving masses depend upon the government manufactured food item Soylent Green to exist. But in the midst of a murder investigation, a cop named Thorn (Charlton Heston) uncovers the chilling source of the product. Okay, now we're getting somewhere - we've still got seventeen years to reach this dystopian pinnacle. What kind of advances are we talking about here? Cops wear football helmets for riot gear - check. Pollution and population has run unchecked for too many years - check. All we need are those tasty green crackers!
Okey doke - the future clock's ticking!

Fate Colliding

I bumped a car yesterday evening in a parking lot. I had a fleeting moment of panic, where I thought the most logical thing to do was to roar off into the night. Then the reality of driving the family car with my child strapped into the seat behind me came crashing back in. I wasn't getting away with anything. I got out and checked for damage and injuries. Happily, there seemed to be little of either to mention - save for the vast and spreading wound to my self-esteem. After all, I'm a grown up now - my son was safely strapped in his car seat and this kind of thing just doesn't happen when you're being careful. Oh yeah - "being careful."
I periodically take a good bit of ribbing for my careful nature - Captain Cautious. Moderation and control are my watch words - with occasional flurries of giddy excess to show what a fun guy I still am, but other than that I'm pretty tightly wound.
This wasn't always the case. I beat the three cars I owned from high school through college into the ground. The saddest example of this was the red Toyota pickup that I inherited from my older brother as he moved to his next vehicle. I was driving my younger brother down the twisty mountain road that lead to our family's cabin. We were headed back down to Boulder for some contact with city folk. My wallet was on the seat beside me and I asked my little brother to put the loose change that was sliding around the dashboard into the change pocket in my wallet. "Where's the change pocket?" he asked. I reached over to show him where to put the seventy eight odd cents that were my primary concern.
When I looked up, all I saw were trees. We had left Magnolia Road and were now headed down the side of the hill. We came to a very abrupt stop when our progress was halted by a young but very sturdy aspen tree. Another even smaller tree was propped up against the driver's side door - keeping us from rolling over. It was a nice bit of fate and nature colliding with the shiny new red Toyota pickup. Oh yeah - the new truck. It wasn't new anymore. The front end had been moved up a good six inches and the engine had been shoved back into the drive train. My new truck was totaled. The hardest part was telling my older brother what I had done to his pretty red pickup.
Twenty-seven years later, I feel that guilt again. The Saturn is just fine - it's made out of plastic, after all. The other car was fine - just a lot of shaken nerves. But gee - don't I feel like a dope.

There's Got To Be A Morning After

Excuse me, but I'm still wiping the sleep from my eyes, having climbed into bed sometime on this side of one o'clock in the morning following our date with destiny. Or was that density? We stayed up late last night waiting to be the first, or some of the first, to own a copy of "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince." We spent the evening quietly enough, with a house full of my son's friends and their parents, each one reminding us that what we were heading to do was insane.
When we reached Borders Bookstore, a sprawling megastore that sells all manner of media and a nice latte' (or so I'm told), there were throngs of people already waiting. There were parents with kids, parents without kids, kids who should have been with their parents, disgruntled teens who didn't need their parents around thank you very much, and some adults who were probably there because their parents didn't love them enough when they were kids. All these folks were meandering through the stacks and shelves of books, CD's, DVD's, magazines and Cliff's Notes (no advance copies of the Cliff's Notes for Harry Potter 6 were available - I checked). There were some organized activities: a Hogwarts Trivia Contest, a table to make your own wizard hat (purple cone of paper with crayon), and the obligatory check-in table. We spent a few moments considering what we wanted to start with, and concluded that getting a book to sit and read while the time passed made the most sense.
As the hour grew later, we moved to the actual line for purchasing the book that snaked through the store. From our spot in the line we couldn't see the cash registers that would eventually be our salvation and our deliverance. We sat down on the very thin carpet and began the small talk with others that would while away the hours - minute by minute.
Then something happened: The lights went out. There was the expected "ooo's" and "ahhh's" from the assembled throng, with few squeals from children of all ages, then we all waited for the lights to come back on. And we waited. And waited. A Borders employee dressed unfortunately like some sort of valet/puritan settler walked through the store taking digital pictures assuring us all that we had nothing to fear, everything would be fine.
Everything wasn't fine. Pacific Gas and Electric finally returned a call to someone's cell phone to say that there was no way that they were going to be able to get the store back on line that night. Embarrassed Borders employees who had taken their festive garb off started to make the announcement to us all: There would be no Harry Potter (or any of the pile of impulse selections families had made while lingering for hours in the store) sold that night - but we were all invited back bright and early the following morning to buy as many copies (3) as we could carry.
The disappointment of an eight year boy (no matter how old he really is) is palpable. There was a hush that fell over us all as we made our way politely to the exit. A few folks wanted to discuss the issue, but when we got outside and realized that there was a power (or lack thereof) larger than ourselves at work. Bless my wife's cheerful enthusiasm for suggesting - with half an hour left to the deadline - that we drive back to our neighborhood bookstore to see if they were open and just maybe had a copy of Harry Potter to spare.
The interior of Laurel Bookstore is approximately the size of Borders' reference section, but it was packed and spilling out into the street when we got there - twenty minutes to spare. My son wriggeled up to the front of the crowd to take a peek at the magician who was performing at the back of the store (what a great idea, why didn't Borders think of that?). Mom and Dad pushed their way to the counter and insinuated ourselves a "reserved" copy of the most important book in the publishing world. Just after midnight, the magic show concluded, and they started passing out the books.
On the ride home, my son read the first sentence of "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" aloud to us. He was incredibly tired, but incredibly pleased. When we got home, he insisted on being read to sleep from his new book. We all climbed up into his bed and read the first five pages before the soft snoring began. He's still asleep, but he'll be up soon - reading.

It's 12:01, do you know where your muggles are?

There's a cultural phenomenon taking place tonight. "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince" goes on sale at midnight. Bookstores around the country will be staying open late to make sure that devotees of Harry and his exploits don't have to wait a minute more than necessary to find out what happens to their hero. This is book six. Books one through five have amassed a fortune for several generations of Rowlings to come, and this one will no doubt out sell all the previous installments - why else would one continue to write them?
I'll be there, with my son - waiting anxiously like the rest. The first five books came our way in lazy paperback form. We didn't stand in line. We borrowed the first one to see if we might like it. We did. We have now officially met up with the curve of expectation and are standing in line with the rest of the muggles (see how easily I slip into the lingo?). We are very much the Potter household. Legos still hold sway in most cases, and Star Wars has better vehicles, but Harry's adventures in and around Hogwarts are an endless source of fascination for us.
Well, at least they are for my son. I am determined that he not turn out like his father. Years ago, I sat in the middle of the back seat on long station wagon trips to anywhere, sandwiched between my older and younger brother. They shared their fascination about the collected works of J.R.R. Tolkein with each other for miles and hours and days. I stared straight ahead and tried not to absorb their mania. "Smaug - Shelob - Minas Tirith - Samwise" the names flooded over me as I strengthened my resolve to ignore all things hobbit-like. I lived in a world of geeks, yet I maintained a steadfast avoidance of the Grail of Geekdom, "The Lord of the Rings." I bought a copy of National Lampoon's parody, "Bored of the Rings" just to leave lying around - I didn't even read that.
But I wasn't completely immune. Purely by osmosis the plot and all those character names and places seeped into my cerebellum. I had lived with the Cliff's Notes long enough that I had become a vicarious expert myself. I went to see Ralph Bakshi's animated version (of the first half of the trilogy). I knew I wasn't truly of the clan, because I liked it. I loved Peter Jackson's films - the source material was inspiring enough to create three films - each one longer than the next - and each one better than the one before it. I secretly felt shame for not learning to write elvish in tenth grade along with all my nerd friends.
So, tonight we'll be there, wands in hand awaiting the next epistle from Hogwarts. I'll be reading this one right alongside my aspiring young wizard.