What's On?

Cable TV is a lot like heroin. Okay, maybe that's a little strong, especially since I am not an expert on heroin, but it's my metaphor and I beg your indulgence. For a limited time you can receive more channels than you could possibly hope to have time to enjoy for the low, low introductory price of just $29.95 a month. That's less than a dollar a day, and that seems like a bargain in a world that expects you to pay ten dollars for a ticket to see "The Simpsons Movie". And that's when you start to notice that the introductory period has passed and you find yourself craving a peek at the endless variety that is offered: A channel devoted to high school football, another for news from Korea. Bruce Springsteen was aiming low when he wrote a song called "57 Channels (And Nothin' On)".
Freedom of choice is what I've got, as DEVO would point out. And that goes for paying the bill too. Now my cable company, Comca$t, wants me to pay more for the channels that I was getting when I signed up. I was expecting to pay more after my initial dalliance with the heady world of digital cable, and I had tensed myself for this eventuality. What I hadn't expected was that the NFL Network would become an additional fee on top of what I had already been paying. Suddenly I was not only paying more for what I was watching, but I was watching less.
There are plenty of alternatives, Direct TV was happy to take my call and tell me about all the free and inexpensive ways that they could aid me in watching television. As I listened, rapt with attention, a little voice in my head said, "Ask about what happens in four months." I did. And it turns out that they would end up charging me almost exactly what Comca$t is charging me now, and if I really loved all the cool stuff that I had been watching for "free" for those first four months - let's just say there is no free TV.
I could buy a pair of rabbit ear antennae and try to pull down some of that juicy new high definition video for the cost of a bunch of extra tin foil and the time it would take to get my son to stand just so the picture would be perfect when his right hand is on the window sill and his left is on the tip of the antenna. Or I could go read a book.

Breathe In, Breathe Out, Move On

I should have seen it coming. Instead, I ended up hearing it. This morning at six-thirty the heat came on. This is how I know that summer is winding down. That's not to say that there won't be a lot of hot weather in my near future. I fully expect that October will be a very cozy time here in Alameda County. We get used to the "summer weather pattern" of fog in the morning, clearing by the afternoon. But the past few days haven't allowed much in the way of sunshine. I am sure the is only coincidence connecting my gradual return to the classroom and the weather, but I take it as an omen.
Not a scary or bad omen, but an omen nonetheless. A wake up call or a polite alarm with a snooze alarm that lasts a few days. Whatever it is, Fall is in the air and I don't expect to dodge it. Come to think of it, yesterday "American Graffiti" was on cable, and while I watched most of it, it didn't occur to me that this remembrance of summer's passing was another link to the big picture that was forming over my head.
It used to be Jerry's Kids that signaled me to put away my deck shoes and white trousers, but ever since school started before Labor Day and it became my job to get a classroom ready for twenty-five odd short strangers, summer is over almost before it started. This is not despair, just surprise. I used to take the passage of time much more personally. Now I can revel in the changing seasons, or at least the appearance.

Lessons From The Playground

From the Associated Press: "BAGHDAD - U.S. troops killed the al-Qaida in Iraq mastermind of the bombing that destroyed the golden dome of a famed sacred Shiite shrine last year and set in motion an unrelenting cycle of sectarian bloodletting, the military said Sunday."
And now, at long last, the cycle of sectarian bloodletting can come to an end. If history has taught us anything, it is that one death will inevitably cause the two sides of a conflict to lay down their arms and realize the futility of murder. In the past twenty-eight hours, five people have been gunned down in the streets of my town. No one here is expecting an end to the unrelenting cycle of sectarian bloodletting to let up anytime soon. Such is the nature of violence. Such is the nature of a country who maintains a "defense department" for the purposes of blowing things up.
When I'm on yard duty at my elementary school, I will inevitably run into a couple of kids who decide not to resolve their conflict on the four-square court with our patented system of Roshambo. They would rather puff their chests out at one another and bump into each other until one of them takes the first swing. Their reasoning is always the same: "My mom told me that I should always hit back." While I make a point not to disparage the advice given to them by their parents, I point out that they are in a safe place where they are rewarded, even encouraged, to solve problems with their words and not their fists. Then I usually have to spend some time running through the series of events that would take place if everyone's mom told them to hit back. These kids live in Oakland, so it's not long before they get my allegory. They also live in a country where the President (and not just the Pinhead who is in there now) tells us to hit back. They cycle continues.
Do I believe that turning the other cheek will always work? Nope. Quite often it will end up getting your other cheek slapped. In the meantime, I suggest Roshambo.

Sounds Good

Out in the living room, my son is listening to music. He is listening to what he calls his "Saturday Morning Music". He used to watch cartoons. I suspect this is a reaction to the new family edict about screen time (video and computer) for those of us under thirty years old. He is busy creating a birthday card for one of his friends while the stereo pounds out the same four songs over and over. I could complain, but it turns out that I have absolutely no leg to stand on.
I made this CD for him. He is listening to music that I compiled and previewed: songs from the Simpsons movie and Transformers. It is, along with the theme to Harry Potter (which doesn't rock quite as hard) the soundtrack of his summer. Now he's creating art without me having to harass him, and before that, he was playing the piano along with the Linkin Park track. These are tunes I steered him to, and now I get to hear them dozens of times.
As far as the rock thing goes, I can't be surprised by that either. When he was very small, just sitting up on his own, I went for a run with him in our jogging stroller. Returning home hot and sweaty, I decided to take a shower. As was the custom in those days when my wife was out of the house, I tended to turn the volume of the stereo (the same one that is thumping away right now) up to hear it in the shower. When I got out and started toweling myself off, I found my baby boy in the center of our bed where I had left him, bobbing his head mightily to the strains of Bachman Turner Overdrive. Not Fragile, indeed.
Then there is the repetition. I am relieved that he has a four-song suite, since he is capable of fixating on just one for weeks at a time. It could be that all kids are prone to this kind of single-mania, but I know that I wore out my 45 of Elvis doing "In The Ghetto" to the point where I have no recollection of what the flip side was. It never occurred to me to ask my brothers or parents if I was driving them slowly insane.
And now comes that part where I am relived for the invention of the iPod, and headphones. I'm not sure if they're for him or for me just yet.

Getting To Know You

For most people who know me, it comes as no revelation that I am a bit of a misanthrope. I tend to keep my head down, moving from one necessary interaction to the next with the notion of streamlining my existence and limiting my human contact. This may be a result of being the son of one of the most gregarious people ever to grace this planet. My father knew most everyone in Boulder and the adjacent metro areas, and as a result I spent many long hours over the course of my youth waiting for my dad to finish saying hello to all of his sundry acquaintances. And he was always glad to introduce himself to strangers as well. He took Will Rogers' advice strictly to heart.
When I got older and had more control over my comings and goings, I made it a point to keep things on a "need to know" basis, as in "do you really need to know me?" When traveling, I tended to use the tips from "The Accidental Tourist", such as bringing a book along on any plane or other conveyance where there might be a chance for social interaction. Taking the window seat provides another distraction from any possible connection with fellow travelers.
When I got married, that ended. My son insists on the window seat, and if my wife can't nudge me into conversation, she's just as happy to chat up the stranger across the aisle. On our most recent trip, she managed to find two other ten-year-olds for my son to share a row with, while she ended up a row ahead, with the father of the girl who moved back to fill out the trio. They sat in front of me, like Harry, Ron and Hermoine on their way to their first year at Hogwarts, and I watched these little strangers become friends. And every so often, when I looked up from my Rolling Stone, I felt a little pang of jealousy. I guess it comes with the territory.

Viva Las Vegas

The old adage about how what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas makes more sense to me now. It puts me in mind of those misguided state assembly members in New Jersey who had a mind to make "Born To Run" the official state song. " Maybe the place really does "rip the bones from your back", and it is perhaps best described as a "death trap", but it still doesn't come across as much of a promotional anthem. This is also true of the brain trust that decided on Oklahoma's state motto, "Oklahoma's OK". That would seem to imply that it is the generic equivalent of a state: Color and consistency may vary, but should be suitable for everyday use.
Now back to this Las Vegas thing. What isn't being said must be the truly regrettable things, the drunken escapades with transvestite hookers and the liquidation of your children's college fund for the sure thing you've got going at the blackjack table in the back. That stuff should stay in Vegas. In fact, it might be nice if it never happened at all, but that seems to be the nature of the beast. Maybe keeping things in Vegas helps to explain the Wayne Newton phenomenon, now known in its twenty-first century form, the Danny Gans phenomenon. Drinking, smoking and, of course, gambling seem to be happening at every moment of every day out there in the middle of the desert. Comparisons to Sodom and Gomorrah may be just a little too simple since I don't recall any reference in the Bible to ninety-nine cent shrimp cocktail.
All that being said, I can say it is possible for a family to have a good time visiting the county seat of Clark County, Nevada. Part of the trick, it seems, is to avoid those things that make it America's number one obfuscation destination. I don't drink, smoke, or gamble, so that gave me plenty of time to lounge by the pool and enjoy some very nice meals. I just missed seeing Rush in concert (though my friends were lucky enough to go and get a tour shirt to prove it). I did get to see Penn and Teller, who were gracious enough to hang out in the lobby of their theater at the Rio shaking hands and signing bits of paper. And I got married. Well, technically my wife and I got our vows renewed by Elvis at the Garden of Love chapel "just seconds off the strip". These were all happy events that I am proud to share with anyone outside the city limits of Las Vegas. I suppose when it's all said and done, it's just another place where you make choices and deal with the consequences, good or bad, but I don't know if the could fit that on a billboard.

An Acceptable Level Of Ecstacy

The fact that I was not wearing my own pants would, in some counties and jurisdictions, make the wedding between my wife and me null and void. Even more likely, the fact that we had to borrow rings from my brother and sister-in-law to consecrate the bonds of holy matrimony could be construed as some sort of evil hex or hoo-doo on our union. I suppose the fact that the two most important props, the bride and groom, arrived at roughly the same spot at roughly the same time is enough to cinch the deal.
Fourteen years ago, I knew very little about being married. It certainly felt like the appropriate next step, and the opportunity to tell our grandchildren that "yes, we did meet in high school but waited another decade before we ever dated," seemed like plenty of justification. The events of that day show up in my mind like the souvenir photos that were taken of us from so many angles. I remember coming over the hill, crashing through the trees very much like the great ape Kong I invoked in my vows. After all the fits and starts, the ceremony actually passed without any ugly incident or scene. My wife to be arrived with her bridesmaids in a convertible instead of the horse that she had hoped for, but it didn't really matter. Behind the scenes, friends and family worked feverishly to shore up the cake that didn't handle the trip as well as it might, and when it was all said and done, I cannot remember much more than the piece of cake that was ceremoniously smeared across my face by my new wife. Please don't ask me what the guests ate, since all I remember was a vast bowl of peanut M&Ms that I was never able to take full advantage.
When the sun set that day, we were married, and we have been ever since. Funny how things work out that way. Not funny, "Ha-Ha", but funny "happy".