Last night, as I was tucking myself safely into bed, VH1 did me the favor of reminding me that yesterday, July 13, was the anniversary of the Live Aid concerts. That was way back in 1985. I have a very distinct memory of that day. My roommate and I had our VCR rolling. It was our intent to get every last minute on tape so we could remember that time forever. I'm glad that VH1 knows where their tapes are, since mine have been buried by the sands of time and forgetfulness.
Back then, music was a vital force in my world, and when I was told by this sea of musicians that I could help change the world, I believed them. I had already pledged my allegiance to Bruce Springsteen and the food banks of the United States, now I was ratcheting my commitment up a notch to follow Bob Geldof's vision of feeding the planet. I pledged my money somewhere in the third hour, after the concert in Philadelphia had begun, and the one in Wembley had begun to wind down. I pledged enough to get the T-shirt. I may have been altruistic, but I was still a capitalist at heart.
Somewhere in there, Bob Dylan said, "I hope that some of the money...maybe they can just take a little bit of it, maybe...one or two million, maybe...and use it, say, to pay the mortgages on some of the farms and, the farmers here, owe to the banks..." and Farm Aid was born. With that, a flurry of additional charity were launched, and suddenly it became impossible to pay for all the good intentions of the planet. Then came the backlash, where all the pundits pointed out how little of the donations actually made it to the source of the problems. Corruption and misappropriation caused the whole affair to become less of a miracle, especially in the eyes of some cynics.
I confess I did pledge to that first Farm Aid show too. I got a bandanna.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Report Card
I don't know how many years it's been since I last saw "The Blackboard Jungle", but I know I haven't seen it in the past year. I don't know if it would have made a big difference if I had, but now that I am entering the last week of teaching fourth grade, I found it echoing oddly off my experiences.
If you've never seen it, this is the movie that gave us "Rock Around The Clock" and Sidney Poitier. Not that both of them didn't exist prior, but "Blackboard Jungle" pushed them both to center stage. It is probably not the least bit ironic that twelve years later, Sidney ended up playing a teacher in "To Sir With Love", but here he plays a student in Glenn Ford's inner-city high school class. He learned his lessons well.
What about me? Did I make the same kind of heart-warming difference in my students lives? I know that I have, but not this year. It is interesting that the denouement in the film takes place over Christmas break. Ford's character Mister Dadier, whom the kids all call "Daddy-O", is feeling tired and frustrated. He is ready to leave teaching rather than go back and face the hoodlums in his classroom. When some of the young toughs turn on their leader, played by Vic Morrow, he feels a renewed sense of purpose. He has broken through: "Yeah, I've been beaten up, but I'm not beaten. I'm not beaten, and I'm not quittin'."
I didn't have that breakthrough. Not this year. But I'm not beaten. And I'm not quittin'.
If you've never seen it, this is the movie that gave us "Rock Around The Clock" and Sidney Poitier. Not that both of them didn't exist prior, but "Blackboard Jungle" pushed them both to center stage. It is probably not the least bit ironic that twelve years later, Sidney ended up playing a teacher in "To Sir With Love", but here he plays a student in Glenn Ford's inner-city high school class. He learned his lessons well.
What about me? Did I make the same kind of heart-warming difference in my students lives? I know that I have, but not this year. It is interesting that the denouement in the film takes place over Christmas break. Ford's character Mister Dadier, whom the kids all call "Daddy-O", is feeling tired and frustrated. He is ready to leave teaching rather than go back and face the hoodlums in his classroom. When some of the young toughs turn on their leader, played by Vic Morrow, he feels a renewed sense of purpose. He has broken through: "Yeah, I've been beaten up, but I'm not beaten. I'm not beaten, and I'm not quittin'."
I didn't have that breakthrough. Not this year. But I'm not beaten. And I'm not quittin'.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Wilderness Area
This morning I finally went out to face my yard. It has been several weeks since we abdicated responsibility for the lawn. My wife has engineered an interesting series of pipes, ducts and siphons to create a gray water system that brings a little water to one corner of the front yard, but for the most part, it's dry and yellow out there.
Again, I say "for the most part" because there are still patches along the side of the house and next to the fence that have defied convention and continued to grow. Yesterday I noticed that many of these patches had reached the height that set off my internal alarm. I'm a yard ape, like my older brother before me, I feel the call of lawn care and maintenance. It may be genetic, or it may be that as children we were both exposed to David Hornsby's yard.
David Hornsby was our piano teacher. He was a very nice man, and taught me a great many things, not the least of which is still in my repertoire: "The Little Drummer Boy." That Christmas carol not withstanding, the other thing that made a lasting impression on me was the swirl of grass and shrubs that nearly obscured the front of his house. I remember the polite suggestions being made first to my older brother, then to me as I came of age that "a good way to make some extra money" might be to ask for the opportunity to shape the Mister Hornsby's overgrown tangle of weeds into something resembling a lawn.
It was never a regular gig. I definitely got the impression that, being an artistic type, my piano teacher didn't want to have any rigid parameters for his yard, especially any that might cause him to eventually become involved in maintaining. So there were a few desperate, onerous attempts to tame what my mother first dubbed "The Wilderness Area." Each time, it took several hours and pitchers of iced tea to cut and trim until we eventually surrendered to the inevitable. You could hear the grass growing behind your back as you whacked furiously at the mess in front. Finally, as the sun began to set, we hauled our bent tools and smoking mower to the family station wagon, knowing that we had given it our all, but maybe not our best.
Over the next few summers, I turned my focus to the tiny patches of grass that lay between the mobile homes at the trailer park where my new piano teacher lived. I could knock out six of these little plots in the time it took me to make a path in Hornsby's yard. It was, by comparison, easy money. But every time I drove by the Wilderness Area, which sat on the corner of a regular thoroughfare, I felt a twinge.
That was the twinge I felt this morning as I pulled on my gloves and unspooled the extension cord. I powered up the trimmer and whacked at the weeds, and pulled up the blackberry runners. I tried to get things to a place that at least looked level. It doesn't have to be green, and it doesn't have to be pretty, but it shouldn't be dangerous. Then I turned my attention to the plants inside. I can still save them.
Again, I say "for the most part" because there are still patches along the side of the house and next to the fence that have defied convention and continued to grow. Yesterday I noticed that many of these patches had reached the height that set off my internal alarm. I'm a yard ape, like my older brother before me, I feel the call of lawn care and maintenance. It may be genetic, or it may be that as children we were both exposed to David Hornsby's yard.
David Hornsby was our piano teacher. He was a very nice man, and taught me a great many things, not the least of which is still in my repertoire: "The Little Drummer Boy." That Christmas carol not withstanding, the other thing that made a lasting impression on me was the swirl of grass and shrubs that nearly obscured the front of his house. I remember the polite suggestions being made first to my older brother, then to me as I came of age that "a good way to make some extra money" might be to ask for the opportunity to shape the Mister Hornsby's overgrown tangle of weeds into something resembling a lawn.
It was never a regular gig. I definitely got the impression that, being an artistic type, my piano teacher didn't want to have any rigid parameters for his yard, especially any that might cause him to eventually become involved in maintaining. So there were a few desperate, onerous attempts to tame what my mother first dubbed "The Wilderness Area." Each time, it took several hours and pitchers of iced tea to cut and trim until we eventually surrendered to the inevitable. You could hear the grass growing behind your back as you whacked furiously at the mess in front. Finally, as the sun began to set, we hauled our bent tools and smoking mower to the family station wagon, knowing that we had given it our all, but maybe not our best.
Over the next few summers, I turned my focus to the tiny patches of grass that lay between the mobile homes at the trailer park where my new piano teacher lived. I could knock out six of these little plots in the time it took me to make a path in Hornsby's yard. It was, by comparison, easy money. But every time I drove by the Wilderness Area, which sat on the corner of a regular thoroughfare, I felt a twinge.
That was the twinge I felt this morning as I pulled on my gloves and unspooled the extension cord. I powered up the trimmer and whacked at the weeds, and pulled up the blackberry runners. I tried to get things to a place that at least looked level. It doesn't have to be green, and it doesn't have to be pretty, but it shouldn't be dangerous. Then I turned my attention to the plants inside. I can still save them.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Don't Cut Off The Senator's Microphone
On Father's Day, Barack Obama said at the Apostolic Church of God: ``Any fool can have a child. That doesn't make you a father. Too many fathers are AWOL, missing from too many lives and too many homes.''
On July 6, Jesse Jackson said that the Illinois senator was "talking down to black people'' in his recent speeches, and furthermore, he had a very crude suggestion about what he might do to keep that from happening anymore. Though Jesse insisted that he was unaware that his microphone was turned on, Fox News (We Report, You Deride) managed to get it all over the airwaves where the remarks have spawned a life of their own. Jackson's remarks are looking to settle down in the Texas Panhandle, raise some crops and have a few little remarks.
As a media event, it most certainly begins to set the tone for what will be a very dicey six months. At one moment, we are asked to be color-blind, because it is the politically correct thing to do. Then suddenly we are forced to confront the racial divides that continue to exist in our country.
No one plays this game better than the Reverend Jesse Jackson. This is the guy who first asked us to "Keep hope alive" back in the eighties when he was running for President of the United States. This is the same guy who wore a bloody shirt for days after the assassination of Martin Luther King, it was Doctor King's blood. Crude yes, but effective. It got him noticed.
And now, twenty years after his last campaign for President, forty years since that tragic day in Memphis, Jesse is still stirring the pot. It's what he does. Just like accepting the nomination in a football stadium, it's great theater. "It reinforces Obama's effort to present himself as an advocate of responsible personal behavior, a position that Republican candidates like to secure as uniquely their own,'' said Mark Rozell, a professor of public policy at George Mason University. The cynic in me winces in anticipation of what comes next. The Democrat in me can't wait for more.
On July 6, Jesse Jackson said that the Illinois senator was "talking down to black people'' in his recent speeches, and furthermore, he had a very crude suggestion about what he might do to keep that from happening anymore. Though Jesse insisted that he was unaware that his microphone was turned on, Fox News (We Report, You Deride) managed to get it all over the airwaves where the remarks have spawned a life of their own. Jackson's remarks are looking to settle down in the Texas Panhandle, raise some crops and have a few little remarks.
As a media event, it most certainly begins to set the tone for what will be a very dicey six months. At one moment, we are asked to be color-blind, because it is the politically correct thing to do. Then suddenly we are forced to confront the racial divides that continue to exist in our country.
No one plays this game better than the Reverend Jesse Jackson. This is the guy who first asked us to "Keep hope alive" back in the eighties when he was running for President of the United States. This is the same guy who wore a bloody shirt for days after the assassination of Martin Luther King, it was Doctor King's blood. Crude yes, but effective. It got him noticed.
And now, twenty years after his last campaign for President, forty years since that tragic day in Memphis, Jesse is still stirring the pot. It's what he does. Just like accepting the nomination in a football stadium, it's great theater. "It reinforces Obama's effort to present himself as an advocate of responsible personal behavior, a position that Republican candidates like to secure as uniquely their own,'' said Mark Rozell, a professor of public policy at George Mason University. The cynic in me winces in anticipation of what comes next. The Democrat in me can't wait for more.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Date For Two At The Movies: Priceless
I'm a big fan of the American version of "The Office." I love movies, but even more, I love free stuff. So, when my wife brought home a pass for two to see a new movie starring one of the actors from "The Office" for free, I could not imagine a downside.
First, by way of background, it was back in the summer of 1985, as a member of his fan club, I was invited to bring a guest to a free preview screening of "Pee-Wee's Big Adventure." When that was over, my older brother and I used the opportunity to "do laps" in the multiplex and take in a showing of "Weird Science." Two movies for the price of none, but we did buy our own Junior Mints. The eighties were very heady times.
I have been fortunate enough to attend two Hollywood premieres in my life. There were free soft drinks and popcorn at both. The fact that I was allowed free treats to accompany my free movie only made the experience even more sweet. Having spent most of my life worshipping at the altar of the Silver Screen, I have enjoyed the feeling of being, from time to time, "an insider."
That is why, when my wife appeared with tickets to a free screening of a yet-to-be-released feature film, I felt compelled to go along.
Now a word or two about the "free" part. The theater was located twenty-five minutes away, which necessitated not only a Google map, but a tank of gasoline to be purchased. Fifty-odd dollars later, we were on our way to the movies. When we got there, we were pleased to find the parking was, indeed, free. Checking the fine print on our pass, we noticed that we needed to be at or inside the theater early, since the show had been purposely overbooked to insure a packed house. We decided to forgo dinner and take our chances at the snack bar.
This particular superfaplex had one of those cafeteria-style snack bars, where you pick your food, then pay for it on the way out of the big snack corral. We went straight to the hot dogs, which we were informed by the lady who was dropping them onto the hot rollers would be ready "in about twenty-five minutes." To our right, we saw an unclaimed personal pizza that we considered sharing, until we took a look inside the box. By this point, the line was beginning to stream into the theater, and the mild fear that we might miss our "free" movie began to assert itself. We took our ticket stubs and queued up.
Inside the concrete bunker they called a theater, we decided that we would take our chances on the popcorn. This alternative would allow us both to have something to eat and drink for under twenty dollars. My brave wife went off to brave the snack corral one more time, while I endured the endless string of advertisements that played before the feature. When she returned, I was gratified to hear her tale of acquiring free popcorn via a communication bubble with the blue-vested droid who was shoveling kernels into bags. The drinks still cost us eight dollars, but we reveled in our grocery sack size container of popped corn.
Then, after a few unctuous announcements from a studio PR weasel, we were finally treated to our "free movie." If time is in fact money, then I definitely came out on the losing end of this deal. I tried to enjoy myself from the "free" end, but it just kept feeling like the expense to my sense of humor was too great. It wasn't until we were on our way out of our stadium-seated tomb that we finally felt free to let loose. It was a relief, of sorts, to find out that we both had very similar misgivings and complaints.
When we got out, all the local eateries were closing, so we drove home to scrape together a late dinner of leftovers and sarcastic comments about the film. At the end of the evening, on the way out, we had been handed another card that encouraged us to drag our friends to another showing, and to post our love for their film on Facebook. If we did, we were told we could get a free T-shirt. While supplies last. There are no free T-shirts either.
First, by way of background, it was back in the summer of 1985, as a member of his fan club, I was invited to bring a guest to a free preview screening of "Pee-Wee's Big Adventure." When that was over, my older brother and I used the opportunity to "do laps" in the multiplex and take in a showing of "Weird Science." Two movies for the price of none, but we did buy our own Junior Mints. The eighties were very heady times.
I have been fortunate enough to attend two Hollywood premieres in my life. There were free soft drinks and popcorn at both. The fact that I was allowed free treats to accompany my free movie only made the experience even more sweet. Having spent most of my life worshipping at the altar of the Silver Screen, I have enjoyed the feeling of being, from time to time, "an insider."
That is why, when my wife appeared with tickets to a free screening of a yet-to-be-released feature film, I felt compelled to go along.
Now a word or two about the "free" part. The theater was located twenty-five minutes away, which necessitated not only a Google map, but a tank of gasoline to be purchased. Fifty-odd dollars later, we were on our way to the movies. When we got there, we were pleased to find the parking was, indeed, free. Checking the fine print on our pass, we noticed that we needed to be at or inside the theater early, since the show had been purposely overbooked to insure a packed house. We decided to forgo dinner and take our chances at the snack bar.
This particular superfaplex had one of those cafeteria-style snack bars, where you pick your food, then pay for it on the way out of the big snack corral. We went straight to the hot dogs, which we were informed by the lady who was dropping them onto the hot rollers would be ready "in about twenty-five minutes." To our right, we saw an unclaimed personal pizza that we considered sharing, until we took a look inside the box. By this point, the line was beginning to stream into the theater, and the mild fear that we might miss our "free" movie began to assert itself. We took our ticket stubs and queued up.
Inside the concrete bunker they called a theater, we decided that we would take our chances on the popcorn. This alternative would allow us both to have something to eat and drink for under twenty dollars. My brave wife went off to brave the snack corral one more time, while I endured the endless string of advertisements that played before the feature. When she returned, I was gratified to hear her tale of acquiring free popcorn via a communication bubble with the blue-vested droid who was shoveling kernels into bags. The drinks still cost us eight dollars, but we reveled in our grocery sack size container of popped corn.
Then, after a few unctuous announcements from a studio PR weasel, we were finally treated to our "free movie." If time is in fact money, then I definitely came out on the losing end of this deal. I tried to enjoy myself from the "free" end, but it just kept feeling like the expense to my sense of humor was too great. It wasn't until we were on our way out of our stadium-seated tomb that we finally felt free to let loose. It was a relief, of sorts, to find out that we both had very similar misgivings and complaints.
When we got out, all the local eateries were closing, so we drove home to scrape together a late dinner of leftovers and sarcastic comments about the film. At the end of the evening, on the way out, we had been handed another card that encouraged us to drag our friends to another showing, and to post our love for their film on Facebook. If we did, we were told we could get a free T-shirt. While supplies last. There are no free T-shirts either.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Runaround
I suppose I was fortunate to have an older brother who let me know, in no uncertain terms, that I had it easy in elementary school. I had better buck up and be prepared for everlasting torment. Or at least three years of it.
Those warnings ring in my ears as I try to help my son get ready for his first year in middle school. Not unlike me, he gives the outward appearance of a kid who has nothing to fear. He seems eminently capable of making good choices and staying out of trouble. But it's not his choices that I'm worried about.
I'm worried about the choices being made by kids around him. I'm worried about the choices those kids' parents make. And don't get me started about the teachers. And then there's P.E. How does one prepare for the rigors and potential embarrassment of middle school Physical Education?
Yesterday I insisted that my son accompany me on my daily run. It was a hot day, so we agreed to make it short. Even though he was right in the middle of what looked like a very intense Lego creation, he agreed to come along. When we left the house, he needed a little nudge to get him going, but we kept chugging along. We worked our way near the top of the hill, and he slowed to a walk. True to the assertion he had made to me earlier, he was looking at the things he saw around him. "That's why I don't like to run the whole time," he told me.
So I slowed down, but I kept moving too, imagining what a P.E. teacher might say to a kid who stopped in the middle of a lap around the track to inspect a piece of cardboard that had been left the night before. I chose not to say anything, and we picked up our pace again as we made our way down to the next corner. This was the way we made our way around the block. That is, until we reached the top of the last hill, where he let himself tumble forward, arms and legs flopping around, dashing headlong down to the bottom. Every few steps, he would skip, then run a few more, and skip again. I heard the coach's voice in my head once again, and I told it to be quiet. I was watching my eleven-year-old son get his exercise. It's summertime, and the living is easy. Middle school? Well, we'll figure that one out.
Those warnings ring in my ears as I try to help my son get ready for his first year in middle school. Not unlike me, he gives the outward appearance of a kid who has nothing to fear. He seems eminently capable of making good choices and staying out of trouble. But it's not his choices that I'm worried about.
I'm worried about the choices being made by kids around him. I'm worried about the choices those kids' parents make. And don't get me started about the teachers. And then there's P.E. How does one prepare for the rigors and potential embarrassment of middle school Physical Education?
Yesterday I insisted that my son accompany me on my daily run. It was a hot day, so we agreed to make it short. Even though he was right in the middle of what looked like a very intense Lego creation, he agreed to come along. When we left the house, he needed a little nudge to get him going, but we kept chugging along. We worked our way near the top of the hill, and he slowed to a walk. True to the assertion he had made to me earlier, he was looking at the things he saw around him. "That's why I don't like to run the whole time," he told me.
So I slowed down, but I kept moving too, imagining what a P.E. teacher might say to a kid who stopped in the middle of a lap around the track to inspect a piece of cardboard that had been left the night before. I chose not to say anything, and we picked up our pace again as we made our way down to the next corner. This was the way we made our way around the block. That is, until we reached the top of the last hill, where he let himself tumble forward, arms and legs flopping around, dashing headlong down to the bottom. Every few steps, he would skip, then run a few more, and skip again. I heard the coach's voice in my head once again, and I told it to be quiet. I was watching my eleven-year-old son get his exercise. It's summertime, and the living is easy. Middle school? Well, we'll figure that one out.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
Peace Train
Which candidate would get us out of Iraq quickest? That's pretty simple: Today it was John McCain who reiterated his warning that security conditions must dictate troop withdrawals from Iraq. Barack Obama started saying that the United States should set a timetable to pull its troops out of Iraq to pressure leaders there to establish peace way back in April. This is no big news, since this has been the dividing line between most Democrats and Republicans since the war began. Democrats: soon. Republicans: never.
Well, now you can put the Iraqi government on the "soon" side. The Iraqi timeline proposal appears to set an outer limit, requiring U.S. forces to fully withdraw five years after the Iraqis take the lead on security nationwide. That precondition could itself take years. Some type of agreement is required to keep American troops in Iraq after a U.N. mandate expires on December 31 of this year.
John McCain: "I have always said we will come home with honor and with victory and not through a set timetable."
Barack Obama: "I think it's encouraging ... that the prime minister himself now acknowledges that in cooperation with Iraq, it's time for American forces to start sending out a timeframe for the withdrawal."
Honor and victory, or cooperation?
Well, now you can put the Iraqi government on the "soon" side. The Iraqi timeline proposal appears to set an outer limit, requiring U.S. forces to fully withdraw five years after the Iraqis take the lead on security nationwide. That precondition could itself take years. Some type of agreement is required to keep American troops in Iraq after a U.N. mandate expires on December 31 of this year.
John McCain: "I have always said we will come home with honor and with victory and not through a set timetable."
Barack Obama: "I think it's encouraging ... that the prime minister himself now acknowledges that in cooperation with Iraq, it's time for American forces to start sending out a timeframe for the withdrawal."
Honor and victory, or cooperation?
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