Conservatively Compassionate

Chicago Sun-Times columnist Robert Novak says he is suspending his journalistic work for an indefinite, "but God willing, not too lengthy period." His statement did not say if the tumor was malignant. I can't imagine that anything that might be found in or around Mister Novak would be anything but malignant.
On April 27, 1972 Novak reported in a column that an unnamed Democratic senator had talked to him about McGovern. "The people don’t know McGovern is for amnesty, abortion and legalization of pot," the Senator said. "Once middle America - Catholic middle America, in particular - finds this out, he’s dead." The label stuck and McGovern became known as the candidate of "amnesty, abortion and acid."
In 2002, Novak's attitudes towards animal welfare came under scrutiny when he stated in an interview that he attended a cockfight in Puerto Rico and "relished it tremendously", adding that the United States has "too damn many" anti-cruelty statutes. He also expressed his avid support of dog fighting and bullfighting.
In 2005, he left CNN after twenty-five years after an on-air dustup that ended up with Mister Novak throwing down his microphone and storming off the stage. And where do you suppose he reappeared just a few months later? On Fox "We Report, You Deride" News as a "news contributor."
If it was their intent to acquire a maker of news, then they got their money's worth. Novak was the first to publicly reveal the name of CIA operative Valerie Plame. "Scooter" Until his sentence was commuted by his Pinhead Boss, "Scooter" Libby went to jail for being one of the few government officials to be caught spilling the covert beans about Ms. Plame's identity. Bob Novak used the opportunity to switch networks.
Just a few days ago, Novak was cited by police after he hit a sixty-six year old pedestrian with his black Corvette in downtown Washington, D.C. Bob told reporters, "He's not dead, that's the main thing." Mister Novak was chased down and stopped by a witness on a bicycle who caught up with him and then put his bike in front of the car to block it and called 911. According to an item in The Washington Post’s Reliable Source column, Novak explained away a prior near-miss with a pedestrian: "He was crossing on the red light. I really hate jaywalkers. I despise them. Since I don't run the country, all I can do is yell at 'em. The other option is to run 'em over, but as a compassionate conservative, I would never do that." Two years later, the same column reported that Novak had gone to a racing school in Florida. "I've wanted to be a racecar driver all my life, and anyone who has watched me drive can tell you that,” Novak said.
Maybe now that he has a brain tumor, someone at the Make-A-Wish Foundation can make that dream come true. Until then, let's all enjoy the quiet of Robert Novak's absence.

Well Of Souls

I've been getting a lot of e-mail lately exhorting the joys of "Christian Dating." I have no doubt that if I were a single Christian, this might be the first thing I look at, right after that message from this poor Angolan woman whose husband was killed by evil despots and needs my help to return his fortune to his family. So many people need my help out there, why not help myself with a little Christian Love Connection?
I guess the best reason for this would be that I am already married, so my need for a dating service seems a little redundant. I also wonder a little about just how "Christian" it is to seek out potential life partners using Al Gore's Internet. If the eyes are a window into your soul, what kind of view does one get from an on-line profile? What makes this service morally superior to any other?
I wonder this because of a time in my now distant past that I once drove down to put my face and idiosyncrasies in the pool of Great Expectations, a dating service of some renown. I went after work, so I carried a couple extra shirts with me, as I was reminded oh-so-politely that making an impression is the first step. My sweaty Western Systems Installation shirt was probably not going to net me the girl of my dreams. I entered with an open mind. After all, I had gone a number of years without going on a single "real date," and I reckoned that maybe I needed professional help.
To make a long story short, I found that I couldn't really afford their service, and not just financially. During my introductory interview, I found that I wasn't nearly as desperate as I thought I was for companionship. There were plenty of other sad and lonely people ahead of me willing to part with a good chunk of cash along with a portion of their dignity to be fixed up with their life partner. I never bother changing my shirt. I drove home alone, but just a little bit happier than when I started the day.
Now one can enjoy the same experience from the privacy of their own homes, from the relative safety of their computer screens. Like adult entertainment before it, the dating experience has found a safe and discreet home on Al Gore's Internet. Part of me wonders if I would have been more willing to participate in my own Great Expectations if I could have done it with a keyboard and a mouse. I guess I'm glad that it never came to that.

"Y"? Because We Like It

We get the same response from a lot of people when they hear where we're going on vacation: "You're going back there again?" We are nothing if not creatures of habit. We like our Disney, and we like it in big steamy, fun-filled days. It is a tradition that has been handed down from my father and, well, from my father anyway.
Growing up, my family didn't make that many trips to the Magic Kingdom, but when it was time, each of us three boys were introduced to the House of Mouse in order that we might one day find a way to preserve the order. My older brother, though he lives half a continent away from either of the American Disney parks, has made it a priority to get himself and as much of his family as he can manage to Anaheim on a regular basis, with an occasional stop in Orlando as well. He is a franchise kind of guy.
I am very much the same way, having made my biggest connection to Disneyland eighteen years ago, when I drove down from Oakland with my girlfriend to meet my younger brother and some friends for the day. Little did we know that we would be inaugurating a trend. Later, when that girlfriend became my wife, we insisted that one of the ports of call on our honeymoon was Disney World. It gave my father-in-law great pause to know that this new addition to his family was so consumed with an amusement park.
I could have told him what I tell other people: It isn't just an amusement park. It's a way of being. The people are nicer there. They're helpful to the point of absurdity at times, and while I've certainly had a few tough days in The Happiest Place On Earth, I know that any day in Disneyland beats the heck out of any day on the job. Even standing in line is relatively pleasant there, and they've just given us all a way to avoid even that by clever use of the Fast Pass system, that allows guests to return at a more convenient time to skip the extra stress of having to wait for a chance to get spun, turned, dropped or tossed about. You could spend day just sitting on a bench near Main Street watching the people go by and have a pretty good time. One night, as we stood watching a fireworks spectacular from behind Sleeping Beauty's castle, a helpful Disney insider - not an employee but a seasoned observer of such things - shouted, "Look to the Matterhorn!" Sure enough, suspended high above the expanse between Fantasy and Fontierland was Tinkerbell, flashing through the rockets' red glare. It gave us all a deeper sense of community, and mild obsession. The next day, a cast member gave my son an "Honorary Citizen of Disneyland" button just for being such an interested observer as we loaded into the submarine ride. I don't know when I've been so proud. Or so jealous.
We're just about done with this trip, but we're already anticipating the next. Waiting in line for Pirates of the Caribbean is nothing compared to waiting for your next trip to Disneyland.

Amped Up

There are a few peak moments in my musical memory: Hearing the swirling keyboard intro to "Baba O'Riley" pour out over the crowd at Folsom Field. The thunder of the opening chords of "Born in the U.S.A." roaring out into Mile High Stadium. The echoes of the crowd singing along with the chorus of "Biko" as Peter Gabriel told us "the rest is up to you."
There are more, but the thing that these all have in common are that they were all loud. I studied music, and I was instructed in the ways of dynamics. Sometimes it's necessary to be quiet. There should always be contrast. That is why it is so very important to have an amp that will go up to eleven. After all, it is one more, isn't it?
I remember there was a short period there when Pete Townshend wasn't going to be playing electric guitar anymore. This was due in part to The Who concert at Charlton Athletic Football Ground, London, on May 31, 1976 that was listed in the Guinness Book of Records, where the volume level was measured at 126 decibels. I still remember wondering, after the first concert I attended featuring a very exuberant Elton John, how long that ringing in my ears would last. Pete's working on about thirty years now.
I know that there is danger in those decibels. I also know that my goose flesh is connected directly to the volume control. It's a terrible habit, and I know that I need to be careful about what I model for my son. He wore his ear protection when he went to see DEVO. And The Police. And Springsteen. This kid rocks, and even though I sometimes have to call his name two or three times to get his attention, I know he's not losing his hearing. He's just ignoring me.

Nice Is A City In France

A little over nineteen years ago, I became an uncle. It's a great way to test your parenting skills with all the benefits and very little downside. It is basically the uncle's responsibility to do fun stuff and remain entertaining without endangering the child. We get them stirred up, and the parents have to calm them back down. We also understand that as soon as we demonstrate any kind of competence as caregivers that the potential for more responsibility looms.
That's why, when my niece was just a few weeks old, I announced that she was more than welcome to spend the night at my house as soon as she could say, "Uncle Dave, I need to use the bathroom. Where is it?" This was the line I drew in the sand, which immediately set my older brother to work on exactly what he hoped his daughter's first words would be. The clock, as they say, was ticking.
I am pleased and happy to say that this past week she hasn't asked me once about going to the bathroom. She has managed that just fine on her own. After years of making the trek from her home in Colorado out here to California with various and sundry guardians, this time she came by herself. We had a great time together, playing Guitar Hero, going to the movies, and shopping for new shoes. I feel very pleased and honored that she picked our house as a travel destination. We even gave her a shot at taking care of our dog.
Who could blame her if she said, "I'll be happy to keep your dog overnight as soon as she can bark 'I need to go use the bathroom, where is it?"

Mean Motor Scooter

My older brother owned a motorcycle before he could legally drive a car. That set the precedent for his two younger brothers to do just the same. I did inherit Kawasaki Trail Boss for a summer, but like all hand-me-downs, it never had that stink of something new. It wasn't mine. I was just riding around on my brother's motorcycle. My younger brother and I shared "my" motorcycle for a couple more summers, but when it was time, he got his own. The reason for this transition isn't hard to fathom. We graduated to cars. Four wheels beats two every time.

Well, almost every time. I have very fond memories of the summers I spent tooling around the dusty mountain roads on my Kawasaki. I learned a good deal about the care and maintenance of a motor vehicle as I did. I learned to handle a clutch, and the vital distinction between a front and rear brake. I learned to judge RPMs by ear, and how to jump start a flooded engine. Mostly I remember the feeling of mastering the hand-foot coordination that is required to handle a manual transmission.

Many years later, when I had long since given up on two wheels, I was given the opportunity to apply my talents to a paying gig. After I left the world of video rental, or to be more specific, the world of video rental left me, I went to work installing modular office furniture. My boss had another business on the side: Motorcycle escorts for funerals. A cool way to get out of having to lift and move heavy steel desks aroune the Denver metro area was to ride a motorcycle with a siren on it, stopping traffic at major intersections in the Denver metro area. There was one sticking point: I had no motorcycle endorsement on my license. I had also grown up riding little trail bikes, and that was a very different experience from the Harley Davidsons I was being asked to ride. On slow days at the warehouse, I would take a bike out and practice in the neighborhood. Stopping. Starting. Popping the clutch. Starting again. I never had the skill or confidence to go down to the DMV and take the test. I just kept lugging those steel desks from room to room in IBM branches across the front range. And I dreamed of riding motorcycles.

That's Kind Of Interesting

Back in the late eighties, I lived a very trivial existence. That is to say, I was very pleased and gratified when the rest of the planet came around to my point of view and began to fully celebrate those absurd little bits of information that I had spent all of my life retaining. Larry Mondello's real name, Robert "Rusty" Stevens, became useful cogs in the machine once again as Trivial Pursuit was all the rage.
Yes, I was one of those guys who looked forward to the release of each new batch of questions, and I was also one of those guys who winced every time someone called it "The Genius Edition." That's "Genus," okay? My friend and I played marathon games on a board that had soaked up almost as many beers as we had, but our playing pieces were not the simple plastic pie holders. We had the Executive version, that came with tiny holes on the bottom to allow stuck scoring wedges to be removed with relative ease. We took our trivia seriously. Which is why it became increasingly difficult to get any kind of competition.

I lived between two worlds: Too good for my friends to play a nice, relaxing game with me, and not good enough to go on "Jeopardy." This meant that I had to look bored and disinterested when someone would spot our game in the closet. "Does anybody want to play Trivial Pursuit?" Oh, gosh, if I have to. Then it was important to take it easy for the first few trips around the board, hanging around the Science and Nature questions, and even the occasional Geography inquiry. Then it was time to move in for the slam-dunks: Stage and Screen and Literature. If I didn't take it slow, the games were inevitably over before they began. Once I started playing the Baby Boomer Edition, it got even worse. One guy got so fed up with the string of answers I had put together that he accused me of memorizing the cards. Even if I had, six questions per card and hundreds of cards, wouldn't that have been a significant enough accomplishment to sit back and appreciate?

That wasn't the case. Being good at Trivial Pursuit just left me in that odd position of being asked for obscure pieces of information on subjects that I had little or no knowledge. If I didn't know the answer, I was always anxious to find out what it might be in case it came up again. To my great dismay, many of these clever individuals didn't come with the answer, they just assumed that I should know. This was back before the easy access to Al Gore's Internet and the information superhighway. If you wanted to know who played the Professor on "Gilligan's Island," you either knew it or waited for a rerun to verify your best guess. And woe to the scruffy nit who wanted to know what the Professor's real name was. Not the actor's name, that was Russell Johnson, but the character's name.

Or Mary Ann's last name.

Or the name of the drummer in The Cars.

Or the title of the book on which the movie "A Christmas Story" was based.

I know. Who cares? I did. I still do. My wife thinks I should have my own TV show. It would be called "How Does He Remember All That Stuff?" It would come on right after the show my younger brother and I wanted to host back in the eighties. It was going to be a showcase for all those people who weren't quite amazing enough to be on "That's Incredible." It was going to be called "That's Kind Of Interesting," starring TV's first Wonder Woman, Cathy Lee Crosby. I don't just remember trivia, I make it up, too.