Mile High And Rising

"Just to add to what the Obama Campaign stated earlier today, while Bruce is an ardent and dedicated supporter of Senator Obama, he will not be performing at, and, in fact, had never planned to perform, at Invesco Field this Thursday." - from Brucespringsteen.net 8/28/2008
These words come as sad news for my mother, God love her, who told me last night that she had a vision of Bruce showing up just as Barack finished his speech and launching into "The Rising." I could not argue with her idea from a show biz standpoint. It would make great theater. But would it make great politics?
I can remember watching Springsteen unleash that song on the world back in July of 2002. It was a call from a fan after the September 11 attacks that set him to work on that song: "Hey Boss, we need you!" And so back he came, guitars a-blazin', drums a-bashin' and voices a-wailin'. He called on a wounded nation to reach out and take hold of that dream once again:
"A dream of life comes to me
Like a catfish dancin' on the end of the line"
That's the reminder never to give up. That's hope dancing on the end of that line. So it's no wonder that the Obama campaign has been using that message, that invitation to "come on up for a rising tonight." It's a revival of the things that make America work for all of us. One of my wife's favorite Bruce lines came at the end of a show: "Remember, nobody wins unless we all win."
After the Steven Spielberg-directed, Tom Hanks-narrated tribute to our troops last night, the Democrats run the risk of becoming that thing that they have worked so hard to avoid: a caricature. Too much star power might just overshadow the real importance of what is at stake in the next two months. And so I'll be watching tonight, wishing just a little for that "special appearance" but keeping in mind that the time for celebration is behind us again for now. There's a lot of work to be done before election day. I'm guessing the Boss will put on a heck of a show at the inaugural ball.

Go Ask Julie

I was sorry to see that Mackenzie Phillips was back in the news today. Not because I think she's had too much time in the spotlight, but because she was arrested on suspicion of possessing a controlled substance after she allegedly was found carrying drugs at Los Angeles International Airport. "On suspicion" is kind of a gimme here, since Mackenzie has already had her share of run-ins with both the law and controlled substances.
I remember being impressed by her work in "American Graffiti." She was my pre-teen connection to that world of hot rods and sock hops. She was all arms and legs, hopping out of John Milner's '32 Ford to soap the windows of another car full of cruising girls. Mackenzie was never a star, but she certainly had her appeal. Which is why I felt just a trace of shame when I threw in whole hog for my first teenage crush, Valerie Bertinelli.

Even though I shudder a little bit when I see Valerie Bertinelli shilling Jenny Craig, at least she's not showing up in mug shots. Her TV older sister never had trouble keeping the pounds off, not with all that Peruvian Marching Powder she inhaled. It is the enduring story of the daughter of John Phillips, the one who got his looks and had to endure a life as the half-sister of Chynna Phillips. Chynna married a Baldwin, which may be its own curse, but Mackenzie lives on in the shadow of the sixties. She tells stories about how she started smoking pot and dropping acid at twelve years old, and how she was seduced by Mick Jagger when she was just eighteen. And today she was arrested by Sergeant Jim Holcomb of the Los Angeles Airport Police.

I wonder how Bonnie Franklin's doing.

A Night At The Opera

A month or two ago, I read a story about a new opera being written using David Cronenberg's revision of "The Fly" as its libretto. As source material goes, this has all the elements of great opera: love, death, sex, violence, murder, genetic mutation. Since Cronenberg wrote and will be directing the stage version of his story of metamorphosis, the emphasis will most likely be on the last three. It makes me wish that he had picked "Videodrome" or "Scanners" instead, but since I wasn't exactly begging, I guess I can't even begin to be choosy.
But all of this comes as good news for those of us who are starved for a gory good production that oozes and squishes satisfactorily. And you can sing along. Which reminds me of the entertainment sensation of the summer, "Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along-Blog," which in turn reinforces the idea that the ability to tell a story or joke is impressive, but doing it while you are singing is awe-inspiring.
Unless, of course, your songs really stink. I grew up in a house where there was a lot of opera being played, especially on Saturdays when my mother listened to the matinees from the Met. It serves me right that, after years of grumbling and complaining and eventually gaining a begrudging appreciation for the art form, my wife would choose to direct her career path into the musical theater. And while I think that our lives of quiet desperation out here on the left coast can be quite tuneful, I will remain relieved that I do not have to sit through a staging of the opera-ized "Inconvenient Truth."

Citius Altius Fortius

Last night, as the fortnight-plus broadcast of the Beijing Olympics drew to a close, Bob Costas and Chris Collinsworth began to pontificate on the wonderfully small and unified world they had seen on display during the Games. They both wondered aloud about how great it would be if this microcosm could be extended and expanded over from one week in one city to a month or a year, all across the globe. It is an amazing thing to ponder: that spirit of competition coupled with cooperation and sportsmanship spread like a veil over the world.
It would be petty to mention that while those same Games played out in China, Russia was invading Georgia. People and things continued to blow up in Iraq. Sudanese security forces continue to slaughter refugees in Darfur. The Olympic Motto, "Faster, Higher, Stronger," haven't exactly been on display outside Beijing. But we can dream, can't we?
Out in the Mile High City, the next big gala is about to begin. This is the one where all the Democrats get together to create their plan for world domination. In a vaguely touchy-feely-big-tent-kind-of -way. "Democrats will leave this Denver convention unified, organized and stronger than ever to take America in a new direction with Barack Obama and Joe Biden as president and vice president," said House Speaker Nancy Pelosi in a speech to California delegates. She said that all twelve national conventions she has attended have been marked by contentiousness. I guess if you go to a family reunion, you sort of expect your Uncle Ted to get a little surly after the first few beers, but wouldn't it be great if all the choices were as clear as Usain Bolt's world record victories?
Well, I guess we don't get to live in that carefully choreographed world for very long, so we should savor those moments when our best is truly on display, and forgive those moments of weakness when they occur. And keep Uncle Ted away from the cooler.

Look Out, Here Comes Tomorrow

My son and I went on one last summertime run. We agreed that it would probably be a good idea to check out the route to his new school: A Middle School. I already knew the way, and so did he, but I am having a harder time than he is about the distinction between "Junior High" and "Middle School." He's going into sixth grade, and in my world, he's still in elementary school. Not so in his world. He's about to become a little fish in a big pond.
With that in mind, we headed up the hill and wound through the neighborhood that makes his new path. On a Sunday morning, I tried to imagine the stream of children heading out each day on their way to their appointment with math and science and language arts. I thought about the backpacks and lunchboxes that had to be one notch cooler than the year before, since Dora The Explorer probably wouldn't quite pass the peer review for middle schoolers. My son lives in a world of Legos and car magazines, the latter of which will certainly ingratiate him with any number of kids at lunchtime. That is, provided they want to listen to him expound on the handling of the Lamborghini Gallardo LP560-4.
Once we got to the steps of his new school, I told him that I wished that I could be with him tomorrow morning, but I would be there in his heart and his head. He smiled in that borderline sheepish way that middle school boys have, and said, "Yeah Dad," and he gave me our special power-thumb connection. Then he looked up and asked, "Can we go home my way? It's shorter."

Final Cut

It's the time of year when the rosters of your favorite team are getting set to face the upcoming season. There's always a mix of fresh faces along with a number of wily veterans. Egos are inflated and crushed with the stroke of a pen. Stars are made and broken. All for a chance to win in January. Or November.
This year, presidential politics have taken on the tenor of professional football. With his selection of Joe Biden for his running mate via text message, Barack Obama has transported us all into the twenty-first century, reality-TV version of campaigning. Just as there are a lot of first round draft picks who eventually end up being nothing more than a trivia question, I'm sure there were a number of big-name Democrats who sat on the edge of their beds watching their cell phones in the middle of the night, holding out hope that that their name would show up on that little screen when the bell rang. I wonder if there were conciliatory messages sent to Virginia Governor Tim Kaine and Indiana Senator Evan Bayh: "Sore U Cnt B R VP."
Still, it will be interesting to see how John McCain moves to match his opponent's pick. Obama chose age and experience to counter his relative youth and fresh ideas. Who in the GOP has the "fresh legs" needed to support the Straight Talk Express? Still, in the end, it seems that this is all a lot of fuss generated about a guy who will probably end up carrying a clipboard most of the season.

Coming Soon!

Twelve years ago when I went into my first classroom, my very own classroom, this was impressed upon me by my principal: Bulletin Boards. At no time prior to that moment had any of my brief but arduous teacher training had anyone mentioned this facet of the educational process. Keeping a colorful and lively learning environment seems like a natural thing to attend to, but eventually, not on the very first day in my very first classroom.
That wasn't negotiable. My principal wanted me to have bright new paper up on my bulletin boards with those crinkly little strips of border around the edges. She was my boss. She was the lady who hired me. She was the woman who made it possible for me to begin my career as a teacher. Of course I went to the teacher's lounge where the big rolls of butcher paper were available in a rainbow of hues, and then a few rolls of border. I cut and stapled and fussed and stapled some more until finally I had a room full of yellow and blue, surrounded by green and red waves of crinkly little strips of border. I had plenty of help back then. The assistant to the principal, before we had an assistant principal, gave me all kinds of good advice about how to make a bulletin board jump up and say, "Welcome to my room!"
A dozen years later, I started my day working on my bulletin boards. I picked a color scheme that featured orange and blue. It took me an hour or two to get things just right, but all of a sudden, ti looked like a classroom. As the day wore on, there were plenty of other teachers busying themselves about all the tasks that needed to be done before the first day of school: copies made, nametags written, desks arranged, and a hundred other tiny details. When the smoke cleared, some of our teachers had left without fulfilling their prime directive: They had left their bulletin boards bare. I spent the last hour or two before I came home cutting and stapling and fussing and stapling some more on boards outside other teachers' rooms. School starts on Monday, and my bulletin boards are ready to go. I just hope I will be.