Heart-Shaped Bike

What she said to me was this: "We may never have a new car, but I can give you a new bike." This was how she introduced me to the vehicle that would be my main mode of transportation for the next decade. Green and sleek, it was a bicycle like I had not seen before. It wasn't a mountain bike. It wasn't a racing bike. It was a Raleigh C-40. Shifters on the handlebars, under my thumbs, changing gears was a twist of the right hand, or the left if I wanted to shift down into climbing mode. Twenty-one speeds. More than twice the number I had ever experienced before.
All these years later I still marvel at it. Not just the bicycle. That is certainly amazing enough, but the way this gift has kept on giving. Over the course of days and weeks and months that I have been riding my Raleigh, we have owned three different cars. This is not to say that we go through cars, either. We ran one, a white hatchback of limited repute, into the ground. Bought it's replacement: gold Saturn station wagon. That was stolen. Then we bought our space age Prius. I've put a lot of miles on the C-40 in that time. It's not a new bike anymore. I'd like to tell you that I've been a lot of places, but my bike and I are pretty much a one-route tandem: back and forth to work.
And that's where the romance comes in. Every day it's like the elastic band that connects me to my love, my life. The bike is the thing that brings me back home. It was a gift from my wife, so I believe she expects me to come back. She wants me to come back. So that's what I do, as fast as that old bike will let me. 

Disposable

I went to see "Monuments Men." This film tells the heroic tale of a group of battle-hardened art historians who go behind enemy lines near the end of World War II, searching for paintings and statues that have been stolen by the Nazis. It was a nice slice of that corner of history. The Allies banding together to keep Adolph Hitler from gathering all the world's great works for his own, and saving many treasures from ages past from becoming rubble and ash. It did prompt me to reflect on art preservation.
That same weekend, I took my son to see the "Dark Side of the Moon" Laserium show. He had missed it when my wife and I had gone before Christmas, and we were anxious to share this slice of our past with him. I know every note from years of listening to the album through headphones, and I was familiar with the light show from my previous visit and the multiple times I sat in various stages of consciousness while the lasers danced above my head when I was in high school and college. After the show was over, we stayed a little for my son the techie to talk with Danny the Laserist. They talked about the science that made the art. Danny told about how he came to be a Laser Artist. I watched my son's fascination grow. A new generation of appreciation for the dancing lights and Pink Floyd was growing in front of me.
Later that night, the Columbia Broadcasting System ran a special commemorating the first appearance of the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan show. Half a century of Beatlemania. An audience of millions watched as the glitterati sat and watched today's stars pay tribute to the Fab Four at fifty. Their musical influence can still be felt in this new century, just as the strains of baroque piano could be found "In My Life." I wondered if we would be gathering again, in another fifty years, to celebrate this moment in time.
I wondered about Ryan O'Neal fully appreciates Andy Warhol's painting of his enamorata, Farrah Fawcett. It has stood the test of time for more than three decades. I wondered if some future oppressive regime might try to forcibly remove that portrait. Would it end up on the "save" pile, or the "delete," as many of Picasso's works did during the Nazi occupation? Then I remembered Rabo Karabekian, the hero of Kurt Vonnegut's novel, Bluebeard. Mister Karabekian was an abstract impressionist who maintains a barn full of what might be masterpieces. As it turns out, spoiler alert, Karabekian's last painting is an enormous photo-realistic picture of his experience of World War II where he and five-thousand, two hundred and nineteen other prisoners of war, gypsies, and concentration camp victims were dumped in a valley when the German forces realized that the war was lost.
What will be left behind by the next war? Pink Floyd? Daft Punk?

The Club

My son's friend had knee surgery last week. He is seventeen years old. He's very uncomfortable, and is having trouble sleeping. He is also part of a club which I joined nearly thirty years ago, when I was in my twenties. I understand his pain. I empathize with his despair. Over the next several weeks, he will have plenty of time to reflect on the importance of that great big leg knuckle: his knee.
That nice little bend you get halfway down your leg turns out to be a very useful thing. In its simplest form, it can be very helpful in getting on one's pants and socks. My own experience of having the my left side turned into a tin soldier for months while I waited for the miracles of modern medicine preformed by the surgeons to become apparent was torturous. This was due, in large part, to the fact that my injury came at a time in my life when I took mobility for granted. I was not yet grunting as I leaned down to pick things off the ground. I didn't have to consider my approach to inclined planes or stairs. In a moment, that changed. His came on the lacrosse field. Mine came on the playground. He was at practice. I jumped out of a swing. Neither one of these actions would seem like high-risk or irresponsible. Well, the lacrosse practice at least. When you're seventeen, or twenty-seven, you feel like you're indestructible. You're still operating with original equipment. It's still a while before you feel the need for thirty thousand mile checkups. Most of us haven't even read the owner's manual at this point.
That all changes when you crumple into a ball, while your friends gather around, puzzled as to why this previously active, vital part of their lives is suddenly much closer to the ground, alternating curses and moans. Suddenly every injury time out on ever NFL broadcast you've ever seen comes back to you in sharp relief, only here there is no cut away for a Bud Light commercial. It's just you and all that gravity that had previously seemed so easy to deal with. Bipedal motion is now on hold, and will be for some time to come. The delicate arrangement of muscles and ligaments just below the thigh are now negotiable.
And here is what I tried to tell my son's friend: They can fix it. It won't always hurt like it does now. The agonies of the physical pain and the emotional torment of wondering when things would be normal again fade. But now you're part of the club. The ones who see that halfback, skier, skater, pedestrian or passerby drop down and clutch at their knee, and they remember. Then they say a little prayer to the gods of medial collateral and meniscus and wait for a chance to share their stories with the newest member of the club.

Sometimes They Come Back

That title up there is also the title of a Stephen King short story about a guy who is tormented by visions of his past. I wonder if David Letterman, Conan O'Brien or Jimmy Fallon have read it. Jay Leno has trundled off into the sunset. Again. This time it's for real. At least that's the way the National Broadcasting Company would like to tell it. The last time Jay left, NBC had him on a pretty short leash. They wanted to keep Jay and his chin around in prime time. That didn't work out so well. Not for Jay. Not for Conan. Jimmy Kimmel and David Letterman tried not to be too smug about it. But that's show biz, right?
Well, twenty-two years later, minus the four or five months when Jay came on before the local news and that red-haired guy was filling in for him, Jay Leno has left the building. Perhaps, to be more precise, the building is leaving Jay. The Tonight Show is heading back to its roots in New York City. Jay's staff has been laid off, and the Olympics are over in Sochi, the curtain will rise on a new era that might look strikingly like an old era for the Tonight Show. One that would be funny. One that would be worth watching. One that would at least be worth recording.
I used to like Jay Leno. Way back in the 1980's, when he was a guest on David Letterman's show. He was a stand-up comedian. He told jokes. There was an edge to the guy. In order to get the spot vacated by Johnny Carson, he sanded off those rough spots and became the safe and sane choice for America's late night talk show host. How might things have been different if David Letterman had walked right in and taken over? After all, Dave had a successful ten-year run as host of his own NBC late-night show. Jay was a stand-up comedian. Sometimes he was really funny. That's how you get a show, right? Sometimes you're funny. If you can be pretty funny for a number of years without embarrassing anyone or winding up dead, you'll probably get a show.
Now it's time to say goodbye to Jay one more time. Goodbye, Jay. If I were Jimmy Fallon, I would make sure that wherever they bury him, that it wasn't previously an Native American burial ground.

What's In A Name?

There are five Siones at my school. I have come to understand that this is essentially the Tongan version of "John."  This understanding does not make it easier to distinguish in a crowd setting, such as a crowded playground at lunch time. We used to have the same issue with "Jose," but some of those have matriculated or moved away. Using my Great Big Teacher Voice from across the yard, I sometimes manage to get the attention of both of the Joses we have left, but that's an easy enough matter to sort out.
Then there's the matter of Alicia. We have three of them. To be more precise, we have two Alicias, and one Alesha. One of the Alicias is phonetically "uh-lee-see-ya." The other two are "uh-leash-uh." Not an issue unless we are in a crowd situation and it becomes a primary concern that I separate one from the rest. Since they tend to flock together, this becomes less of an issue. The real challenge comes when I am in the midst of a lesson and my mind is not on my seating chart when a hand is raised or someone cries out, "Mister Caven?"
"Yes uh-leash-uh?"
Perturbed pause, "Uh-lee-see-ya."
"Right, sorry. Uh-lee-see-ya." Hails of derisive laughter from my fifth grade audience. Moments later we return to the issue at hand, after having discerned the proper pronunciation for all to hear.
Then there's the matter of Angels. There are three currently at our school. Two boys and one girl. I don't have much trouble distinguishing them, but the irony of their name as a descriptor is the part that sticks with me. Very little, short of sprouting wings and donning a halo would bring these children more in line with their moniker. I always feel a twinge as I write referrals that include the phrase "Angel was having a problem working and playing with others today."
I try not to make it any more confusing by signing them "Mister Cabin."

Higher, Faster, Stronger, Gayer

Ah, the spectacle of the Olympics. Every four years, the world's elite athletes converge on one of the great cities of our globe to compete. Or is that only two. I could swear that we just finished an Olympics. That was in London, right? All that pageantry doesn't seem so distant. It feels like it was just a couple of years ago. Because it was.
Twenty-two years ago, it was somebody's bright idea to alternate Olympic Games, Winter and Summer, dropping one or the other in every two years. Now, just as we are forgetting about London, and Vancouver in 2010, here comes Sochi. That's in Russia. You've probably heard something about those since there's this little matter of tolerance that became an issue when Vladimir "Putin On The Ritz" Putin decided to show his true colors, none of which can be found in the rainbow flag. "The Olympic Games will be held in full compliance with the Olympic charter, without any discrimination on any basis. Russia will be rooting for its own athletes of course, but we wish success to all the athletes," Putin said. Feel free to doubt the sincerity of his comments, considering his country's anti-gay laws. No less a world presence than corporate giant AT&T has spoken out against Russia's discriminatory practices. "We celebrate the diversity of all Olympic athletes, their fans, Russian residents and all the people the world over - including, and especially, our employees and their loved ones." A very nice sentiment, and one that almost feels redundant in the shadow of the Olympic Creed, "The most important thing in the Olympic Games is not to win but to take part, just as the most important thing in life is not the triumph but the struggle. The essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well."
I thought back to this year's Grammy telecast, the one they hold every year without differentiating between Winter and Summer, and how my son is growing up in a world where the sight of gay men and women expressing their love and getting married is still a kind of spectacle, but it is now becoming part of the awards season. In another two years, when the Olympics turn to summer and land in Rio de Janeiro, I'm guessing the vibe will be a little different than it is currently on the shores of the Black Sea. The nice thing about having only two years between Olypmpiads is that we can now see just how fast the world is changing. And that's a good thing.

We celebrate the diversity of all Olympic athletes

We celebrate the diversity of all Olympic athletes, their fans, Russian residents and all people the world over – including and, especially, our employees and their loved ones.  - See more at: http://blogs.att.net/consumerblog/story/a7793998#sthash.Rm3lDx40.dpuf

We celebrate the diversity of all Olympic athletes, their fans, Russian residents and all people the world over – including and, especially, our employees and their loved ones.  - See more at: http://blogs.att.net/consumerblog/story/a7793998#sthash.Rm3lDx40.dpuf

We celebrate the diversity of all Olympic athletes, their fans, Russian residents and all people the world over – including and, especially, our employees and their loved ones.  - See more at: http://blogs.att.net/consumerblog/story/a7793998#sthash.Rm3lDx40.dpu

We celebrate the diversity of all Olympic athletes, their fans, Russian residents and all people the world over – including and, especially, our employees and their loved ones.  - See more at: http://blogs.att.net/consumerblog/story/a7793998#sthash.Rm3lDx40.dpuf

The Sound And Fury

Around my house, we're just about over the Super Debacle. We still have neighbors and friends stopping by to offer their sympathies. My wife suffered her first bout with Big Game Depression. Not even a big slice of chocolate cream pie could fill that void. And still people keep looking to us for an explanation: "What happened?"
I don't know what happened, exactly. I know that very good teams are capable of playing very poorly at the most inopportune moments. When that big light shines down on you and the planet, at least the ones who aren't watching The Puppy Bowl, are staring at you, it's likely that the stress is at such a level that we mere mortals will never fully understand it.
That's why some people fake it. Rather than take any chances, they go with the easiest possible way out. I'm not suggesting that Peyton Manning phoned that one in. On the contrary: if he were just going through the motions it could have been much more ridiculous, and obvious. Like playing a bass that wasn't plugged into anything. And while this provided one member of the Red Hot Chili Peppers more flexibility when it came to lunging about the halftime stage, it raised some questions about just what part of their performance was live, and how much was Memorex.
As it turns out, Anthony Kiedis was giving it away in the sense that he was truly singing. The rest of the Peppers were pretending to play to a track they had already played, and recorded especially for the spectacle that is the Super Bowl. We know this because Mister Flea confessed to the pantomime performance on their website. No shame. No recriminations. No Beyonce-type controversy.  "I would do it all the same way again," Flea writes, with complete resolve.
For his part, Peyton Manning probably wishes that he could have found a way to play to some pre-recorded "Omahas" himself.