Hard Word

What does it mean to say goodbye? I am thinking of all those times I have heard people say, "Let's not say goodbye, let's just say..." And they insert some foreign phrase or polite substitute that doesn't carry the psychic weight of that one compound word: Goodbye. It has come to be such a final thing. I don't want to say goodbye to anyone, just in case we happen to cross paths again. Especially awkward are those moments when you part from someone and then you end up going in the same direction for another block or two, and you have to make that choice: Should I continue to bid them farewell, or will that initial parting be sufficient until I meet them again in some officially recognized capacity?
I am awful at partings, which is why this haunts me so. I either make a great show of leaving, or try and get out undetected. But since I'm such a fan of summing things up, I often feel compelled to get that last word in, just keeping in mind that it almost certainly should not be "goodbye." What? Like we're never going to see each other again? Is that what you mean?
No, although I wish there was a way that we could impart that meaning in some civilized fashion without swinging too far across on the rude pendulum. I'm thinking specifically of telemarketers and customer service people. Faceless personages who will almost certainly cease to be of any use to me, in spite their insistence at the beginning of the call that I we address one another as if we should be on a first name basis. This could even extend to the waiter at that restaurant you're never going back to: "Hi, I'm John and I'll be your waiter this evening." When I finish my meal, I want to tell John that no matter how much I enjoyed his description of the specials and the extra fork he brought me that this is Goodbye. We are done. It's not out of spite or any sort of class distinction, I'm through. I'm gone. Goodbye.
Which may point out a flaw in our over-friendly consumer culture. All those name tags and obsequious introductions mean we have to sever those connections at some point. I'm sorry, Chad, but even though you gave me superb attention the whole time I was in your aisle at Best Buy, I have to move on with my life. Maybe I'm just overly sensitive because my father was the type of guy who never said goodbye to anyone. Even when he split from my mother, he kept calling her and chatting about this and that. He would not let go. Letting go has never been one of my best things, but I have learned how to leave a place. Even thought I do tend to find my way back again, with an eye out for John or Chad in case they're still working there, I like the idea that I can be finished. As terrifying as it may be, I look forward to those opportunities to say goodbye. I promise to be happy to see you when we meet again. Now stop following me.

Real Fake

One of the sad duties I have to perform as an elementary school teacher is to give my young charges the occasional reality check. This comes out most often when the discussion turns to wrestling. "Professional Wrestling." I like to tell them that I am very impressed by the athleticism on display, but these guys aren't wrestling as much as they are hurling their bodies about the squared circle to the delight of fans from five to one hundred and five. It's not wrestling.
"But Mister Caven," they insist, "what about when Kane made the Undertaker bleed?"
I remind them that, as nine and ten year-olds, they should be familiar with fake blood.
"What about when John Cena hit that guy with a chair?"
Did you ever see a movie where the bad guy got hit with a chair? Do you think they really did that?
"But he was knocked out!"
You don't think he was faking, do you?
And so it goes. Nearly twenty years after I started, I'm still poking holes in the fascination bubbles of young men and their heroes. When I started, Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson was just "The Rock." He's had time to go out and have a movie career and come back to the ring as a conquering hero. I try not to rub kids' noses in the levels of reality this asks them to comprehend. Do they think that Mister Johnson was off in the desert really being the Scorpion King, or was he pretending? Did he miss all those matches because of his other job as an FBI agent furiously chasing fast Vin Diesel?
Okay, maybe I should lighten up. I'm not giving away any of the Easter Bunny, Santa or Tooth Fairy secrets. Why should I busy myself trying to diminish the joys of fourth graders? Maybe it's because of the years I spent learning how to wrestle, for real. The blood I spilled from a broken nose, for real. And the number of chairs I used against opponents: zero. I guess I could offer up more of my personal perspective rather than making fun of their heroes. I could relax and let them have their joy.
I could, but I probably won't. It strikes me in the same muscle that is affected when a student looks up at me and asks if there is such a thing as Bloody Mary. Or Big Foot. The world is crazy enough all on its own without having to worry about ghosts being conjured up from a bathroom mirror or a hairy seven foot tall simian who has a thing for beef jerky. Come to think of it, Randy "Macho Man" Savage was pretty furry, and he sure liked his Slim Jims. And he was real, right?

Spoiler Alert!

Okay, so you got this far. The title didn't keep you from reading the rest of this post, so I'll assume you're the devil-may-care type who likes to dance on the leading edge of popular culture. You want to know what's new before it's new. You don't want to hear about what happened at the water cooler on Monday morning, you want to be there on Friday afternoon when they're delivering the water and the guy who drives the truck saw a rough cut of the latest blockbuster at a screening for guys who drive water trucks and he can tell you that the big news is that Optimus Prime flies. I know, right?
Never mind that that whole robot that turns into a truck thing was pretty spectacular, and if you drove a water truck for a living you might periodically fantasize about how that truck could turn into a giant robot to help you unload those great heavy bottles of water. And defend humanity against the threat of other robots that turn into household appliances and very expensive cars. Which is just great, since the threat of being overwhelmed and destroyed by a race of giant robots that have a penchant for turning into everyday objects has never been greater. It does make me wonder, however, why the fact that their leader has been hiding this rather impressive light under a barrel. Optimus Prime can fly.
If you were the leader of a group of giant robots who landed here on earth and weren't necessarily geared toward global domination or destruction, it makes sense that you might want to remain discrete. If your version of discrete includes showing up as a Peterbilt 379 truck with flames painted on the cab. He's a robot in disguise, get it? If he showed up as a space shuttle or a Boeing Dreamliner, it would be such a giveaway. Talk about your spoiler alerts.
If I had known that the dinosaurs got loose before I went to see Jurassic Park, I think I still would have gone. Twenty-five years ago, Michael Keaton let slip in an interview with David Letterman that it was the Joker who killed Bruce Wayne's parents, they still managed to sell some tickets. I was one of those who waited in line. I still wanted to see it. I can't say that I felt the same way when I saw Optimus Prime fly. My son points out, correctly, that the leader of the Autobots has flown before, but I argued that it took a special expansion trailer that he had to have nearby so that he could, well, fly. The fact that this is something that I would spend any time at all discussing should make clear that I am that person sitting in front of his computer waiting for the latest news on the Hulk's new purple pants and the search for just the right Aquaman. How can this possibly matter?
Why, in a world torn by religious and racial tension, with economic and ecological catastrophes occurring with frightening regularity, would I spend any time at all worrying about giving away secrets about a movie depicting the exploits of giant robots who were sent here ostensibly to save us from ourselves? Because, if any of this turns out to be some sort of wild coincidence or conspiracy, it could be very important inside information to know that Optimus Prime can fly.

Keep It On The Download

Okay, I own a bunch of DVDs. I don't watch them. I used to own a bunch of laserdiscs. I don't watch them anymore because I replaced them all with the DVDs that I am no longer watching. Those laserdiscs were a replacement for the shelves full of VHS tapes that I had collected for years before that. My love of movies has been expensive. I currently have nearly the maximum number of cable TV channels that will show me movies, most of which I have seen before. I take great comfort in re-watching films I have seen and enjoyed. I like to keep my old friends close by.
That's why I am so intrigued and pleased with the idea of streaming video. Every film ever made is just sitting out there somewhere on a hard drive, waiting to find its way into my home for one more showing. That's what Netflix will do for anyone who subscribes to their service. Push that button or click that mouse and your favorite movie will start right up. You don't have to wait by your mailbox for a disc in an envelope. You don't have to remember to return anything. And you can watch it a whole boatload of times before your twenty-four hours rental is done. If that's not enough, just push the button and again and invite it back for a second straight day of binge-watching.
Sounds too good to be true, right? That's because it pretty much is. Netflix has done my family the huge favor of bringing back "Arrested Development" for their victory lap of a season, after we had greedily consumed all the previous episodes the summer before. Then they came out with a batch of their own shows that were so very good that new subscribers lined up online to be a part of the fun. Until now. Now that Netflix has decided to remove all the Rocky films from its downloadable content. Even the good ones. They're also getting rid of Taxi Driver. And a whole lot of of other films that you and I might get a wild hair and decide we could enjoy watching tonight. Or next week. Oscar winners. Bond films. Treats and trash that now we'll have to wait for Encore or Cinemax or HBO to get around to plugging into their rotation.
Or I could head out to Best Buy and dig around in the bargain bins of antiquated digital media. Or I could just close my eyes and replay "Wrath of Khan" in my mind.

One Court's Opinion

I was making a left turn off of a busy street onto a side street on my bike, when I noticed that a motorist who was trying to turn left onto that busy street from the side street was lurching forward, then stopped short as he noticed me making my way through the intersection. Passing by the driver's side, he rolled down the window and hollered at me, "You are not a car!"
He was right, you know. I was not a car, even though I was afforded many of the same rights and privileges of a motorized vehicle, I was not a car. Nor was I an elephant, but the list of things I wasn't might have become too lengthy to discuss at that particular juncture so I let it pass. It was this interaction, however, that came into mind as I heard about the Supreme Court's ruling on companies opting out of the contraception portion of the Affordable Care Act. It was, at its heart, a reminder of the row over Citizen's United and corporate personhood. These great, big, multi-headed people with more money than most moderately sized single-headed people can now decide which services their employees can access based on their religious beliefs. If you're having trouble with this one, keep reminding yourself that corporations are people and that people have religious beliefs, especially when they have fiscal realities tied to them.
Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg wrote a thirty-five page dissenting opinion, the one that suggested that maybe the majority of her Justice Buddies may have had it wrong: "Would the exemption the Court holds RFRA [Religious Freedom Restoration Act] demands for employers with religiously grounded objections to the use of certain contraceptives extend to employers with religiously grounded objections to blood transfusions (Jehovah's Witnesses); antidepressants (Scientologists); medications derived from pigs, including anesthesia, intravenous fluids, and pills coated with gelatin (certain Muslims, Jews, and Hindus); and vaccinations (Christian Scientists, among others)?  There is an overriding interest, I believe, in keeping the courts 'out of the business of evaluating the relative merits of differing religious claims,' or the sincerity with which an asserted religious belief is held. Indeed, approving some religious claims while deeming others unworthy of accommodation could be 'perceived as favoring one religion over another,' the very risk the [Constitution's] Establishment Clause was designed to preclude. The court, I fear, has ventured into a minefield." 
Or, for the purposes of my metaphor, into a busy intersection.

Rock On

A long time ago, in a galaxy much like this one, since it is this one, I read a review of a DEVO show that included a pithy comment about there being no guitar solos at a DEVO concert. As a fan, I took immediate exception to this since I was aware of at least one from the show the reviewer was referencing, and have always enjoyed the crunchy guitar riffs of Bob Mothersbaugh. While I understand that the public at large will remember the DEVO's catalog as synth-heavy, that's not what I recall.
Maybe that's why I so thoroughly enjoyed seeing the Spudboys from Akron on their Hardcore Tour last week. They only played songs from their earliest recordings, some forty years ago. Yes, there were some keyboards, but mostly they were playing drums and guitars in new and confounding ways, like their cover of the Rolling Stones' "Satisfaction." As they have related for years in interviews, they made it hard for themselves to get booked into bars that were looking for bands that sounded like Foghat. They sure didn't look like Foghat. I never went to see Foghat play live. I've been going to see DEVO when they came to my town for more than thirty years.
I wore my souvenir T-shirt from that first show when I went with my wife and son to see what was more than just a revival, it was a memorial. The other Bob in DEVO, Bob Casale, had passed away earlier this year and the tour was organized as a tribute to him and part of the proceeds were being passed along to his family. I was pleased and happy to support the cause, though it was odd to see just four members of the band on stage. DEVO waited until the very last song of the show to mention Bob 2's absence, and when they played "Clockout," they invited Bob's son Alex out to play bass as his father had so many years ago. Mark played keyboards. Jerry sang. Alan Myers wasn't there to play drums, having left the planet just ahead of Bob 2 on their tour of the universe. Josh Freese was behind the kit, as he has been for almost twenty years. And Bob 1 was playing guitar. In their own peculiar way, they rocked the house. I don't remember the synths. I remember the guitars.

Requiem

When we first moved into our house, there were a number of pre-teen boys who had been using what had just become our backyard as their personal playground. Having a new family inhabiting the house didn't slow them down much. They felt that the grass and the fruit on the trees were pretty much theirs since it had been for as long as they could remember. Which wasn't very long. This meant that I had to spend a certain amount of time each week discouraging young men out of our apple tree. Not their apple tree. My apple tree. The apple tree that was going to bear enough fruit to make a pie and maybe some apple sauce, and when we were done with that, we might just share with the kids in the neighborhood. First, we had to get some of those apples past the nasty sour green stage which our neighbor boys seemed to favor. Or maybe they were simply trying to get to them first. That's why one night, I hid in the darkness next to our garage and waited for three of them to come skittering over the fence, whispering and poking one another. I waited for them to start to climb into the tree before I stepped out of the shadows.
"Hey," I blurted, forgetting the "get out of my yard" part of my authoritative exclamation.
The boys scattered. Two of them hopped the fence on the opposite side of the yard, being fleet of foot. The slowest of the three was still making his way out of the tree when I caught up to him. "What do you think you're doing?" I asked in the most rhetorical fashion possible.
He was there to grab some apples, just like he had been doing for however many summers prior, only now there was some goof grabbing him by the arm and asking him stupid questions.
I recognized him and marched him out the front gate and around to the apartment where he and his father lived just next door. I was mumbling something about disapproval and how he should know better and what would his father say when the door opened and his father said, "Yes?"
I explained that his son had been sneaking into our yard with his friends under cover of darkness and had been prepared to make off with as many of those not so mature apples as they could carry.
"Well," said the father, "What shall we do about this?" He was asking me as much as he was asking his son. I had been a parent only about as long as I had been his neighbor, so I didn't have any startlingly good ideas.
"Maybe next time, if you want apples from our tree, you could ask." And in that moment, the situation diffused and I was no longer on the edge of a confrontation. I was coming to an understanding. We were all in this together. There would be more seasons, and more apples, and we needed a way to understand one another. Eventually, we made a deal where the neighborhood kids could have their fill of the yellow plums from the front yard, but we kept the apples, apricots and red plums from the back yard to ourselves. That deal served us well for quite a while, until the neighborhood kids grew up and moved away. Now we have to give our surplus to community organizations who don't throw nearly as many at each other as the kids used to.
This past weekend, I awoke to the sight of our apple tree flopped back on top of itself. It had become top heavy with the new crop, and years of haphazard pruning had left it susceptible to snapping under the strain. That's just what happened. In the end, it wasn't the neighborhood kids who destroyed our tree, it was us. We had stopped paying attention to it, just like the kids did once we moved in. My wife tried to salvage as much as she could from the splintered wreck, but the center of our yard is now home to a snag, not a tree. I'll miss it. And the apples. And those late night raids.