Most of the time, my wife and I agree about the movies that we see together. Sometimes we don't. I was reminded of this the other night when we passed by Albert Brooks' "The Muse." First of all, I understand that Albert Brooks is an acquired taste and I had already made up my mind years ago, when I was a single guy watching those early short films on Saturday Night Live and even before that with his very quirky standup appearances on variety shows. By the time he started showing up in George Clooney movies and voicing animated fish, my wife was won over, but not with The Muse.
Maybe it has to do with the comment she made early on during our repeat viewing: "I would like that job," she said in reference to Sharon Stone's role as Muse to Albert's struggling screenwriter. She went on from there to comment on how she would rework details from set design to key story elements in order to bring her vision of a real and true Muse to life. Nothing corny or roller disco about this one. I listened to her go on for a few more minutes, and after Jeff Bridges' scene was over, we decided more or less mutually, to turn it off.
That's when I started thinking about the nature of the Muse, and how this story was really quite accurate. The idea that you could simply invite a Muse into your life and expect that things would proceed in an orderly and predictable pace seems ridiculous from the start. This is where the comedy starts. Albert Brooks knew this, and mined that vein. If you expect to have a loving and supportive relationship at all times with your Muse, you should probably stick with Xanadu. Even Olivia Newton John had her moments of instability. Gene Kelly got it.
Meanwhile, back to that late night where my wife and I were disagreeing about this movie. We have both stayed up late or woken up early to wrestle with an idea that has come to us and we just couldn't shake it. We have both sat in front of blank pages, waiting for that spark and nothing comes. It is a stroke of genius on my wife's part to choose as her next career option to be that spark. And, of course, it was long after she had fallen asleep that it occurred to me that she had done just that for me. Here I was, wrestling with this notion that would eventually become this blog, and there she was, resting peacefully. Clever girl.
Monday, July 21, 2014
Sunday, July 20, 2014
The Ultimate Price Deferred
In Missouri, the "Show Me State," there was an execution last week. John Middleton was put to death for the murders of three people nearly twenty years ago. Middleton claimed that he was innocent. He and his lawyers also claimed that he was mentally incompetent. Neither of these assertions were enough to keep him from from receiving a lethal injection on Wednesday night. In the big book of eye-for-an-eye accounting, he only had to die once for the three murders. Maybe this will make up for the occasional "oops" when the occasional innocent gets executed for the occasional bad evidence or occasional mishandled defense.
That's the way these things work, you know. We have to make examples of those we want to teach that killing is wrong. So wrong, in fact, that we will kill them just to prove that point. Unless that killing turns out to be arbitrary and plagued by delays. That is what is happening in California, according to a federal judge. That Californians might have been doing something unconstitutional like cruel and unusual punishment comes as something of a revelation. Even though it has been eight years since the last execution in the Golden State, it's not like we've been out of the game. There are currently seven hundred and forty-eight prisoners scheduled to die on the obviously named Death Row in California. Forty percent of those inmates have been awaiting their ultimate penalty for more than nineteen years.
That's about how long it took to get John Middleton killed. The irony being that if the California ruling had come a few days earlier, it might have been used by clever lawyers to create a new appeal for this former methamphetamine dealer. It probably will be used by clever lawyers for other Death Row inmates across the country now. They won't have to die. They'll get to spend a lot more time in courtrooms, or at least their lawyers will. Which is kind of like getting away with murder. Except for that whole life in prison thing.
Here's what Judge Carney wrote about the promise of a death penalty: “for too long now, the promise has been an empty one,” and the result is “a system in which arbitrary factors, rather than legitimate ones like the nature of the crime or the date of the death sentence, determine whether an individual will actually be executed.” Arbitrary death sounds like a bad idea. Like it should be against the law.
That's the way these things work, you know. We have to make examples of those we want to teach that killing is wrong. So wrong, in fact, that we will kill them just to prove that point. Unless that killing turns out to be arbitrary and plagued by delays. That is what is happening in California, according to a federal judge. That Californians might have been doing something unconstitutional like cruel and unusual punishment comes as something of a revelation. Even though it has been eight years since the last execution in the Golden State, it's not like we've been out of the game. There are currently seven hundred and forty-eight prisoners scheduled to die on the obviously named Death Row in California. Forty percent of those inmates have been awaiting their ultimate penalty for more than nineteen years.
That's about how long it took to get John Middleton killed. The irony being that if the California ruling had come a few days earlier, it might have been used by clever lawyers to create a new appeal for this former methamphetamine dealer. It probably will be used by clever lawyers for other Death Row inmates across the country now. They won't have to die. They'll get to spend a lot more time in courtrooms, or at least their lawyers will. Which is kind of like getting away with murder. Except for that whole life in prison thing.
Here's what Judge Carney wrote about the promise of a death penalty: “for too long now, the promise has been an empty one,” and the result is “a system in which arbitrary factors, rather than legitimate ones like the nature of the crime or the date of the death sentence, determine whether an individual will actually be executed.” Arbitrary death sounds like a bad idea. Like it should be against the law.
Saturday, July 19, 2014
Kids Will Be Kids
So if your friend told you to jump off the Empire State Building, would you? If your friend told you to walk across the desert and into a foreign country to get a chance a better life, would you? What if it was your parents and family doing the daring? All the kids crossing our southern border took that dare. Fifty-two thousand of them since October. Our president has called this "an urgent humanitarian crisis." When I think about urgent humanitarian crisis, I don't tend to think about this continent. I think about places like Syria. Or Somalia. Texas? California? Land of the free, home of the brave? Wouldn't we expect the United Nations to set up shop in Granjeno, Texas?
In a word: No. We're stuck trying to figure out how to save children while maintaining border security. Ours is a nation of immigrants, after all, and we can't just turn our backs on the plight of kids pouring over our border, can we? Maybe we can. Our president would like to step up the deportation process, seeing as how those clever little nippers figured out a loophole in our immigration policy: it says that kids from Mexico have to go back immediately, but those from countries farther south like Honduras, and El Salvador require a court hearing. Fifty-two thousand of them? While the powers that be scramble about trying to get those scheduled, what happens to all those kids?
Many of them are turned over to family who have already crossed the border and are living in the United States. Many of them will stay right where they are, on Air Force bases and converted shelters, until America figures out what to do. But why should we? "Your poor huddled masses, let's club 'em to death," that's what (according to Lou Reed) the Statue of Bigotry says. That may sound a little rough, but compared to the voices of many of our countrymen, it's not so bad. Something everyone seems to agree on: It's our president's fault. He is, after all, the guy in charge. Not the guy who signed the legislation back in 2008 that "enforces our laws and upholds our highest ideals." That guy really ought to be run out of town.
Oh wait, we already did that.
In a word: No. We're stuck trying to figure out how to save children while maintaining border security. Ours is a nation of immigrants, after all, and we can't just turn our backs on the plight of kids pouring over our border, can we? Maybe we can. Our president would like to step up the deportation process, seeing as how those clever little nippers figured out a loophole in our immigration policy: it says that kids from Mexico have to go back immediately, but those from countries farther south like Honduras, and El Salvador require a court hearing. Fifty-two thousand of them? While the powers that be scramble about trying to get those scheduled, what happens to all those kids?
Many of them are turned over to family who have already crossed the border and are living in the United States. Many of them will stay right where they are, on Air Force bases and converted shelters, until America figures out what to do. But why should we? "Your poor huddled masses, let's club 'em to death," that's what (according to Lou Reed) the Statue of Bigotry says. That may sound a little rough, but compared to the voices of many of our countrymen, it's not so bad. Something everyone seems to agree on: It's our president's fault. He is, after all, the guy in charge. Not the guy who signed the legislation back in 2008 that "enforces our laws and upholds our highest ideals." That guy really ought to be run out of town.
Oh wait, we already did that.
Friday, July 18, 2014
Left Behind
My left side has taken a little bit of a beating over the past week. It started with the tetanus shot. To be specific, this was a DTAP vaccine or diphtheria, tetanus and pertussis vaccine, allowing me to step on rusty nails as well as wandering among those with whooping cough and sick lungs without fear of lockjaw or something worse. But first I had to live through the injection. When the cheerful technician approached me with the needle, she said that it probably wouldn't hurt much. Not the first day, anyway. She did let me know that it would make my shoulder sore in a few days. She wasn't lying. No diphtheria, tetanus, or pertussis, but I couldn't lift my left arm over my head. At least she wasn't lying.
Then, after I had recovered somewhat from the injection trauma, I found myself back at Kaiser, waiting for my appointment. This one was for the flange of flesh that had been poking into the left corner of my mouth for a long time. I wanted to be able to give the very friendly doctor who came to look at my flange some sort of exact time, but I couldn't remember when it wasn't there. It hadn't always been there. I wasn't born with it. "Did you bite your lip really hard at some point?" asked the friendly doctor.
"I may have. I just don't remember when," I was trying to come up with an incident to report that would make this little flap of flesh seem significant. It wasn't. Unless you happen to be my dentist or hygienist, who have been pestering me about this oral occlusion every six months for the past eight or so years.
"You know, you've got Kaiser. You could just have them lop it off during an office visit," they encouraged. Matter of fact. Snip. Done. Then they wouldn't have to work around this five millimeter nub every time they wanted to root around in my mouth looking for other more serious problems.
For years, I put it off. This past week, when I visited my doctor, she noticed that I needed to update my DTAP, and then she asked if I had any health concerns. I thought about all the dents and dings my body had endured over the past fifty-two years, and I came up with the mouth nub. She made a quick call, booked an appointment, and then sent me downstairs to get my DTAP booster. Then I waited for my return engagement.
"What are you going to do?" I asked the friendly doctor, after he had consulted with his older colleague who was every bit as friendly.
"We're going to numb it up," he said approaching with another needle, "and then we're going to cut it off." After he set down the needle, he excused himself to go get a pair of scissors. When he returned, I was a little let down that there would be no lasers or liquid nitrogen or sutures. When it was over, I didn't feel a thing. No pain. No nub. Nothing. But I knew that my left side had been abused. All in the service of medical science.
Now I can't wait to go back to the dentist.
Then, after I had recovered somewhat from the injection trauma, I found myself back at Kaiser, waiting for my appointment. This one was for the flange of flesh that had been poking into the left corner of my mouth for a long time. I wanted to be able to give the very friendly doctor who came to look at my flange some sort of exact time, but I couldn't remember when it wasn't there. It hadn't always been there. I wasn't born with it. "Did you bite your lip really hard at some point?" asked the friendly doctor.
"I may have. I just don't remember when," I was trying to come up with an incident to report that would make this little flap of flesh seem significant. It wasn't. Unless you happen to be my dentist or hygienist, who have been pestering me about this oral occlusion every six months for the past eight or so years.
"You know, you've got Kaiser. You could just have them lop it off during an office visit," they encouraged. Matter of fact. Snip. Done. Then they wouldn't have to work around this five millimeter nub every time they wanted to root around in my mouth looking for other more serious problems.
For years, I put it off. This past week, when I visited my doctor, she noticed that I needed to update my DTAP, and then she asked if I had any health concerns. I thought about all the dents and dings my body had endured over the past fifty-two years, and I came up with the mouth nub. She made a quick call, booked an appointment, and then sent me downstairs to get my DTAP booster. Then I waited for my return engagement.
"What are you going to do?" I asked the friendly doctor, after he had consulted with his older colleague who was every bit as friendly.
"We're going to numb it up," he said approaching with another needle, "and then we're going to cut it off." After he set down the needle, he excused himself to go get a pair of scissors. When he returned, I was a little let down that there would be no lasers or liquid nitrogen or sutures. When it was over, I didn't feel a thing. No pain. No nub. Nothing. But I knew that my left side had been abused. All in the service of medical science.
Now I can't wait to go back to the dentist.
Thursday, July 17, 2014
If You Give A Mouse A Cookie
If you give a mouse a cookie, he'll want a glass of milk to wash it down. If you give an ape an automatic weapon, he'll want hollow point ammunition to reload. I rushed out to the moving picture show to see the latest installment in the Planet of the Apes saga, "Dawn of the Planet of the Apes." It continues the cycle of time that I have been reviewing since the early seventies: The one in which super-intelligent chimpanzees, orangutans, and gorillas end up taking over the world, only to succumb to the very same frailties that were the undoing of their oh-so-human predecessors. For the record, I am as helpless in this matter of buying tickets to see the Apes movies as I am to buying the latest Stephen King novel. It wasn't a question as to when I was going to go see the latest chapter, but how many people I would drag along with me. This is the vortex of pop culture to which I continue to subject myself, my family, and my friends.
That said, what possible wrinkle could I expect this time, as I watched Caesar lead his simian army against the threat of extinction at the hands of a terrified and brutal band of human survivors? My wife, who chose not to go along with us on this trip down Hasslein's Time Curve already had her ideas, having seen the previews: "I'll bet there will be a bunch of monkeys with guns, trying to kill a bunch of humans with guns." She may have missed some of the nuanced bits of story and character, but pretty well captured the gist of what happened this time around. That's the thing about a time curve, it tends to bend around on itself and starts to repeat. The idea that Caesar would not take up arms against his oppressors seems like a pretty tough pitch in the offices of Twentieth Century Fox. Especially in the twenty-first century.
But there was something else, just below the text, what I'll refer to as "subtext." This was an anti-gun movie. I'm not the only one who thinks so, either. Al Gore's Internet is filling up with voices from both sides of the gun control issue, ready to take this summer's popcorn fest and turn it into a rallying cry for more or less guns. Pick a side: Apes or humans. Guns or no guns. It's a pretty simple conclusion to draw, but I confess on my initial viewing I was more caught up with the naming of the big orangutan Maurice and the search for further echoes of the original series. Apes will tend to get guns, and that's just the way this chunk of evolution works. Now, how are they going to work James Franco back into the sequel? And where is Ricardo Montalban? Back in the early 1970's, the kind of revolt we were watching was thinly veiled allusion to the unrest in our inner cities. That's why nervous executives asked the makers of "Conquest of the Planet of the Apes" to add a poorly looped speech from that Caesar suggesting that it was time to let the fires burn out and for his ape supporters to put their guns down.
Ape shall not kill ape. We know that because that is what the Lawgiver taught us. Apes often kill humans. That's what sells tickets after all. But if the guns had just stayed locked up in the armory, whether at the end of "Dawn" or the climax of "Battle," could lives have been spared? Would we have needed to pry a rifle from Colonel Taylor's cold, dead hands? Or would he be more concerned with the paws of apes? Maybe we could all afford to be just a little more philoosphical. Science fiction gives us all a chance to reflect on our current reality, with an eye to possible futures. Do we want to live in a world where apes have automatic weapons? Maybe DEVO was right about everything.
That said, what possible wrinkle could I expect this time, as I watched Caesar lead his simian army against the threat of extinction at the hands of a terrified and brutal band of human survivors? My wife, who chose not to go along with us on this trip down Hasslein's Time Curve already had her ideas, having seen the previews: "I'll bet there will be a bunch of monkeys with guns, trying to kill a bunch of humans with guns." She may have missed some of the nuanced bits of story and character, but pretty well captured the gist of what happened this time around. That's the thing about a time curve, it tends to bend around on itself and starts to repeat. The idea that Caesar would not take up arms against his oppressors seems like a pretty tough pitch in the offices of Twentieth Century Fox. Especially in the twenty-first century.
But there was something else, just below the text, what I'll refer to as "subtext." This was an anti-gun movie. I'm not the only one who thinks so, either. Al Gore's Internet is filling up with voices from both sides of the gun control issue, ready to take this summer's popcorn fest and turn it into a rallying cry for more or less guns. Pick a side: Apes or humans. Guns or no guns. It's a pretty simple conclusion to draw, but I confess on my initial viewing I was more caught up with the naming of the big orangutan Maurice and the search for further echoes of the original series. Apes will tend to get guns, and that's just the way this chunk of evolution works. Now, how are they going to work James Franco back into the sequel? And where is Ricardo Montalban? Back in the early 1970's, the kind of revolt we were watching was thinly veiled allusion to the unrest in our inner cities. That's why nervous executives asked the makers of "Conquest of the Planet of the Apes" to add a poorly looped speech from that Caesar suggesting that it was time to let the fires burn out and for his ape supporters to put their guns down.
Ape shall not kill ape. We know that because that is what the Lawgiver taught us. Apes often kill humans. That's what sells tickets after all. But if the guns had just stayed locked up in the armory, whether at the end of "Dawn" or the climax of "Battle," could lives have been spared? Would we have needed to pry a rifle from Colonel Taylor's cold, dead hands? Or would he be more concerned with the paws of apes? Maybe we could all afford to be just a little more philoosphical. Science fiction gives us all a chance to reflect on our current reality, with an eye to possible futures. Do we want to live in a world where apes have automatic weapons? Maybe DEVO was right about everything.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Saving Mister Banks
I just read an article that suggests that middle school should be abolished. The fact that it appeared on the always suspect "Daily Beast" site should give us all pause before continuing to simply fall into a pool of rabid ascent or denial. This is an idea that is meant to stir things up. Just like other posts recommended by The Beast, this is more of an incitement, a call to virtual arms. Arms that the author expects us to be up in arms with him. "Him" being David Banks, the President and CEO of Eagle Academy. If that title sounds a little odd for somebody as involved in education. It's not "teacher" or "principal" or even "head of department." Chief Executive Officer? What sort of corporation is he running out there in The Bronx, New York.
One that wants to do away with middle school. That's apparent. From the business end of things, it makes sense to cut out the middle men, boys and girls. Middle school, as he suggests in his article is neither fish nor fowl, and therefore carries the limitations of both without many of the advantages. The biggest challenge to making a middle school work isn't the curriculum or the staff, I feel. The hardest obstacle to overcome is the students themselves. As Mister Banks points out in the article, "hormones rage." Developmentally, it is almost impossible to get any education done while bodies and minds make the lycanthropic transition from children to teenager. Those formative years are a train wreck. How can we expect academic success from a group of kids who are peeling their way out of their slimy cocoons, on their way in no predetermined rush to adulthood?
I was one of those slimy lycanthopic messes, once upon a time. I benefited from many of the suggestions Mister Banks makes. The idea that there needs to be clear expectations for staff and students is not a new one, however. The notion that middle schools are a costly burden to taxpayers is. That is precisely the kind of educational reform that plays so well with voters who don't have a child in middle school or on the way there. It's a way to streamline the educational process in a very businesslike way. It makes sense from that fiscal standpoint, but continues to leave out the glaring disconnect: Why would it work any better to leave the kids in elementary school for another year or two, or to rush them up the developmental hill to high school?
I'm a teacher of kids right up to middle school, who i then cast out into that cold and unforgiving world of tweendom. Really? No. Part of the process of teaching any grade is the preparation of students for what comes next. Even if you're getting your students ready for the rigors of first grade, graduate school or a career in the custodial arts, it's our job to make sure they are ready. That doesn't mean just test scores, that means emotional well-being. It would be simple enough to just house these hormonal cases in a warehouse for two or three years until the tides of puberty have ebbed to the point that each individual could be released from their stasis pod and returned to the rigors of academia. But that isn't the world in which we live. This is the world where we need to meet the kids where they live. We need to address their needs, not the needs of the corporation. This is public education, not a profit-loss statement. Would it make sense to have more K-8 or K-12 schools? You bet, but I will tell you that it will still take the extraordinary individual to deal with those curious and sticky middle years. Good luck to us all in that endeavor.
One that wants to do away with middle school. That's apparent. From the business end of things, it makes sense to cut out the middle men, boys and girls. Middle school, as he suggests in his article is neither fish nor fowl, and therefore carries the limitations of both without many of the advantages. The biggest challenge to making a middle school work isn't the curriculum or the staff, I feel. The hardest obstacle to overcome is the students themselves. As Mister Banks points out in the article, "hormones rage." Developmentally, it is almost impossible to get any education done while bodies and minds make the lycanthropic transition from children to teenager. Those formative years are a train wreck. How can we expect academic success from a group of kids who are peeling their way out of their slimy cocoons, on their way in no predetermined rush to adulthood?
I was one of those slimy lycanthopic messes, once upon a time. I benefited from many of the suggestions Mister Banks makes. The idea that there needs to be clear expectations for staff and students is not a new one, however. The notion that middle schools are a costly burden to taxpayers is. That is precisely the kind of educational reform that plays so well with voters who don't have a child in middle school or on the way there. It's a way to streamline the educational process in a very businesslike way. It makes sense from that fiscal standpoint, but continues to leave out the glaring disconnect: Why would it work any better to leave the kids in elementary school for another year or two, or to rush them up the developmental hill to high school?
I'm a teacher of kids right up to middle school, who i then cast out into that cold and unforgiving world of tweendom. Really? No. Part of the process of teaching any grade is the preparation of students for what comes next. Even if you're getting your students ready for the rigors of first grade, graduate school or a career in the custodial arts, it's our job to make sure they are ready. That doesn't mean just test scores, that means emotional well-being. It would be simple enough to just house these hormonal cases in a warehouse for two or three years until the tides of puberty have ebbed to the point that each individual could be released from their stasis pod and returned to the rigors of academia. But that isn't the world in which we live. This is the world where we need to meet the kids where they live. We need to address their needs, not the needs of the corporation. This is public education, not a profit-loss statement. Would it make sense to have more K-8 or K-12 schools? You bet, but I will tell you that it will still take the extraordinary individual to deal with those curious and sticky middle years. Good luck to us all in that endeavor.
Tuesday, July 15, 2014
Why Call It "Free" Agency?
Why shouldn't LeBron James play wherever he wants? If he can make more money in Cleveland than he can in Miami, more power to him, right? Why not sell his services and talents as a basketball force of nature to the highest bidder? This is the world in which we live. The Wide World of Sports. And Money.
Four years ago, King James left Cleveland, where he had played for the Cavaliers without winning any championships. He drew great ratings for sitting down with sportscaster Jim Gray and chatting about all the places where he might go to win many championships. After some thirty minutes of discussion, James arrived at his "decision." The Miami Heat was the team for him, and the folks in South Florida rejoiced. The basketball savior had arrived. In Cleveland, a city sports triumphs have conspicuously avoided for more than fifty years, fans were not so happy. Angry. Vindictive. Even vengeful. The rich, it seemed, were getting richer and Clevelanders were going to spend another half century waiting for the Indians or the Browns to come up with some way to bring a trophy home.
For four years, LeBron played his best for the fans in Miami. He helped his team win two NBA championships in what seemed like decisive fashion. Just like he said he would. But a funny thing happened this past year: the rest of the National Basketball Association kept playing even when it seemed as if the rest of the world was content with simply handing over the hardware to The Big Three, even though common practice is to put five players on the court for each team. That is precisely what the San Antonio Spurs did this season when they quite handily beat the Heat and those Big Three in five games. Suddenly, the Decision didn't seem too clever after all.
While San Antonio celebrated their championship, The King started making other plans. He had become a free agent, and it was time to pick a new place to go and win. The basketball world was suddenly in a tizzy once again, trying to anticipate where LeBron James would land. Like Oddyseus, James decided to return home not to Ithaca, but to Cleveland. Just like the Browns found their way back when the NFL felt a wave of sympathetic nostalgia and rewarded The Forest City a replacement franchise for the one that was taken from them by unscrupulous owners in 1995.
In 1995, LeBron James was eleven years old, a very impressionable age. It could be that it was during those formative years that he determined a path for himself in professional sports based on the model he was presented with by Art Modell. The Browns didn't really come back to Cleveland. They turned into the Ravens and they won a Super Bowl. Two of them. The New Browns have been to the playoffs, but still no championship. It's still Cleveland. Now LeBron James makes his triumphant return, pockets a little more full, and fans mostly forgiving. But not me. I'm still stuck trying to explain to kids who, at eleven years old, have decided to give up on school to play in the NBA. Just like LeBron. And that all worked out for him, didn't it?
Four years ago, King James left Cleveland, where he had played for the Cavaliers without winning any championships. He drew great ratings for sitting down with sportscaster Jim Gray and chatting about all the places where he might go to win many championships. After some thirty minutes of discussion, James arrived at his "decision." The Miami Heat was the team for him, and the folks in South Florida rejoiced. The basketball savior had arrived. In Cleveland, a city sports triumphs have conspicuously avoided for more than fifty years, fans were not so happy. Angry. Vindictive. Even vengeful. The rich, it seemed, were getting richer and Clevelanders were going to spend another half century waiting for the Indians or the Browns to come up with some way to bring a trophy home.
For four years, LeBron played his best for the fans in Miami. He helped his team win two NBA championships in what seemed like decisive fashion. Just like he said he would. But a funny thing happened this past year: the rest of the National Basketball Association kept playing even when it seemed as if the rest of the world was content with simply handing over the hardware to The Big Three, even though common practice is to put five players on the court for each team. That is precisely what the San Antonio Spurs did this season when they quite handily beat the Heat and those Big Three in five games. Suddenly, the Decision didn't seem too clever after all.
While San Antonio celebrated their championship, The King started making other plans. He had become a free agent, and it was time to pick a new place to go and win. The basketball world was suddenly in a tizzy once again, trying to anticipate where LeBron James would land. Like Oddyseus, James decided to return home not to Ithaca, but to Cleveland. Just like the Browns found their way back when the NFL felt a wave of sympathetic nostalgia and rewarded The Forest City a replacement franchise for the one that was taken from them by unscrupulous owners in 1995.
In 1995, LeBron James was eleven years old, a very impressionable age. It could be that it was during those formative years that he determined a path for himself in professional sports based on the model he was presented with by Art Modell. The Browns didn't really come back to Cleveland. They turned into the Ravens and they won a Super Bowl. Two of them. The New Browns have been to the playoffs, but still no championship. It's still Cleveland. Now LeBron James makes his triumphant return, pockets a little more full, and fans mostly forgiving. But not me. I'm still stuck trying to explain to kids who, at eleven years old, have decided to give up on school to play in the NBA. Just like LeBron. And that all worked out for him, didn't it?
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