For the past few years, I have encountered slats from the fence that separates our yard from the parking lot of the apartment building next door in the mornings when I was on my way to work. Or in the afternoon when I came home from work. Or in the middle of the day when I was home for the weekend. This was initially interpreted by me as vandalism of the most shoddy kind: the annoyance fix. This was expressly true when we still had a dog roaming our property. The width of the slats were just the right size for our canine-American to squeeze through and go out in search of discarded diapers to eat in our neighborhood. It was important for someone to jump into that particular breech and keep our pet on our side of the fence.
When our dog was gone, the alarm I felt when slats were displaced dissipated. But there was still that hole in the fence. A fence that had stood the test of time, or at least to a certain point in time. The vandals that I had imagined wantonly and recklessly destroying our property. It turns out that it was more a function of the disintegration of the edifice that had been placed there before we ever took up residence. Things fall apart. Car doors opened too close to the fence knocked out a few. Kids bouncing balls against it could have the same effect. Small insects coughing in the general direction of the redwood structure that may have been first erected by ancient Mayans could have taken the thing down. I learned this emphatically when it came time to tear the whole thing down and start again.
My son and I built a new fence over the course of a few days, and now the clock starts ticking for the time when some future generation will have to fuss about missing slats and wobbly posts. In the meantime, we were stuck with a lawn full of rotted lumber that was in need of disposal. I made a preemptive call to Waste Management to get help managing our waste. I scheduled the earliest possible pickup for the debris: July 8. I spent days longer than the actual construction of the new fence pulling nails and screws and staples from the wood that used to be our fence, preparing it for the compost heap. I bundled it, and stacked it in one corner of our yard, waiting for the day when it would no longer be our problem.
On the day before our bulky waste pickup, I moved all those bundles to the curb and waited for the next morning when the old fence would become just a memory. By four o'clock in the afternoon on July 8, the bulky waste had not been picked up. I made a call to Waste Management, asking them if there was still a truck coming to relieve us of our woody burden. I was informed that a truck had indeed come by, earlier that day, but since the nicely bundled stacks were blocked by parked cars, they went on their way.
"Did you leave it in the gutter?" asked the customer service helpdroid.
"You mean in the street?" I asked in incredulous response.
"Yes."
Suddenly I felt cursed by the burden of disintegration. I was told that I needed to wait until the following Monday before a truck could be sent back out "as a courtesy." My son and I dragged all the fence that once was back inside our new fence and waited until Sunday night, when a spot opened up in the gutter in front of our house where once again all that mess was stacked carefully once more, this time in the gutter. I awoke Monday morning to the sound of all that lumber being loaded onto a truck and driven away. Out of sight, but it will be some time still before it is out of mind.
Thursday, July 14, 2016
Wednesday, July 13, 2016
Sports Talk
There is no "I" in team. This is a lesson that could be learned in an elementary school, after a spelling test. Or maybe while your friend is looking over your shoulder as you are painting an oversized poster for the upcoming rally, and he leans in to say, "Hey. There is no 'I' in team." Well, thank you very much, I'll fix that right away. The thing is, that doesn't happen very often. It is a cliche that is spoken in harsh tones to a group of individuals who are supposed to be working together by a coach, usually. Sometimes it is a member of the group who is hoping to instill a sense of cooperation and shared purpose. It doesn't have to be an athletic endeavor. That phrase gets as much play in meeting rooms as it does in locker rooms. Those of us with an inclination toward smart aleckness will point out that there is "me" in team. And "meat."
So it goes with this sports cliche nonsense. When I hear, "he really came to play," it makes me wonder if there are some guys out there on the field, court, ice or prescribed athletic surface that showed up with other things in mind. Perhaps he came to see if there were any jerseys in his size. Maybe he is hoping to get in some reading or catch up on his email. Or it could be that he is there simply to pick up a paycheck and therefore he probably needs to be reminded that there is no "I" in team.
Those who have showed up to work on their taxes would probably not be accused of "giving one hundred and ten percent." If they did, it would probably be a good idea to keep him away from anything that might require anything beyond the most rudimentary math skills. One hundred percent describes a whole, or the entirety of something, even when it is someone's effort. Each individual may have a different capacity or range of abilities, but what they can deliver at any given moment is part of that whole, right up to one hundred percent. Unless, of course there is a "we" in "I" which does not exist in "team."
All of this is to suggest that the way we talk about sports, they don't always make sense. The use of hyperbole is rampant on the sidelines and in the announcer's booth. It helps keep our sports contests just this side of reality. Spelling and math are hard in the real world, but in the Wide World of Sports, they are completely up for grabs. For those of us who came to play.
Tuesday, July 12, 2016
School Zone
When the World Trade Centers came down in 2001, my son was on his way to preschool. At that time, there was a sign taped up on the door of Peter Pan Co-op. It requested that we leave the world outside so that the children could spend their day away from the gathering storm. There would be days and weeks and months and years for them to come to reckon, along with their parents, on this new age in which we awoke. Since then, I have wondered many times what purpose that sign served. Did we really hope to keep the screams and smoke and fire from seeping into the hearts and minds of our children?
Maybe we did that morning. Before the twenty-four hour news cycle and YouTube and smart phones. Closing the door on all that noise and making an island of safety, sanity and giving kids a chance to be kids. Then they went home and the pictures and video and sounds from Ground Zero became part of the tapestry of their lives. We are still simultaneously weaving and unraveling that tapestry, decades later. Those kids are in college now. There is no sign on the university's door that asks for that same safety zone.
That morning, a lifetime ago, came before a deranged gunman shot up an elementary school in Connecticut. There was no sign that could take that pain away. Children were the victims. Cell phone video and security footage and access to Al Gore's Internet for anyone old enough to point and click brought the world into minds far too young to fully comprehend it. At the school where I teach, there are far too many young eyes that have seen far too much before they get promoted to middle school. There is no un-seeing. There is no way to wind back that clock.
That is why I want to try and bring more joy to the news, the net, and the neighborhood. Those shrines that I keep writing about spring up after someone is shot. How about some balloons and candles to mark the spot where a Little League team won its first game? How about a tweet for helping someone across the street? How about a blog post about something other than death and dying?
It's about time I started drawing that line.
Here and now.
Maybe we did that morning. Before the twenty-four hour news cycle and YouTube and smart phones. Closing the door on all that noise and making an island of safety, sanity and giving kids a chance to be kids. Then they went home and the pictures and video and sounds from Ground Zero became part of the tapestry of their lives. We are still simultaneously weaving and unraveling that tapestry, decades later. Those kids are in college now. There is no sign on the university's door that asks for that same safety zone.
That morning, a lifetime ago, came before a deranged gunman shot up an elementary school in Connecticut. There was no sign that could take that pain away. Children were the victims. Cell phone video and security footage and access to Al Gore's Internet for anyone old enough to point and click brought the world into minds far too young to fully comprehend it. At the school where I teach, there are far too many young eyes that have seen far too much before they get promoted to middle school. There is no un-seeing. There is no way to wind back that clock.
That is why I want to try and bring more joy to the news, the net, and the neighborhood. Those shrines that I keep writing about spring up after someone is shot. How about some balloons and candles to mark the spot where a Little League team won its first game? How about a tweet for helping someone across the street? How about a blog post about something other than death and dying?
It's about time I started drawing that line.
Here and now.
Monday, July 11, 2016
I Can't Explain
I can't explain. I have tried. When my son looks to me for answers in the wake of yet another bloody flurry of violence, I feel his anger and his confusion, and I feel the same. Except I am the father. I am supposed to make sense out of the world for him. I try to find words and I try to find reason. I try to find words.
There are no words.
And yet, I keep searching. I thought there were rounding a corner. I thought we were headed for the finish line. I thought wrong. There are still people killing people. There are still people dying. Dying for a cause is one thing, but when the cause springs from the death of one or more, something is still wrong. What is the lesson that we are supposed to learn and why haven't we learned it? Why haven't I learned it and passed it along to my son to clear up any mystery that still remains?
There are no words.
And I keep writing, because I saw the pain on his face. Because I saw the pain on the face of the families who will now miss birthdays. Holidays. Christmas. That empty chair is going to be there forever. Empty. Missing. Gone. The wounds we hear about, the wounds we see, they are not the ones that linger. Families will feel the loss for decades to come. I want to say that there is a solution, a way to fill that hole. Those holes. Bullet holes.
There are no words.
And I keep wishing that I could make it all stop. Find those words of magic that make the prayer services and the rallies and the marches so powerful and so moving. But not powerful enough to stop a bullet. Why isn't anyone listening to "Thou shalt not kill?" There are too many other words, all of which do nothing to stop the killing. Which is all we claim to want. I look at my son and listen to his frustration and I wish I had a way to make it alright.
There are no words.
In the end, there is only love. The love I feel for my son. The love he feels for his friends. The love his friends feel for their city. The love we all share. I wish I could tell him that when I was his age, I was angry. I am angry now for all the lives lost and all the empty chairs and all the pain and all the anger and death. I feel as though my generation had a chance to make a change. Maybe we still do, but now I need to prepare my son to go out into a world that is still suffering, still searching.
Searching for the right words.
There are no words.
And yet, I keep searching. I thought there were rounding a corner. I thought we were headed for the finish line. I thought wrong. There are still people killing people. There are still people dying. Dying for a cause is one thing, but when the cause springs from the death of one or more, something is still wrong. What is the lesson that we are supposed to learn and why haven't we learned it? Why haven't I learned it and passed it along to my son to clear up any mystery that still remains?
There are no words.
And I keep writing, because I saw the pain on his face. Because I saw the pain on the face of the families who will now miss birthdays. Holidays. Christmas. That empty chair is going to be there forever. Empty. Missing. Gone. The wounds we hear about, the wounds we see, they are not the ones that linger. Families will feel the loss for decades to come. I want to say that there is a solution, a way to fill that hole. Those holes. Bullet holes.
There are no words.
And I keep wishing that I could make it all stop. Find those words of magic that make the prayer services and the rallies and the marches so powerful and so moving. But not powerful enough to stop a bullet. Why isn't anyone listening to "Thou shalt not kill?" There are too many other words, all of which do nothing to stop the killing. Which is all we claim to want. I look at my son and listen to his frustration and I wish I had a way to make it alright.
There are no words.
In the end, there is only love. The love I feel for my son. The love he feels for his friends. The love his friends feel for their city. The love we all share. I wish I could tell him that when I was his age, I was angry. I am angry now for all the lives lost and all the empty chairs and all the pain and all the anger and death. I feel as though my generation had a chance to make a change. Maybe we still do, but now I need to prepare my son to go out into a world that is still suffering, still searching.
Searching for the right words.
Sunday, July 10, 2016
What A Flake
It wasn't too awfully long ago that I briefly lost my heart, and some might say my mind, to a Republican. He was a senator from Arizona, and his straight talk and his experience made him seem like a common-sense alternative to the man who would go on to win his party's nomination and secure the presidency for eight very long years. By 2008, however, whatever back room soul-stealing deals had been made for John McCain and his usefulness in my world had made him all but recognizable. Perhaps it is a little unfair, but I still hold Senator McCain personally responsible for unleashing Sarah Palin on the wider world. How much safer we all would have been and continue to be if she would have just quit her job up in Alaska and gone straight to reality TV? Come to think of it, that seems to be the current path to the Republican nomination, so she may have been a pioneer in that respect. Did I just put the word "respect" in a sentence referring to Sarah Palin? So sorry.
Then what to my wondering eyes should appear, but another straight-shootin' young man from the Grand Canyon State: Senator Jeff Flake. His current claim to fame is that he is one of his party's congressional holdouts when it comes to endorsing the presumptive Trumptive. In interviews, Senator Flake has suggested that John McCain might be re-elected come November, but that Trumpest could lose that mostly red state. "If Donald Trump is at the top of the ticket, here in Arizona, with over thirty percent of the vote being the Hispanic vote, no doubt that this may be the race of my life. If you listen or watch Hispanic media in the state and in the country, you will see that it is all anti-Trump. The Hispanic community is roused and angry in a way that I've never seen in thirty years."
And what do you suppose his Trumpishness did when he went to Capitol Hill this week? He had a closed-door meeting with GOP members who weren't exactly seeing eye-to-squinty-eye with him. The former reality TV personality called Senator Flake out, suggesting that he expected that Flake would lose in November. Except his seat isn't up for grabs until 2018. Who can keep all these facts and numbers in their head? Flake also took the time to defend his fellow Arizonan from the tacky flack that Trumpde has lobbed in McCain's direction over the past few months: “Yes, I’m the other senator from Arizona — the one who didn’t get captured — and I want to talk to you about statements like that,” was his reply to The Orange One's assertion that he had been critical of his tone deaf politics. The kind of guy who suggests that you can't be a war hero if you get captured, and praises Saddam Hussein.
Again, dear reader, I must apologize. As things continue to get curiouser and curiouser, I find my attentions and affections pulled in some strange directions. For now, I tip my metaphorical fedora to Senator Flake, and hope that he never runs for president. And stays away from Alaska.
Then what to my wondering eyes should appear, but another straight-shootin' young man from the Grand Canyon State: Senator Jeff Flake. His current claim to fame is that he is one of his party's congressional holdouts when it comes to endorsing the presumptive Trumptive. In interviews, Senator Flake has suggested that John McCain might be re-elected come November, but that Trumpest could lose that mostly red state. "If Donald Trump is at the top of the ticket, here in Arizona, with over thirty percent of the vote being the Hispanic vote, no doubt that this may be the race of my life. If you listen or watch Hispanic media in the state and in the country, you will see that it is all anti-Trump. The Hispanic community is roused and angry in a way that I've never seen in thirty years."
And what do you suppose his Trumpishness did when he went to Capitol Hill this week? He had a closed-door meeting with GOP members who weren't exactly seeing eye-to-squinty-eye with him. The former reality TV personality called Senator Flake out, suggesting that he expected that Flake would lose in November. Except his seat isn't up for grabs until 2018. Who can keep all these facts and numbers in their head? Flake also took the time to defend his fellow Arizonan from the tacky flack that Trumpde has lobbed in McCain's direction over the past few months: “Yes, I’m the other senator from Arizona — the one who didn’t get captured — and I want to talk to you about statements like that,” was his reply to The Orange One's assertion that he had been critical of his tone deaf politics. The kind of guy who suggests that you can't be a war hero if you get captured, and praises Saddam Hussein.
Again, dear reader, I must apologize. As things continue to get curiouser and curiouser, I find my attentions and affections pulled in some strange directions. For now, I tip my metaphorical fedora to Senator Flake, and hope that he never runs for president. And stays away from Alaska.
Saturday, July 09, 2016
Anyone For President
As the summer meanders on, I can't help but wonder what happened to that old saw about "anybody can be president." When I was a lad, I never had designs on the office myself, but I was pleased and happy to think that Pat Paulsen had a real chance. For that matter, I was pretty sure that Alfred E. Neuman, Mad Magazine's gap-toothed mascot, was ineligible since he was merely a figment in the imaginations of "the usual gang of idiots" but I still looked forward to use his name as my write-in choice once I became of legal age.
Since then, I have harbored a deep and abiding affection for those people who would, for a laugh, toss their hat in the ring. At this point, I think I should confess that I still don't know if Roseanne Barr's campaign in 2012 was a carefully managed performance piece in the style of Andy Kaufman, or if her Green Party candidacy was real and true. And just like whether or not Andy is still alive, I don't know if checking the box next to Ms. Barr's name would have been a goof or my way of sticking it to the man. The joke, it seems, is on me even if I don't exactly get it.
I bought my Stewart/Colbert T-shirt and wore it proudly back in 2008 without any real hope of getting the Comedy Central Ticket to take back the White House. For a couple months this spring, a Curry For President sign held up during the NBA playoffs had me thinking alternatives to the major parties once again. Then I figured I would rather watch Steph Curry on the court than behind a podium. Which is pretty much how I feel about the notion of Bruce Springsteen holding any sort of elected office. He's the Boss when he's got a guitar in his hand, but if he was stuck behind a desk, would he be just another politician from Jersey?
If we must take our candidates from pop culture, I believe we are looking in the wrong places. Leave television behind and start looking at comic books. Four years ago, Marvel decided to spice things up by putting Captain America in the Oval Office. Why not elect a guy who wears his heart on his sleeve and the flag on his chest? Sure, if you kept reading for after that, it turns out that Steve Rogers was an agent for worse-than-Nazis-Hydra, which kind of makes that look like a bad idea, but for me hope springs eternal when it comes to Cap. He's as American as, well, Captains, and has charisma to spare.
And if that doesn't get your brains stirring for alternatives, consider this: The new Iron Man is a woman. An African-American woman. This is how things get done in the Marvel Universe. Don't like the future that spreads out ahead of you? Create a new one. Hillary of Donald? Who cares? I'm hoping for a return to an era where it wasn't the size of the candidate's Super PAC that mattered, but the size of the hair ball he was capable of expelling. Vote Bill The Cat in 2016.
Since then, I have harbored a deep and abiding affection for those people who would, for a laugh, toss their hat in the ring. At this point, I think I should confess that I still don't know if Roseanne Barr's campaign in 2012 was a carefully managed performance piece in the style of Andy Kaufman, or if her Green Party candidacy was real and true. And just like whether or not Andy is still alive, I don't know if checking the box next to Ms. Barr's name would have been a goof or my way of sticking it to the man. The joke, it seems, is on me even if I don't exactly get it.
I bought my Stewart/Colbert T-shirt and wore it proudly back in 2008 without any real hope of getting the Comedy Central Ticket to take back the White House. For a couple months this spring, a Curry For President sign held up during the NBA playoffs had me thinking alternatives to the major parties once again. Then I figured I would rather watch Steph Curry on the court than behind a podium. Which is pretty much how I feel about the notion of Bruce Springsteen holding any sort of elected office. He's the Boss when he's got a guitar in his hand, but if he was stuck behind a desk, would he be just another politician from Jersey?
If we must take our candidates from pop culture, I believe we are looking in the wrong places. Leave television behind and start looking at comic books. Four years ago, Marvel decided to spice things up by putting Captain America in the Oval Office. Why not elect a guy who wears his heart on his sleeve and the flag on his chest? Sure, if you kept reading for after that, it turns out that Steve Rogers was an agent for worse-than-Nazis-Hydra, which kind of makes that look like a bad idea, but for me hope springs eternal when it comes to Cap. He's as American as, well, Captains, and has charisma to spare.
And if that doesn't get your brains stirring for alternatives, consider this: The new Iron Man is a woman. An African-American woman. This is how things get done in the Marvel Universe. Don't like the future that spreads out ahead of you? Create a new one. Hillary of Donald? Who cares? I'm hoping for a return to an era where it wasn't the size of the candidate's Super PAC that mattered, but the size of the hair ball he was capable of expelling. Vote Bill The Cat in 2016.
Friday, July 08, 2016
Messy Situation
Donald R. Trumpole would like us to know that the system is rigged. Which system is the King of Oompa Loompaland referring? The Public Address system at my elementary school? The system of weights and measures that doesn't allow for the United States to convert to metric? The System of a Down? The email system? Getting closer there, but I think what was blowing through that tweet-infested brain of his was the system that allowed "Crooked Hillary" to escape prosecution for her questionable handling of secure information through email.
The Federal Bureau of Investigation, whose work you may be most familiar from their TV show starring Efrem Zimbalist Jr., announced this week that while Secretary Clinton may have been "extremely careless" in her handling of classified information through her various email accounts and servers, they couldn't find a reason to recommend prosecution. If cleanliness is next to godliness, then sloppiness is probably closer to that other place and that's still not a good thing, but not very many people get sent to jail for leaving dishes in the sink. Or using a personal email server to conduct government business.
Here's something to keep in mind: Our president finally gave up his Blackberry, which my son would consider an antique. My mother uses her email all the time, and she's still on America Online. The way Senator Ted Stevens explained it back in 2006 might help clear up just exactly what the problem is. The way my mom deals with her online presence versus the way my son experiences Al Gore's Internet provides me with some welcome perspective. Users who don't fully understand or appreciate what they are doing when they sit down in front of their keyboard or tap on their phone are legion. That's who we built the thing. This is how we get Anthony Wiener. Speed and convenience will almost always trump security.
Let's take a look at some other recommendations from the FBI: They would like us to be on alert for scams in which "the subject claims to be an employee (or an affiliate) of a major computer software or security company offering technical support to the victim. Recent complaints indicate some subjects are claiming to be support for cable and Internet companies to offer assistance with digital cable boxes and connections, modems, and routers. The subject claims the company has received notifications of errors, viruses, or security issues from the victim's internet connection. Subjects are also claiming to work on behalf of government agencies to resolve computer viruses and threats from possible foreign countries or terrorist organizations." Thanks for that update, FBI. Apparently, the Senator Steven's series of tubes is infected by the worst sort of people imaginable: those who would seek to profit from the careless or sloppy handling of our personal information through those tubes. Raise your hands if you have changed your password in the past six months. Keep them up. I'm counting. Okay. Six of you, right. Good for you six. Now for the rest of you, why not spend the next five to fifteen hours going through all your online accounts making sure your data is safe from the creeping hands of terrorists, or Microsoft Security.
Or you could do what Secretary Clinton and so many of us do, which is to keep tapping away while the system is being rigged for another sloppy mess of identity theft or stolen government secrets. In the meantime, let's all go and clean up our rooms before somebody goes to jail, or gets sent to bed without supper.
The Federal Bureau of Investigation, whose work you may be most familiar from their TV show starring Efrem Zimbalist Jr., announced this week that while Secretary Clinton may have been "extremely careless" in her handling of classified information through her various email accounts and servers, they couldn't find a reason to recommend prosecution. If cleanliness is next to godliness, then sloppiness is probably closer to that other place and that's still not a good thing, but not very many people get sent to jail for leaving dishes in the sink. Or using a personal email server to conduct government business.
Here's something to keep in mind: Our president finally gave up his Blackberry, which my son would consider an antique. My mother uses her email all the time, and she's still on America Online. The way Senator Ted Stevens explained it back in 2006 might help clear up just exactly what the problem is. The way my mom deals with her online presence versus the way my son experiences Al Gore's Internet provides me with some welcome perspective. Users who don't fully understand or appreciate what they are doing when they sit down in front of their keyboard or tap on their phone are legion. That's who we built the thing. This is how we get Anthony Wiener. Speed and convenience will almost always trump security.
Let's take a look at some other recommendations from the FBI: They would like us to be on alert for scams in which "the subject claims to be an employee (or an affiliate) of a major computer software or security company offering technical support to the victim. Recent complaints indicate some subjects are claiming to be support for cable and Internet companies to offer assistance with digital cable boxes and connections, modems, and routers. The subject claims the company has received notifications of errors, viruses, or security issues from the victim's internet connection. Subjects are also claiming to work on behalf of government agencies to resolve computer viruses and threats from possible foreign countries or terrorist organizations." Thanks for that update, FBI. Apparently, the Senator Steven's series of tubes is infected by the worst sort of people imaginable: those who would seek to profit from the careless or sloppy handling of our personal information through those tubes. Raise your hands if you have changed your password in the past six months. Keep them up. I'm counting. Okay. Six of you, right. Good for you six. Now for the rest of you, why not spend the next five to fifteen hours going through all your online accounts making sure your data is safe from the creeping hands of terrorists, or Microsoft Security.
Or you could do what Secretary Clinton and so many of us do, which is to keep tapping away while the system is being rigged for another sloppy mess of identity theft or stolen government secrets. In the meantime, let's all go and clean up our rooms before somebody goes to jail, or gets sent to bed without supper.
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