I had a while to think about it. A few hours.
Or three weeks.
Or twenty-six years.
I was trying to imagine a truly representative response to the return of my wife after her trip across the pond. I had begun trying to imagine just how I should run, walk or fling myself at her after being away for most of a month. I am not used to that kind of separation. Did I want to play it cool and let her walk to me? Should I go for the big welcome home movie kiss, or the warm embrace that had been missing for so long? I replayed these various scenarios over and over in my mind as I sat at my computer, idly checking email and news while tracking her flight's progress toward San Francisco Airport.
Not the airport she left from, back in June. SFO is the only airport from which I ever missed a flight. That was twenty-six years ago. Three weeks ago, she took off for Italy from the International Airport down the street: Oakland. That one's easy. I know that place by heart. I flew out of there recently myself, taking advantage of a summer vacation that allowed me to play gin rummy with my mummy. When I got home, I still had time to mull over just how I would handle that airport greeting. Over and over.
It was that flight that I missed twenty-six years ago that affirmed my notion that this might not be the worst place to move my life. A place where I could spend time with this woman all the time, with some common sense breaks for work and the occasional day trip. It was nearly twenty-five years ago since we made that obsession legal by getting married. Hugs and kisses are the currency of our relationship, and I confess that I am sometimes stingy when it comes to handing them out.
But not after three weeks.
Not after twenty-six years.
When I saw her coming out of the customs baggage claim, which I found with a little help from signage and a clue from my wife, I did rush to her. And the good news is that she rushed to me. And I don't remember exactly how it all went down because it turned out that seeing her was such a relief that I forgot all those careful moves I had planned. The moment simply unfolded. Which is exactly how it should be. It has been. Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans.
Saturday, July 14, 2018
Friday, July 13, 2018
Don't Judge
I am hopelessly naive. I thought that fair is fair, right is right and wrong is wrong. I understand that sometimes we find ourselves driving out of these well-worn ruts and into a bog of uncertainty. This is why we have a legal system. You have the right to an attorney, should you so choose, to defend you. This is especially when things are not exactly as they seem. You want to get someone like Jimmy Stewart or Henry Fonda to represent you if this is the case, since what we are all after here is justice. Which brings me to the Supreme Court.
If you have argued that your right to wearing a red shirt is being infringed upon by your employer, and your employer is Best Buy and they want you to wear the uniform and that's that, it doesn't have to be. Because you can take them to court. If that court doesn't uphold your right to red-shirtness, then you can appeal to a higher court. And this appeal process continues until all the wisdom and experience available can be brought to bear on this question. Even if the matter has to go all the way to the Supreme Court.
And what happens if the Justices on the Supreme Court don't rule in favor of your tweak to the dress code of your employer? Well, you can continue to bash away at this process until you run out of money, time or interest. Probably more that first part, since it would seem that justice can be a rather expensive proposition. Which is why you don't tend to take trivial matters like Best Buy's dress code to the Supreme Court in the first place.
But if you have enough money, time and interest, you can continue to find ways to make cracks in the decisions made by any judge. Interesting to note that once you find yourself, as a judge, ruling on the Supreme Court, you get to change your name to "Justice." That's how good a judge you are. You are wise enough to know that there are legal precedents that say that an employer can force their employees to wear blue polo shirts as a condition of employment. They have studied and studied and continue to study to be certain that the decisions they make are fair.
So why should it matter if the Justices are liberal or conservative? It is their job to interpret the laws of our land based on the bedrock of our legal system, The Constitution. Maybe the clue can be found in that word, "interpret." I like the idea that laws are black and white and yes and no and up or down. Left and right seems to play a bigger factor than I am comfortable. Especially if you have enough money and time to keep bashing away at those pillars of conduct we are all supposed to follow.
And you know what else? Those Justices are appointed for life. Or until they get tired of sitting there in their black robes, all full of wisdom and experience. Not like judges in your local courts that can be voted out because they don't dispense justice the way we see fit. If somebody shows up on the Supreme Court at the tender age of fifty-something, they could be interpreting the Constitution for decades. So that one opinion could keep you in a blue shirt for a good long time.
Or something much more important.
If you have argued that your right to wearing a red shirt is being infringed upon by your employer, and your employer is Best Buy and they want you to wear the uniform and that's that, it doesn't have to be. Because you can take them to court. If that court doesn't uphold your right to red-shirtness, then you can appeal to a higher court. And this appeal process continues until all the wisdom and experience available can be brought to bear on this question. Even if the matter has to go all the way to the Supreme Court.
And what happens if the Justices on the Supreme Court don't rule in favor of your tweak to the dress code of your employer? Well, you can continue to bash away at this process until you run out of money, time or interest. Probably more that first part, since it would seem that justice can be a rather expensive proposition. Which is why you don't tend to take trivial matters like Best Buy's dress code to the Supreme Court in the first place.
But if you have enough money, time and interest, you can continue to find ways to make cracks in the decisions made by any judge. Interesting to note that once you find yourself, as a judge, ruling on the Supreme Court, you get to change your name to "Justice." That's how good a judge you are. You are wise enough to know that there are legal precedents that say that an employer can force their employees to wear blue polo shirts as a condition of employment. They have studied and studied and continue to study to be certain that the decisions they make are fair.
So why should it matter if the Justices are liberal or conservative? It is their job to interpret the laws of our land based on the bedrock of our legal system, The Constitution. Maybe the clue can be found in that word, "interpret." I like the idea that laws are black and white and yes and no and up or down. Left and right seems to play a bigger factor than I am comfortable. Especially if you have enough money and time to keep bashing away at those pillars of conduct we are all supposed to follow.
And you know what else? Those Justices are appointed for life. Or until they get tired of sitting there in their black robes, all full of wisdom and experience. Not like judges in your local courts that can be voted out because they don't dispense justice the way we see fit. If somebody shows up on the Supreme Court at the tender age of fifty-something, they could be interpreting the Constitution for decades. So that one opinion could keep you in a blue shirt for a good long time.
Or something much more important.
Thursday, July 12, 2018
Late Night Viewing
It just so happened that one of the last nights that my wife was away just happened to be the night that one of those cable outfits decided to run Videodrome. If you are not familiar with David Cronenberg's 1983 science fiction romp through television and the subconscious, then you have my permission to skip reading this blog and go straight out to your local video store and - wait. Sorry about that. Punch a button to have your streaming video service jack you in for the ride of your life. Yes, the fact that it stars Deborah Harry of Blondie and James Woods of the born-again right wing is enough to keep you away form it, but that would be a shame, since unlike many things from 1983, it has aged pretty well.
This probably has a lot to do with the gentleman who rubbed our nose in it way back when. David Cronenberg, perhaps best known for his remake of The Fly, has made a career out of pointing a camera at our worst impulses. And if they happen to squirt gore, so much the better. He has made a couple of very intense gangster films recently, if you like your intensity a with a little less science fiction and a little more Viggo Mortensen. I enjoyed both of them, but I continue to be drawn back to Videodrome, which is creepily ironic, since it is all about a video transmission that plants a tumor in the viewer's brain that causes them to be controlled by, well, watch it if you need to know.
I did. Again and again. Which probably says more about me than it does about the movie itself, but it came to me at a time when video was my life. I ran a video store, and keeping an eye out for the next big thing was my job. I remember drawing the line at a series of videos called Faces of Death. This was a mashed together bunch of clips purported to be actual footage of people dying. In horrible ways. I turned a great many customers away when they came looking for any volume of this snuff. Often my response was to try and send them home with Videodrome. If you want to wreck your mind, why not have a story? A point of view?
So there I was, alone in my dark house staring at a movie about snuff TV that generates hallucinations in the viewer, and I wondered what the attraction was. Then I remembered America's Funniest Home Videos. And YouTube. And Instagram. And all the other places where our basest nature can be easily found on display. And I wondered if it was time for a sequel.
This probably has a lot to do with the gentleman who rubbed our nose in it way back when. David Cronenberg, perhaps best known for his remake of The Fly, has made a career out of pointing a camera at our worst impulses. And if they happen to squirt gore, so much the better. He has made a couple of very intense gangster films recently, if you like your intensity a with a little less science fiction and a little more Viggo Mortensen. I enjoyed both of them, but I continue to be drawn back to Videodrome, which is creepily ironic, since it is all about a video transmission that plants a tumor in the viewer's brain that causes them to be controlled by, well, watch it if you need to know.
I did. Again and again. Which probably says more about me than it does about the movie itself, but it came to me at a time when video was my life. I ran a video store, and keeping an eye out for the next big thing was my job. I remember drawing the line at a series of videos called Faces of Death. This was a mashed together bunch of clips purported to be actual footage of people dying. In horrible ways. I turned a great many customers away when they came looking for any volume of this snuff. Often my response was to try and send them home with Videodrome. If you want to wreck your mind, why not have a story? A point of view?
So there I was, alone in my dark house staring at a movie about snuff TV that generates hallucinations in the viewer, and I wondered what the attraction was. Then I remembered America's Funniest Home Videos. And YouTube. And Instagram. And all the other places where our basest nature can be easily found on display. And I wondered if it was time for a sequel.
Wednesday, July 11, 2018
Cleaning Up
Digital and analog are not the same thing. I am not talking about the somewhat tired and now antiquated discussion about recorded music. I surrendered some time ago to the convenience of pushing a button or simply asking Google to play Suburban Lawns "Flying Saucer Safari." There is a lot to be said for the challenge of pawing through a collection of vinyl and taking the album carefully from its dust sleeve and setting it on the table to cue up that one song, snap crackles and pops. I could go on about the liner notes and lyric sheets and artwork that has been resigned to a past that includes a CD collection as well.
But I promised not to go there. Apologies.
Instead I refer to another kind of album: Photo. In the busy-ness of cleaning the house over the past week or so, I found myself sitting down in front of a bookcase that had not received my full attention for some time. It is the one that holds our photo albums. The pictorial history of a life spent together, my wife and me. And then along comes our son. And our dog. The adventures we shared. The occasions we celebrated. The sunsets we watched. They are all there, lovingly arranged and cataloged for a decade, and then perhaps we ran out of shelf space. Or we started taking digital photos. And for a moment there, we lived a lie that we would be ordering prints from one of those online sites that will do that kind of thing for those of us who need something to touch.
Something tangible.
Something that touches us.
I found some envelopes of stray photos that had never made it to an album. Rather, these were a group of pictures that had been set aside after our dog went to heaven, where all dogs go. As I sat there on the floor, flipping through these memories right there in my hands, I felt connection to a beloved pet that still shows up in my dreams at night, and cannot be replaced. It was as different as those vinyl albums are to the Mp3s of the very same music. I found a pocket-sized album that had been left empty, I reasoned, for just this purpose. I made a new album of pictures of our dog.
And I cried, just a little, as I finished that little chore. Then I smiled knowing that she has a place now. Not someplace in a cloud.
In my heart and on that shelf.
But I promised not to go there. Apologies.
Instead I refer to another kind of album: Photo. In the busy-ness of cleaning the house over the past week or so, I found myself sitting down in front of a bookcase that had not received my full attention for some time. It is the one that holds our photo albums. The pictorial history of a life spent together, my wife and me. And then along comes our son. And our dog. The adventures we shared. The occasions we celebrated. The sunsets we watched. They are all there, lovingly arranged and cataloged for a decade, and then perhaps we ran out of shelf space. Or we started taking digital photos. And for a moment there, we lived a lie that we would be ordering prints from one of those online sites that will do that kind of thing for those of us who need something to touch.
Something tangible.
Something that touches us.
I found some envelopes of stray photos that had never made it to an album. Rather, these were a group of pictures that had been set aside after our dog went to heaven, where all dogs go. As I sat there on the floor, flipping through these memories right there in my hands, I felt connection to a beloved pet that still shows up in my dreams at night, and cannot be replaced. It was as different as those vinyl albums are to the Mp3s of the very same music. I found a pocket-sized album that had been left empty, I reasoned, for just this purpose. I made a new album of pictures of our dog.
And I cried, just a little, as I finished that little chore. Then I smiled knowing that she has a place now. Not someplace in a cloud.
In my heart and on that shelf.
Tuesday, July 10, 2018
Being A Joiner
Panshu Zhao was discharged from the United States Army. Not because he was transgender. That was so a year ago. Now, in an effort to Make America Great Again, the "President" has decided that foreign born soldiers who were serving in our armed forces in exchange for a path to citizenship would no longer be welcome in the ranks. Panshu was born in eastern China, but grew up loving the United States. He came here to attend graduate school at Texas A&M University. Go Aggies!
Panshu signed up in 2016 in hopes of trading his service for a chance to become a part of the country he had loved from afar.
Not so fast, Panshu. If your name was Robert or Bubba or some naturally occurring moniker, and you were born and raised here on these shores, then you might have a chance. But then you'd probably already be a citizen, wouldn't you. Therefore this is kind of a moot point. Never mind all that literature and fast talk about getting your citizenship because we are in the business of recruiting Americans for our armed forces and business is good.
Maybe you've heard that recruitment numbers are down, and we should be glad to take anyone with a pulse, but that 's not true. Well, it's kind of true. The U.S. Army is "relaxing" their recruitment standards in order to fill their ranks. If you smoke dope, just don't do it on guard duty, and make sure your uniform covers those racist tattoos. The Army is also willing to be a little more "relaxed" about your general aptitude scores. What really matters in today's Army is conforming to some ideal that is not exactly clear.
Leaving Panshu wondering what he needs to do in order to be all he can be. His PhD means nothing, nor do the years he spent training and waiting for clearance from his adopted government to become a soldier. Apparently, clever immigrant types were using this military path to find a way to sneak into our country. Shame on them. Using the programs made available to them along with their dedication and hard work to become a part of this great nation is unconscionable. At least that's what Panshu is being told, now that he is years into the process that he signed up for in good faith.
So who will be fighting our next war? Robert? Bubba? Ramon? Sorry, Ramon. We've already got your exit visa planned.
Panshu signed up in 2016 in hopes of trading his service for a chance to become a part of the country he had loved from afar.
Not so fast, Panshu. If your name was Robert or Bubba or some naturally occurring moniker, and you were born and raised here on these shores, then you might have a chance. But then you'd probably already be a citizen, wouldn't you. Therefore this is kind of a moot point. Never mind all that literature and fast talk about getting your citizenship because we are in the business of recruiting Americans for our armed forces and business is good.
Maybe you've heard that recruitment numbers are down, and we should be glad to take anyone with a pulse, but that 's not true. Well, it's kind of true. The U.S. Army is "relaxing" their recruitment standards in order to fill their ranks. If you smoke dope, just don't do it on guard duty, and make sure your uniform covers those racist tattoos. The Army is also willing to be a little more "relaxed" about your general aptitude scores. What really matters in today's Army is conforming to some ideal that is not exactly clear.
Leaving Panshu wondering what he needs to do in order to be all he can be. His PhD means nothing, nor do the years he spent training and waiting for clearance from his adopted government to become a soldier. Apparently, clever immigrant types were using this military path to find a way to sneak into our country. Shame on them. Using the programs made available to them along with their dedication and hard work to become a part of this great nation is unconscionable. At least that's what Panshu is being told, now that he is years into the process that he signed up for in good faith.
So who will be fighting our next war? Robert? Bubba? Ramon? Sorry, Ramon. We've already got your exit visa planned.
Monday, July 09, 2018
Hits And Misses
I miss Steve Page. Well, I know what Steve is up to. He's even going to be in the neighborhood this coming November. If you don't know Steven Page, he's a Canadian singer and songwriter who used to be in Barenaked Ladies. they are a Canadian folk-rock band that was recently inducted into the Canadian Music Hall of Fame. Still drawing a blank? Well, you've probably watched an episode of The Big Bang Theory, and therefore you have heard one of their songs. They wrote the theme. And sang it. And they tend to play it at their concerts.
I know this because I am a fan. I have been ever since I heard their song "If I Had A Million Dollars" way back in 1994. Finding their mix of humor and musicianship of the highest quality, I sought out more and more of what they had to offer. I tend to do this with bands. I find a song and then spend weeks months years pursuing their creative output until it dries up. Or goes away. Or something else happened.
Like Steven Page left the band. Or was asked to leave. Depending on the account you choose to pursue. Suffice it to say that Mister Page's behavior was, at one point, hard to reconcile with the feel-good silliness that Barenaked Ladies had to offer. Which was a shame at the time and continues to be, since I haven't found myself actively searching out the new album or looking for tickets to their latest tour for some time now.
Which causes us all to wonder, "Does one person make a band?" If you were to ask Sting, for example, he might say yes. Different groups have survived changes in personnel over the course of their history. The Rolling Stones have had their share of turnover, but if Mick and Keith ever call it a day, then they may cease to rock. Mike Nesmith seems to be able to wander in and out of whatever group of Monkees decide to tour, but the odds are against there being an "official reunion" without all four showing up. Thanks, Davy.
Am I suggesting that it would be better if Steven Page had gone to folk rock heaven than resigning in disgrace?
I don't know. Maybe I am. As a selfish person, I wish that things could have continued in the way they had forever, and I would be listening to their new album with Steve in tow, and looking forward to seats in the theater when they come to my town again.
Or maybe that isn't the way these things are supposed to go. Paul McCartney continues to pack stadiums as a solo act forty-eight years after his little group broke up. And if I want to see Steven Page sing, I still can.
So could I please stop whining now?
I know this because I am a fan. I have been ever since I heard their song "If I Had A Million Dollars" way back in 1994. Finding their mix of humor and musicianship of the highest quality, I sought out more and more of what they had to offer. I tend to do this with bands. I find a song and then spend weeks months years pursuing their creative output until it dries up. Or goes away. Or something else happened.
Like Steven Page left the band. Or was asked to leave. Depending on the account you choose to pursue. Suffice it to say that Mister Page's behavior was, at one point, hard to reconcile with the feel-good silliness that Barenaked Ladies had to offer. Which was a shame at the time and continues to be, since I haven't found myself actively searching out the new album or looking for tickets to their latest tour for some time now.
Which causes us all to wonder, "Does one person make a band?" If you were to ask Sting, for example, he might say yes. Different groups have survived changes in personnel over the course of their history. The Rolling Stones have had their share of turnover, but if Mick and Keith ever call it a day, then they may cease to rock. Mike Nesmith seems to be able to wander in and out of whatever group of Monkees decide to tour, but the odds are against there being an "official reunion" without all four showing up. Thanks, Davy.
Am I suggesting that it would be better if Steven Page had gone to folk rock heaven than resigning in disgrace?
I don't know. Maybe I am. As a selfish person, I wish that things could have continued in the way they had forever, and I would be listening to their new album with Steve in tow, and looking forward to seats in the theater when they come to my town again.
Or maybe that isn't the way these things are supposed to go. Paul McCartney continues to pack stadiums as a solo act forty-eight years after his little group broke up. And if I want to see Steven Page sing, I still can.
So could I please stop whining now?
Sunday, July 08, 2018
Another One Bites The Dust
The "President" accepted Scott Pruitt's resignation on the Fifth of July because of course he did.
The Former head of the Environmental Protection Agency had been on the watch list for quite some time, having spent the last several months as even money in the administration resignation pool. Not because he was rolling back regulations that had been effectively protecting the environment. Global warming wasn't a big concern for Scott. Undoing anything associated with the Obama administration was.
That and checking out the possibility of getting his wife hooked up with a business opportunity with Chick-Fil-A. Well, not so much Scott on that one but an aide that Scott sent out on an errand to see about getting Scott's wife a fast-food franchise. To have something to do while Scott was busy dismantling the environmental legacy of the guy who came before.
That, and staying busy spending the taxpayer's money in creative ways: First Class travel wherever he went, and finding reasons to travel back to Oklahoma whenever possible. Oh, and my personal favorite, instructing an aide to go out and rustle him up a used mattress from a Trump hotel. I am certain that the mattresses used at our "President's" string of "luxury" hotels are certainly worth checking out, but the whole notion of seeking out a used mattress from anywhere is pretty suspect. On a lot of levels. I suppose we can be relieved that he wasn't asking this public servant to drive around the neighborhood looking for old mattresses leaning up against phone poles. That would be icky.
No more icky than a head of the EPA getting a deal on a condo in Washington D.C. for fifty dollars a night. If you were going to shove a used mattress in a fifty dollar a night flop house, that would make sense, but this is also the guy who spent forty-three thousand dollars on a sound-proofed phone booth. We are left to surmise that whatever conversations taking place in that rather expensive phone booth must have had some rather secret conversations. About chicken sandwiches. And rooms to let. And used mattresses.
So bye, bye, Scott Pruitt. Good luck in whatever swamp you can find suitable lodging.
The Former head of the Environmental Protection Agency had been on the watch list for quite some time, having spent the last several months as even money in the administration resignation pool. Not because he was rolling back regulations that had been effectively protecting the environment. Global warming wasn't a big concern for Scott. Undoing anything associated with the Obama administration was.
That and checking out the possibility of getting his wife hooked up with a business opportunity with Chick-Fil-A. Well, not so much Scott on that one but an aide that Scott sent out on an errand to see about getting Scott's wife a fast-food franchise. To have something to do while Scott was busy dismantling the environmental legacy of the guy who came before.
That, and staying busy spending the taxpayer's money in creative ways: First Class travel wherever he went, and finding reasons to travel back to Oklahoma whenever possible. Oh, and my personal favorite, instructing an aide to go out and rustle him up a used mattress from a Trump hotel. I am certain that the mattresses used at our "President's" string of "luxury" hotels are certainly worth checking out, but the whole notion of seeking out a used mattress from anywhere is pretty suspect. On a lot of levels. I suppose we can be relieved that he wasn't asking this public servant to drive around the neighborhood looking for old mattresses leaning up against phone poles. That would be icky.
No more icky than a head of the EPA getting a deal on a condo in Washington D.C. for fifty dollars a night. If you were going to shove a used mattress in a fifty dollar a night flop house, that would make sense, but this is also the guy who spent forty-three thousand dollars on a sound-proofed phone booth. We are left to surmise that whatever conversations taking place in that rather expensive phone booth must have had some rather secret conversations. About chicken sandwiches. And rooms to let. And used mattresses.
So bye, bye, Scott Pruitt. Good luck in whatever swamp you can find suitable lodging.
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