Is It The Future Yet?

 You know what's been missing amidst all this talk about election rigging and coronavirus spikes? Jet packs. 

Yes. Back to reality folks! Here we are in the waning moments of 2020 and I am still waiting on my personal jet pack. If only to commemorate the passing of Sean Connery who, as 007, who piloted his own rig back in 1965. Fifty-five years ago. I understand that Q Division has always been ahead of its time when it comes to things like ejector seats in Aston Martins and watches that function as a Geiger counter, but more than half a century later, we're still waiting for a model for the general consumer. 

Unless you happen to be a prankster hanging out near Los Angeles International Airport. Back in early September pilots on approach to LAX complained of interference in their flight paths by what they described as a human being wearing some kind of contraption that could only be described as a jetpack. Local officials and the FAA were quick to express their concerns, but doubted that such a thing could actually happen because the number and makers of personal jetpacks is still extremely limited, and those makers and operators of such devices were quick to deny any sort of involvement in such airborne hooliganism. And the Federal Bureau of Investigation is doing what it does best: Investigating. Because in the eyes of our government, nobody ought to be flying around in a jetpack unless they know about it.

Meanwhile, days weeks months and years fly by, without a personal jetpack for yours truly. Flying cars continue to evade us in much the same way. The future promised us back in 1965 continues to evade us. It seems much more likely that I will live on a Mars colony before I ever get my own private aviation machine for everyday use. 

Speaking of which, last week, Virgin tested their Hyperloop with human subjects. The crash test went off without a hitch as the two passengers emerged from their pod with nary a scratch or collapsed skull. For those of you unfamiliar with hyperloop technology, it's a way of rocketing people and things through a vacuum tube at speeds of up to six hundred miles an hour. Last Sunday's test took place, as most experimental things do, in the desert outside Las Vegas. During the test, the pod only went one hundred miles an hour, mostly because the track is currently only five hundred meters long. And it probably had something to do with confusion about converting to the metric system. Virgin is just one of the companies behind the move to this Habitrail-inspired mode of transport. When it comes to moving hamsters and gerbils around with vacuums, let's just say that my older brother tried that way back in the late sixties, so I feel as if we are still way behind the curve research-wise. 

So go ahead and focus on your COVID-19 vaccines and your mega-pixel cameras attached to phones. I'll wait. I'll be patient. 

Sigh. 

Looking Ahead

 My son pointed out a Tweet on Twitter this weekend. It read: "Does this mean we can go back to tweeting about how long those CVS receipts are?"

I sure hope so. I think of this little corner of Al Gore's Internet where I spray my thoughts, hopes, concerns and musings with reckless abandon and I sure hope so.

Over the past couple weeks, I have made a conscious attempt to walk away from all the drama that has existed in the air and on the ground. Hard to ignore the dueling chants of "stop the count" and "count the votes" coming from within the camp of the president-past-tense. The sports metaphors have piled up like cord wood, not the least of which would be the number of games that the Oakland A's might have won if they had stopped playing in the seventh inning. The Denver Broncos might have won a few more Super Bowls if only they had to play half the game.

Forgive my digression. This is supposed to be about looking forward to a new day, in which politics and scandal don't rear their heads and interfere with the reproduction of my past. My fondness for all of popular culture has become obscured by the election of a game show host to the highest office in the land. Which means that there was blog fodder available most any time he would open his mouth or tap away on his Twitter account. It turns out this was exceptionally low-hanging fruit. So much so that I feared for the safety of my head and shoulders as I walked among it. 

As we all walked among it. And it occurs to me at this instant that referring to the president-past-tense as a game show host does a complete disservice to the memory of Alex Trebek. I would so very much like to spend more time in TV land, dredging up memories of shows that many of you may have forgotten. Like Working Stiffs, starring Michael Keaton and Jim Belushi.  You needed to be reminded or perhaps introduced to this piece of fluff so very much more than you needed to be reminded or perhaps introduced to the latest bile issuing from the mouth of the president-past-tense. You wanted to know that Penny Marshall directed the pilot. You needed to know that a pre-PeeWee Paul Reubens was a featured player in this ensemble. Good luck finding him unless you watch a full episode...

Because I know that there is still a world of trouble and problems we need to focus on repairing, replacing, and resolving. But maybe now we have a little more time for the truly frivolous. For a moment or two, we can, as the Boss suggests, "just stand back and let it all be." 

And then it's back to work, building it back better. Maybe we can even do something about those incredibly long CVS receipts. 

Your Host

The host of Jeopardy from 1984 until, well, just recently?

Who was Alex Trebek?

The country from which Mister Trebek hailed.

What is Canada?

Took over the title of longest tenured game show host from Bob Barker.

Who is Alex Trebek?

Pancreatic cancer.

What killed Alex Trebek?

Winner of Outstanding Game Show Host seven times.

Who is Alex Trebek?

November 8, 2020.

What day did Alex Trebek pass away?

The Terra.

What did Alex Trebek stomp on?

He will be missed.

Who was Alex Trebek?

The Artifice Of War

" If it's natural to kill, how come men have to go into training to learn how?" -Joan Baez

"The more you sweat in peace, the less you bleed in war." - Norman Schwarzkopf

I present these two quotes to suggest an obvious friction in our American society, as well as to introduce the story of Chelsea Cheatham and Cory Gafton. Mister Gafton has been charged with the murder of Ms. Cheatham after a year-long investigation. This story relates to the quotes above because Mister Gafton is a soldier, most recently deployed at Fort Hood in Texas. And if you feel as if you have heard this story before, it could be that you have heard similar tales of homicide about soldiers at Fort Hood Texas over the past year. 

You may recall that Private First Class Vanessa Guillen was killed by Specialist Aaron David Robinson back in April. Initially reported as a missing person, Private Guillen was found, or rather her remains were uncovered, so she was no longer missing. Specialist Robinson committed suicide shortly after that and his accomplice, Cecily Aguilar, was arrested on charges of evidence tampering. Apparently cleanup after killing someone with a hammer requires assistance. Ms. Aguilar is a former Fort Hood soldier.

Which doesn't mean that all soldiers are evil, but it does raise some questions about our best and brightest. We are training young men and women to kill, but hopefully they will show more discretion about how to use this power than someone who has been less conditioned. Unless the people we are training to kill already have a certain proclivity or predisposition to such things. Twenty year olds indoctrinated into the science of killing in a world that already leans on desperate measures to solve problems makes me wonder if we are doing everything we can to recruit stable individuals capable of making life and death decisions. It makes me wonder why it took a year to figure out how death might have come to Chelsea Cheatham after her body was found at a Days Inn six minutes away from Fort Hood. 

It makes me wonder what we are teaching our enlisted men and women at Fort Hood. So I leave you with this quote from Sun Tzu: "The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting."

Guess What?

 I left my wife and her great big speaker on the front porch, blaring Fanfare For The Common Man. She was determined to wake the neighborhood to the news that Pennsylvania had finished their count and pushed Joe Biden over the top in Electoral Votes. She was going to have a dance party on our lawn in celebration.

I was going for a run.

All that pent up energy that had been stuffed way down deep since Election Day was now free to be released. There was an extra zip in my step as I made my way up the street. At the top of the hill, in front of the 7-11, a pair women were standing outside their car. One of them was dancing. Flossing to be precise. As I approached, I could see their eyes were full of smiles. "At last!" I said and gave them a big double thumbs up. They laughed and echoed my sentiment. 

I kept running. 

I made a point after that of mentioning to each and every person I met along my six mile route, "Hey, we've got a new president!" Reactions varied.

Some nodded. Maybe they were smiling behind their masks. A woman carrying her morning coffee gave me a tip of her cup. I got a few confused stares. A couple gentlemen gave me their thumbs up and agreed. Another woman gong the opposite direction in as big a rush as me responded, "Isn't it great?" A rhetorical question to be sure.

I kept running.

A few cars raced down the street, honking their horns. There was something in the air. As I passed a cafe with a half dozen patrons seated outside, I chanted, "Biden! Biden! Biden!" which got me mostly blank stares. I suppose I expected the whole block to erupt in some massive display of unity, but maybe the time for big rallies and group cheering has passed. Maybe it's time to put the country back together.

I kept running.

When I rounded the corner and came up my driveway, my wife's party had stilled. She was busy with social media and catching up on her own reflections. I asked her if she had one more dance in her. I selected Etta James' At Last from her playlist, and I held her close as we danced across the front lawn. We have a new president. At last. 

Waiting

 Tom Petty said that the waiting is the hardest part. Actually, what he sang was, "The wai-yay-yay-ay-iting is the hardest part."

I'm just sorry that Tom wasn't around to experience the most recent chapter in the big book of anticipation. It is, anticipation, Carly Simon will tell us is what is making us wait. In a world that has become all too dependent on immediate information gratification, the time it has taken to gather and count ballots in a presidential election has been nothing short of numbing. Maddening. Frustrating. Nerve-wracking. 

And I confess that at a certain level, I can appreciate why the "president" has taken any and all opportunities to act out. To point fingers. To make wild accusations. To lie his fool head off. He is taking this moment in time to exhibit all of those traits which made him unsuitable for the office, but he is finding ways to vent his anxiety.

But there is also a way that this election has been a parallel reminder to the global pandemic about time. COVID-19 did not take the Election Day off. It continued to work its deadly magic with all its terrible math: hundreds of thousands of new cases, thousands dying even as the polls opened. And closed. The counting began. And went on. And on. We want to know what happened, but we want results. That takes time. 

Which makes me think of Juneteenth. The celebration of the emancipation of slaves in the United States is celebrated on the anniversary of the announcement made by Union General Gordon Granger in Galveston, Texas that slavery had ended. This announcement came two and a half years after Abraham Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation, disproving once and for all the notion that "good news travels fast."

So now we can talk more about how waiting a week or two isn't really so bad. Giving us all a chance to get comfortable with the notion of democracy, and in spite of all outbursts to the contrary, every vote counts. It might take a little longer, keeping in mind that microwaving a steak doesn't provide much satisfaction. And meanwhile we have four years of waiting for this moment upon which we can reflect. It may take another four years for the trauma and confusion stirred up by this "president" to start to become memories instead of just scars.

Me? I have to side with Lou Reed. I'm waiting for my man. Or maybe John Mayer, waiting for the world to change. 

Mother Nature's Sons

 My younger brother and I spent summers living in the mountains. We were the embodiment of the country mouse for those three months in the model that distinguishes rodents as either city or country. To be more precise, we were mountain mice, living off the land, without running water or electricity. Though we did not bathe in the stream next to our cabin in the woods, that stream was where the water we hauled inside to warm for our baths came from. And we spent our mornings off in the aforementioned woods gathering sticks and pine cones to be used as kindling for starting the fires in our stove that would warm the water we needed for getting the grime and sap off our hands put there by all that stick and pine cone gathering. 

When we were of an age that using an ax and saw became appropriate, we cut and chopped logs to feed that fire. There were days that were spent almost entirely in the service of gathering and timber only to hack it into stove-size bits that our mother could use to heat and cook. That stove-size distinction is something that lives on in my memory, with the bigger chunks being most useful for heating, while the smaller pieces allowed mom to regulate the temperature as she cooked our meals. And baked us cookies. 

At night, we would read comics by the light of kerosene lamps, and the flashlights we kept in our bunks upstairs. When our eyes grew tired from squinting into that low light, we would turn on our transistor radios and listen to the AM signal coming to us from down in the big city. Radio Mystery Theater. Denver Bears minor league baseball. News. Weather. Static. Or just the steady drone of my father's snoring coming from the bedroom below us. 

We were up with the sun the next day, ready and raring. No shows to watch, no calls to make. We were there for the duration, and we would get the most out of it. Our cabin in the woods. When we weren't scavenging for fuel, we wandered through the trees searching for one to climb, or sticks approximately the shape and size of a sword or machine gun. And if nature called, we were pretty comfortable marking our territory like the big dogs would. 

Which is why, one time only, my younger brother found himself back in the big city, out in our front yard. When that moment came, he felt no stigma in relieving himself next to my mother's rose bushes. I am so very glad that it was not up to me to explain why this was not appropriate. Another five minutes and I just might have followed suit. Because we were country mice, and fiercely proud of it.