Sign O' The Times

 There is a sign near my neighborhood that haunts me. It reads: No More Factory Farms. Stuck as it is to a chain link fence in the middle of some of the most urban landscape that Oakland has to offer, it seems a bit incongruous. Which isn't why it haunts me. Or maybe it's part of it. 

But the real echo in my head about factory farms is the one that reflects off my own experience with farms. The planter boxes I maintain and have maintained for the past few summers. I have grown a bushel of cucumbers, a great many cherry tomatoes, and we maintain a crop of potatoes from which we never seem to fully dig up and move on. There's nothing factory about that fraction of an acre, unless its the vegetables we buy from the supermarket up the street to supplement our rather meager production. This in turn reminds me of the way my father's green thumb seemed to extend primarily and specifically to growing zucchini that could not have been consumed by an army in a plot of our back yard that had always seemed better suited to hosting a swing set. 

Then there was the beet farm. The one in Wiggins, Colorado where we made our yearly Thanksgiving pilgrimage to come that much closer to the food for which we were so very thankful. There weren't a lot of beets on the table back then. Mostly because that was the business of the farm. Just like the pigs we met in the pens outside were only eventually destined to be part of our meal, going out to the farm meant visiting the corner of the sprawling acreage that was planted and harvested in rotation by those cousins, where they lived. The moment in time when Americans were raising their own food had passed by, and the idea of a family farm was under attack by the creepy reality of agribusiness. A life in which you would wake up in the morning and go out to milk the cow and get a few eggs from the chicken coop before breakfast has become the sort of thing we now imagine in the dystopian future after the human race has been forced out of the cities and made to fend for themselves in that old-timey way. 

Until someone figures out that you can get a lot more milking done with a machine and a whole herd of cows, and that chicken coop could be much larger and put together in such a way as to aid the collection of eggs as opposed to the comfort of the chickens. Currently, nearly twelve billion pounds of garden produce grown here in the United States becomes food waste. A situation not unlike my father's zucchini ranch, but on a much larger scale. Only in a factory could you imagine being paid not to produce what you were supposed to be making. That's what happens with many farm subsidies these days. 

Come to think of it, maybe we should have paid dad not to grow those zucchinis. 

Sweltering

 I spent a summer as a dishwasher for a Mexican restaurant. 

Okay. Not the whole summer. I had days off. And in between shifts I did things that newly minted teenaged boys should do. But that may have been as hot as I have ever been in my life. For periods of time, anyway. And it wasn't a dry heat, either. Two of us in our nominal uniform of white short sleeve shirt and white and black checked polyester pants would take turns pulling tubs of dishes brought to our window by busboys. Excess food would be tossed off into the frequently changed trash can. Then they were stacked and shoved down to the sprayer. Alternately the most fun and dangerous job, spraying the dishes to get off the cheese that had been baked onto the plates and hosing the guacamole and whatever else didn't make it into the trash can while attempting to keep your footing on the increasingly slippery rubber mat that never dried. The scraping and stacking position was a dual one, in that once screaming hot sterilized glasses, bowls, plates and cutlery on racks came out of the Hobart after having been shoved in there by sprayer it was that person's job to get the clean things back where they belonged. Mostly in the kitchen.

But, if you timed it right, you got to carry a rack or two of glasses to the bar. This meant you got to walk halfway across the restaurant, far away from the oppressive swamp temperatures of the dish room. This meant an occasional interaction with other human beings outside. Waiters. Waitresses. And the bartender. He might even fill up a tall water glass with Coke and let you choke it down before returning to the swamp. Back to the hole. 

That perk of the occasional Coke from the bartender? That was in lieu of the tips that busboys shared with the wait staff. That window where they shoved the dirty dishes at us was also where the money stopped. Which is probably why the bartender felt like keeping us cool and caffeinated. If we didn't bring him any glasses, he didn't serve any drinks. No drinks. No tips. It was in his best interest, and we would even wash the glass. 

After eight hours of this, when the bar and the restaurant were closed, we picked up that rubber mat and turned the hose on the floor where a night's worth of enchiladas had been congealing. The dishwashers were hosing down even as the cooks were tossing their aprons in the laundry and heading for the door. The same door we would be sloshing out shortly after peeling off the uniforms that now clung to us like a second skin. Into our street clothes. Out into the night air. I said goodnight to my fellow dishwasher and hopped on my bike and rode the three miles back to my parents' house. Where I collapsed in a protective cocoon of steamed in grease.

Until it was time to wake up and do it all over again. 

Coin Of The Realm

 I would ask for someone to explain Bitcoin to me, but I am honestly not sure that I want to know any more than I already do. Currently it is my understanding that it is an alternative to reality. The reality to which I am accustomed, anyway. 

As I write this, one is worth more than thirty thousand dollars. This value fluctuates greatly, depending on how much business is being conducted on any given digital day. Transactions take place through "computers" and we never really see any of this "money." 

Wait a second. That sounds an awful lot like the bank account I currently maintain that has regular old money in it. The potentially amusing portion of this experience is that while I tend not to carry cash anywhere at any time, I continue to stoop over and pick up the odd penny, nickel or dime I see when I am walking down the street or across a parking lot. These "coins" get collected in a jar on my wife's desk and are eventually rolled into counted denominations that make them easier to move about. 

The fluctuation in value of these "coins" is (checks notes) nothing. Fifty pennies is worth just about exactly fifty cents. A roll of fifty dimes is, well, ten times that so approximately five dollars. Sometimes if I'm in a rush and count the roll wrong, that value is decreased by the amount of the missing coin or coins. 

That makes sense. The Bank of Singapore has suggested that Bitcoin should replace gold as its store of value. That doesn't make as much sense to me. The gold standard hasn't been used very consistently since the Great Depression, and the idea that the United States has enough gold in vaults somewhere to cover the dollars and those nickels and dimes that I keep holding onto is kind of a foolish one. 

So is the idea that there are competing digital currencies. Bitcoin is just one of them. There are more than ten thousand publicly traded "cryptocurrencies." Folks who trade "cryptocurrencies" insist that they are the "future." I refer to this as "science fiction" or "hokum," mostly because I am old. 

And I pick loose change up off the sidewalk. Don't interrupt me with all this Bitcoin nonsense, I'm counting. 

First Draft

 July 4, 2011 I was standing in front of the Declaration of Independence. Not a facsimile. The real deal. I noticed some scribbles in and around the margins. Apparently Thomas Jefferson had his "helpers" like we all do:  

When, in the course of human events,(Tommy, do you think it's necessary to mention "human" here? Feels a little much right at the beginning) it becomes necessary for one people (Whoa - aren't we all people? Come on, are you trying to start something?) to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume, among the powers of the earth (What? No mention of heaven here?), the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature’s God entitle them (Don't go mixing up nature with God), a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation (Impel. Doesn't that seem a little severe? What if we want back in?).

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal (All men? Come on. You don't mean that, do you?), that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights (But not like voting or anything like that, right?), that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness (We still get to keep our slaves, right?). That, to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men (White landowning men), deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed (Or we'll be the consent out of them if necessary). That, whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it (Without permission? Come on Tom. People will start thinking they can change things after we've already decided), and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness (Mostly we just want to keep our slaves. And guns. Make sure you put something in there about slaves and guns).

Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes (like say if somebody got it into their head that slavery was a bad thing, for example?); and, accordingly, all experience has shown, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. (Nice first pass, Tommy Boy. Don't you think it's a little wordy? Couldn't we just go with "Make America Great Again?)

Group Perspective

 Did you ever wonder if the Beatles knew that they were the Beatles?

I mean, beyond their cool name. Not that being the Quarrymen or the Silver Beetles might have kept them from becoming the Beatles of our pop culture pantheon. The group that we tend to use as a measuring stick for all other groups before and since. Did they understand the legacy that they were creating, or were they simply trapped in a bubble that felt normal to them?

I submit the apocryphal tale about the night of April 24, 1976. After being broken up as a group for several years, having each struck out on their own solo careers, John invited his old friend and bandmate into his home at The Dakota. John was interested in watching Saturday Night Live, to see Raquel Welch and another old acquaintance, John Sebastian of the Lovin' Spoonful. In addition to those two celebrities, the producer of the show made an appearance. Lorne Michaels showed up with an offer to the Fab Four to reunite on his program for the amusing price of three thousand dollars. He had no way of knowing that half of that group were watching. And he also had no way of knowing that they were considering hopping in a cab and popping by the live broadcast.

Because three thousand dollars is three thousand dollars, right?

It didn't happen. The Beatles never reunited. There was no Farewell Tour. There was no Farewell Tour Part 2. There was no We Really Mean It This Time Farewell Tour. They had done their thing and there it sat for historians and music fans and music fans who happen to be historians to ponder. Were the Beatles that which none greater can be imagined? They were a pop music group. They specialized in three minute songs about love and sheep dogs. 

And long before they were the quintessential rock band, they were musicians looking for a break and playing in the strip clubs of Berlin. And it took them firing their original drummer and auditioning for a couple record labels before they even had a chance to make it big. They were the quintessential working band. Gigging until the could get a record deal. 

But it makes me wonder when, or if, there was a moment when the four of them were alone in a room somewhere and realized that they were It. John got in trouble for comparing the Beatles to Jesus, and all those screaming teenagers seemed to be pretty firm in their convictions. They recorded Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, for heaven's sake. The Best Album Of All Time. Fans and critics alike seem to agree. 

What about John, Paul, George and Ringo? Did they know what they were doing? Or was it simply lightning in a seven year bottle, spanning their first and last albums together? If John and Paul had taken that cab and showed up, a little worse for wear and proceeded to diminish their legend? 

For three thousand dollars? That might have cemented it for me, anyway. 

Too Smart For My Own Good

 I wish I knew now what I didn't know then. Way back when I figured that I was so clever because I could see how easy it would be for my father to simply show up and apologize for his bad decisions. I would say now that I had no right to be so judgmental. 

Which would have been a source of great amusement for my dad, who coined the phrase, "People can be so judgmental," without ever realizing the irony. I insisted that this was one of the most ridiculous moments of logical overreach that I could imagine. I was in my twenties at this point, so I figured that I had seen most of what I needed to see. 

And my friends? They were dumbstruck by the departure of my father from the home that he had created for all of us. For all those years. The strays. The misfits. The sons and daughters of divorce. The kids who came home with me to get a little of that Ward Cleaver vibe that they must have been missing at their own homes. 

I had no idea how different the jobs of being a dad and being a husband were. I had no idea what that statistic that fifty percent of marriages in the United States end in divorce was describing a real thing. I could not understand how this man who had appeared in my life as the man with all the answers had turned into this frightened and confused guy who was leaving my mother. 

He didn't get far. Because I'm fairly certain now that I still had plenty of lessons to learn from my dad. When we used to go out for dinner in those days, I used to quiz him. I figured that I was going to be the one who could bring him to his senses. I imagined, back then, that I understood the range of his fear and pain. I would do the thinking for both of us. And someday someone would write a song about what a wonderful son I turned out to be, because I could save a marriage. I could save our family.

I couldn't . I didn't. It is only now that I am beginning to reckon with the notion that sometimes when something gets broken, it stays broken. This is true of people too. Which doesn't keep me from trying, even now, to use all my cleverness to put Humpty Dumptys of the world back together again. 

I still have things left to learn from my father. 

I miss him today. 

Alternative Anatomy

 On Star Trek, the Original Series, the one that looked fake even way back then but persevered because it had such a conscience, Bones was often heard complaining to Spock about his physiology. Not only was Spock's heart never in the right place, neither were the rest of his vital organs. Which sort of makes sense, seeing as how foreign he appeared, what with those pointy ears and eye shadow. Later, when the new crop of Trekking began, the creators went to great pains to show how radically different species could be. This was shown primarily via the wrinkles on their foreheads. In the meantime, no special accommodations had to be made for crew members who used their prehensile tongues to steer or had only three fingers or for heaven's sake didn't show up on the bridge speaking Federation English. No, this was a journey where no man had gone before, at least as far as your standard bipedal humanoid forms were concerned. Which explains why the ship's doctor was routinely confounded by special guest aliens whose skins were blue or green, or who forgot to bring their medical chart with them explaining that even though they were air-breathing and walking erect, they evolved from plants. 

I bring this up because I sometimes feel like Doctor McCoy when I am dealing with little kids. The ones who can run around the playground for forty-five minutes without a break but collapse in a heap when they are asked to participate in the fifth grade PE test. They are also the same species that can go for hours without wiping their nose, seemingly oblivious to the ever-widening swath of snot collecting on their upper lip, only occasionally disrupted by a tongue or a sleeve drawn across it. But if one of them insists that they have a stomach ache, look out.

I introduce this malady with a reckoning: there is a difference between a tummy ache and a stomach ache in most children. Tummies are much more easily disrupted and can rarely be easily cured with a known pharmaceutical. Instead, these tend to appear in clusters around lunchtime before some major event. The best known treatment for the tummy ache is a trip to the office, usually accompanied by a call home to let parents know that the child is stuck at school in quasi-discomfort and needing some attention/validation. The tummy ache should not be confused with the stomach ache, which may carry many of the same symptoms, but can often be more obvious and convincing because of the vomiting. It's always a good idea when someone says they have a stomach ache in an elementary school to have a trash can available. If the patient insists they don't need a trash can, it might be just a tummy ache. Or it could be that they are seven years old and they don't have a real sense of just how abruptly that second bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos can be expelled. 

After a year of being confused and terrified of a plague that kept us all apart, I confess that I am looking forward to another voyage with a crew of these small creatures. I'm hoping that the time we spent away may have sharpened their own diagnostic skills, or at least given them a new vague malady to keep them out of their afternoon math test. "I'm sorry Mister Caven, but I'm feeling a little pandemic."