There's a joke in here somewhere: How many adults does it take to fix a potential gas leak in our front yard? At last check, about a dozen. The three guys from the cable company who were trying to put a new support in for the telephone pole in the corner of our yard nicked a gas line, one that had been clearly marked previously by another crew from PG&E. They called the fire department, who sent both a paramedic unit and a hook and ladder truck out with lights flashing and parked in the middle of the street. Then another PG&E guy came out with a wrench and a worried look on his face.
And then they proceeded to stand around in our front yard and exchange pleasantries and the occasional high-five while the discussion about next steps continued. The firemen leaned on the fence and did their best to stay in the shade as they wore their heavy jackets and helmets. The uniforms only exacerbated the sense of heightened drama for the kids on our street, who must have imagined some sort of desperate situation in or around our house. The biggest loss to those of us inside were the plums the firemen helped themselves to as they waited for the situation to unravel.
Eventually, another crew of PG&E guys will have to come out to our house, dig another hole, and repair the gas line. My son wondered who was going to pay for all of this, and we assured him that we wouldn't have to foot the bill. But as I watched the dozen or so healthy young men sitting around waiting for the next thing to happen, I knew we would all be paying for it in the months to come.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
The "W" Is For Worst
I sat in my kitchen last night having another one of those, "How could things in this country have gotten so awful in just eight years?" My friend and I wondered aloud, not for the first time, if Pinhead wasn't the worst president of all time. I mentioned that I had grown up watching Tricky Dick Nixon and his gang of thugs run roughshod over the Constitution, but history also has that same administration to thank for opening China, as his legacy in environmental legislation. Another thirty years may provide us with enough distance from the Pinhead Regime to allow us to be more kind, but presently it's hard to imagine how we might choose to start our scrapbooking page for "The Accomplishments of President Pinhead."
Surely we can all gain a certain measure of satisfaction for having lived through these past eight years, but as with all things, a little perspective is probably necessary. Zimbabwe's President Robert Mugabe was sworn in for a sixth term Sunday, just hours after government officials said he overwhelmingly won a runoff that has been widely discredited. His main rival dismissed the inauguration as "an exercise in self-delusion." African and other world leaders have condemned Friday's election, in which Mugabe was the only candidate. Human rights groups said opposition supporters were the targets of brutal state-sponsored violence during the campaign, leaving more than eighty dead and forcing more than two hundred thousand to flee their homes. In recent years, Mugabe has been accused of ruining Zimbabwe's economy and holding onto power through fraud and intimidation. Zimbabwe's official inflation rate was put at one hundred sixty-five thousand percent by the government in February, but independent estimates put the real figure closer to four million percent.
I'm still not happy about paying five dollars for a gallon of gas, but no one has chased me away from my polling place. I am fortunate to be an American, but I'm still counting the days.
Surely we can all gain a certain measure of satisfaction for having lived through these past eight years, but as with all things, a little perspective is probably necessary. Zimbabwe's President Robert Mugabe was sworn in for a sixth term Sunday, just hours after government officials said he overwhelmingly won a runoff that has been widely discredited. His main rival dismissed the inauguration as "an exercise in self-delusion." African and other world leaders have condemned Friday's election, in which Mugabe was the only candidate. Human rights groups said opposition supporters were the targets of brutal state-sponsored violence during the campaign, leaving more than eighty dead and forcing more than two hundred thousand to flee their homes. In recent years, Mugabe has been accused of ruining Zimbabwe's economy and holding onto power through fraud and intimidation. Zimbabwe's official inflation rate was put at one hundred sixty-five thousand percent by the government in February, but independent estimates put the real figure closer to four million percent.
I'm still not happy about paying five dollars for a gallon of gas, but no one has chased me away from my polling place. I am fortunate to be an American, but I'm still counting the days.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Those Three Little Words
You can't have enough friends. While I am sure that there are those who might argue this nugget of wisdom, I find myself reflecting back on my teenage years and wondering how I found myself agreeing with them.
It began sometime in junior high, along about the time that we all began our first attempts at coupling off. I felt like I had a pretty sure thing, having spent roughly six years anticipating my eventual betrothal to the girl down the street. It was a great story: childhood sweethearts. Little did I know that my childhood would continue for several more years.
I blame myself for showing up to seventh grade ill-prepared for the rigors and torments that junior high school had to offer. After all, I chose to join the band, and my lack of coordination in P.E. insured my label: geek. By the time eighth grade rolled around and I attempted to rub some of the nerd stink off myself by joining first the wrestling team and then the track team, it was already too late. Geeks were not part of the dating pool.
It was during these years that I learned to resent a certain phrase. A three word phrase that would have been fine if it had been left at just two: good friends. Good friends are hard to come by, but the part that always made me flinch was the "just" that went in front of it: Just Good Friends. It was that dash of flavoring that made the whole meal turn sour. When the girl down the street told me she wanted to be "just good friends," I began an odyssey that lasted another three years.
I was that guy who listened when boyfriends left them high and dry. I was the guy who went out and didn't "try anything." I was a nice guy. Consequently, I had a lot of good friends who were girls, and anytime that I felt like pressing the edge of that envelope, I was reminded that I was, after all, in band. I even had the temerity to ask a cheerleader to the Homecoming Dance in my junior year in high school. As crazy as it sounds, it seemed like a pretty safe bet, since she had spent the year before in the marching band's flag line. I was a gentleman all evening long, and when I walked her to her at the end of the night, I leaned in for what I hoped would be my first official goodnight kiss.
"I don't kiss on the first date," she told me.
How could I have been so foolish? I should have had a dozen or so dates ahead of this one so that the outcome would have been more certain. Of course, when I called the next week to set up a second date, I found out our relationship was better defined by those three little words.
It wasn't until my senior year that I finally learned what all of my other bandie friends had already discovered: We were not allowed to date outside our species. I took a girl from band to that year's homecoming dance, and it wasn't a coincidence that she was a French Horn player. She did kiss on a first date. A lot.
Imagine my surprise when I found out a few days later that we were just good friends. How could this be? Hadn't I just achieved my personal breakthrough? Wasn't this my little mitzvah? Nope. But here's where the magic starts to turn: This was the girl who, a year later, gave me my first Bruce Springsteen record. What a good friend.
By the end of my senior year, I had a girlfriend. The spell had finally been broken, and I was sure that all of that patience and good behavior was going to pay off. I shouldn't have been so hasty. After the breakup of my first and most, well, first relationship, I spent the rest of the Reagan administration waiting for another shot at being "more than just good friends."
When I finally met up with my wife-to-be, we had been friends for nearly a decade. Good friends. At the wedding of her high school boyfriend, who was my good friend as well, we happily took it upon ourselves to make the sign for the bride and groom's bicycles that read "Just Married." There was only one sign we could put on the back of our car when we left the wedding.
We're still good friends. And the "just" doesn't matter.
It began sometime in junior high, along about the time that we all began our first attempts at coupling off. I felt like I had a pretty sure thing, having spent roughly six years anticipating my eventual betrothal to the girl down the street. It was a great story: childhood sweethearts. Little did I know that my childhood would continue for several more years.
I blame myself for showing up to seventh grade ill-prepared for the rigors and torments that junior high school had to offer. After all, I chose to join the band, and my lack of coordination in P.E. insured my label: geek. By the time eighth grade rolled around and I attempted to rub some of the nerd stink off myself by joining first the wrestling team and then the track team, it was already too late. Geeks were not part of the dating pool.
It was during these years that I learned to resent a certain phrase. A three word phrase that would have been fine if it had been left at just two: good friends. Good friends are hard to come by, but the part that always made me flinch was the "just" that went in front of it: Just Good Friends. It was that dash of flavoring that made the whole meal turn sour. When the girl down the street told me she wanted to be "just good friends," I began an odyssey that lasted another three years.
I was that guy who listened when boyfriends left them high and dry. I was the guy who went out and didn't "try anything." I was a nice guy. Consequently, I had a lot of good friends who were girls, and anytime that I felt like pressing the edge of that envelope, I was reminded that I was, after all, in band. I even had the temerity to ask a cheerleader to the Homecoming Dance in my junior year in high school. As crazy as it sounds, it seemed like a pretty safe bet, since she had spent the year before in the marching band's flag line. I was a gentleman all evening long, and when I walked her to her at the end of the night, I leaned in for what I hoped would be my first official goodnight kiss.
"I don't kiss on the first date," she told me.
How could I have been so foolish? I should have had a dozen or so dates ahead of this one so that the outcome would have been more certain. Of course, when I called the next week to set up a second date, I found out our relationship was better defined by those three little words.
It wasn't until my senior year that I finally learned what all of my other bandie friends had already discovered: We were not allowed to date outside our species. I took a girl from band to that year's homecoming dance, and it wasn't a coincidence that she was a French Horn player. She did kiss on a first date. A lot.
Imagine my surprise when I found out a few days later that we were just good friends. How could this be? Hadn't I just achieved my personal breakthrough? Wasn't this my little mitzvah? Nope. But here's where the magic starts to turn: This was the girl who, a year later, gave me my first Bruce Springsteen record. What a good friend.
By the end of my senior year, I had a girlfriend. The spell had finally been broken, and I was sure that all of that patience and good behavior was going to pay off. I shouldn't have been so hasty. After the breakup of my first and most, well, first relationship, I spent the rest of the Reagan administration waiting for another shot at being "more than just good friends."
When I finally met up with my wife-to-be, we had been friends for nearly a decade. Good friends. At the wedding of her high school boyfriend, who was my good friend as well, we happily took it upon ourselves to make the sign for the bride and groom's bicycles that read "Just Married." There was only one sign we could put on the back of our car when we left the wedding.
We're still good friends. And the "just" doesn't matter.
Friday, June 27, 2008
'Scuse Me While I Kiss The Sky
Purple haze is in my brain. Lately things don't seem the same. Acting funny, but I don't know why. With apologies to Mister Hendrix, I'll be glad to kiss the sky once I can see it again. The haze isn't so much purple as ash grey.
Northern California is on fire. At the beginning of the week, there were more than eight hundred brush fires burning. This has provided some spectacular sunsets, but those are mediated by the fact that it has been hard to catch our collective breath in the past week.
Here's the ironic part: To start the week, I asked the kids in my summer school class to spend the week investigating this science question: Why is the sky blue? They haven't had a chance to see blue sky since Monday. For them, this doesn't seem odd. After all, they live in urban California, and even in June the fog that settles into the Bay Area in the morning can keep the sun away for more than half the day. When I asked them yesterday if they had noticed, they asked, "What smoke?"
Finally, I began to wonder if this wasn't just the leading edge of the Apocalypse. Maybe this is how global warming will take over: not in creeping bits, but all at once over the course of one summer. Right now the Midwest is underwater and California is ablaze. Droughts and floods. A nation of extremes. Come to think of it, maybe that's how it's always been.
Northern California is on fire. At the beginning of the week, there were more than eight hundred brush fires burning. This has provided some spectacular sunsets, but those are mediated by the fact that it has been hard to catch our collective breath in the past week.
Here's the ironic part: To start the week, I asked the kids in my summer school class to spend the week investigating this science question: Why is the sky blue? They haven't had a chance to see blue sky since Monday. For them, this doesn't seem odd. After all, they live in urban California, and even in June the fog that settles into the Bay Area in the morning can keep the sun away for more than half the day. When I asked them yesterday if they had noticed, they asked, "What smoke?"
Finally, I began to wonder if this wasn't just the leading edge of the Apocalypse. Maybe this is how global warming will take over: not in creeping bits, but all at once over the course of one summer. Right now the Midwest is underwater and California is ablaze. Droughts and floods. A nation of extremes. Come to think of it, maybe that's how it's always been.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
'Roid Rage
Yesterday I was reading about how Terry Bradshaw was finally coming clean about the fact that he wasn't always clean when it came to steroids. "We did steroids to get away the aches and the speed of healing," Bradshaw said. "My use of steroids from a doctor was to speed up injury, and thought nothing of it… It was to speed up the healing process, that was it. It wasn't to get bigger and stronger and faster."
This was about the same time I was reading about Don Imus' most recent faux pas. The latest comments by Imus to come under scrutiny were aired on Monday’s broadcast. During a conversation about Adam "Pacman" Jones’ run-ins with the law, Imus asked, “What color is he?” Sports announcer Warner Wolf said Jones, formerly known as Pacman, is “African-American.” Imus responded: “There you go. Now we know.” Don Imus, for the record, is white. Now we know.
But what do we know? Terry Bradshaw and his teammates took steroids "to speed up the healing process" and Adam Jones has had a troubled history? That and their relative skin tones don't really add up to much. It's the public perception of these bits of information that shape our attitudes and perceptions. Bradshaw had the cushion of living in a world where steroids were "legal" and "Pacman" was once celebrated for his aggressive play.
The Steelers won championships. "Pacman" did not. Terry Bradshaw is white. Adam Jones is African-American. This is all part of a rarefied bit of air called professional sports where the rules stretch and bend to suit the circumstances. Lately those rules have started to snap under the pressure of public scrutiny. In a world that wants to know more about Britney's child custody case than the war in Iraq, professional athletes cannot afford the same lassiez faire attitudes they might once have enjoyed in the 1970's. And maybe, just maybe, Don Imus is taking steroids - to speed up the healing process.
This was about the same time I was reading about Don Imus' most recent faux pas. The latest comments by Imus to come under scrutiny were aired on Monday’s broadcast. During a conversation about Adam "Pacman" Jones’ run-ins with the law, Imus asked, “What color is he?” Sports announcer Warner Wolf said Jones, formerly known as Pacman, is “African-American.” Imus responded: “There you go. Now we know.” Don Imus, for the record, is white. Now we know.
But what do we know? Terry Bradshaw and his teammates took steroids "to speed up the healing process" and Adam Jones has had a troubled history? That and their relative skin tones don't really add up to much. It's the public perception of these bits of information that shape our attitudes and perceptions. Bradshaw had the cushion of living in a world where steroids were "legal" and "Pacman" was once celebrated for his aggressive play.
The Steelers won championships. "Pacman" did not. Terry Bradshaw is white. Adam Jones is African-American. This is all part of a rarefied bit of air called professional sports where the rules stretch and bend to suit the circumstances. Lately those rules have started to snap under the pressure of public scrutiny. In a world that wants to know more about Britney's child custody case than the war in Iraq, professional athletes cannot afford the same lassiez faire attitudes they might once have enjoyed in the 1970's. And maybe, just maybe, Don Imus is taking steroids - to speed up the healing process.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Where's The Party?
There are times when this corner of the planet where I live seems a little insulated. Perhaps I'm being too selective, but I don't tend to run into many people who disagree with me politically. Maybe it's because I talk so loud, or maybe nobody wants to argue with me for fear of causing a scene. Whatever the case, I'm having a hard time scaring up someone with whom to debate the upcoming election.
How can this be? All the polls would have us believe that Obama and McCain are in a virtual dead heat, and on certain issues, McCain is favored by those expressing an opinion. Please understand that I have spent my time in John McCain's corner. He continues to be near the top of the list when it comes to "good sports on 'The Daily Show'", but lately he's begun to sound more and more like "one of them" instead of the driver of the Straight Talk Express.
While I am sure that there are those who might have similar sentiments about Barack Obama, I haven't had conversations with them. Instead, I end up with a lot of knowing smiles and nods of affirmation. I live in Northern California, and maybe I shouldn't expect to encounter much "red" in such a "blue" state, but I am missing the dialogue.
It could also be that the Grand Old Party is beginning to fall apart from its center. Alan Keyes is gone. Michael Bloomberg left a year ago. There is even a convenient web site, Flee the GOP.com, that allows disgruntled Republicans to re-register online as Democrats. The fact that no such alternative exists for Democrats to hop the political fence says a lot about the times we live in, or perhaps that Nobel Prize and Academy Award winner Al Gore invented the Internet.
Or maybe it's just too soon. Maybe all the great debates I am anticipating will come in the next five months, but considering the past eight years, I won't hold my breath.
How can this be? All the polls would have us believe that Obama and McCain are in a virtual dead heat, and on certain issues, McCain is favored by those expressing an opinion. Please understand that I have spent my time in John McCain's corner. He continues to be near the top of the list when it comes to "good sports on 'The Daily Show'", but lately he's begun to sound more and more like "one of them" instead of the driver of the Straight Talk Express.
While I am sure that there are those who might have similar sentiments about Barack Obama, I haven't had conversations with them. Instead, I end up with a lot of knowing smiles and nods of affirmation. I live in Northern California, and maybe I shouldn't expect to encounter much "red" in such a "blue" state, but I am missing the dialogue.
It could also be that the Grand Old Party is beginning to fall apart from its center. Alan Keyes is gone. Michael Bloomberg left a year ago. There is even a convenient web site, Flee the GOP.com, that allows disgruntled Republicans to re-register online as Democrats. The fact that no such alternative exists for Democrats to hop the political fence says a lot about the times we live in, or perhaps that Nobel Prize and Academy Award winner Al Gore invented the Internet.
Or maybe it's just too soon. Maybe all the great debates I am anticipating will come in the next five months, but considering the past eight years, I won't hold my breath.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Pearls and Swine
Doctor James Dobson has criticized Barack Obama for "distorting" the Bible. First of all, everyone knows that distorting the Bible is Doctor Dobson's domain, so if there's going to be any biblical distortion, it will come on Doctor Jimmy's watch.
For some context, here are Obamas comments: He said Leviticus suggests slavery is okay and eating shellfish is an abomination. Obama also cited Jesus' Sermon on the Mount, "a passage that is so radical that it's doubtful that our own Defense Department would survive its application."
"Folks haven't been reading their Bibles," Obama said in June 2006 to the liberal Christian group Call to Renewal.
Doctor Dobson? "I think he's deliberately distorting the traditional understanding of the Bible to fit his own worldview, his own confused theology," Dobson said.
Well then. Is there any room for interpretation? Are we still stuck in the literal "forty days and forty nights" version of the most recent translation of the Dead Sea Scrolls? And what part of the Sermon on the Mount is Obama distorting? "Blessed are the peacemakers, For they shall be called sons of God." Or maybe "Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, For theirs is the kingdom of heaven." Let's see now, where would be find people being persecuted for righteousness' sake? What would the proper interpretation of that passage be in 2008?
Or maybe we should just be thankful for a separation between church and state. In which case Doctor Dobson should probably keep his feelings about Obama's a "fruitcake interpretation" of the Constitution to himself.
For some context, here are Obamas comments: He said Leviticus suggests slavery is okay and eating shellfish is an abomination. Obama also cited Jesus' Sermon on the Mount, "a passage that is so radical that it's doubtful that our own Defense Department would survive its application."
"Folks haven't been reading their Bibles," Obama said in June 2006 to the liberal Christian group Call to Renewal.
Doctor Dobson? "I think he's deliberately distorting the traditional understanding of the Bible to fit his own worldview, his own confused theology," Dobson said.
Well then. Is there any room for interpretation? Are we still stuck in the literal "forty days and forty nights" version of the most recent translation of the Dead Sea Scrolls? And what part of the Sermon on the Mount is Obama distorting? "Blessed are the peacemakers, For they shall be called sons of God." Or maybe "Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, For theirs is the kingdom of heaven." Let's see now, where would be find people being persecuted for righteousness' sake? What would the proper interpretation of that passage be in 2008?
Or maybe we should just be thankful for a separation between church and state. In which case Doctor Dobson should probably keep his feelings about Obama's a "fruitcake interpretation" of the Constitution to himself.
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