Ah, 2012, how we will miss you. As my son pointed out, we survived the apocalypse and Mitt Romney, so what else do we have left to fear? If you're fifteen it's a cross between girls and zombies. Girl zombies would be almost unthinkable, though talking to them might be easier than the fully alive alternative.
Speaking of dead, we lost a few good ones this year. Most recently we had the double play of Jack Klugman and Charles Durning. Abe Vigoda, lingers on. I can continue without Andy Griffith and Clarence Clemons, but it won't be as fun. Maybe they'll get together and jam. Davy Jones, Levon Helm and Etta James could join in, and Dick Clark could host. Maurice Sendak has gone where the Wild Things are. Larry Hagman could have used J.R. Ewing's luck or Tony Nelson's genie to help him beat cancer, and Neil Armstrong beat him to the moon anyway.
The iPhone 5 came out, as did Anderson Cooper. NASA went even further by sending our Curiosity to Mars. Sandy wreaked havoc on the east coast, so very few people noticed this catastrophe. Nobody got rich on Facebook stock, probably because forty-seven percent of us were waiting for our handout.
Around the house, we all grew a little older. We worked a little harder. I won a prize. And there was much rejoicing. There was more laughter than tears, but we had our share of both. We learned a few new things and forgot some others. We're happy about the election, but worried about the fiscal cliff. And those zombies.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Murder City
We've been saving some of the good news for the end of the year. Oakland has engaged the services of William J. Bratton. former chief of police in both New York and Los Angeles. He has been hired as a special consultant to Oakland's crime fighting efforts. "Bratton will help us build on the smart police
strategies Chief Jordan has already put in place," Mayor Jean
Quan said. That would be Chief Howard Jordan, who has been serving as the interim chief after Anthony Batts resigned due to what he described as "layers of bureaucracy" he had to deal with on a daily basis.
In the face of a record-breaking wave of crime this year, the powers that be have decided to add an additional layer to this bureaucracy: A special consultant. Please understand that as a resident of Oakland, nothing would make me happier than to have a cease-fire in our streets, even if that meant having circus clowns on every corner. As long as those circus clowns answer to some central authority and their funding and organization was transparent for the outside observer. Such as myself.
What concerns me is that with or without the clown proposal, Mister Bratton may not be the best man for our job. In a Wall Street Journal interview last year he said he didn't "see anything positive at all happening" in the city. "It's a perfect storm of bad: too much oversight, not enough support from city leaders, too few officers," he said. And now he's here to save the day. Along with another consultant, Robert Wasserman, with whom the city is already running a tab for one hundred thousand dollars. That's less than a thousand dollars per homicide.
Eventually, however, the citizens of this town are going to have to consult with themselves. Competing with Detroit on the baseball diamond is one thing, but racing to the top of the list of most dangerous cities isn't he competition we should be looking to win. Do we really need a consultant to tell us that mothers should not have to shield their children from bullets? A day without gunfire in Oakland? That really would be good news.
In the face of a record-breaking wave of crime this year, the powers that be have decided to add an additional layer to this bureaucracy: A special consultant. Please understand that as a resident of Oakland, nothing would make me happier than to have a cease-fire in our streets, even if that meant having circus clowns on every corner. As long as those circus clowns answer to some central authority and their funding and organization was transparent for the outside observer. Such as myself.
What concerns me is that with or without the clown proposal, Mister Bratton may not be the best man for our job. In a Wall Street Journal interview last year he said he didn't "see anything positive at all happening" in the city. "It's a perfect storm of bad: too much oversight, not enough support from city leaders, too few officers," he said. And now he's here to save the day. Along with another consultant, Robert Wasserman, with whom the city is already running a tab for one hundred thousand dollars. That's less than a thousand dollars per homicide.
Eventually, however, the citizens of this town are going to have to consult with themselves. Competing with Detroit on the baseball diamond is one thing, but racing to the top of the list of most dangerous cities isn't he competition we should be looking to win. Do we really need a consultant to tell us that mothers should not have to shield their children from bullets? A day without gunfire in Oakland? That really would be good news.
Saturday, December 29, 2012
Dad Talk #47
We sat there, my son and I, for a few minutes without saying anything. I had set up the intervention in hopes that he would simply accept my line of reasoning and fall in line with the family edict: No First Person Shooter Games. It seemed like such an easy sell, especially given my son's sensitive nature. I showed him pictures of some of the first graders who were murdered in Newtown. He showed the proper respect and sorrow for the tragic events in Connecticut. I launched into my own account of the number of kids that I have known and the countless others that I never met here in Oakland who never reached their eighteenth birthday because of guns. Or, to be NRA-specific, because of bad guys with guns.
That's when he came back with his best response: "Do you really think that I would do that?" He wasn't being petulant. He was curious. I told him that I couldn't imagine a reality in which he would pick up a rock in anger, much less a gun. I also never imagined a future when playing with guns would be such a conundrum.
In the neighborhood where I grew up, one kid had a trash can in which we stored our toy arsenal. Several times a month, we would find ourselves standing around that trash can, taking turns picking our rifles and pistols. These were the days when making toy guns as realistic as possible was the goal. No need for that bright orange tip on the end of the barrel. We wanted it to look like the real thing. Before audio chip technology, we all became quite effective at reproducing the sounds of various automatic weapons fire with our mouths. I spent years of my life playing "Gunner," a game in which the object was to gun down all my friends before they had a chance to resuscitate one another. All in good fun. How could I sit in this chair and argue with my son that there was no reason for him to play the same kind of game in a virtual setting.
How could I explain to him that the world is different now? How can I be sure that it is? Maybe it's just the sheer number of people and guns on the planet now that make events like what happened in Webster, New York more likely to happen, or that the twenty-four hour news networks feed on such calamities.
Or maybe it's time that someone saw an alternative. I told him that it definitely wouldn't be any fun being the kid who told his friends that he wouldn't be joining them for any "Black Ops," but ti would be fun to have all those friends around for his eighteenth birthday.
That's when he came back with his best response: "Do you really think that I would do that?" He wasn't being petulant. He was curious. I told him that I couldn't imagine a reality in which he would pick up a rock in anger, much less a gun. I also never imagined a future when playing with guns would be such a conundrum.
In the neighborhood where I grew up, one kid had a trash can in which we stored our toy arsenal. Several times a month, we would find ourselves standing around that trash can, taking turns picking our rifles and pistols. These were the days when making toy guns as realistic as possible was the goal. No need for that bright orange tip on the end of the barrel. We wanted it to look like the real thing. Before audio chip technology, we all became quite effective at reproducing the sounds of various automatic weapons fire with our mouths. I spent years of my life playing "Gunner," a game in which the object was to gun down all my friends before they had a chance to resuscitate one another. All in good fun. How could I sit in this chair and argue with my son that there was no reason for him to play the same kind of game in a virtual setting.
How could I explain to him that the world is different now? How can I be sure that it is? Maybe it's just the sheer number of people and guns on the planet now that make events like what happened in Webster, New York more likely to happen, or that the twenty-four hour news networks feed on such calamities.
Or maybe it's time that someone saw an alternative. I told him that it definitely wouldn't be any fun being the kid who told his friends that he wouldn't be joining them for any "Black Ops," but ti would be fun to have all those friends around for his eighteenth birthday.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Anayulelog
Christmas morning: I awoke early and let the dog out. It was a very analog experience. Once my wife and son joined me with eyes a little bleary from staying up too late the night before, we pursued the next round of analog experiences: opening presents. We were careful to sort our paper into the recycling pile and the plastic into the trash pile, always with an eye toward using those ribbons and bags for one more year.
This was the year my son found himself on the receiving end of a lot of clothes. I told him that this was a trend he would have to look forward to many more Christmas mornings with sweaters and robes and the like. Toys will continue to come his way, but not in the waves that they used to. Now that he is in high school, it is important for his mother to help nudge him toward a sense of style without making it feel like she is attempting to dress him. That's why I put a couple of Hot Wheels cars in his stocking.
Mattel and Hasbro are experiencing some of that same ennui, but theirs stems from the trend of American kids away from Barbies and GI Joes onto the digital frontier. Tablets and smartphones are taking the place of more traditional toys under the tree. Analog. Imagine my surprise when, at the end of the flurry of packages, I opened my very own miniature tablet. It was a new piece of technology, one that was distinctly from this century. The laptop that I used to have breathed its last over the summer, but it was a relic from the nineteen hundreds. Windows XP? What's that? Suddenly I was thrust into a world of apps and touch screens. Did this mean that I would have to start texting? Or playing Angry Birds? I looked around for a Tonka truck or a Lionel train, but none were to be found. The lid to Pandora's box was open, and I sat, transfixed. What could I make of this new thing? I was told that I could watch movies on it. I could track my fantasy football scores on it. I could send e-mail. I could play Angry Birds.
Maybe someday soon I will be writing blogs on my tablet. But not today. I'm still feeling a little analog. Just a little.
This was the year my son found himself on the receiving end of a lot of clothes. I told him that this was a trend he would have to look forward to many more Christmas mornings with sweaters and robes and the like. Toys will continue to come his way, but not in the waves that they used to. Now that he is in high school, it is important for his mother to help nudge him toward a sense of style without making it feel like she is attempting to dress him. That's why I put a couple of Hot Wheels cars in his stocking.
Mattel and Hasbro are experiencing some of that same ennui, but theirs stems from the trend of American kids away from Barbies and GI Joes onto the digital frontier. Tablets and smartphones are taking the place of more traditional toys under the tree. Analog. Imagine my surprise when, at the end of the flurry of packages, I opened my very own miniature tablet. It was a new piece of technology, one that was distinctly from this century. The laptop that I used to have breathed its last over the summer, but it was a relic from the nineteen hundreds. Windows XP? What's that? Suddenly I was thrust into a world of apps and touch screens. Did this mean that I would have to start texting? Or playing Angry Birds? I looked around for a Tonka truck or a Lionel train, but none were to be found. The lid to Pandora's box was open, and I sat, transfixed. What could I make of this new thing? I was told that I could watch movies on it. I could track my fantasy football scores on it. I could send e-mail. I could play Angry Birds.
Maybe someday soon I will be writing blogs on my tablet. But not today. I'm still feeling a little analog. Just a little.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Shooting Off His Mouth
There are plenty of reasons to hate Piers Morgan. One might start with his haughty accent. Where does he get off, sounding like he's from some foreign country, anyway? Just because he's from England, do we have to suffer his oh-so-clever-sounding breathy "ahs" and "m-hms"? If you're going to hang out in America, and steal Larry King's job, do us all a favor and start sounding American. And while we're on the subject, if you're so British and all, what makes you qualified to decide which American's Got Talent?
Writer of books, interviewer to the stars or their equivalent, winner of the celebrity version of The Apprentice, is there anything this British ex-pat can't weasel his way into? No wonder people want to deport him. An online petition already has tens of thousands of supporters, a hundred times more than the petition that asks NASA to do a feasibility study and conceptual design of the Gen 1 USS Enterprise interplanetary spaceship. They must be serous. They must be serious about getting this Englander out of the country. Because he's attacking the second amendment.
You see, where Piers comes from, there is no constitution. or at least a handy, pocket-size version that one can easily reference when deciding who belongs in this country or that. Just because there is no handy index for approved behaviors in his stodgy old monarchy, that doesn't give him the right to pop off about ours. Maybe if there had been more Brits packing heat back in 1939, Hitler would have just backed up his blitzkrieg and headed back to Berlin. Everybody knows that putting guns in the hands of "the good guys" is the answer. Even if that means that some of those guns end up in the hands of some not so good guys.
Or maybe Mister Morgan was exercising his first amendment right. If you want to deport Piers Morgan, do it for the right reason: His feud with Madonna.
Writer of books, interviewer to the stars or their equivalent, winner of the celebrity version of The Apprentice, is there anything this British ex-pat can't weasel his way into? No wonder people want to deport him. An online petition already has tens of thousands of supporters, a hundred times more than the petition that asks NASA to do a feasibility study and conceptual design of the Gen 1 USS Enterprise interplanetary spaceship. They must be serous. They must be serious about getting this Englander out of the country. Because he's attacking the second amendment.
You see, where Piers comes from, there is no constitution. or at least a handy, pocket-size version that one can easily reference when deciding who belongs in this country or that. Just because there is no handy index for approved behaviors in his stodgy old monarchy, that doesn't give him the right to pop off about ours. Maybe if there had been more Brits packing heat back in 1939, Hitler would have just backed up his blitzkrieg and headed back to Berlin. Everybody knows that putting guns in the hands of "the good guys" is the answer. Even if that means that some of those guns end up in the hands of some not so good guys.
Or maybe Mister Morgan was exercising his first amendment right. If you want to deport Piers Morgan, do it for the right reason: His feud with Madonna.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Pinot Noir Usually Isn't This Sour
“He wanted to be president less than anyone I’ve met in my life. He had
no desire to run.If he could have found
someone else to take his place, he would have been ecstatic to step
aside." With these words we have the legacy of the Romney campaign. Once and for all. At least, this is how it went down according to Mitt's oldest son, Tagg.
The first question that comes to my mind is this: Who names these people? The father is named for a hot pad, and his son's name must have come from an unfortunate experience with the mattress police. Right after that, I wonder why the Romney family didn't just buy their own candidate and make him or her run for them. Or how about buying their own country, where they could have simply installed themselves as the royal family. Thus, their names, silly as they are, would not be besmirched.
Tagg went on: "He is a very private person who loves his family deeply and wants to be with them, but he has deep faith in God and he loves his country, but he doesn’t love the attention." I don't know about you, but suddenly I feel a wave of sympathy coming over me. Okay, it was more like a ripple, lapping at my ankles, but still. We wouldn't want history to judge Mitt too harshly.
Then there's this: "There are forty-seven percent of the people who will vote for the president no matter what. All right, there are forty-seven percent who are with him, who are dependent upon government, who believe that they are victims, who believe the government has a responsibility to care for them, who believe that they are entitled to health care, to food, to housing, to you-name-it. ... My job is not to worry about those people. I'll never convince them they should take personal responsibility and care for their lives."
No wonder he doesn't want all that attention. Now he can go back and lurk in the shadows of boardrooms across this great land of ours. Feel safe from Mitt now?
The first question that comes to my mind is this: Who names these people? The father is named for a hot pad, and his son's name must have come from an unfortunate experience with the mattress police. Right after that, I wonder why the Romney family didn't just buy their own candidate and make him or her run for them. Or how about buying their own country, where they could have simply installed themselves as the royal family. Thus, their names, silly as they are, would not be besmirched.
Tagg went on: "He is a very private person who loves his family deeply and wants to be with them, but he has deep faith in God and he loves his country, but he doesn’t love the attention." I don't know about you, but suddenly I feel a wave of sympathy coming over me. Okay, it was more like a ripple, lapping at my ankles, but still. We wouldn't want history to judge Mitt too harshly.
Then there's this: "There are forty-seven percent of the people who will vote for the president no matter what. All right, there are forty-seven percent who are with him, who are dependent upon government, who believe that they are victims, who believe the government has a responsibility to care for them, who believe that they are entitled to health care, to food, to housing, to you-name-it. ... My job is not to worry about those people. I'll never convince them they should take personal responsibility and care for their lives."
No wonder he doesn't want all that attention. Now he can go back and lurk in the shadows of boardrooms across this great land of ours. Feel safe from Mitt now?
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Holiday Travel
"How much further?"
"It's just a little ways down this road."
"You're sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. Why don't you just close your eyes and rest."
"Rest? I haven't rested since -"
"I know, I know. Still, you need your rest."
"Right. I keep forgetting. 'My delicate condition' and all."
"I just don't think all of this stress is good for you and the baby."
"Sure, so why are we out here in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night?"
"Do you see that light up ahead?"
"Look, why don't we just stop and ask someone for directions?"
"I know where I'm going."
"Oh. I'm sorry. I forgot who I was talking to."
"Have a little faith, okay?"
"You're right. I'm tired. But we have been on the road for a while now."
"Just a little bit further."
"And just where is this bed and breakfast we're supposed to be going to?"
"Ah, actually, it's not exactly a bed and breakfast."
"Not exactly. What exactly is it then?"
"It's really more of a - well -"
"It's got to be better than that inn we stopped at a few miles back."
"Well, I hope so."
"You hope so?"
"Okay. It's really more of a farm-kind-of-situation."
"A farmhouse?"
"Not exactly."
"Okay, what exactly?"
"It's a manger."
"What's a manger?"
"A barn."
"You're taking your pregnant wife and our soon-to-be-born child to spend the night in a barn?"
"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a room at this time of year? Especially in this town."
"I'm sorry. I know you're trying your best."
"Thank you. Now get some rest."
"Oh, one more thing."
"Yes?"
"I love you, Joseph. You're going to be a great dad."
"Thank you Mary."
"It's just a little ways down this road."
"You're sure?"
"Of course I'm sure. Why don't you just close your eyes and rest."
"Rest? I haven't rested since -"
"I know, I know. Still, you need your rest."
"Right. I keep forgetting. 'My delicate condition' and all."
"I just don't think all of this stress is good for you and the baby."
"Sure, so why are we out here in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night?"
"Do you see that light up ahead?"
"Look, why don't we just stop and ask someone for directions?"
"I know where I'm going."
"Oh. I'm sorry. I forgot who I was talking to."
"Have a little faith, okay?"
"You're right. I'm tired. But we have been on the road for a while now."
"Just a little bit further."
"And just where is this bed and breakfast we're supposed to be going to?"
"Ah, actually, it's not exactly a bed and breakfast."
"Not exactly. What exactly is it then?"
"It's really more of a - well -"
"It's got to be better than that inn we stopped at a few miles back."
"Well, I hope so."
"You hope so?"
"Okay. It's really more of a farm-kind-of-situation."
"A farmhouse?"
"Not exactly."
"Okay, what exactly?"
"It's a manger."
"What's a manger?"
"A barn."
"You're taking your pregnant wife and our soon-to-be-born child to spend the night in a barn?"
"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a room at this time of year? Especially in this town."
"I'm sorry. I know you're trying your best."
"Thank you. Now get some rest."
"Oh, one more thing."
"Yes?"
"I love you, Joseph. You're going to be a great dad."
"Thank you Mary."
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