M T Nest

There was a time when I could not have imagined this: My son has gone off for a week in Hawaii. He's with a friend, and he's staying with his uncle, but there is an ocean between him and his home. It used to be that any trip over a couple miles would require some sort of parental chaperone. Sleepovers were out of the question. His mother and I contented ourselves the very real prospect that he would eventually attend the University of California in Berkeley because, in his words, he "could still sleep at home."
Now he's all grown up and calling to ask us if we could possibly send along a little more money, oh and how are you by the way? Then he's gone again. Off to dig a hole or fight a dragon or whatever it is that teenaged boys do on a tropical island. Back on the mainland, my wife and I exchange puzzled looks and ask each other if we miss him. Of course we do, but at the same time we are tremendously proud of the way he has managed to get himself up off the couch and out into the world. That very same couch upon which my wife and I exchanged those puzzled looks.
For a while, I blamed genetics for making my son such a homebody. My favorite place was always at home with my family when I was a kid, and I took a good deal of grief from my friends and brothers about it. I was never able to fully deal with my homesickness until my second shot at going away to college. The first ended with me pulling a tour of duty at Arby's. That was my father's line in the sand. If I wasn't going away to school, I would have to get a job instead of just hanging around the basement waiting for my girlfriend to finish up her day at high school.
No such roast beef therapy was required of my son. Maybe he heard the stories enough that he got the message early on, or perhaps he just went and grew up on us. I've heard of this happening. This past New Year's Eve he packed up and went off to a friend's lake house, a place he had never been before. It sounded like fun. There we were, my wife and I, sitting on that puzzled-look-couch. All that talk about late bloomers turned out to be somehow connected to his reality.
Now we have to figure out how we're going to deal with having him gone. I hope we're up to it.

Cheese Heads

I'm guessing that Douglas Adams would be pretty amused. It was the late science fiction author's notion that it was mice who were doing the experiments on us all these years, not the other way around. That's how he suggested that we might learn the answer to life, the universe and everything: by listening to the mice.
Well, as it turns out, scientists at MIT have figured out a way to plant false memories in the brains of our little rodent pals. They told one that he was married to Sharon Stone, but since not everymouse had seen that movie, it wasn't as funny as they had originally planned. It might have been funnier in this blog if I had connected it back to the Philip K. Dick story from whence it came, but most of my memories are stored as video, so this will have to suffice.
Unless these movies and TV shows that seem to clutter my brain were stuck in there by some superior intelligence. Why? To distract me, of course. Distract me from what? That's a more difficult question, one that would benefit greatly from my entire mind's focus. That's not going to happen, however. There's far too much Gilligan's Island in there. And music videos that nobody else remembers. Okay, there may be some other people wandering around out there with songs by the Residents and Snakefinger keeping them from accessing their full potential, but figuring out a way to make them all come together to purge that sector of their frontal lobes to make room for more vital information.
My son's cerebral cortex is constantly barraged by images of sports cars and their various engine sizes and types of transmissions and how this is going to get us all of the planet before it explodes is beyond me. I've suggesting some sort of rewiring, wherein each automotive tidbit gets attached to some fact about global warming or sustainable energy. So far, I've had very limited success. If it became possible to download his high school curriculum into that space, we might all sleep better. Unless, as these merry pranksters at MIT have done, they are installing bad information. "Hey Morty, remember that doe I saw you with last week? Turns out she's really your sister." Not cool, science guys. You're just putting your names at the top of the mouse hit list when the time comes for the real masters of the universe to take over.
Or am I remembering that wrong?

Life In The Big City

When I moved to Oakland from Boulder, Colorado, I was confused when I was told that periodically we would need to go into "The City." What I came to understand was that the Podunk little burg of some four hundred thousand souls was across the bridge from a City: San Francisco. With double the population and boasting their very own Rainforest Cafe, I surrendered to this odd distinction after a few years. That doesn't mean that I have become totally acclimated to this hierarchy. Just about anytime I hop on a highway to travel across town, it tweaks a nerve somewhere in my college-town-born-and-bred brain. And yes, it only gets worse as I attempt to navigate the maze of on and off ramps across the bay in San Francisco. I am even more grateful for the GPS in my car when we make the jump to Hyperspace and land in Los Angeles.
But it's not just navigating that confounds me. City living has its own rhythms, not the least of which are defined by the number of helicopters in the air: news, traffic, police, rescue. The politics of our little-non-quite-a-city-by-the-bay seem to carry an air of intrigue that was missing from the local elections of my youth. There always seems to be just a little more at stake. Which brings me to the really big city, New York.
I don't think I could live there. This probably has something to do with the way that their baseball team seems to have made a practice out of looting the Oakland roster, waiting patiently for stars to rise and then plucking them out of the relative obscurity of an A's uniform and popping them into Yankee pinstripes. The lure of the Big City. Of course that means that they have to deal with the expectations of a team that has won more championships than God, and all its attendant clubhouse drama. Can anyone explain to me what Alex Rodriguez does for a living?
Then there's the politics of New York City outside the Yankees' locker room. There's a guy named Weiner who was, until last week, a serious contender for mayor of the City That Never Sleeps. Now he has been brushed quickly off the pages of People Magazine as the comeback story of the year to being an object lesson for anyone who thought it was "cool" to tweet your junk. Of course, if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere, as witnessed by the current mayor, Michael Bloomberg who runs the city as if it were a world power. Mayor Mike issues opinions and fatwas against Big Gulps like he was the czar, not some elected official.
Back here in Oakland, we watch as our elected officials wring their collective hands in anticipation of some new wave of rioting or collective outburst. And we hope that those big city fellers will keep their hands off our baseball team.

Dressing On The Side

Welcome to day forty-something of wearing shorts and sandals. That's right, I'm on summer vacation and I'm doing everything I can to work through my vast and considerable T-shirt collection. What happens if I have to go somewhere that they require socks? I will avoid it, I expect. That's because I have earned it. One hundred and eighty days a year I show up in uniform, or what amounts to it. When I first started teaching, our school required students to show up every day in white shirts and blue or khaki pants. I say "required" because we probably had more than half the kids buying in, but the rest continued to wear whatever clothes their parents didn't stop them from going out of the house in. As a sign of solidarity, and being an eternally good sport, I decided to put together a closet full of "work clothes" that essentially mimicked the blue and khaki wardrobe that the school district requirements of the short people.
Over the years, I've added a few new colors to the palette, but mostly blue shirts and tan pants get me through the school year. Most of my colleagues follow suit, with a few exceptions. It's the professional thing to do, after all. But there is nobody telling the guy down the hall that the jeans and untucked shirt will get him any sort of demerits. Not when he's teaching a room full of first graders that will contain at least one minorly objectionable T-shirt slogan each day. And some of those women who show up at the end of the year in their sandals. Scandal. Ultimately, it was the priorities of education that made a dress code less important. What the kids were learning became the focus rather than what they were wearing, and the same could be said of those at the front of the classroom as well.
In West Virginia, if state senator Ed Bowman has his way, teacher's dress will need to be up to code.
“I know that from observation, and from others’ observation, that the dress of some of our school teachers throughout the schools in West Virginia, to say the least, is questionable,” Bowman said. “I really believe the teachers are someone that students really look up to and they model themselves after the teacher.” No more sweat pant. No more boots. I guess I'm hoping they are clever enough to stay away from requiring suits and ties on men or women, but I do wonder how this is going to help test scores. Then again, I pretty much fell in line without having anyone put a chalk-dust-filled eraser to my head. For now, however, I'm going to let my nominal freak flag fly. I'll be wearing socks come August 26. Have no fear.

Royally Jealous

I confess that I found myself sitting in front of the live feed from outside St. Mary's Hospital on the morning of July 23. To excuse it away with a mere "I just happened to be sitting in front of my computer" would be disingenuous. I had to click on a link and keep returning to see if those two London cops had found anything interesting to do aside from just stand there and pretend that a planet full of webcam gawkers were staring at them. Just across the street, of course, was an army of press: photographers from across the globe anxious to get any possible sign of the child who was to be born at any moment.
Not just any baby, of course. This was the Royal Baby. The prince or princess who would someday be crowned and rule over the entire British Empire. Well, "rule" may be a little strong. "experience photo-ops across" would be more to the point. So what's all the fuss? It's another child being brought into the world. Does the fact that this child's mother is the Duchess of Cambridge make this event any more significant than that of the boy and girl born in Jamestown, North Dakota? All signs point to the baby boy born in London growing up to be right-wise King of England, but it's possible that one of those kids from Jamestown could grow up to be President of the United States. Where was the media coverage for the birth of the next leader of the free world?
Okay. Maybe that's a stretch. As yet, North Dakota has not produced a President. A Police Woman and an accordion player, yes, but no chief executives.   Meanwhile, back at the Windsor house, er, castle, they've pretty much had the monarchy all sewn up for a few hundred years. As long as you can stick with the program and not date anyone outside your social standing, you get to hang out with all the cool people and give knighthoods to rock stars. The odds of one of those Jamestown kids getting to hang out in the Rose Garden with Justin Bieber or The New York Giants are pretty slim. That may have something to do with the limited press exposure of those children who had the coincidental good fortune to share a birthday with the heir to the throne.
I share their pain. For the past thirty-one years, all the attention I might have received on my birthday has been has been swallowed up by Prince William. While I confess that having unfettered access to cricket pitches across the British Isles would be a nice perk, I'll leave the balcony waving to those best suited.

The Boss Of Me

My good friends sent me to see a movie for my birthday. They gave me a certificate for tickets to see "Springsteen and I," which was a bit of a coup on their part. This is because I am generally the first person in my immediate circle of friends to know anything there is to know about Bruce Springsteen. If you've wandered into this corner of Blogspot enough times, you've probably bumped into one or more of my rambling fascinations about the man I call "Bruce." Mister Springsteen would be more in line with the level of respect which I hold this guy, but he is, after all, a guy. That's probably why that "Boss" thing seems to work so well as an alternative.
Back to the movie: It wasn't a concert film. It wasn't a documentary in the strictest sense. It was a compilation of stories from fans and their encounters with this singer from New Jersey. Some of them told tales of a lifelong obsession that began in the mid-seventies. Others spoke of fanaticism that dated back all the way to last April. The common thread, aside from Springsteen, was the way that all of these fans related to their idol. At some point in all of their stories, the thing that came through was how much they related to this rock and roll star.
On the way home from the movie, my wife, son and I took turns imagining what story we might tell if the cameras had been turned our way. My son started off, pointing out that the first sounds he heard in the world were that of the E Street Band playing "Born To Run." This was by no means coincidence, since it was my hand on the "play" button. My wife recalled the first time she saw Bruce way back from our seats on the lawn and said, "He's so tiny, but he's so happy." Jumping forward a couple decades, she reiterated her certainty that she had made eye contact with Bruce from her seat just behind the stage as he came back to make sure that we were all included in the festivities. Again: no coincidence. I bought those tickets.
I bought those tickets and dozens more over the years. I have camped out, been put on hold, and hit the refresh button in order to purchase some of the worst seats possible. Nosebleed? Obstructed view? Who cares? I'm in the auditorium. I have heard, over the years, stories of fans being "upgraded" at the last minute by The Boss's minions. There's one of those stories in the film. That's never happened to me. You might think that I would be bitter.
Not at all. I'm amazed by these stories and happy for the recipients of those magical moments. As I have said before, the important requirement was met: I was in the auditorium. While I watched the movie unfold, there were clips of concert footage spanning four decades of Springsteen's career. I've got ticket stubs from all of them. Not every show. Not front row. I've never been backstage. I don't care.
This man's music and words have touched me in ways that very little else has in my life. Through good times and bad, sad, lonely, scared, joyous, triumphant, Bruce Springsteen has provided me with the soundtrack. This single-minded devotion stands as a stark contrast to much of the rest of my cynical outlook on life, but it is a vital link to the things that matter the most: Love, Friendship, Life.
So, thanks for the tickets. Thanks, once again, for getting me into the auditorium.

What A Tool!

You've heard the old expression: "Not the sharpest knife in the drawer?" How about, "Dumber than a bag full of hammers?" That's a particular favorite of mine. I find it highly evocative, and not just because it paints such a lovely picture. It's also a good way to describe the way that I should be purchasing my home improvement implements.
I'm tough on tools. The most recent victim of my over-zealousness was the pitchfork that I broke while digging in our front yard. When I was finished with it, it had only one tine where previously it had four. The weld that was holding the fork in place gave into the force I was using to pry up some earth under which I had planned to plant some relocated geraniums. Common sense suggests that I probably should have backed off and pulled the fork out of the ground, taking a little smaller bite out of the impacted dirt. But that's not how I do things.
Much to the periodic consternation of my wife, I don't use my common sense when it comes to tools. I break them. It's not a malicious thing. It's just the way I work: real hard. This means that we routinely have to throw away screwdrivers and pairs of pliers. I've broken hammers, which I think gives me a certain air of John Henry. My wife does not share this appraisal of my capacities. She would much rather that I take my time and use my mind to figure things out before resulting to brute force. This vision of hers extends beyond household tasks, by the way.
This predilection toward using up tools has put my family in the position of having to use shovels with broken handles, hiding the "good tools," and putting a cloud of shame over all of us when it comes time to ask our neighbors and friends if it would be okay to borrow this or that. I'm always surprised by the spotless appearance of some of my friends' toolboxes. Nothing is missing and all of the various components seem so shiny and new. I can't imagine what work they must do with them. Maybe the work they do is keeping them pristine in those carefully loaded cases. Taking out a ratchet or wrench would disturb the delicate balance of form versus function.
I truly want to believe that somewhere, in a garage not unlike my own, these people store the tools they really work with. The ones with taped handles, covered with dirt and grime. And the pitchfork with just one tine.