When I was a lad, I remember being caught up in the flurry of what costume I would wear starting sometime just after the first day of school. At some point, just a little after the school supply aisle had been cleared out and the orange and black crepe paper had been draped in the Ben Franklin store about a mile from my house, the boxes of Collegeville Costumes appeared. Initial surveys of the stock were taken on bike trips with my friends as we looked at the ends of those boxes to see what characters had made the grade that year. Always a lot of Casper, the Friendly Ghost and a great many generic witches and ghouls. When we found something that caught our interest, a GI Joe or a Hot Wheels race car driver, we slid the box out of the stack and peered through that cellophane porthole. There we could see the black eye holes staring back at us.
That was when the serious coveting began.
The next step was to engineer a trip with mom back to Ben Franklin. She knew it was coming. With three boys all angling to have the best and brightest rayon bib of a costume, it was going to happen and it was going to coincide with a trip to the grocery store, just a few doors down from that five and dime. After we had loaded up the back of the station wagon with bags of sustenance, we dragged our mother down those narrow aisles to find that one box that would be worth all that patience and pushing the cart and carrying bags of frozen food.
Unless when we got there, the costume we had obsessed on had been picked up by someone before we had a chance to make it our own. Or the one that we had been certain would lead to massive candy collection turned out to be the wrong size. Maybe your little brother could -
No! No! No!
Depression set in. How could any trick or treat experience be successful without that lace up smock and cover your face with the back of your head bare save that thin band of elastic? As it turns out, it never really mattered. I could have shown up on our neighbor's front porch with a sheet over my head, holes cut to see where I was going. I was going on a walk with my friends in the chilly autumn night, begging for candy. I can remember a couple of occasions asking my mom if I could sleep in my costume. The next morning, it wasn't about the costume anymore. It was about the Snickers bars. It would be another year before the drama would begin again.
Tuesday, October 31, 2017
Monday, October 30, 2017
How To Act In A Crisis
If you're James Bond, the suggestion that you might Only Live Twice or Die Another Day would come as a comfort. If you had just lived through the most deadly mass shooting in American history, those kind of words might put you on edge. If you did not personally possess a license to kill yourself, receiving death threats after being shot at could be, at the very least, unsettling.
That is what is happening to Braden Matejka, a Canadian native who escaped the Route 91 music festival with his life after being shot in the head. He had no idea that celebrating his thirtieth birthday would end in tragedy, but he never could have imagined that his wounds would not be the only enduring trace of the horror he experienced on October 1.
A message was left on Matejka/s Facebook page days later: “You are a lying piece of s--- and I hope someone truly shoots you in the head.” Another well-wisher wrote, “Your soul is disgusting and dark! You will Pay for the consequences.” These threats are coming from idjits who are operating under the ridiculous assumption that the massacre in Las Vegas was all some carefully orchestrated "false flag event," a fabricated moment created to stir up emotions and turn the public against right-thinking Americans. Or idjits with access to the dark and creepy corners of Al Gore's Internet. Apparently all you really need to have is an inquisitive nature and access to a keyboard in order to spin dark conspiracy theories about the most recent tragedy.
Braden Matejika is not alone in his post-trauma torment. Parents of the victims of the Sandy Hook shooting are continually being called up for their roles as "crisis actors," and the families of those who perished on 9/11 are still being harassed for their part of something much bigger and more insidious. What brought me hope was the reaction of Matejika's family. Braden's brother Taylor said this: “A really sad part of this is that a lot of people think they’re fighting the good fight and exposing truth.”
Spoken like a true Canadian. Keep fighting the good fight, Taylor. And get well soon Braden.
That is what is happening to Braden Matejka, a Canadian native who escaped the Route 91 music festival with his life after being shot in the head. He had no idea that celebrating his thirtieth birthday would end in tragedy, but he never could have imagined that his wounds would not be the only enduring trace of the horror he experienced on October 1.
A message was left on Matejka/s Facebook page days later: “You are a lying piece of s--- and I hope someone truly shoots you in the head.” Another well-wisher wrote, “Your soul is disgusting and dark! You will Pay for the consequences.” These threats are coming from idjits who are operating under the ridiculous assumption that the massacre in Las Vegas was all some carefully orchestrated "false flag event," a fabricated moment created to stir up emotions and turn the public against right-thinking Americans. Or idjits with access to the dark and creepy corners of Al Gore's Internet. Apparently all you really need to have is an inquisitive nature and access to a keyboard in order to spin dark conspiracy theories about the most recent tragedy.
Braden Matejika is not alone in his post-trauma torment. Parents of the victims of the Sandy Hook shooting are continually being called up for their roles as "crisis actors," and the families of those who perished on 9/11 are still being harassed for their part of something much bigger and more insidious. What brought me hope was the reaction of Matejika's family. Braden's brother Taylor said this: “A really sad part of this is that a lot of people think they’re fighting the good fight and exposing truth.”
Spoken like a true Canadian. Keep fighting the good fight, Taylor. And get well soon Braden.
Sunday, October 29, 2017
At The Intersection Of Flake And Corker
Somehow, I don't think this is the world in which Republicans hoped to find themselves at the end of 2016. With control of the House of Republicans, the Senate, and the White House, these should be the salad days for the Grand Old Party. If you were to read select tweets from the Executive Twit account, "So nice being with Republican Senators today." "Multiple standing ovations!" "Most are great people who want big Tax Cuts and success for U.S." This account was confirmed by Senator John Kennedy of Louisiana, who told reporters earlier that the caucus gave Trump "three standing ovations." He added, "We appreciated him being there, and we had meatloaf."
I hear the White House does a pretty swell meatloaf, which might explain at least one of those standing ovations. An impromptu game of "President Says" could account for at least one more. That leaves us with the one that could probably be connected to the buzzers installed in all the senator's seats earlier in the day. Or maybe this really is the group that continues to slavishly follow the master's voice.
Except Bob Corker.
And Jeff Flake.
Senator Jeff Flake from Arizona was busy this week announcing his retirement from the Senate. He gave a speech that went a little something like this: “We must never meekly accept the daily sundering of our country — the personal attacks, the threats against principles, freedoms and institutions, the flagrant disregard for truth or decency, the reckless provocations, most often for the pettiest and most personal reasons, reasons having nothing whatsoever to do with the fortunes of the people that we have all been elected to serve. There are times when we must risk our careers in favor of our principles,” Flake told his colleagues. “Now is such a time.” There was no report about how many standing ovations Senator Jeff received, but it was apparent that the senators from Arizona as a group are now on the "no meatloaf" list at the White House.
Meanwhile, Senator Bob Corker has also decided not to seek re-election in 2018, allowing him the freedom to express his views about how the current "President" is turning the White House into "an adult daycare center," and the "reality show" hosted by reality show host Donald J. Trump is putting us "on the path to World War Three."
Between tweets about NFL players kneeling and sycophants standing, the "President" has been tossing around catty comments about how Corker couldn't get elected as dog catcher. Since that position is generally an appointed position, one might expect that it would be filled by someone with the last name of Trump, and they would have to support a constitutional amendment to limit the number of stray dogs allowed into the country. Jeff Flake has experienced a similar flurry of negative attention from the Cheeto in Charge, who has railed on about Flake's dismal poll numbers. This is, of course, without any sense of what the Cheeto's own approval rating is.
As we meander toward midterm elections next year, there will be a lot more movement left and right by politicians to align themselves with a winner. Will they go red or blue? Or Orange?
I hear the White House does a pretty swell meatloaf, which might explain at least one of those standing ovations. An impromptu game of "President Says" could account for at least one more. That leaves us with the one that could probably be connected to the buzzers installed in all the senator's seats earlier in the day. Or maybe this really is the group that continues to slavishly follow the master's voice.
Except Bob Corker.
And Jeff Flake.
Senator Jeff Flake from Arizona was busy this week announcing his retirement from the Senate. He gave a speech that went a little something like this: “We must never meekly accept the daily sundering of our country — the personal attacks, the threats against principles, freedoms and institutions, the flagrant disregard for truth or decency, the reckless provocations, most often for the pettiest and most personal reasons, reasons having nothing whatsoever to do with the fortunes of the people that we have all been elected to serve. There are times when we must risk our careers in favor of our principles,” Flake told his colleagues. “Now is such a time.” There was no report about how many standing ovations Senator Jeff received, but it was apparent that the senators from Arizona as a group are now on the "no meatloaf" list at the White House.
Meanwhile, Senator Bob Corker has also decided not to seek re-election in 2018, allowing him the freedom to express his views about how the current "President" is turning the White House into "an adult daycare center," and the "reality show" hosted by reality show host Donald J. Trump is putting us "on the path to World War Three."
Between tweets about NFL players kneeling and sycophants standing, the "President" has been tossing around catty comments about how Corker couldn't get elected as dog catcher. Since that position is generally an appointed position, one might expect that it would be filled by someone with the last name of Trump, and they would have to support a constitutional amendment to limit the number of stray dogs allowed into the country. Jeff Flake has experienced a similar flurry of negative attention from the Cheeto in Charge, who has railed on about Flake's dismal poll numbers. This is, of course, without any sense of what the Cheeto's own approval rating is.
As we meander toward midterm elections next year, there will be a lot more movement left and right by politicians to align themselves with a winner. Will they go red or blue? Or Orange?
Saturday, October 28, 2017
Security Blanket
"No problem is so big or so complicated that it can't be run away from." - Linus Van Pelt
That was the poster that I first hung on the wall of my room when I was in elementary school. That one, along with one of King Kong looming over the skyline of New York City with Fay Wray in his paw, made the trip downstairs as I moved into high school and papered the walls and the ceiling of my adolescent den.
For many years, I identified with Charlie Brown, specifically with his no-Valentine-unrequited-love-and-neurotic-dog lifestyle. It was accessible, and it was driven by the star turn Chuck had on a daily basis in that comic strip. It was years later that I began to find myself drawn toward Linus, that quiet voice of reason. Not that he was necessarily any better equipped than his round-headed pal to deal with life's bumps and bruises, but his ability to reflect on a situation and sum it up in a way that brought understanding to a place that was so full of questions: childhood.
I think about this as I reflect on Charlie Brown's plea for anyone who could explain the true meaning of Christmas. It is Linus who steps out into the spotlight and riffs briefly on a passage from Luke, and before he returns to his thumb and blanket, he tells CB, "That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown." Hard to argue with a stately presence like that.
And then, decades later on my way to work last week, I found myself perplexed: How is it that this kid, so obviously full of brains and wisdom and Bible passages can be so hopelessly devoted to his singular obsession of The Great Pumpkin? He puts the kind of tireless energy and enthusiasm into his worship of this confused symbol of pagan worship? Periodically he finds himself tested by his peers for his commitment to a holiday hero that no one else seems to know about. And yet, Linus maintains that every year, the Great Pumpkin will rise out of the pumpkin patch that he deems the most sincere, spreading joy and treats to all those who truly believe.
His big sister Lucy is embarrassed beyond words, yet she remains vaguely supportive. I suppose you have to admire the perseverance little brother shows in the case of overwhelming pessimism and ridicule. Year after year, he sits out there in the pumpkin patch, waiting, only to face disappointment as November dawns. Linus is so very full of faith and will not bend to persecution. He truly believes that next year will be different.
And that's the meaning of faith, Charlie Brown.
That was the poster that I first hung on the wall of my room when I was in elementary school. That one, along with one of King Kong looming over the skyline of New York City with Fay Wray in his paw, made the trip downstairs as I moved into high school and papered the walls and the ceiling of my adolescent den.
For many years, I identified with Charlie Brown, specifically with his no-Valentine-unrequited-love-and-neurotic-dog lifestyle. It was accessible, and it was driven by the star turn Chuck had on a daily basis in that comic strip. It was years later that I began to find myself drawn toward Linus, that quiet voice of reason. Not that he was necessarily any better equipped than his round-headed pal to deal with life's bumps and bruises, but his ability to reflect on a situation and sum it up in a way that brought understanding to a place that was so full of questions: childhood.
I think about this as I reflect on Charlie Brown's plea for anyone who could explain the true meaning of Christmas. It is Linus who steps out into the spotlight and riffs briefly on a passage from Luke, and before he returns to his thumb and blanket, he tells CB, "That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown." Hard to argue with a stately presence like that.
And then, decades later on my way to work last week, I found myself perplexed: How is it that this kid, so obviously full of brains and wisdom and Bible passages can be so hopelessly devoted to his singular obsession of The Great Pumpkin? He puts the kind of tireless energy and enthusiasm into his worship of this confused symbol of pagan worship? Periodically he finds himself tested by his peers for his commitment to a holiday hero that no one else seems to know about. And yet, Linus maintains that every year, the Great Pumpkin will rise out of the pumpkin patch that he deems the most sincere, spreading joy and treats to all those who truly believe.
His big sister Lucy is embarrassed beyond words, yet she remains vaguely supportive. I suppose you have to admire the perseverance little brother shows in the case of overwhelming pessimism and ridicule. Year after year, he sits out there in the pumpkin patch, waiting, only to face disappointment as November dawns. Linus is so very full of faith and will not bend to persecution. He truly believes that next year will be different.
And that's the meaning of faith, Charlie Brown.
Friday, October 27, 2017
Looking Down
It's that time of year. Autumn is the winter of my discontent. Made glorious by the confluence of events brought forth on these rust colored days. As often as I make a practice of finding the sunny side of life, I am acutely aware of the constellation of Orion in the night sky. It was there years ago, and years and years ago, and will probably be there a year from now. That group of stars stand as a reminder of the season. A season for departure.
It is difficult, if not impossible, to hide the Darren-sized hole in my life as we close up October and get ready to plunge into November and darker places. Every attempt I make to be amusing is measured by that Okie from Muskogee. I have lived another lifetime since he drove off into the sunset, but letting go isn't something I do with funny people easily. Funny and caring people. Funny and caring and mildly tortured. Over the past couple decades, I have run scenarios that try to track Darren into adulthood, and they tend to come up a little empty. The truth is that I have no idea what he would have been if he had "grown up." And every October, that bothers me. I can't shake it. Apologies to all the friends and therapists and friendly therapists who imagined that I would be over this by now. Each time I make that big turn into Halloween, I feel that loss.
My dog did me a favor, I suppose, years later for picking that same fated date on the calendar for her grand exit. Hers was a quieter, more stately passing, but I wasn't quite ready to be without a dog. I still had need of dog, but I suppose I have lived most of my life that way. Why haven't we replaced our dog?
Because I couldn't replace Darren. I couldn't replace Maddie. They are those pictures in my life's slideshow where I pause and remember all that was and how they made me feel. Happy. There aren't enough of those. Especially in October, tumbling toward November, in which I confront the passing of my father.
And Orion is up there, looking down from the darkness.
It is difficult, if not impossible, to hide the Darren-sized hole in my life as we close up October and get ready to plunge into November and darker places. Every attempt I make to be amusing is measured by that Okie from Muskogee. I have lived another lifetime since he drove off into the sunset, but letting go isn't something I do with funny people easily. Funny and caring people. Funny and caring and mildly tortured. Over the past couple decades, I have run scenarios that try to track Darren into adulthood, and they tend to come up a little empty. The truth is that I have no idea what he would have been if he had "grown up." And every October, that bothers me. I can't shake it. Apologies to all the friends and therapists and friendly therapists who imagined that I would be over this by now. Each time I make that big turn into Halloween, I feel that loss.
My dog did me a favor, I suppose, years later for picking that same fated date on the calendar for her grand exit. Hers was a quieter, more stately passing, but I wasn't quite ready to be without a dog. I still had need of dog, but I suppose I have lived most of my life that way. Why haven't we replaced our dog?
Because I couldn't replace Darren. I couldn't replace Maddie. They are those pictures in my life's slideshow where I pause and remember all that was and how they made me feel. Happy. There aren't enough of those. Especially in October, tumbling toward November, in which I confront the passing of my father.
And Orion is up there, looking down from the darkness.
Thursday, October 26, 2017
It's A Tie!
What does it mean to be "presidential?" Is it the bearing? Is it the discipline? Is it the tie? It's got to be the tie!
We all know how the level of discretion in the current administration is as low as the approval ratings for that particular group, but the shell game being played with reality is numbing to say the least. Remember when we were worried about Vladimir Putin meddling in our elections? Remember when we were worried about starting a nuclear war with North Korea? Remember when we were worried about the number of white supremacists advising the "President?" Remember when aliens landed and offered us a cure for global warming but were sent away because the "President" had a ten o'clock tee time?
Ah yes. Those were the days.
Keeping track of the scandal du jour is as challenging as keeping track of the starting quarterback for the Cleveland Browns. Amid all the hiring and firing and tweets and rants, the picture begins to emerge of a house on fire. Save the paintings! Save the dog! Wait, we don't have a dog! Save the ties! The desperate clinging to replace and repeal, the wall, and six foot ties means that when real life intrudes, the powers that be have to scramble to find a way to get us to look at a stock market that continues to rise against all ordinary expectations.
"Don't pay any attention to that man behind the curtain!"
And yet we feel to slow down and watch each new train wreck in all its gory detail. "I said his name! I have proof!" Why would we doubt his word?
Oh. That's right. The tie.
And now he wants us to focus on the recently declassified documents about the assassination of John F. Kennedy. What better conspiracy-laden imbroglio than the murder of JFK to distract us all from the mess going on currently in Washington? His Orangey Goodness tweeted, "Subject to the receipt of further information, I will be allowing, as President, the long blocked and classified JFK FILES to be opened." Since this turns out to be more of a non-act than an actual effort on his part, it makes complete sense. Maybe at long last we'll have and answer to some of those burning questions, like "Why did Kennedy prefer a single to a full Windsor?"
And can we get those aliens back, please?
We all know how the level of discretion in the current administration is as low as the approval ratings for that particular group, but the shell game being played with reality is numbing to say the least. Remember when we were worried about Vladimir Putin meddling in our elections? Remember when we were worried about starting a nuclear war with North Korea? Remember when we were worried about the number of white supremacists advising the "President?" Remember when aliens landed and offered us a cure for global warming but were sent away because the "President" had a ten o'clock tee time?
Ah yes. Those were the days.
Keeping track of the scandal du jour is as challenging as keeping track of the starting quarterback for the Cleveland Browns. Amid all the hiring and firing and tweets and rants, the picture begins to emerge of a house on fire. Save the paintings! Save the dog! Wait, we don't have a dog! Save the ties! The desperate clinging to replace and repeal, the wall, and six foot ties means that when real life intrudes, the powers that be have to scramble to find a way to get us to look at a stock market that continues to rise against all ordinary expectations.
"Don't pay any attention to that man behind the curtain!"
And yet we feel to slow down and watch each new train wreck in all its gory detail. "I said his name! I have proof!" Why would we doubt his word?
Oh. That's right. The tie.
And now he wants us to focus on the recently declassified documents about the assassination of John F. Kennedy. What better conspiracy-laden imbroglio than the murder of JFK to distract us all from the mess going on currently in Washington? His Orangey Goodness tweeted, "Subject to the receipt of further information, I will be allowing, as President, the long blocked and classified JFK FILES to be opened." Since this turns out to be more of a non-act than an actual effort on his part, it makes complete sense. Maybe at long last we'll have and answer to some of those burning questions, like "Why did Kennedy prefer a single to a full Windsor?"
And can we get those aliens back, please?
Wednesday, October 25, 2017
Chaos Theory
There is a moment, near the center of Patton Oswalt's Netflix comedy special Annihilation, as he describes his wife's view of reality: "It's chaos. Be kind." This was in response to her husband's assertion that there might be some sort of intelligent framework to life here on earth. Patton was happy to believe that there was some plan for the way things work out. Then his wife died. Suddenly, he was in full agreement with his wife's simple notion.
There are a lot of aphorisms around that seek to diminish the harshness of everyday existence. T shirts that tell us "Life is uncertain, eat dessert first," and many similar bits of treacle that hope to reassure us of the sweetness of living. This is tempered by words like William Goldman's:
There are a lot of aphorisms around that seek to diminish the harshness of everyday existence. T shirts that tell us "Life is uncertain, eat dessert first," and many similar bits of treacle that hope to reassure us of the sweetness of living. This is tempered by words like William Goldman's:
“Life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something.” And I can say that I have found myself quoting either one of these bon mots at different points in my life. Sometimes within the span of twenty-four hours. Is there any objective truth to a half-full or half-empty vision of the world in which we live?
Probably not. It depends a lot on which side you find your toast buttered. When it hits the floor, butter side down, we tend to curse the maker and look for the quickest way back to bed. When the butter ends up facing the sky, we rejoice and see it as a sign that the rest of the day will be our oyster. Not that I am recommending oysters with buttered toast, but being available to any kind of joy over the course of your average week is vital to keep yourself in the game. Like when released Taliban hostage Joshua Boyle was rescued after five years of captivity, he thought that people were kidding him when they told him that Donald Trump was President. Hard to believe, but just the sort of chaos that makes life so intriguing. Maybe it all really has been a bad dream.
That's life. As another comic genius once suggested, "It's just a ride." Bill Hicks went away far too soon, but that's what life is: Chaos.
Be kind.
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