Rhapsodizing

 I remember the first time I heard Bohemian Rhapsody. It was presented to me on a mix tape made by my older brother. It was the first song on side one, so there was no way I could avoid it. Not that I wanted to. After that first listen, let the tape roll. I listened to the rest of side one. I flipped it over and listened to side two. There were a lot of gems: some Elton John, a great chunk of Mike Oldfield's Tubular Bells, music that was brand new to my thirteen year old ears. 

But it was that song on side one that brought me back. Over and over again. I hit the stop button. Rewind. Play. For every time I listened to the rest of that tape, I listened to Bohemian Rhapsody three times. The harmonies, the piano intro, the guitar solo, the bombast. Six minutes. Who made pop songs that were six minutes long? 

Didn't matter. Not to me. Not back then. I would have been happy to hear the nine minute version. Twelve. No worries. I could just rewind and play it again. Eventually, of course, I had my very own copy of the vinyl album from whence the single came, A Night At The Opera. Yes, there were other amazing sounds to be heard on this record. Love songs to cars and others, stylistically all over the map. Which were wonderful and pleasant but nothing approached the sonic mysteries of the first Queen song I ever heard. 

Forty-five years later, I still reach for the volume knob when I hear Freddie Mercury lament the share of sand kicked in his face. I turn it up. A lot of other songs have joined the list of songs that I turn up as a matter of course. Born To Run. Limelight. Sabotage. And others. But this was the first. And when the smoke clears and the gong sounds, I'm ready to press rewind and do it all over again. For another six minutes. For another forty-five years. 

Phone Home

 I bring a message from another time. There were once such things as phone books. They were delivered to your home and if you cared to check, you could find your name, address and number inside. Listed alphabetically by last name, it was the way you located people. This was an age in which the telephones themselves were installed into your home. Someone would come out from The Phone Company to attach it to the wall. Yes, you read that right: The Phone Company. There was one. No discounts. No deals. If you didn't like your service, you could complain. To the other people stuck in the house with you. The up side of this was that no one ever lost their phone. "Have you seen my phone?" 

"Yes. It's bolted to the wall over there in the kitchen."

Eventually there were advancements made, like extensions. You could have a phone in  your bedroom You could use these to listen in on your brother's conversations with his girlfriend. If you were so inclined. And could keep your hand over the mouthpiece to muffle the snickers. And then came the modular jacks that allowed you to select the kind of phone you plugged into the wall. The Phone Company still had to come out and engineer this tricky bit of electronics, but it did allow the relative freedom of adding a slimline touchtone device in one of nearly three colors, most of them earth tones. However, this did allow you to move away at last from the tedium of dialing a rotary phone.

That's why we still call it "dialing." There really was a dial associated with this interaction. There were some cool things associated with the rotary phone. Like letting your finger ride back to the number that you started with each time you pushed that plastic ring around to the restricting hook that was the eventual destination of all dialing attempts. Some were so clever that they could use a pen or pencil to do the work of that digit. Dialing long distance? That could be a very strenuous exercise, involving upwards of ten separate actions. Long distance, we were told, was the next best thing to being there. This was a big sales job, because if you were dialing anywhere out of your local area, you were going to be charged extra. If you wanted to save money, you could call in the middle of the night. So the next best thing to being there would probably be when both of the calling parties were awake and receiving calls. Regardless, a good portion of all these conversations included protestations of "how much this must be costing you." Maybe it wasn't really the next best thing to being there after all. 

Yes, I know there was a time when this was accomplished with tin cans and some string, or just hollering from the front porch. And before that, the patch of dirt in front of the cave that was the predecessor to the modern-day "front porch." And yes, there was a time when cans were made from tin. If you wanted a soda, or a pop, you had to peel a tab completely off the top of the can and then find a place to discard it. Like the ridiculous chain that someone in your family insisted on making. Which was really nothing to call home about after all. 

Colors

 We used to worry a lot about DEFCON. If you are less than forty years old, you may have no reckoning of defense readiness condition. This was something the Joint Chiefs of Staff came up with back in 1959. That was when our greatest threat was nuclear annihilation. I was part of a generation that was brought up worrying about how close we were to having tactical missiles with multiple atomic warheads launched at our shores by Russia. Actually, it wasn't Russia back then. It was the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. How nervous we should be about being vaporized was signified by our DEFCON level. Five levels, one through five, from one through five, white red, yellow, green and blue. One would be toe-to-toe nuclear combat with the Russkies. White, like the blinding flash of light just before everything else melts. Blue would be cool, where there was nothing to worry about. We've never been at one, but we have been at condition red number two a couple of times: During the Cuban Missile Crisis, and at the outset of Operation Desert Storm. Spoiler alert: neither of those crises went any further than red.

On September 11, 2001, we went from a four to a three. But since there was no matrix for passenger jets being flown into the sides of buildings. Thankfully, the newly-minted Department of Homeland Security came up with their own scale for Terror Threat. It also had five levels, this one had a highest level of red, then orange, yellow in the middle, blue, then green. We have, over the past two decades spent some time at the highest level, quite some time at orange, and a good chunk at yellow. We have never been at blue or green. Probably because we, as a nation, have been terrified for the past nineteen years. 

I thought of these scales as I heard the news come down from the California Secretary of Health and Human Services that my county was going to be moved from purple to red. Not nuclear weapons or underwear bombs this time, but COVID-19. There's a whole new rainbow to consider here. Purple is widespread. Red is substantial. Orange is moderate. Yellow is minimal. There is no blue or green. We have been told that if we can hang in that red level for two solid weeks, keeping our new cases and deaths at a substantial level, we can start to open up a few more things. Nail salon operators and their customers breathe a sigh of relief. 

For now. 

We already have a color coded system for wildfire danger. And a scale for tropical storms and hurricanes. 

Now we need one for police brutality.

And social justice. 

And that vague sense of ennui. 

Say Her Name

 The Grand Jury in Kentucky indicted one police officer. Not for murdering Breonna Taylor, but for three counts of wanton endangerment in the first degree. Brett Hankison was fired from the Louisville police department. The other two officers, Jonathan Mattingly and Myles Cosgrove, kept their jobs. After the investigation it was determined that the only charges to be filed would be those against Hankison. 

Not for the five bullets that killed Breonna Taylor, but the other fifteen that flew around the apartment and into neighboring apartments. Somewhere in here is the implicit message that murder is not a punishable offense in Louisville, but bad aim is. This is not to make light of the situation, but rather outrage at the tiny minds that seem to be involved. A young woman, a front-line emergency room technician, was shot and killed in her bed by police who entered her home in a no-knock raid in which they expected to find illegal drugs. Once the smoke cleared, no drugs were found. Breonna Taylor's boyfriend, Kenneth Walker, initially faced criminal charges of first-degree assault and attempted murder of a police officer. Officer Mattingly was injured in the blur of violence that occurred in the apartment. He was shot in the leg. Once. 

Breonna Taylor, who did not have a gun in this scene, was shot five times. In the back. She lost her job. She lost her life. Her family lost a sister and a daughter. They have been awarded twelve million dollars for their loss by the City of Louisville. That offer was made two weeks in advance of the Grand Jury's decision. Can you put a price tag on justice?

At this moment in time, the words "Grand Jury" just bring a pain in my head. I do not expect good news when I hear that a Grand Jury is investigating the loss of Black Lives. I expect frustration, sadness, disappointment. I do not expect justice. Evidence that points directly to the murder of Breonna Taylor was seemingly cast aside in order to preserve the status quo. Brett Hankison was released on $15,000 bond. Breonna Taylor's death certificate, issued by the City of Louisville, said that the cause was homicide. Since I am not a lawyer nor a member of a Grand Jury, I looked that term up. Homicide is "the deliberate and unlawful killing of one person by another; murder." Not wanton endangerment. You can get up to five years per count of first degree wanton endangerment. I am not, as previously mentioned, a lawyer nor do I play one on TV. I do know that "up to" is the tricky part of that sentence. It would mean that the case actually goes to trial and one of three officers who shot up Breonna Taylor's apartment could get "up to" fifteen years in jail. 

For wanton policing. 

I am sad, angry, and disgusted. 

We all should be. 

For Breonna Taylor. 

Con Science

 Charles Dickens wrote about redemption. When Ebenezer Scrooge tossed open the blinds and discovered that he had not missed Christmas Day after all, he turned over a new leaf. He was no longer a penny-pinching miser who sought to make life as miserable for others as it was for him. It endures as one of the most magical transformations in literature. 

Do you believe in magic?

Do you believe that Mitch McConnell will have a sudden change of heart, remembering how in his youth he used to say, “This nomination ought to be made by the president we’re in the process of electing this year?" And how  "...this is not about this particular judge. This is about who should make the appointment. We’re in the process of picking the president, and that new president ought to make this appointment, which will affect the Supreme Court maybe for the next quarter of a century.”

Do you believe that Marco Rubio will wake up in a panic remembering how, just four years ago he insisted, “I don’t think we should be moving forward with a nominee in the last year of this president’s term. I would say that even if it was a Republican president?" 

What about Chuck Grassley, who insisted way back when, “A lifetime appointment that could dramatically impact individual freedoms and change the direction of the court for at least a generation is too important to get bogged down in politics. The American people shouldn’t be denied a voice?"

Or maybe Ted Cruz, before the beard used to say, “It has been eighty years since a Supreme Court vacancy was nominated and confirmed in an election year. There is a long tradition that you don’t do this in an election year?”

Perhaps Lindsey Graham can recall insisting, “I want you to use my words against me. If there’s a Republican president in 2016 and a vacancy occurs in the last year of the first term, you can say Lindsey Graham said let’s let the next president, whoever it might be, make that nomination,” and in 2018 reiterated, “If an opening comes in the last year of President Trump’s term, and the primary process has started, we’ll wait to the next election?”

There is no magic. There will be no morning light. Only the dull thud of hypocrisy as it drills into the hearts and minds of America. 

I believe Dickens would have said, "Bah humbug!" 

I don't think I would choose to be that polite. 

Value Time

 I'm a big fan of customer loyalty. I place a huge value on folks who will go the extra mile for me and mine. Such is the case with my latest wandering into the dark woods of television alternatives. It was the interactions with two techs who saved my business with Comcast. Xfinity. NBC. Whatever it is that they call themselves currently. One of the things that began to grind on me during my five day voyage into that heart of darkness was their company insistence on thanking those of us on the other end of the line for their years of loyalty. At first it was a nice bit of recognition: Thank you for paying your bill on time for decades. But with each successive failed attempt at resolving my issue, that opening refrain started to ring hollow. I took no solace in the fact that I had been paying my bill on time for all those years just so I could get what I felt was truly mediocre customer service. 

Strike that: Ineffective customer service. 

I should say that, as a guy who routinely does tech support both up close and distance, I know that there are plenty of people who need to be reminded that machines need to be plugged in or charged to work, and that sometimes a solution can be as simple as turning it off and turning it back on again. Never underestimate the power of a reset. I know that the ten or so agents of chaos who attempted to solve my problem were acting in what can be described as good faith. These were people whose techspertice came from reading the big binder of possible solutions and they weren't going to be bothered by listening to my story. They wanted to plow through that binder and move on to the next call. 

My training at Arby's gave me a sense of this. The rule of thumb was this: two to three customers in two to three minutes. Which made a ton of sense during lunch rushes. But this was also what eventually landed me on the late shift, where my crew and I maintained the fast portion of fast food, but we were always willing to chat people up while we did so. My years at the video store gave me an even more enhanced sense of customer service. Sure, I could just check and see if that reserved copy of Top Gun was in, but it was always more interesting to engage that person across the counter as a human being who might have interests beyond the simple transaction. We were, generally, both human beings after all. 

So it was at the moment when I felt as if the only rational solution was to disconnect all Comcast related wires and machines and toss them out into the street that Gabe showed up. I stopped him when he started to slide into the "wow you've been a customer since..." spiel. I started to explain the lengths and depths of my despair. And he listened. Then he said some magic words, "Let's see if we can get this thing to work." 

"Let's" and "we." Magic. Not only that, but he really knew what he was doing. He approached the call like a puzzle. He asked me questions that no one else had bothered with. He helped me find a way out of that scary place without television and brought back the channels I flip through. He brought me home. Suddenly, I felt the need to speak to someone's manager. Only this time it was a good thing. 

Now I can say that we are only a bad phone call away from me once again starting the process of searching for new and better ways for TV to come into my house, but for now I am taking solace in the way things worked out. 

This time. 

The Hits Keep On Comin'

 This may bear repeating: About eight hundred Americans are dying every day from COVID-19. 

Every day. 

So, everyone who continues to push this notion that we should "get back to normal" may not have heard. Or maybe they just ignore it. 

Schools are opening across the country, and cases are going up as a result. The idea that this rather simple cause and effect scenario is being lost on so many is continued evidence of the ignorance and arrogance of a government more concerned with appearances than reality. 

More than two hundred thousand people have died here in the United States, and each day that number grows. Some like to point out that the number of new cases has declined since late July. They don't tend to bring up the two hundred thousand deaths. Somehow we are being asked to take solace from the limits described by those in charge. The number that has been tossed around recently suggests that we have now surpassed the combat deaths in Vietnam and Korea. Combined. You may recall it was during the war in Vietnam that the phrase "acceptable losses" came into vogue. There is nothing acceptable about these losses. 

Watching the National Football League take the field for the second week brought a new set of reminders in the form of all those empty seats. Broadcasters have been excited to share the wonder of the new stadium built in Los Angeles, the one that would potentially seat seventy thousand fans. Or roughly a third of the Americans who have died from COVID-19. Meanwhile, down on the sidelines we see coaches and team officials with all manner of mask placement, with very few actually on both nose and mouth. Which might not be such a concern considering all the precautions that sports teams have taken in order to keep themselves safe, except that there has already been a confirmed case of the virus in a Chiefs fan who attended the first game of the season. In person. Two weeks ago. 

So the clock is ticking on the rest of the league. 

Each time I feel like I want to peel off my mask and run wildly through a Target, as some blithe spirits did in Florida a week ago, I push it back up my nose and wait for the fog on my glasses to clear. And I hear the clicking sound of numbers adding up. While I write this blog. As I ride my bike to work. As I sleep at night. Eight hundred a day. It would be easy enough to just forget that we are still enduring a viral outbreak of a disease we still don't fully understand. 
Except for that clicking sound.