What Day Is It?

 Sammy showed up at school the other day in his pajamas. Sammy doesn't do this often, but he is in Kindergarten, after all. And we were in the midst Spirit Week our ersatz moderate tribute to the Halloween we probably should avoid due to COVID restrictions. Sammy had gotten up early to prepare for the day, and was all buttoned up in his Star Wars Jammies, full of spirit. 

Except he missed it by a day. He was a day early. He showed up in his pajamas on Super Hero Day. Which was the day after Disney Day and the day before Pajama Day. Which might have been easy enough to play off, since there are heroic strands of the super kind to be found in Star Wars. 

But that's when mom started in: "See? Why didn't you tell me it was Super Hero Day?"

At this moment, I restrained myself from saying this to mom: "We sent home a flyer last Friday with a list of all the days for families to read and prepare. We also sent two separate texts to every parent's phone to remind them of the schedule. Mom."

I would have gone on: "Sammy is five years old. He was excited about participating in this odd rite we call Sprit Week. Sammy is still working on remembering the letters to the alphabet and exactly where the boys room is. Please forgive him for losing this little organizational detail. Sammy is five. Mom."

I didn't say any of those things. I made sure to compliment Sammy on his pajamas, and told him we can tell everyone that this was his secret identity. He could be Captain Jammie, protector of the sleepy. I did not tell Mom that she could have taken a moment to help Sammy prepare for the week, posting the flyer on the refrigerator, laying out the next day's costume the night before. Mom could have been two notches more involved, With her five year old.

And I know that I was perhaps overly involved in my son's voyage through elementary school. Joining the Dad's Club. Showing up to fix things with other parents on the weekends. Running the Pumpkin Patch. Working at the Car Wash. Hosting the Variety Show. Six years in a row. 

There are limits to every parent's involvement. I get that. Single parents. Working mothers. Time and money are not easily dispensed in the families I see every day. I get that. I just didn't want Sammy to feel bad about showing up in his pajamas.  

Making Sausage

 Well, let's see: The main defense for the two men charged in the murder of Ahmaud Arbery is a citizen's arrest statute that dates back to the Civil War. Yes. "That" Civil War. The one that took place more than one hundred fifty years ago. The one that was fought between the slave-holding states in the South and the relatively free states of the North. Ahmaud Arbery was killed by two white men. Ahmaud Arbery was black. 

Did I mention that the murder and its subsequent trial is taking place in Georgia? 

Okay, I understand that there are plenty of laws and statutes that have stood the test of time. One hundred fifty years hasn't done a lot to tarnish the efficacy of a rule against parking in front of a fire hydrant. Or killing an unarmed jogger. With a shotgun after chasing him down with your pickup truck. And everyone deserves the right to a fair and speedy trial, adjudicated by a jury of one's peers. And I suppose that a defense of some sort needs to be mounted on behalf of the "suspects" who can be seen on a video recorded at the moment of the killing. Murdering Ahmaud Arbery. 

So the lawyers, in this case, are just doing their job. No matter how heinous or uncomfortable it seems. It should also be noted that the law that made the "citizen's arrest" legal was struck down by Georgia state lawmakers back in May. May of 2021. Which means that this vestige of the Civil War lingered on just long enough to make a defense for the father and son pair of murderers. 

But you're probably able to shut out this bit of legal wrangling by shoving it into a pile that says, "Yeah, but that's down there."

How about something a little further north? Wisconsin is pretty far north. You might remember the riots that blew in after Jacob Blake was shot by a police officer. Jacob is black. The officer was white. During one of the protests, a youth chose to take up arms to "defend the businesses in the area." During this charged situation, the young man who is white shot and killed two protesters, and injured another. In the trial of "accused" killer of these two men, a judge has decreed that the dead men cannot be referred to during the trial as "victims." They can, by contrast, be referred to as "rioters" or "looters." Young gun enthusiast and killer Kyle Rittenhouse has a legal team that got their client this semantic gift after Kenosha's Judge Bruce E. Schroeder ruled that the word "victim" is a "loaded" term. As loaded as the assault rifle Kyle Rittenhouse used to kill  Joseph Rosenbaum and Anthony Huber and wound Gaige Grosskreutz?

I was going to say something about how the jury is still out on that one, but now I'm just tired of the whole mess. 

The Brain Trust

 Danny Ocean figured that he would need eleven of the sharpest knives in the heist drawer to pull off his caper. 

The tiny minds behind the January 6th Insurrection did not provide that kind of lineup. 

Starting with Paul Gosar, aka "The Goose," Representative from Arizona. He's the one who asserted in his questioning of FBI agent Peter Strzok in front of other adults, "You talk about bias. This morning I watched - and by the way, I am a dentist, OK, so I read body language very, very well. And I watched you comment on actions with Mister Gowdy. You got very angry in regards to the gold star father. That shows me that it is innately a part of you and a bias." Proving two things: Mister Gosar, "Goose" is probably just as good a dentist as he is a mind reader. Or planner of insurrection. 

Next up, Lauren Boebert, aka "The Bobo," Representative from Colorado. She's the one who called on Congress to "imeach" Joe Biden. Apparently she was so busy cleaning her guns that she never learned how to use spell-check.

Then there's Mo Brooks, aka "Mo the Lawn," Representative from Alabama. This person who actually serves on the House Committee on Science, Space, and Technology. Here's his take on rising sea levels: “What about erosion? Every time you have that soil or rock, whatever it is, that is deposited into the seas, that forces the sea levels to rise because now you’ve got less space in those oceans because the bottom is moving up.” He said "bottom." Heh. Heh.

How about Madison Cawthorn, aka "The Prepster," Representative from North Carolina. He's the historian of the crew. Over the span of ten months, he wrongly said in a speech that James Madison signed the Declaration of Independence, wrongly said Congress voted to have Lincoln issue the Emancipation Proclamation, and now in another speech attributed a famous John Adams line to Jefferson. And to think they named an avenue in New York after him.

Up next, we've got Andy Biggs, aka "Mister Andy," Representative from Arizona. Wait, how stupid can one state be? Andy's the guy who holds the distinction of being one of only two members of Congress to vote against the COVID funding bill because he objected that the bill regarded “couples” in households should include same sex ones. Oh, and he got his start in politics after he won the Publisher's Clearing House Sweepstakes. 

Which brings us to Louie Gohmert, aka "Gohmert Pyle," Representative from Texas. Not only is everything bigger in Texas, quite often it is dumber as well. Proof of this can be found in some of the treasure trove of stupidity offered up by this eight term congressdolt. Which gives him unique perspectives on, say, the Obama administration: "This administration has so many Muslim Brotherhood members that have influence that they just are making wrong decisions for America." Or his concern that a key pipeline up north "So when [caribou] want to go on a date, they invite each other to head over to the pipeline. So my real concern now [is] if oil stops running through the pipeline. Do we need a study to see how adversely the caribou would be affected if that warm oil ever quit flowing?"

And so this is the crew that helped put together the attack on the Capitol back in January? I suppose this makes some ugly sense, doesn't it? 

Sleep tight, America. Or better yet, vote. 

For The Most Part

 What constitutes "happily ever after?" Five years? Twenty? Forever?

I am currently at that sweet spot in which I have been in this relationship for just about as long as I wasn't. Half of my life has been spent living with the same woman. Partner. Wife. Friend. Depending on how I tell the story, you could be given the impression that when I was reunited with this girl I knew in high school at a friend's wedding, we lived "happily ever after."

I bring this up because I am acutely aware of the stress my son feels when he looks at his approaching twenty-fifth birthday with shock and dismay, figuring that he would have all this coupling figured out by now. And I have to tell him that being happy is really the trick. The ever after will just have to take care of itself. 

More than half of my life ago, my therapist told me that people fall in love lots of times. She added, "you're lucky if you happen to fall in love with the same person over and over." On that score, I have been very lucky. The strains and groans of everyday life have definitely taken their toll at times, but the opportunity to find a little spark of magic in a place you might have imagined had gone dark years before is the type of thing about which sonnets are written. Driving down the highway we call life with the same person fussing about which radio station we should be listening to year after year has a comfort that should not be dismissed. The familiarity of knowing that eventually she won't turn down that song by Rush is sweetness that can only be savored after years of passing that same mile marker dozens of times. 

Still, I don't know if I have a way of communicating to my son that the same can be said for those moments when things go sideways. When voices get raised and tempers flare it is often a function of that same familiarity that brings on all the sweetness. Early on in the relationship that would grow up to be my marriage, I obsessed over every disagreement and the slightest friction. If we were really creating a fairy tale ending, how could this discord exist? 

It's a percentage of the time spent building that castle in the sky. There are days that I wish we could have back, but far more that I wish that I could revisit for their wonderment. 

The other day, a young couple dropped by our house to take a look at the piano we are giving away to make room for the baby grand my mother is giving us. Amanda and JD were enthused by the opportunity to own a great big piece of wood because it would match all those pieces of wood in the house they had just bought together. They called each other "babe," and seemed thrilled by every interaction they had with one another. When they left, I asked my wife, "Were we ever that young?"

Of course we were. And I imagine that Amanda and JD will eventually have to have a discussion about their joint checking account that will not be as sparkling an interchange. Or maybe it will be. I hope they live happily ever after. I have. 

For the most part. 

Shootin' Irony

 If the question was asked, "How can you make a western without guns?" I would have to answer, "Use your imagination."

Maybe that kind of exercise could have saved a life. If you're not up on the news from out west, the cinematographer of a film in which Alec Baldwin was acting was shot and killed. By Alec Baldwin. If you are familiar with the periodically troubled life of Mister Baldwin, you might expect that this tragedy somehow fits into some drunken rage that shadows this movie star. Not so. Instead, the shooting was accidental, a product of poor planning and execution with a prop gun. 

And if this is news to you, you are probably asking the question on everyone's lips: "Don't they use blanks?" And if you asked this question, you might expect a simple answer. None was immediately forthcoming. Instead there was a lengthy series of discussions about all the different ways that things go bang bang on a movie set. And with all the talk about "hot and cold" weapons, and the projectiles that even blank cartridges shoot, there was still no full understanding about why a real bullet was in a gun on any movie set. 

Which will be unraveled over time, but the horrible irony of someone dying through gun violence as a part of anything connected with Hollywood remains. A short time ago I opined about the body count in the most recent James Bond film. I am beginning to wonder how many more stories I need to see with rifles and pistols a-blazin'. The carnage I have witnessed as an avid cinephile is almost unfathomable. 

And I have made a point, over the years, of defending the movie industry when it comes to the question of violence in film. My argument has always centered on how movies are a reflection of society. So here we are with an accidental death. A death by gun violence in the United States? Just another day. To go along with the other ninety-nine or so Americans who die the same way every day. This one involves a movie star? Probably shouldn't be a surprise. Could it have been avoided?

What if they made a western without any guns? 

How Old?

 I had a moment last week that put a knot in my stomach. While combing the hillside adjacent to my school's playground, looking for balls that had been kicked with errant enthusiasm into juniper bushes, I came across a group of girls playing Red Light, Green Light. I watched for a moment, taking in the joy of youth and at the same instant cringing because of what I hoped would not happen next. My cringe was confirmed the next moment when the little girl who was acting as the stop light spun around and caught her little friends trying to advance. At which point she ran toward each one of them, pointed a finger at their head, and made gun noises as each of them dropped to the ground. Dead. 

Just like that show. The Squid Game. It's on Netflix. It's rated TV-MA. Not R or PG-13. Because it's a Korean TV show. And the kids at my school seem to be allowed to watch most everything, regardless of the rating anyway. Which is how these girls got it into their little heads to "kill" one another as a penalty for playing this beloved children's game. The joy I felt at seeing a part of my own childhood echoed in the children I teach was turned abruptly on its head as I stood and wondered. 

I wondered who was in charge of the remote control at these kids' homes. Mine is not the only school feeling the pain of grade school children mimicking this Korean import. The relief I feel comes from the fact that we have already decided that our school would forego the traditional Halloween Parade because of COVID concerns, allowing us to skip what would most certainly be a spate of Squid Game-inspired costumes. The Friday before Halloween will be Picture Day. 

And what a picture I have etched in my mind. Still.

But I also remind myself of all the things that were running through my head and in front of my eyes when I was a kid. I was nine years old when A Clockwork Orange came out. My family did not have Netflix back then. It hadn't been invented. But Mad Magazine had been. My parents did not keep me from reading their parody, "A Clockwork Lemon." Did this have the same kind of impact that seeing it in a theater, or on the TV in my living room? Probably not. What about watching Young Frankenstein with my family at the local movie house, then buying the soundtrack album and committing large chunks of dialogue to memory after repeated listenings? 

And what about all those hours spent chasing my friends around the neighborhood with a toy gun, playing a game we creatively named "Gunner" in which the object was for me to shoot all of them before they could be revived by the survivors? Toy guns stuffed into a trash can in my friend's garage, not to be thrown away, but stored like an armory. In case there was an invasion of fifty foot tall lizard creatures or Nazis or whatever scourge we could imagine firing endless machine gun rounds into on weekend afternoons. 

That was my childhood, and maybe it was only a tiny lack of imagination that kept us from shooting at each other when we played tag. 

I must be getting old to summon this kind of outrage without remembering my own past. 

Jurispurdence

 If you have read more than a few of these bits of what was on my mind, you know that very little gets under my skin like mass shootings. And things that happen at school. Mass shootings that happen at school? Wellll....

Which is why I read with interest the accounts of the killer of seventeen at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. If this particular event has found its way into your memory banks without a red flag to quickly access it, then I will remind you that it took place more than three years ago. On Valentines Day. I have a very visceral memory of sitting outside a courtroom in Oakland, California waiting for one of our lengthy breaks during jury selection. Taking this time and the free wi-fi provided by Alameda County, I opened up my laptop to check the news. A continent away, terror was being unleashed on the students in that Parkland, Florida high school. The question of my capacity to serve as a jury member slipped into the background as I watched the accounts pour in, real-time for me three hours to the east. When it was all over, three staff members and fourteen students were dead, and a community was torn apart. Authorities apprehended the suspect

I was not selected for jury service that day.

Moving forward to the present: The assailant in that act of terror has pleaded guilty to seventeen counts of first degree murder and seventeen counts of attempted first degree murder. After three years of legal and psychiatric wrangling, Nikolas Cruz confessed to the murders that everyone knew he committed. 

Then, he apologized. 

As I mentioned earlier, my work at an elementary school brings me into contact with varying degrees of empathy. The grumbled shrug of the word, "Sorry," is never enough to pass muster with Mister Caven. I require a sentence. "I'm sorry for pushing you in line." For good measure, I tend to insist an inquiry into the well-being of those who have been hurt/offended. Here is what Nikolas Cruz had to say for himself in the courtroom this week: "I am very sorry for what I did and I have to live with it every day. I love you and I know you don't believe me, but I have to live with this every day and it brings me nightmares and I can't live with myself sometimes. But I try to push through because I know that's what you guys would want me to do. I just want you to know I am really sorry and I hope you give me a chance to try to help others. I hate drugs and I believe this country would do better if everyone would stop smoking marijuana and doing all these drugs and causing racism and violence out in the streets. I'm sorry and I can't even watch TV anymore. And I am trying my best to maintain my composure."

So there it is. What will be described by some as "closure." Because Mister Cruz is not the only one who has to live with what he did every day. 

I was summoned to jury duty two more times since then. I was not selected either time.