Commutation

 It's Infrastructure Week!

Or at least it was. Or will be soon. Or something like that. It is very difficult for me to tell. I have read the news about the trillion dollars that will soon be finding its way to the crumbling bridges and wobbly electrical grid. I am excited to think that things in my corner of these United States might get a taste of some of that money. 

Because my bicycle commute every day is horrible. The street on which I live is okay. A year ago the neighbor across the street bought himself some hot patch asphalt at Home Depot and proceeded to go up and down the block patching holes. If I was just going down the street, I would be fine, but that block drops me off in the middle of a hellscape that no man, beast or SUV can survive. And yet, every morning I go out and defy the odds by dodging and weaving my way up the hill and over to the next block. And the next. Each one has layers of absently placed pavement, intended at some point to fix the prior fix that had been laid down prior. This gives the whole avenue the look of a side of a volcano after hundreds of years of eruptions and lava pouring down and cooling. Add to this barely passable trek a series of sewer projects that somehow managed to find the path that I had chosen as the shortest distance between myself and my school. These have been progressing at a snail's pace over the past year, which makes me believe that there must have been some infrastructure cash laying around before this big windfall, since they have been going along, day after day, week after week, digging up chunks of street and leaving great metal plates to cover them overnight and into the early morning. When I am riding to work. 

Sections of this project have been completed, and one glorious hundred yard stretch is smooth and flat and painted and is a pleasure to pedal across. Until I reach the next phase that seems to be stuck on not quite done. Meanwhile, the holes that have had their metal plates removed receive the most casual covering with lumps that make it preferable to dodge than to simply roll across. I await the day when Infrastructure Week comes to a close and Straight Shot To Work Day begins. 

I know. Many of you would suggest taking alternate routes in the case of such tomfoolery. But I am a creature of habit, and frankly frightened by what evil fate might await me if I switched to one block over. I might never be seen again. Besides, I am getting older and I need to keep my senses sharp. 

Franchise

 I was reading an article the other day opining about the state of the movie industry, specifically in the case of going to the well too often. They cited upcoming projects such as the origin story of Buzz Lightyear, as well as additional burdens to the already strained saga known as Star Wars. Where are all the new ideas? What is this fascination with exposition? 

There were TV shows crafted from the ugly beginnings of Bates Motel and Nurse Ratched. Because there was some comfort to be found in uncovering how those particular twigs became bent. It comes from the oft-occurring question, "Didja ever wonder how they got that way?"

And here's what I will say: Not really.

To be transparent here, I will confess an abiding and painstaking adoration for the Marvel Cinematic Universe. That studio's willingness to pull on seemingly minor threads and come up with box office hits would be, for most people, a clinic on marketing the likes of which we have not seen before on this planet. Back stories are the stuff of comic book mythos, and I am happy to line up and stare into the dark at whatever story those folks decide to extrude. I await with great eagerness yet another reiteration of the Spider Man legend, this one is even being promoted as a rehash of prior versions. Which I am told is the selling point. At the same time, I can say that I am thoroughly bored with the scene where Bruce Wayne's parents get shot, pearls bouncing into the gutter while the orphaned billionaire begins his voyage to caped crusaderhood. I know that one. 

Just like the idea of turning The Hobbit into three movies was an exercise in overkill made possible by the success of the already great but cumbersome trilogy. And I paid to watch them all. Just like long ago and far away I lined up to see each new chapter of the Planet of the Apes pentalogy, only to surrender my allowance for the Tim Burton reboot and the most recent CGI enhanced entries into the "how did this all happen" sweepstakes. 

Did I mention that Harrison Ford is going to pull that leather jacket and fedora on one more time? Does the world need more Indiana Jones? I won't lie. I will keep an eye out for the next installment, and make my choice just prior to heading down to the theater. Because as much as I moan and whine about wanting something new, I will sit still for one more ride on that tired merry-go-round just in case there's something I missed on all those previous trips to the well. 

And came up empty. 

It's Dark Outside

 Let's cut to the chase: I am thankful to be alive. Thankful not to be part of the more than five million souls who have passed on because of the pandemic that has shaped and reshaped our lives for the past two Thanksgivings. 

I am thankful that my friends and family have made this same journey essentially unscathed. I am glad that the suffering most of us have experienced has been one of inconvenience and anxiety. Not respirators and hospital rooms.

I am thankful that science has mapped a path out of this mess. I am relieved to live in a time and a place where we live not with miracles but solutions to problems that give us hope and a chance to see another Thanksgiving. 

I am thankful for the people who have devoted their lives to controlling and healing all the ways that this disease has pushed us all to the brink. These are the heroes and the saviors, the ones who worked to exhaustion for days at a time and then got up and did it again.

I am thankful for the windows opened onto the world, allowing me the chance to stay in touch with all of those who have waited patiently for this storm to pass. In their homes. I am happy to have had the chance to watch and listen while they connect with me in ways that they can. 

I am thankful for this additional chance. A chance to keep breathing. A chance to keep moving about carefully without stirring up the clouds of pestilence that lurk about everywhere. I am grateful that I have evolved to a point where wearing a strip of cloth across my face is ticket to my freedom and not a limit to it. 

I am thankful for another day. 

Ah, Youth!

 My wife wondered aloud if maybe "being a kid and playing all day" might be preferable to "being a grownup with a job." Sometimes the musings that fall from my wife's mouth are not fully formed, and become a cause for humor at her expense. She is the one who gave us the pithy observation that you should never make and assumption because that just makes an ass out of "you and umption." Which may be the reason that I was so quick to ridicule her question comparing carefree youth and the burden of adulthood. 

Seeing as how I am still thinking about that quaint little juxtaposition days later, it may have been a tad hasty to snicker. Certainly on the face of it the preference seems pretty obvious: work versus play. Oh for those carefree days of youth when climbing trees was recreational, and not a means to yard maintenance. Riding my bike was something I would do for hours with no particular destination. Now it's my conveyance to my job. And when I fell asleep at night, I would dream about the fun that I had or the fantasies of adventures yet to come. Now I dream of logistics and imagine ways to rearrange the furniture in my living room. 

When I was a kid, I thought for a moment that I knew love. I thought I knew pain. I suffered through both as if I were the first person to ever experience such things. I could not imagine that anyone had ever had the feelings that I was having. Well, as it turns out, there are a whole lot of people who have had similar emotions, many of whom were able to express them in ways that made it easier to bear. Most of these were adults, since they were the ones with the wherewithal to do that sort of thing. It wasn't until I became an adult that I realized that there was magic in the mundane. All the effort I had expended when I was young trying to be unique wasted in the face of the realization that having company for this ride. 

In childhood, everything is fresh and new, including the fears. I was paralyzed by the thought of being away from my family, away from home. If I had never grown up, I might still be clinging to the life that felt safe. Because ignorance is bliss. Once you start to stack up some years, knowledge begins to accrue and hopefully right behind that comes wisdom. And now that I am older, I am happy to have that. Or at least what passes for wisdom these days. I am wise enough to know that I really wouldn't want to be a kid again. I am happy to know that all that angst is behind me.

Except for the furniture moving. I still have to figure that out.  

Everlasting Gobstopper

 I watched a video taken by one of my colleagues. It featured the burgeoning gymnastics talent of her eldest daughter. It ended abruptly as one of the younger sisters moved forward into the range of the outstretched leg of her older sister as it swung around the bar. It stopped just short of the kind of "funny moment" that might have won them one hundred thousand dollars when submitted for the approval of ABC's TV executives. Which would probably just about cover the expense of the therapy needed for that child or those children to overcome the moment when mommy probably should have put down the phone. 

No worries here. The collision was averted, and then made even better by a second video which featured the younger sister hanging on the bar in a similar fashion, with many of the same exclamations of pride from behind the camera. It was all fresh and new. Which filled me with a sense of relief for being the parent of an only child. All of my enthusiasm for my son's efforts have been genuine and unrehearsed. 

For the most part. There have certainly been instances when he has gone to the well one too many times for the reaction to his latest Lego creation or ability to leap from the bed to the floor. Ta dah! Still, his actions and accomplishments have filled photo albums and memory cards and our hippocampi because of their specialness. 

And what I keep coming back to is the commitment to keeping things vital for all the kids. All three of my colleague's daughters get their moment in the sun. They are young enough when what this means is that each one will mirror the other, most often with the oldest leading the charge. But that doesn't mean that the twins don't feel the sunshine of mom and dad's love at the same level. This is what we call "a parenting challenge."

There are those who go so far as to be obvious about who their favorite is. These are the families that could really use that America's Funniest Home Video prize money to pay for all the bruised egos and shattered expectations. They won't be the ones taking that second, third, or subsequent bits of siblings making their contributions to the family legacy. 

Which brings me back to the swarming appreciation I have for my sainted mother, who kept her interest for her three boys' endeavors as fresh as the morning dew. Hanging from the swingset, scene by scene recitations of the latest Planet of the Apes movie we all saw, science fair projects, birthday cakes, and any possible need for focused adult attention. She had it. In seemingly neverending streams, she had it. And no, I don't want to know if she was ever faking. I know that parents would never do that. 

Ever. 

Every Day

 I will admit that when COVID-19 first reared its ugly head in its most terrible fashion, I held in a fascination: How bad will this get? I recall telling kids in those February days before we were all sent home that masks weren't really necessary. But I wondered when we would all be asked to shelter in place. As healthy as my respect is for nature, severe weather earthquakes disease drought and so on, I wondered about catastrophe coming to my world. Would there be hazmat suits and bottled oxygen. Would there be food riots? Would there be bodies in the street? Would I die? What about my family?

As we round the bend of our second full year of pandemic, that dark fascination has been replaced by extreme boredom and the complacency of surrender. How much of my life is ruled by the Way Things Are. Lining up to get whatever injection I need. Putting on a mask to answer the door. Being fully aware of the space between me and other human beings. At all times. Seeing the world around me as potential danger spots, and learning more than I ever wanted to about infectious disease. Because this is where I live now: in the heart of the humdrum worldwide pandemic. 

Will I even know what to do when we are released for this phase of reality. How will it feel for the lower half of my face to feel the breeze and see the light of day? What will replace all those reminders of germs looking for hosts that I pass along to the children at my school? How much time will we all save when we don't have to stop at the hand sanitizing station every time we go to lunch or recess or down the hall for a time out? 

I feel a bit ashamed for the thrill I had buried underneath that initial terror. How could I have known that this would become everyday life? How could I have imagined a world that could lose millions of souls to a deadly virus and still complain about the price of gasoline? 

Maybe I should have expected it. 

Too Close

 Have you ever been censured? Have you ever tried?

Forgive, but the strains of that old Olivia Newton John song just came tumbling out as I sat down to write this. I apologize for its lack of connection to what follows, but it was on my mind, so I figured I should share it.

Back to censure. It is the formal, public condemnation of an individual by a group. The group involved here and the public condemnation is dropping on Arizona Representative Paul "Monkey D" Gosar. In case you missed it, because you aren't on Twitter or aren't a fan of anime or would prefer to believe that public displays of stupidity do not emanate from the halls of Congress, Representative Gosar (rhymes with "gross are") posted a doctored up clip from Attack on Titan that depicted a character with the congressperson's face pasted on it killing another character with Alexandra Ocasio Cortez's face pasted on it. With swords. Then turning to yet another character with President Joe Biden's face cut and pasted on it with those same weapons. The tweet was introduced, "Any anime fans out there?"

Let's start with the low hanging fruit. If you believe that this dentist from Flagstaff spends any of the time he has left over after opposing gun control, immigration, and the Affordable Care Act while supporting groups like the Proud Boys and Oath Keepers and the amorphous blob known as "Trump" watching anime, then maybe you don't fully reckon on the posse of wingnuts he employs on his social media team. Imagining Gosar laboring over the thirty-six seconds of video to get it "just right" is exponentially more amusing than the content of the clip. 

For his "efforts," Mister Gosar was stripped of his committee positions in the House and became the first member of the House to be censured since 2010, and a member of a group that numbers over history at twenty-four. He is also proud to be one of the five dentists currently serving in the House of Representatives. He is also standing firm on the assertion that he did nothing wrong.

Which is pretty awful, when you consider what would happen if someone who worked at Target did a similar thing to a co-worker and his boss. Or maybe a dental hygienist in the employ of a Flagstaff dentist. Hypothetically. Two hundred twenty-three members of Congress felt this was worth noting. For another two hundred three those images of death and dismemberment were "just kidding around."

Who'da thought it would be that close.

Sleep tight, America.