C'est finis!

The first draft of The Patent Desk is finished, as of 2:43pm Pacific time today. Within the week, it will be printed and on its way to my first round reviewers.
And may gawd have mercy on your souls.

Some ideas for your listening pleasure

I had just finished recording a teaching storyboard for training and this thing was graphics heavy and of course full of narration so, big file. BIG file and because of slow server speeds, etc. it was taking forever to save to my F:/drive.

Doing anything else with my computer during one of these mass data moves, I’ve learned from experience, just slows things down so I pulled out a tablet and Googled ‘TED talks disabilities.’ I really have too little time for primary research so I find that the TEDs frequently lead me to fruitful lines of inquiry. The two links that follow were informative, yes, but more than that, thought provoking and really just lovely. I hope you enjoy them.

Rosie is 16, charming and brilliant. Would that we were all so together at her age. Enjoy:

https://www.ted.com/talks/rosie_king_how_autism_freed_me_to_be_myself

 Andrew Solomon is, well, Andrew Solomon. He talks about parenting a child who is different from the parent in a significant way, such as a child with a disability or in our case, children who are orders of magnitude more intelligent than their parents (Yeah, there’s some prideful bragging at first; then it just gets hard.). I love finding people who obviate the need for me to share my thoughts because they’ve already done it so eloquently:

https://www.ted.com/talks/andrew_solomon_love_no_matter_what

The season of...what?

I have to admit it’s very tempting these days to write and post screed after rant about politics. There is so much going wrong and so much wrong being said in our names that every trip to the news feeds has me coming away with jaws clenched and temples throbbing.

This does not make me unique, if the posts and comments I see on various social media are to be believed. Many of us are aghast, sickened by the horrific stances being taken by many people who are given the bully pulpit simply because ‘the media’ no longer include enough people I would describe as thoughtful journalists. I won’t name the screamers here because I’m sure there’s an algorithm running somewhere that would take the mention as a sign of support. But we all know to whom I refer.

I won’t let these people I see in the news define this season for me. I choose to define it for myself.

I look forward to time with family and friends. Bjorn and Susan and Mary and Daughter One and Boyfriend of Daughter One and Odin the Large and Lazy and Zoey the Small and Annoying and yours truly will gather for food, conversation, and scrutiny of said boyfriend. You know, the standard Thanksgiving Day observance. We don’t make a point of talking about being ‘thankful’ but we all are. Two and Boyfriend of Two will be celebrating at her apartment in Chicago and we’ll talk or Skype at some point.

This weekend in our corner of the country we have two days of dry sunshine to spend, so we’ll put up the lights. A big chore (you’d have to see our house during the holidays to understand how big) but we have fun with it and especially with all the cars that slow or stop each evening to look at what the ‘crazy people’ did this year.

With the passing of Thanksgiving we will of course go into prep mode for the Big Day (actually, Thanksgiving is my personal fave, but what the hell) which means among other things, gift shopping.

The tradition in our family, in which I am no different from a zillion other Dads and husbands in being impossible to shop for since I really, truly have everything I need, is to give me a little card saying that a present has been purchased and given to some kid through one of the ‘giving trees’ you find at our local malls. I’ve shared this idea before and I so love this little tradition.

There is another group of folks of whom I’ve become more and more aware the last couple of years. I speak of all the foster children who ‘age out’ at eighteen in most states and locales. I recall what a clueless bumpkin I was at that age and I had the love and support of a wonderful family and friends with whom I am still in touch today. I can’t imagine facing the transition from high school to the wide world the way many of these kids do: ‘Congrats on being eighteen; see ya!’

A couple of years ago I tried to find an organization through which I could channel some help to these kids…Sorry, young adults. The results of my research were underwhelming at the time – a couple or three well-meaning but not entirely thought through efforts.

The other day, my buddy Sheila forwarded to me the web address you’ll see below. If you have a moment or two to spare (and if not, how can I help?) please close your eyes and try to recall being eighteen. Remember your hopes and fears, your life plan or your terror because you didn’t have one. And then, imagine facing all that with no money, probably no job or a minimum wage job, being gently evicted from your latest foster home, no loving family or established support system.

See what I mean? Then, please follow the link below. If it isn’t a live link once it makes it to you please take the time to copy it into your browser. I promise these folks will explain the need much better than I.  

We do not have to spend the holidays cringing at the news. We can look forward to giving a stranger something to which to look forward. We need not allow the haters and cowards to convince us there is no future. We can instead proclaim the future by helping these kids embrace it.

Either use search criterion ‘foster care to success’ or follow this link: www.fc2success.org

Keepin Syrians out

               Governors of 27 states have now made statements to the effect that Syrian refugees are not welcome in their states. (Let’s set aside for the moment that immigration is not an issue of states’ rights, seeing as how it’s regulated by the Federal government. If you didn’t know this, stop reading my blog and please go read the Constitution, particularly Art I, Sec 8.)

               Their justification for taking this illegal stance is that a fake Syrian passport was found near the body of one of the suspected Paris terrorists. Yes, a fake passport found near one of the suspected terrorists. So in the minds (and I’m using the term loosely as a matter of charity here) of the governors of Alabama, Texas (okay, basically everything south of Mason-Dixon, big surprise), Wisconsin, Illinois, Michigan, Indiana, Ohio, Arizona, Idaho, Maine, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire this tenuous evidentiary thread – and by tenuous, of course I mean imaginary – establishes guilt by association for every person whose papers indicate they originated in Syria.

               And since the governors do not have the power to regulate immigration and naturalization (again, due to that pesky Constitution), the only possible outcome of their irresponsible announcements is to rouse the rabble. They’ve declared a de facto jihad against immigrants of Syrian extract. Of course we’ve done this before, to Irish and Italian and Jewish and Chinese immigrants. Worked out well for us before, didn’t it? Oh, wait…no, it didn’t.

               Even so, I think these governors might be on to something. Let’s kick out all the people who might be members of any identifiable demographic that might also include criminals. Ready? I mean, you had to know it was about time for one of my famous lists, right?

List of folks to boot out of the USA:

               Never mind, I can’t do it.

               I can’t make a joke out of something that’s so clearly wrong, pig-headed, bigoted, anti-American and just plain married-to-my-first-cousin-make-my-own-hooch-Bambi-hunting-third-grade-reading-level stupid. Besides, I’d have to start with Christians since more criminals in this country self-identify as such than as any other religious persuasion and pissing off Christians is like touching a third rail in this country.

               NO, I don’t believe I’ll favor you with a list this evening. But while I’m here, allow me to leave this note to the Republican Party (which I’m told boasts 26 of these 27 governors among its membership – mostly Christians too, by the bye): If you ever wonder why lifelong party members like myself have walked away, it’s not because we’ve become Democrats – we haven’t. And it’s not because we’ve given up on fiscal conservatism – we haven’t. And it’s not because we suddenly believe in Big Brother governance – we don’t.

               When you ask, if you ask, the answer is this – I can’t continue to be associated with the Republican Party because it’s just become too damn embarrassing.

Really? Now?

So, within 30 hours of the terrorist attacks in Paris both Donald Trump and Rick Santorum shamelessly used the event to make scurrilous political attacks. Trump claims that the answer to ISIS and other terrorist organizations is to have everyone carry guns. Santorum says that the whole ISIS thing is President Obama’s fault.

I don’t have one complete and effective answer for the problems of terrorism and gun violence. I don’t believe adding more guns to the equation will help anyone but the gun makers and vendors. I believe the recent Supreme Court decision regarding the right to bear arms was flawed and will eventually be revisited, just as Dredd Scott and Plessy v. Ferguson were revisited when more rational heads prevailed. I have friends who own guns and friends who have had their families torn apart by them. And I can still talk to each and all of these friends. Rational people have differences that are resolved over time and lots of discussion. And yes, some painful experience.

Santorum is an idiot and an opportunist who thinks playing to his core means making outrageous and easily refutable statements. Perhaps so, since his is a rather fringe core. He’s an idiot and we should not let him near the Oval, even wearing a visitor’s badge. But he’s not dangerous. Because as the polls confirm, he’s in no danger of doing much more than providing the non-journalists running CNN and Fox and MSNBC to post a titillating sidebar.

Trump, on the other hand, is dangerous. And not because he might ever actually occupy the White House – my faith in humanity and Americans demands that I believe we’re just not that dumb. I have to believe he will never get elected because to not believe that would just be way too depressing.

The thing is, the danger of Trump is not fourteen months down the road. It is here and now. Trump is damaging the reputation of the country as I type this. His poll numbers suggest to the world that somewhere between fifteen and twenty percent (keep in mind, we’re not all Republicans) of likely voters actually claim to be riding his train to Insanity. And our beloved media eat his crapola up, not because he has anything useful – and certainly not anything respectable – to say but because they know that people really do love a good, public train wreck.

He is hurting us every time he opens his mouth and those of us who see through him view his supporters as moronic lemmings while his supporters view us as their ideological enemy. His spew need not be reasonable, informed or even intelligent. His posturing need not be respectful and his claims need not be provable. In fact, better for Trump when he is proven to have trotted out a downright lie. Because he’s maybe the only person in the country who would be more horrified than would I should he actually win election.

You see, Donald Trump is not in this to become President. He doesn’t want to be King, he just wants to be the kingmaker. In his shriveled little mind, it’s all about being seen and heard and considered a Big Man; content is not important. So it’s not a problem for him when he capitalizes on the tragedy and horror in Paris today to make outrageous political comments. Because the sycophants at CNN and elsewhere gave him what he sought – a platform and cameras.

Trump doesn’t want to have to deal with the crushing details of being the Chief Executive and he’s said nothing – No. Thing. – that would convince any reasonable person that he would have a doctrine of any kind. Let’s face it, he’s using the wrong parts of speech for a leader of a great nation. As you know and The Donald apparently does not, ‘great’ and ‘world class’ and ‘excellent’ and ‘fantastic’ are mere adjectives. Actually planning real proposals for action in the world of adults would require the use of those more substantial elements, things like nouns and verbs. Complete, actionable thoughts expressed in coherent sentences. I wish the debate moderators and reporters and editors and commentators would start asking him ‘How’? Because then even his erstwhile supports might be compelled to acknowledge that he’s rather short on answers to that simple question.

Trump hasn’t the sense or goodwill to be ashamed. But the editors who decided to publish his insane gibberish on a day that people of goodwill the world over are focused on the suffering in Paris and Beirut and elsewhere, should be.

Cultivating wierdos

I was trolling for ideas just now and I came across an article in Writers’ Digest Online suggesting that a momentarily artistically bereft writer such as myself should ‘Cultivate wierdos.’

I get what they’re suggesting – put yourself in the proximity of strange or at least interesting people and sooner or later, assuming you’re paying attention something worthy of writerly scrutiny will pop up. And this would be simple to do since my office is located in downtown Seattle, wierdo capitol of all four hemispheres (yes, four - don’t protest, just look at a globe). All I have to do is establish myself in an appropriate vantage point overlooking Westlake Park or 3^rd Ave between Pike and Pine or anywhere near the public market at Pike Place and sooner rather than later someone is going to do something writable.

I’ll definitely do that. But not today.

Today, I’m off on a flight of fancy stirred by that same title but deriving from it a somewhat different prompt. Because if I’m honest, the idea to ‘cultivate wierdos’ does not bring to mind denizens of Seattle’s downtown. It actually made me think of my family.

You see, for a member of family mine, ‘cultivate wierdos’ is simply a more casual way of saying ‘embrace your heritage.’

This is not to say that I don’t honor and love my family – I do. Well, except maybe my grandfather on my mother’s side. But that’s a story for another day. Or never, let’s go with never.

So, I do love and respect my family as much as can anyone whose sixty-year old brother can recite the entire alphabet whilst belching.

You see, we’re not exactly anyone’s idea of high class folk. We don’t always hold our pinkies out when drinking tea. And an invitation to one of our soirees is like as not to consist of a phone call at the last minute asking why you didn’t remind the host to invite you and can you bring chips. And maybe an avocado. Yeah, an avocado would be nice.

But we love each other. Well, except when we’re pissed off enough about something inconsequential to not be speaking to each other. Not that this ever happens. Lately, anyway.

My mother used to spend the better part of two days tying up the Christmas tree so each branch would fall exactly right, then stand guard over our application of ornaments and woe betide the McD child who hung tinsel crookedly or in what Mom called ‘clumps.’ In our family clumpage was a crime and creation of a clumpitudinous tree was an outcome to be avoided at all costs.  Better to fart loudly during midnight mass than to be observed applying tree tinsel without the proper balance and alignment.

I loved my mother but she could be a real nutter about the Christmas tree.

Dad had two hobbies: avoiding yard work and singing songs guaranteed to drive a station wagon full of road tripping McDs to their wits ends. He once sang “George Washington Bridge’ (those three words constituting the lyric in its entirety, by the bye) nonstop from Missoula, Montana to Sheridan, WY. Swear to Gawd, that’s how I remember it. The only thing that stopped him in Sheridan was he needed to sing the Wyoming state song. Yup, the man knew the state song of every single state of the union and he would sing them as we entered and again before we left each sovereign entity.

My dad wore the most god-awful greenish plaid walking shorts atop blindingly white legs with black socks jammed into brown loafers and a white, vee-neck tee shirt capping the ensemble. In public. Around people we knew and would actually have to, you know, see again.

And then there’s my sainted Uncle Bill who used to tell all the assembled cousins the most ridiculous lies about his time in the paratroopers. How he used to be able to raise his hands all the way over his head (demonstrating) but since he was wounded could only raise them halfway (again, demonstrating). We loved Uncle Bill and we loved – and believed - his tall tales. ‘Course, being little snappers we didn’t know at the time that he was going through what we would today call PTSD and that Aunt Alice would sometimes wake up in the middle of the night to find him standing on the bed, reaching overhead to handle the risers as he relived for the nth time that night drop into Normandy.

My other Uncle Bill is the best teller of jokes I’ve ever known. Doesn’t matter ‘tall that his repertoire is a bit moldy. Hell, his laugh alone will split your gut. His wife, my Aunt Bobbie used to torture me singing the polka-dot bikini song or the Purple People Eater while all I wanted to do was get my cereal eaten and escape her vocal ministrations. Which prompted her to sing more loudly.

Cousin Joanne loves the way her husband Butch tells funny stories. So much so that after prodding and cajoling and pouting until he finally gives in and starts one, she jumps in and finishes it for him. I don’t believe the man has ever told the punchline of any story solo.

My Uncle Johnny was a wheeler dealer his whole life and toward the end of it drove his second wife (his former high school sweetheart) to distraction after he took a retirement job running a storage outfit, one of those places where you can rent lockable space to keep the stuff you don’t want around but can’t bear to get rid of. Now, most operators of storage outfits really like to get paid every month. Not Johnny. Johnny lived for walk-aways. A hundred and twenty days plus a midnight after the last payment, he would gleefully wield his bolt cutters to find out what true treasures his former tenants had abandoned to his loving care.

Of course, Mrs. Uncle Johnny wasn’t all that thrilled when he brought home all this stuff that total strangers hadn’t bothered to take with them. But Johnny could see the value in Oswald’s broken bowling trophy. Didn’t matter one whit that he had not the vaguest idea who Oswald might be. And I liked that about him.

Well, it’s getting late and I’ve told enough of my family stories.

If there’s a moral, I suppose it’s this: I don’t need to cultivate wierdos – I was raised by them.

Lazy boy

So, came home from work early to avoid the whacko demonstration of the week in downtown Seattle.

Took a nap.

Daughter One made dinner and it was wonderful!

Did the dishes.

Drew a layout of the town for the book.

Now, dinking around on the Internet whilst Mary and One work on the project of the night.

I might get around to blogging tomorrow.

Then again…. Lazy feels ju-u-u-ust…about….right!

Recovering short term memory

I carry a little notebook around in my shirt pocket along with a pen or pencil. Okay, truth is I usually have two pens because you know, what if one goes dead?

As I’ve shared in earlier postings, these little notebooks, 4-1/2” x 3-1/4” versions of the composition books we all remember from elementary school are what Mary and I refer to as my short term memory. I say this only partly in jest. Anyone who has lived with me for, say, twenty-eight years will confirm that while I recall details of arcane events from forty years past, recalling the third item on a grocery list is frequently beyond me. Hence, the paper-based short term memory. 

I have accumulated quite a collection of these little guys. Most of the time, I cross out an item as soon as I’ve taken the action, brought the groceries, written the blog entry or looked up the word that escaped me. But sometimes not.

So what I have here is a notebook, thoroughly dog-eared and with a binding that tape will no longer hold together. Prior to retiring it, I thought to go through it one last time and dispose of the extant entries.

Hm-mm, he says. What have we here?

The Amber Alert info from two months ago – probably wouldn’t notice if I saw the car at this point. Line through.

Similarly, the address for a nonprofit in Pocatello is not immediately useful and anyway, I can look it up anytime, so out it goes.

I won’t bore you here with the entries I just can’t read. My penmanship is not deluxe, especially when I’m quickly jotting down – whatever that says. Pretty sure this one was rendered in Klingon which would make Leonard and Sheldon happy but does me no earthly good.

“Rachel sheets” – Was I supposed to wash them? Buy her some? Probably moot at this point so I line through the entry.

A really neat writing prompt that I thought of at some point but I might still use it so I don’t believe I shall relate it here.

“When genius and insanity hold hands” – I actually remember this one as the title of a TED talk I really liked. Feel free to check it out. But I’ve seen it, so goodbye.

“The Light Between Oceans” – I already read it, so cross this one off. Good book, by the way.

Same deal with “The Art of Racing in the Rain.”  Wow! This must be an older notebook than I thought!

Another Amber Alert – I always write these down. Hey, you never know…

Julie Warner – No earthly idea

“Govt involvement in marriage should be registry, not regulation” – Pretty sure I wrote that one, so out it goes.

Daedalus – Yeah, the dumbass who sent his son Icarus off flying around on wings of wax wth predictable results. Why did I even spend the energy required to write this one down? Sometimes, Michael…

Elizabeth Gilbert? Not a fan of Eat, Pray, Love, so what… Never mind, out with her!

Ooh! A really cool African proverb that I think I got from the movie The Good Lie but no matter because it’s cool no matter from whence I plagiarized it. Ready? Here goes: “If you want to go fast, go alone. If you want to go far, go together.” Cool, right? (Good movie, too.)

Okay here’s a good one on me. I wrote down “Roberts dissent, pp 27-28” but did not write down the decision to which it refers. Useless.

At some point I wrote down “I am better than the sum of my failures.” Damn, I sure hope so!

Kirov. Just that, “Kirov.” What the…?

 

Okay, so not all the left behind entries are gems and for at least some of them, it’s probably clear why they had not previously been crossed out. What I haven’t shared with you is the ones that I liked and thought “Wow! I can write about this!” For those, stay tuned.