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.

Midnight in the afternoon

I booked flights today for a business trip to Fairbanks that will have me there a few days before the winter solstice. Which means in the middle of the day the sun – actually just a tease of it – will grudgingly ease itself above the horizon for less than four hours. That’s four total hours of SOME sunlight, not four hours of blazing orb. Otherwise, the landscape will be shrouded in darkness.

At approximately one o’clock, Ol’ Sol will make it all the way to two whole degrees above the horizon before rolling over and slipping back into somnolence. But you see, Fairbanks is about a hundred or so miles south of the Arctic Circle, so all this is to be expected.

Did I mention it will be butt cold? I’ll have my Alaska coat and my two pair of heavy socks within my hiking boots. This is not a trip calling for business casual. And I’ll have my note-taking materials because if you live in the lower forty-eight you don’t get a chance to see these sights and feel these feelings every day.

How cold, you wonder? Well, the rental car will have a plug hanging out under the hood. This is so you can power the block warmer so your engine doesn’t freeze while you’re asleep in the hotel. Or just in the store grabbing groceries. Parking lots have poles at each slot with outlets so you have a place to plug in said block warmers. 

Next to my favorite Fairbanks restaurant is a ramp down to the river. In the summer it’s a boat ramp. But in December it’s an on-ramp for a very convenient shortcut taken by drivers and snowmobilers alike. (I took that route one time years ago with my boss as passenger and found out later he was scared blankless during the whole adventure. Oops! My bad!)

Not to worry, we were safe. This is the river from which a couple months later they will begin harvesting massive cubes of ice for the International Ice Carving Championship. I’ve been there for that event, and if you haven’t it should really be on your bucket list. It’s an amazing event with sights you can see nowhere else and at no other time, ice carvings being, you know, perishable.

I know there are people including some beloved friends who will read this, shiver and make allowances for my sanity. And I understand your idea of a wonderful vacation is an umbrella drink in hand, shade bonnet overhead and sun-drenched ocean in front of you. If you ever considered Alaska, it would be during the summer and most likely from the deck of a cruise ship.

I don’t blame you; I was the guy with a camera on the South Rim while others hiked to the bottom. But please, at least consider going in winter to a place with midnight in the afternoon. Drive north of the city lights a few miles and see the aurora borealis the way it’s meant to be seen. I promise this is not one of those things that can be appreciated from photography.

And seriously, bring a good coat. Because when you’re in a place where folks can tell the temperature within a few degrees by the brittleness of their nostril hair, you’re gonna need it.

An end to bachelorhood

Tonight is my last evening of bachelorhood. For a while, anyway. Mary and One are bedded down in a hotel a mere 4-1/2 hours drive away, which means by the time I get home from work tomorrow, I won’t have to depend solely on the dogs for my welcome.

Sidebar: This is not to say the dogs don’t welcome me heartily or that I’m not happy to see them after a day of human stuff. But their welcome dances, focused as they are on being fed and petted and such, has something of a dog-centric cast to it.

Anyway, Mary has been gone for about a month, the longest we’ve been apart since we got together (mumble) years ago. Daughter One was here much of that month and I can’t tell you how much I’ve enjoyed having her within reach, but she’s not Mary (no offense, kiddo).

So, tonight I got her coffee creamer (Blech! How can she drink that stuff?) and did an extra sweep and tried to make the dog bed look like Zoey hadn’t been gnawing on it. And tomorrow, after hugs, we’ll talk about how the family’s doing and her adventures in Florida and plans for the weekend and watch a favorite TV show together.

Nothing special.

Okay, that’s a lie. It’s all special.  

Confused canines

As I may have mentioned once or possibly twice, our household includes an alleged cat (I say alleged
because it is over twenty years of age, bedraggled, crotchety and frequently filthy – I’m not sure it’s not actually a zombie cat) and two canines, one Large and Lazy named Odin and t’other Small and Annoying named Zoey. They have long since given up on the polite fiction that ours is a stable household.

 It was bad enough when I was the only frequent traveler among the human members of the family. They would shift sleeping habits to guard Mary’s bedroom threshold and do their insane happy dances upon my return but otherwise, the rhythms were predictable and comfortable and their lives made sense to them.

 They adjusted, albeit grudgingly to Daughters, One and also Two going off to college and returning at unpredictable intervals. They even learned to accommodate our occasional vacations (they love our house sitter). Of late, however, they seem to have abandoned all hope of any return to what they consider an appropriate cycle in the waxing and waning of the makeup of our living group.

Mary has begun traveling for her work and my own travel schedule, for at least the foreseeable future will be ramping up significantly. One is back living with us which gives them another human to love but also banishes them from the rec room which has become her chamber de slumber.  Two has moved to Chicago but will be coming back for holidays and such, sometimes with her beau in tow (yes, intentional). And of course One’s boyfriend frequents the place, just enough to keep their little walnut-sized nuggets confused as to his position relative to their own.

 They can’t figure out what is going on. Zoey exhibits her confusion through excessive demands for loving by standing staring at us or forcing her head under a hand – whose, she doesn’t care. Odin occasionally interrupts his slumbers to bark while looking at us sideways or suddenly burying his head into a crotch. But mostly, he sleeps – his reaction to the confusion in our communal pattern is subtle.

It’s your new normal, doggies. Get used to it. And quit pulling paper out of the recycling can.

Flash prompt - A single difference

I went to another meetup on Thursday and the flash prompt was "A single difference." The whole thing with flash writing is that it's complete within the time frame  - in this case, 50 minutes. So I haven't edited and pre-apologize for the clumsiness of the writing.

Lots going on in the next week and I may not be back before next weekend; hence, two in two days. Enjoy.

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So many ways.

In so many ways, he was just like every other man (boys, really, if she was honest with herself and Gawd if ever there was a time to be honest with herself…) she had been with in the six years since Adam had died.

She never seemed to expect more from any of them and so her social life became a self-fulfilling prophecy.

This was not to say she dated monsters or drones, not at all. In fact, she would have been hard pressed to identify a common thread among her failed relationships that she should have been able to spot earlier, that might have allowed an earlier exit and relieved her of the painful, juttering descent, ending always and in all ways in the too-familiar denouement of emptiness.

Ralph was a good guy. Even today, a full year after she had deleted and blocked him, she had to admit it. A good guy. He smiled at her humor, looked adoring at all the right moments. He remembered her birthday, the solitary one that had fallen within the window of their time together. Polite to her father, complimentary to her mother. In point of fact, there really was no good reason why it didn’t work out.

But it didn’t.

She remembered her half year with Phil - Philo, but he ha-a-a-ted it and she was careful never to call him that - with a crooked grin. He was her intellectual lover, the one with whom she could spend hours in rapt attention to the topic of the moment, pretending to understand Proust and Aquinas and making throw away references to Great Books that she understood now neither of them had ever read all the way through. Phil was off in Minnesota working on his doctorate in philosophy and she occasionally found herself missing the sheer mental exercise of each trying to gain the upper hand in arguments over the issues of the day. Late nights with Phil were the closest she would ever come to manning the barricades in a tragically lost cause.

She glanced at her  watch and performed a quick calculation – landed at four, half hour to collect his bag, allow  twenty for the taxi queue and maybe thirty-five for the drive…Any minute now…

‘Really, this is bordering on the ridiculous,’ she thought. ‘He’s not a superhero, after all. He’s a man, he’s just a man, and I’ve had so many…. Okay, enough with the show tunes!’

Chuckling at herself, she thought of Willie. Willie could make anyone laugh; at least, he could always make her laugh. And he did, sometimes in the most awkward situations. Like the time she was on the phone with a friend whose cat had died. Willie decided that was prime time to dance naked with the single prop of a spray can of fake whipped cream. (There were sights that simply should not be seen by a woman trying to comfort a bereaved friend on the phone.) Willie would do anything for a smile and that’s probably what killed their relationship, truth be told. But a good guy. Yup, a really good guy.

They were all really good guys, each in his own way and with his own ways about him. But. But she never expected more from them and so, she never got more. You get what you look for, maybe. And each and all of them failed to measure up to the one with whom none could compete. Adam had been more than soul mate – they had shared a soul if any two people could. And how could a mere mortal compete with that?

She had given up looking, settled into a solitary routine in which she could feel comfortable if never quite comforted. And then, he seemed to have just shown up one day although they had known each other at a distance for years, in the manner of neighbors who can be counted on to bring in the mail when the other is away without taking the slightest interest in return addresses.

But one day, they both returned sweaty from workouts at the same moment and before either of them understood why they had each showered and dressed and were out their adjoining doors together in search of sustenance.

And maybe a bit more, as it turned out.

They became new friends and old friends in the same brief span of moments, a matter of recognition that passed between them unspoken. No thing led to another. They simply were.

He didn’t replace Adam. Neither of them demanded or yielded pieces of their pasts. What they were and all they had been – each and the other – was part of the thing that built between them seemingly without effort. There was no competition with ghosts or memories as they began to construct their own legend together.

And for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out why. Why him? Why this guy?

Once he found out her middle name was Daphne he took to calling her Daffy at odd moments and she hated it but loved him for it. He studied her face while she talked, really studied it like he couldn’t get enough of her and couldn’t bear the thought of missing the smallest fragment of meaning or intent.

He opened doors and walked nearer the curb and cleared the dishes and told her when it was advisable to roll down the window. Now. Quickly.

Small things. Neither bigger nor more remarkable than a hundred things one or more of her previous boyfriends had done. There was truly nothing she could think of that set him above or apart from the others, no one thing that she could put her finger on as the reason she’d spent the whole day glancing at the clock in anticipation of catching sight of him for the first time since he’d kissed her goodbye on Monday as he headed to the airport.

Well, maybe there was one thing.

She loved him.

And that, after all, was the single difference that made her smile in spite of herself as he stepped through the door and looked around for her.

Flash philosophy

I've been flash writing lately, flash fiction with a meetup group and flash everything else during lunch at work. It really helps clear my mind for working on the book, which is closing in on finished, I so swear. This one I'd like to share with you in hopes that some of you will come up with your own Flash Philosophy lists.

So, here’s the dealio: Make a list of the alphabet and then go back starting with Z and record a thought - any thought -  with the first (or more) word(s) starting with the letter in question. DO NOT begin with A because you’ll spend too much time worrying about Q and X and Z and this is not supposed to be about worrying. Go as fast as you can and don’t stress – this is not a test, so you are allowed to use a dictionary. And NO EDITING – once you’ve written an entry, go to the next letter and don't look back.

And pre-forgive yourself; they won’t all be nuggets, as you can readily discern from my list below. I did this while I ate a salad for lunch yesterday.

My alphabetical list for the day.

Ask; if you don’t, the answer is always ‘No!’

Buffoon: See Donald Trump.

Customary makes for comfort but crushes cultivation.

Dogs do it because they can; what’s your excuse?

Ebb and flow is one of my favorite ways to imagine life.

Furtive is not a way to live one’s life.

Grimy is a nicer adjective than pristine, don’t you think? (More fun, anyway…)

Heap your plate with good food; then stop as soon as you’re full.

Inflexibility makes one’s back hurt.

Jealousy will almost always drive that which you seek further from your grasp.

Kitten starts with ‘k’; cat does not.

Let it go.

Mammaries on men mortify me (I mean, er, them).

Nouns are useless without verbs.

Only uncaring idiots hit the ‘door close’ button.

Pay attention, but don’t lurk.

Question. Frequently.

Rip one in church. If they don’t laugh, find another congregation.

Stop and watch.

Take time. In the end, that’s really the only thing you can do with it that has worth.

Upgrade your knowledge; your computer can wait.

Vary your routine.

Wear comfortable clothing.

Xylophones are not only for pre-schoolers.

You is a word on which to focus; better yet, we. Leave them for those others.

Zig-zag – you’ll see more and the baddies can’t zero in on you.

Street art

Gazing out the window of the temporarily-vacant-due-to-maternity-leave office across from mine is one of my favorite workday pastimes. Which explains (for any of you who might care to wonder) why when we moved to this building a few years back I volunteered not to have a window office. Yes, part of the reason is that I like wall space for project planning – I’m a sticky note addict – and most non-corner window offices are fairly small for the simple reason that pert near everyone wants a window so the planners try to squeeze in as many as possible around the perimeter of the building. Small office means not much wall space on which to lay out my lesson plans. Not optimal but still not the major reason why I opted for a window-free work space.

The big reason why I don’t like having a portal from which to gaze is that I am a devotee of the art of wool-gathering and no better way to practice my art than to have a window handy. The Big Rub being that no employer thus far has expressed a willingness to pay me for staring out at the scene below.

Since I really like things like eating and wearing clothing and maybe being able to pay off bills and retire someday, pragmatism leads me away from the window office. But I can’t help my great affinity for staring and – one hopes – noticing, so since Michelle went out on leave I’ve bowed to temptation for at least a few minutes each day, usurping her office’s fenestral feature.

I watch the scene below which for the most part means wartching lots of strangers going about their daily meanders. I see the bus waiters and the lunch eaters, the walkers with luggage and without. And while there is no intended or definable pattern to the movement there is an orchestration of sorts occurring before my eyes. I like to imagine the music of the street.

Don’t scoff. There is music here that is discernable only to those who are willing to listen without being too focused on actually hearing. The shuffling of the elderly and the skipping of the young create very similar sounds but with quite different rhythms and timbres – one slow and deliberate and announcing arrival, the other quick and carefree and trumpeting departure.  The sounds of laughter, high pitched from the children playing on the big toys, deep and rumbling from the elderly bench sitter reacting to a comment from one of his crones, staccato and worried from the addict trying to ingratiate herself and thus – please gawd – make a deal which means getting through another day.

Street traffic provides the accompaniment, the phrases are metered by traffic signals and the movements flow with the time of day. Taken together, there is a symphony being written, performed and forgotten as quickly as my last heartbeat.

Of course, I can’t hear these sounds from my vantage point on the fifth floor. But aided by the visuals I can imagine the sonic ebb and flow, the art being created and recreated down there.

And isn’t that what art is about – imagining?

Chrysler's irresponsible advertising

I’m not a big fan of advertising but I do grudgingly recognize it as a necessary evil.

On the other hand, advertising should not actually BE evil.

There is an ad campaign running right now for Chrysler Ram trucks that brazenly encourages young people to do dangerous things under the banner of “live your life!”

It mocks mothers with a series of ‘you’ll put your eye out’ type warnings from off screen motherly voices as young folks engage in activities like driving recklessly, cliff diving, etc. The tag line, after relating driving a Dodge to engaging in thrill-seeking is, “Sorry, Mom!”

When do we get to be done with anti-social advertising?

When will we stop immersing girls in depictions of ‘perfect’ bodies? Or using ‘the most interesting man in the world’ to push drugs? (Yes, alcohol is a drug.) Or using rudeness as an inside joke (remember the ‘fresh’ ads for Mentos)?

Advertising people seem to think that ‘edgy’ is the epitome of persuasion. But when edgy is simply a synonym for irresponsible, I vote with my feet.

There are actors whose movies I won’t watch, companies whose products I won’t buy and stores I won’t patronize because I don’t want to contribute to their messages. Admittedly, neither the Walmart people nor Ben Stiller are likely shaking in their boots. And since I’m not likely to ever buy another pickup truck, the Dodge folks are probably not sorely vexed at my refusal to consider purchasing their products.

But I can’t help harboring the (probably insane) hope that enough people will believe and act as I do to make a difference.

UPDATE NOTE: I thought Ram was still a Dodge brand but Chrysler has pulled it out as its own brand line. Sorry for the error, but my opinion stands.

 

Government and marriage

There’s been a great deal of blather going around lately about the involvement of government at various levels in the certification of marriages. I’m fairly certain you have seen or heard or even been directly involved in the debate, so you’ll excuse me if I don’t go into identification and discussion of the issues present regarding the morality of same-sex marriage.

What brings me to the keyboard today is consideration of the role of government, regardless of the gay / not gay slant. There are two facts that lead me to conclude that the role of government in certification of marriages should be limited at best:

1)      The institution of marriage  in a form we would recognize today substantially pre-dates both our form of government and most extant religious traditions, so the supposition that our government (or your religion, for that matter) has any legitimate institutional claim on marriage is without foundation;

2)      In order for the government to claim a compelling interest in regulating the sanctioning of marriages, we would first have to agree on which form represents a true marriage. The vows which form the promissory basis of the practice are in no way consistent or even compatible from tradition to tradition in this diverse society.

I believe it is in the best interests of society to promote the well-being, rearing and education of children but that doesn’t come close to arguing in favor of a standardized marriage format. We’ve seen saints and monsters, geniuses and blithering idiots raised by couples, extended families, in-laws, single parents, adoptive parents – need I go on?

And by the way, for those who fear what might happen if we ‘allow’ gay folks to raise children, what makes you think that hasn’t always happened? And using celebrities as an example (solely so we’ll all understand what I mean here – I do not view celebrities as a special class deserving of special consideration; they’re simply well-known and thus convenient for the sake of this argument), who would you rather see raise a child – Bill Cosby or Jody Foster?

Some might say we need the institution if only so that we can encourage the family unit. What is the family unit? And how do we encourage it? By breaks on taxation you say? No sale to this customer – I am in favor of a flat tax with no exemptions whatsoever. Do the math and you’ll find that it won’t break gazillionaires and the poor will not be poorer. But that’s of course an argument for another day.

Seriously, folks, why should I care who chooses to live their life with whom, so long as there is no abuse or coercion and they don’t try to enlist me in their family life?

Plural marriage – okay by me. I don’t get it, but okay.

Gay marriage – what’s my compelling interest one way or the other? The only interest I see as legitimate – the establishment of a ‘nest’ for the protection and nurturing of children – has nothing at all to do with the sexual orientation of the parents, once the child is born.

Non-child producing marriages – Is it not always of benefit to society to have people engage in a long-term, mutually supportive, loving relationship? Please do tell me in what universe that could be a bad thing. And can you not think of a fun couple that would be incompetent or unwilling to raise their own children but are welcome participants in your own children’s lives? How about folks who can’t have children and can’t or choose not to elbow their way through the welter of officialdom to adopt – should we rescind their union?

Religious vows – You wanna marry someone you can’t prove exists, that’s okay with me. Wickedly silly to my mind, but what the hey.

I could go on. And on.  And on…  We (society) do have a compelling interest in the protection of children from their own ignorance and from the ministrations of predators. And that’s why ‘doe-eyed’ Mary Kay leTourneau should have spent her life behind bars. Any adult who abuses, neglects, or otherwise intentionally harms a child should earn the permanent censure of society, even if the child in question considered the abuse entertaining.

But other than criminal activity that would be simple to identify as such (bestiality, necrophilia, me wearing a Speedo come to mind), why should I care and under what derived authority should government at any level act in a regulatory manner? As I’ve said before, your right to swing your fist expires at the end of my nose. And my nose came through attendance at a gay friend’s wedding just fine, thank you very much.

AND NOW< FOR A SIDESTEP, SORT OF…

Incidentally, if you want to see a great example of an attempt at governmental overreach being exposed as simple religious bias-driven falderal, check out the video of Jason Chaffetz getting owned by Cecile Richards of Planned Parenthood. I’m actually not a fan of PP and don’t believe it should receive federal funding (not just PP but the thousands of budget line items I find not to be within the legitimate province of a federal government) but his attack was rude, his argument specious and his ‘evidence’ made up. Run the video and then tell me – is THIS the guy you want helping to make the rules regarding marriage?

I'm with Lizzie

I was casting about for a topic tonight and came across a story about Lizzie Velazquez. I knew her story in general terms but this was the first time I learned about it in any depth.

This is a brave, wonderful, beautiful person. Please stop reading now and google her at "I'm With Lizzie."

I'll be back here in a day or two. Promise.

Understanding adulation

Is applause the same thing as validation?
Hm-m-m, sometimes, I think. But you need to understand what’s being applauded.

An example: Last night, Mary, Daughter One and I went to a performance of Jesus Christ, Superstar by a local musical theatre company. There was a lot to like, believe me. For example, the young actor who played Mary Magdalen stunned me. She has two of the signature solo songs in the show and a key role to play but in all the productions I’ve been involved with either on stage or in the audience, I’ve never been satisfied by the portrayals of this potentially rich character.

Last night, Megan Tyrell changed that. Her Magdalen was passionate and nuanced and intense and best of all an actual, believable person who had her own back story and motivations independent of her allegiance to Jesus.

The young woman who played Judas was an incredible singer and a great actor and she gave us her all. And it didn’t work because casting Judas Iscariot as a young woman works about as well as casting a drag queen as Marian Paroo.

The director made some other questionable choices, including rewriting the book to take place 1,000 years in the post-apocalyptic future. It didn’t work. And am I the only one getting tired of every new story having to be post-apocalypse? Has it not become hackneyed?

Nevertheless, the show overall was quite entertaining and I could write a whole entry about the stellar individual performances. And our collective applause would seem to indicate I was not alone in that assessment. But what is the director (and libretto hacker) to glean from our enthusiasm? That she did a fantastic job casting, blocking, working the interactions, bringing forth some truly fine performances? All true. But at least in my case, I fear she might take my hand slapping and grinning as validation of her rewrite. I hope not because it was quite awful and I would hate to be guilty of encouraging her to similarly butcher any other author’s work.

I see parallels to this in the current presidential campaigns. Fifteen months from now we will have a newly inaugurated President. And that new President will be emboldened to believe that what (s)he promised to do, if by the time of the inauguration anyone can even remember all the promises, is what got him or her elected. Here’s the rub – there are so many issues present and so many affinity groups playing into the process this time, I defy anyone – no matter how expert they might consider themselves to be – to suss out just which issues will have determined the outcome. What will be the mandate for the new administration? How will anyone know?

Butchering a beloved stage show is a travesty but one that hurts only a relatively few eyes and ears. Wish I could say the same about electing the wrong person to national office.

NOTE: If you happen to be in Seattle tomorrow (Sunday the 4^th), you could do worse than the last showing of Seattle Musical Theatre’s Jesus Christ Superstar. Just don’t count on seeing the Tim Rice book, and you’ll be fine. The individual performances are (mostly) fantastic. And to be fair, I should admit One liked the rewrite. So who am I to say?

A long walk home

First of all, no, this is not about the Montgomery bus boycott or even the movie. It’s about an incident in my childhood that I thought I would share.

Gawd knows why, but anyway…

In the woods near our house was a storm drain into which the substantial rain and occasional snow runoff would flow, conveying said fluids out to the main storm sewer and thence to Kelsey Creek and eventually to Lake Washington. Well actually, it drained that way when the neighborhood boys (of which I was one) refrained from blocking the huge drain grate in what we poetically named The Big Ditch, located as it was in a ditch which was, you know, big.

The reason we blocked it was… Well okay, the first reason was just because we could. We had that in common with the dogs that always followed us around, now that I think about it. But the main reason was that when you blocked that big ol’ drain, which we quickly became expert at accomplishing, the whole bottom section of the woods would flood to between a foot and three feet deep. This in turn caused assorted fallen logs and the occasional kid-built raft to rise up off the forest floor and float free. We would use stripped branches as poles as we made like gondoliers. That is, if gondoliers were given to ramming each other in hopes of making the other guy or the occasional girl take a header into the drink.

This thing is, the neighborhood moms quickly discovered the correlation between gondolier wars and little boys coming home soaking wet and muddy from head to toe. So of course they forbade us ever again to go rafting in Lake Big Ditch. A prohibition that we naturally ignored. With the predictable result that one of us at some point was going to be the test subject who would determine just how serious our mothers were about the no-more-pole-rafting rule.

You’ve figured out by this point just where this is going. One of my strongest early memories is of trudging toward home in squishy sneakers and soaked, thigh chafing corduroys, trying to decide in my devious little boy mind which story would land me in the most trouble:

Door One – I waited too long and wet myself. Quite impressively, I might add, since I was soaked almost to my chin.

Door Two – I forgot what you said and went poling and fell in – oops, sorry.

That was one long walk home, lemme tell you!

Oh, by the bye, there was a third big reason why we enjoyed flooding an acre or so of woods. There was a family who lived across the street whose father was easily the most despised dad in the neighborhood. He was just not a pleasant fella. And as it turned out, his yard was drained by the same pipes that performed that service for the Big Ditch. So when the drain got (somehow, he types innocently) clogged, not only the woods but his yard and basement flooded. And ol’ Mr. Nasty would come unhinged and we found that highly entertaining. I don’t want you to think we were juvenile delinquents, so I won’t share the part about how we developed our technique for making the clogging of the drain look like an act of Gawd.

It was great being a kid in the fifties!

Grief

Some of you have expressed concern about how my family is coping with recent troubles. I appreciate your concern, even though I’m not entirely sure how to respond to the queries. An honest answer would differ with each response, depending on the day, hour, minute of the asking.

We find many emotions present including anger, regret, wonder, hope, hopelessness, triumph, grief, love, annoyance, curiosity, pride, hate - the list grows every time one or more of us faces a new aspect, remembers, considers.

We have our daughter back and of course, that trumps all.

I have in mind today another set of parents whose loss is complete and final. Their loved one was a person of whom I have only troubling memories. I recall him as a user, an abuser, a person whose weakness trumped his strengths and who hurt my daughter and my family. That is my view and my blinders allow only a narrow focus on my personal memories of this person, when I was called upon to take action and he reacted badly.

But I’m a dad. And as a dad it is my duty to try to view things from my daughter’s perspective. Hers is quite different from mine, including all the positives that brought him into her life and the thread of hope that she held out for him to overcome his demons. I, too have faced the self-inflicted demise of an ex whose bright spots are as much a part of the cycle of memories as are the reasons that it ended. And so, I understand how this hurts her. And on her behalf, I have to hope for him finally to have found, at last and at least, peace.

I understand his parents are hurting though I cannot comprehend the breadth and depth of their sorrow. My child came back. Theirs is gone and no amount of wishing or what-ifs will change that soul-crushing fact. And so although I don’t know them, I can’t help but feel for them.

My child came back. And for that, I will forever be grateful.

Wishes

At my age (62, what of it? Okay, and a half – sheesh!) it’s sort of unavoidable to look back from time to time and think about the things you wish you’d done or wish you’d not done or wish you’d done differently. Should I have held out for college after high school or at least gone into the Coast Guard rather than the Navy? Or perhaps I should have gone ahead and done the Navy thing and then right through college. Or should I have followed the original plan and gone into the seminary – NOT!

Should I have stuck with and devoted myself to singing or more seriously pursued writing back when I wrote the first (unsold) book?

Which girlfriend should I have treated better or just differently or walked away from earlier?

Yeah, these are the sort of things I suppose we all think about from time to time. But the truth is, if I had a Wayback Machine, I wouldn’t want to make any changes that interfered with my ending up where I now find myself – Mary and Daughters One and also Two, a few cherished friends, a job that matters.

So, what if I could change not the events or people in my life but rather, what I learned and when. Now THAT is mebbe worth thinking about. Off the cuff, a terribly incomplete list might include:

1)      I wish I’d understood at sixteen or seventeen that THEY (girls) were as scared of not being asked as WE (boys) were of asking. I wonder how much that’s changed.

2)      Continuing along the same thread, I wish I’d understood mu-u-uch earlier that most of the guys who talk about their exploits haven’t had them and ALL of the guys who talk about their exploits are jerks.

3)      I wish I’d known at a younger age that my sense of what is right was usually fairly spot on…

4)      …and my sense of what joke would be appropriate for a given situation was usually not. Truth be told, this continues to be a problem from time to time.

5)      I wish I’d had the slightest inkling of a fashion sense. Not that I wanted to be Mr. GQ but when I look at old pics…damn! What was I thinking?

6)      I wish I’d put more thought into my choices of reading matter. Reading stupid books were never going to make me more educated, thoughtful or human but I read what I found easy and entertaining for so many years – well, I wouldn’t mind a do over on that one. I might be able to go back and change this and still meet Mary when we were both ready – think?

7)      I wish I had treated some people better and that I’d demanded better treatment for myself from others. I don’t suppose that makes me unique.

8)      I wish I’d understood at an earlier age that no one deserves more than they are willing to put out.

9)      I wish I had studied harder, earlier in some areas and that I’d understood the value learning, earlier.

10)   I wish I’d understood that being cool and acting cool aren’t the same thing…

11)   …and the same goes for being intelligent and being smart.

12)   I wish I’d understood the importance of just shutting up and listening.

13)   I wish I’d spent more time noticing. A body can never do too much noticing.

But if I had it to do over again, and if I had to choose between being wiser and being kinder, I hope I’d choose kinder. In the end, I think that would also be the wise choice.

Facebook, shmacebook

Deactivated my FB page for now. I was spending too much time on it and it was interfering with my writing and, you know, actually living. And other reasons. Dunno if I'll go back - depends on if I miss it.

Meanwhile, at the suggestion of a dear and sage friend of many (MANY!!!) years, I'm going to spend my synaptic time and energy writing, here and elsewhere. I hope to hear from those of you who care, once in a blue moon.

Why

Why?

This is such an easy word to pronounce – it’s one of the first words children learn, as any frustrated parent will avow – and one of the simplest and most direct questions to ask.

Why?

Do you mean why easy or why one of the most direct?

Why?

Because in order to answer your question, I need to understand your information need.

Why?

Because if I don’t understand what you’re looking for, I might give the wrong answer.

(Sound of fingers drumming…)

There’s a technique in the world of process improvement (where I spend a great deal of my paid time) called 5-Whys or more to the point, Ask ‘Why’ Five Times. It’s a tricky tool to teach because you can easily give surface answers to each succeeding question and end up never getting to the Root Cause of the problem at hand, which is of course the pot o’ gold you’re seeking.

It’s also dangerous to use because the respondent might well give an answer that is to him or her Truth but to the thinking world logically flawed, or as we like to say in formal ethics, a bunch of hooey. Examples of this sort of response abound and nowhere more often than at the intersection of politics and religion.

Example: Query - Why can’t people exercise these constitutionally guaranteed rights?

Response - Because God said it’s bad.

See what I mean? There are myriad valid ways you can knock the logical stilts out from under this response but none of them will work for a simple reason – the answer is based on a belief system that is in no way tethered to provable concepts. The answerer is perfectly willing to provide nonsense answers and actually quite smug concerning their use of theology as their authority for doing so. And to be clear, I’m not saying your god belief is nonsense, that’s completely up to you and after all, what do I know? But using it as your authority for making a judgment about people’s rights in a pluralistic society is completely bonkers. Particularly just now, when we have half the countries of the world clearly demonstrating on a daily basis the dangers of letting religion drive a society.

Wanna know how to whinny down the vast field of candidates for public office?

Step one: Ask a question about disputed rights.

Step two: When they give the answer, ask ‘why’ and then listen to determine if their answer is based on constitutionally valid principles or just ‘beliefs.’

Moral: Beliefs only work as underpinnings for a position if the debate is undertaken solely within a group of folks among whom the belief system is common. That does not describe this country.

Sorry.

 

Time for different

It’s a Saturday morning. I sit here in my workout clothes because the gym is the next item on my day’s agenda and watch through the window as the wind moves the branches and makes the leaves appear to be quaking. And I think, what’s next?

Not in terms of minutes and hours, those will be spent grunting on the elliptical machine and picking up chicken wire at the hardware store and my shirts from the cleaner and then making room in the garage to move Daughter One’s stuff in next weekend.

But seriously, what’s next?

At a flash fiction writing event on Thursday last I found myself among a group of people who love writing as do I but whose take on what that means is entirely different from my own. Not alien, but decidedly different. And I found myself really liking and responding to different.

And then I came back and looked at this blog and realized it needs to be something different. But which different should it be?

I’m thinking of mebbe posting short fiction or perhaps a thought for each day (naw, done too much already by people who are good at it) or perhaps more socially driven topical essays. Or, or, or…

I dunno what this thing is going to become except for this – In November 2010, I posted:

               “This is my first entry as a newly minted bloggerboy…Now to think of something worthy to say…Maybe later.”

Methinks ‘later’ has caught up to me.

Please keep watching.

Flash fiction

Athletes practice their sports; I write to random prompts. I’ve been doing this more of late as I prepare for my first flash fiction meetup later this week. So, the other day the following prompt appeared on one of the sites I frequent: “Seventeenth century pirates pass through a time portal and find themselves nearby a modern cruise ship. Tell us what happens next.” I had 1,000 words to spend and allowed myself an hour before I needed to get back to my “real writing.” I hope you enjoy my take on this prompt.

The Apparition (or Captain Cooper’s Close Call)

Captain Angus Cooper threw off the covers, rewarding the slow dog with a sideways kick in his rush to the cabin door as the blast of sound continued to assault his eardrums. “What in the name of heaven and hell is that noise?” It came from nowhere and everywhere at once and then it stopped abruptly.

“Hard a-port!” The shout came from Pritchett, the former British Navy sailing master who had chosen The Code over being set adrift in a small boat with the other officers of the King’s Sloop Chrysalis and now served as her quartermaster and de facto second in command under the flag of the Jolly Roger.

Two men strained to turn the vessel, facing but not seeing each other as they muscled the great wheel around. The sailor facing the stern hesitated as he glanced up in horror, earning him a cuff from Pritchett.

Turning about, the Captain could not immediately discern what had caused Pritchett to order the abrupt turn or the helmsman to lose his composure. Then, as the intervening fog bank moved in the slight breeze he thought he caught a glimpse of a cresting wave. He ran to the taffrail, leaning out as far as prudence and a death grip on the log box allowed and straining his eyes to determine what the errant wave signaled.

As the shifting rudder made itself felt and his own ship began to heel in response he turned to shout over his shoulder, “I’ll have the crew on deck if you please, Mr. Pritchett!”

Turning back, he was struck speechless even as the ship’s boy ran to roust the crew. The wave had grown to rail height as it rushed toward him, already halving the distance between Chrysalis and…

‘By the saints in heaven,’ he thought as he beheld what seemed to be a great white cliff, no less imposing than those at Dover and the more dangerous as it moved past his single-masted command at a rate never before seen on sea or land. He realized the present danger was from the wave which was quickly bearing down on the starboard quarter. 

“Ease your rudder!” he shouted and then, “Hang on if you’d see another dawn!”

 The sloop hung drunkenly for a moment before starting back to vertical and had almost gained an even keel when the immense curling and churning wave overtook them, lifting and bludgeoning the stern, buckling the knees of several men just making the deck from below. Cooper reeled sideways and hugged the rail as the white water breaking over the stern threatened to carry him away.

Shouts and a few screams mixed with the sounds of crashing water and groaning lashings as the wave engulfed them, loose gear clattering and thudding until the breaker passed overboard ahead. The ship wrenched down by the bow and then the stern as the body of the wave passed underneath. Regaining his feet, Cooper saw the masthead whip forward then back, lines straining and blocks swinging crazily.  

The Captain was heartened to see the bo’sun urging men to the pumps, the rocker arm already seesawing as sailors alternated riding the handles down and the first gouts of bilge bubbled up across the deck and out the scuppers. Satisfied that his crew had the immediate emergency well in hand, he returned his gaze to the cause of the near calamity, studying the behemoth as the shifting fog revealed it to his disbelieving eyes.

The momentary view only served to increase his confusion. A ship it could only be but of this size? As the expanse of freeboard passed ahead and the stern came into view, he read off the name Pacific Empress and the homeport New Orleans, LA.  He recognized no such ship or port and what yard could have spawned this monster whose first weather deck sat higher than the Chrysalis’ masthead and with tiers of open-railed decks above seeming to rise to the sky?

He continued to watch as the fog closed around it and peeled his eyes to catch brief glimpses as the breeze tried and failed to clear the mist. Now a rushing sound ended his reverie and he returned his attention to the sea, noticing for the first time the churning wake that now made the sloop corkscrew sickeningly with the combined effects of the moving sea and the burden of seawater below that had come with the bow wave and that the pumps had not yet cleared.

For the next hour captain and crew labored to return the ship to normalcy, pumping bilges and snugging stretched lines, hanging clothing to dry and restoring equipment that had gone adrift. Entering his cabin to change, Cooper found the windows smashed and called in the boy to accomplish the task of hanging soggy charts to dry. He moved in a cloud hanging his own clothing, stunned by what the men were calling The Apparition.

Some time passed before a knock at the half-sprung door announced a messenger.

“Mr. Pritchett’s regards, Cap’n and the bilges are inspected, dry and tight. All men present and we’ve returned to track. No sign of the…er…”

“Very well, carry on.” Cooper went to close the door and found himself standing in the open frame, squinting past the men on watch in the direction IT had disappeared, wondering.

 

In the bows, two men worked with needles and bone shuttles to repair the torn bowsprit net. The younger looked over his shoulder and shook his head in disgust.

“What?” asked the older man.

“Seems to me we let go a whopping prize, is what we done.”

The wizened seaman laughed. “Son, we’re buccaneers, not fools. We make our fortune by the prizes we take; we keep our heads by the ones we let go by.”

The young man stared off after the lost prize until his partner punched his shoulder. He shook his head, grinned and returned to the task at hand. 

Things I do whilst home sick

              Yeah, I called in sick today. I think I finally got tagged by the flu that felled both Mary and Daughter One in the last week and today I just wasn’t quite recovered enough to ride the bus. And frankly, I can’t complain, having received a decidedly less catastrophic dose of the grunge than did loved ones mine.

              The thing is, unless I’m actually writhing in pain or doubled over plumbing, it’s not easy for me to just stay in bed. So ten o’clock found me stumbling around the manse dressed in my oddly stretched sleep shirt, shapeless sleep shorts and big ugly slippers, an ensemble that has remained on me all day and into the eve. Thus adorned, I found myself engaged in the following activities:

·       Watching the Cake Boss marathon

·       Sorting stuff into keep / donate / toss piles

·       Doing the dishes

·       Patting the dogs

·       Working on the book editing

·       Calling my sister

·       Thinking about how to torture Daughter Two’s boyfriend when he comes for Christmas with her

·       Patting the dogs

·       Whining

·       Reading James Fahey’s memoire

·       Watching a fly

·       Patting the dogs

·       Writing this

Okay, so I never said I do exciting stuff when I don’t feel great. I think you can see a theme here.

As One says, whatevs…