Places to visit

I got to thinking about places I’d like to visit. Not so much bucket list destinations that I will find a way to get to come hell or high water, but places I would choose to visit, given the opportunity. So I clicked into the NY Times online to take a look at 52 Places to Go in 2015.

The shot of Milan was in front of a cathedral with perhaps a thousand tourists in the foreground. No, thanks, I love people watching but I’m not good with crowds.

Cuba might be cool, except ooh, hot. Nah.

Been to Philadelphia. It was okay – big city with some historical stuff. Loved the library. And the used book store associated with it.

Yellowstone I would go back to again and again. You should, too. Stay on the trails and away from the fauna. If you don’t believe me, read a book called Death in Yellowstone.

Been to Singapore and liked it but don‘t need to do it again. Had the best Chinese food ever there. Of course, I was there forty years ago so my knowledge of the place is likely a tad out of date.

The Faroes would be cool. Seriously, drop me off and pick me up in a month or two. The kind of place I’d go to write a book.

Zimbabwe would be high on my list. I’ve always been fascinated with the Great City.

No interest in French wine country, since I’ve zero interest in viticulture. Beautiful area, I’m sure but there are so many other places to see. Of course, I could drink coffee and read while Mary wine-tastes, I suppose.

New Orleans – been there several times, but only once by choice. ‘Nuff said.

I would LOVE to check out Greenland but it’s not the kind of place you Disney tour. For this one, you need to set aside time for sitting and staring, absorbing. I would love to do some imagining in the vicinity of Hvalsey Church. As with the Faroes, drop me off here for a stay.

I would also love to walk the trail of 88 temples in Shikoku, Japan.

San Antonio is a fave. The Riverwalk is a great evening experience but the really cool stuff can only be found if, say, your cousin is a local Catholic priest and a killer tour guide who knows all the back stories. Great food.

Roma. I know, clichéd but there is just so much to see there. Plus I’ve always loved the rhythm and timbre of Italians speaking Italian. And of course, there’s the food.

Taos. For both the land and the architecture. And as above, the food.

You might notice that the number of places I’d like to go far outstrips the number of places I am likely to go. And of course, there are lots of other places I haven’t listed here. That’s okay; your reach should always exceed your grasp. Especially if they have great food.

Da haps

Yes, I know it’s been a while. I confess to being remiss. No excuses.

(Bet you thought there’d be a great big ole ‘but’ hereabouts, huh?)

Mary arrived home night before last after too long an absence. It’s amazing how much more settled I feel when I’m not rattling around alone in the house. We both have colds but I have a Washington cold and she has a Florida cold  so we circle each other suspiciously, wondering whether the bugs will cross-breed to our detriment. It’s been a very hands off homecoming.

Tonight I get to read a play by a dear friend and I cheated a little while printing it, reading through page 7 and nearly blowing off my afternoon plans but then manning up in the discipline department, so here I am. Tonight will be blissful.

Another beloved friend had a difficult last few, cleaning out her former manse, selling off stuff, and dealing with a lot of emotional baggage. I hope she understands how many of us are totally in her corner. Even though I know from experience that some hurts are your own and the love of friends is important but can’t take the hurt away. Some burdens you just bear.

I got through my first round reader comments on da book. They were both hard to take and precious to receive. The writers among you will get that. So da book goes back to the shop for a full rewrite. And why not just set it aside and go to the next project, you ask?

Because.

The next project – the one with Cecily and the non-traditional family that I’m just dying to get to - will wait. The Patent Desk waited most of my adult life so it retains its first in line status.

I’m going to a flash fiction event this week. Looking forward to that. Will I share the output here? We’ll see.

Worried about and hopeful for daughters.

Working on health-related self-discipline.

Researching for a talk I have to give in May and wondering what on earth makes these people want to hear what I have to say. Which makes me frantic to find something useful to say. An evil cycle of determination woven together with self-doubt.

Da haps. Life.

Clear water

There is a small lake about an hour’s drive from here, just on the far side of Snoqualmie Pass. It’s one of my favorite places to paddle and I promise it would be yours, as well.

Lake Easton isn’t huge – you could paddle all the way around the shoreline in a couple of hours – and it’s not deep, averaging about 35 feet. On the Northwest end where I‘ve paddled much of it is less than ten feet deep. It’s fed and drained by the Yakima River and serves as part of the irrigation reservoir system for agricultural eastern Washington.

It’s not accessible to kayaks just now, what with being covered with a layer of ice and even toward the end of summer the water can be quite cold.  

I love Lake Easton because the water is perfectly clear. I haven’t found a place where you can’t see the stumps of the former forest - every detail as though you could reach down and touch them. And because it’s closed to power boating, it’s always a nice tranquil place to kayak. A really great place to think.

I’ll be back there this spring, if I can find a paddle buddy.

We all have favorite places and this is one of mine. Just thought I’d share that.

Bachelorhood

My wife comes home in less than a week and let me tell you, I couldn’t be more thrilled. I do not like living without her. I do not like it, Sam I Am.

You see, I am not good at some things.

Don’t get me wrong. I am good at some things. Petting dogs and writing (sometimes) and driving long distances without falling asleep and singing and teaching and curriculum development.

I’m a decent folk guitar player and really pretty good at building stuff for the house. I can dead lift my body weight which I will decline to quantify here but let me just say you should be impressed.

I can sing le Marseillaise in French and recite the Suscipiat in Latin and belt out Dein geburstag ist erschienen in German, much to the chagrin of Sherree who accompanied me on it in high school and would likely be overjoyed never to hear it again.

I can grill a steak to perfection which if we’re honest isn’t actually all that impressive since of course I like the way I grill them because I tend to grill them the way I like them.

I can accept criticism as long as it’s aimed at someone else and hot weather as long as it occurs somewhere I’m not. And broccoli when it’s being consumed on another continent.

What I do not do particularly well is spend more than about a week away from my wife.

Or deciding stuff. Mary usually does that.

She’s coming home next Thursday.

I am happy.

Your meetup

First, I won’t be there. I’d actually love to take part in a counter-demonstration but I won’t take the chance of inadvertently misidentifying myself to any observers as one of you. So I guess I’ll just say:

You are not kings. Don’t get me wrong - there have indeed been monarchs who were as misogynistic, as cruel and anti-social and downright spew-worthy as yourselves. But even in the company of Vlad and his ilk, you’re not even pretenders.

The thing you’re missing here is that you are not men. You may have penises and testicles but being a man takes more than an accident of cell division. And you just don’t make the grade.

We are indeed having some philosophical disconnects between men and women of goodwill just now. After centuries of subjugation, some women are swinging the pendulum past center. Guess that’s what happens when half the population has spent centuries silenced and forced to walk a step behind. Your childish vitriol isn’t a rebuttal to radical feminism, it validates it.

You seem to try awful hard to define yourselves as ‘real men.’ I can help:

Real men aren’t afraid of real women.

Real men don’t utter the word rape except with loathing.

Real men don’t need clubs and secret code words to validate themselves.

Real men don’t waste time or mental energy hating women. They’re too busy trying to be worthy of them.

You are not real men. You are in fact unmanly. Your adoption of the term ‘neomasculine’ is apt, by the way. The prefix ‘neo-‘ comes from the Greek meaning young. And if you are anything, you are immature. The trouble is that unformed minds in full grown bodies can be dangerous.

I gotta tell you, this is one of those times that sorely tests my dedication to principles of free speech.

I can’t help hoping lots of women show up to your little gatherings of masturbatory misfits. I hope they show up together, for mutual protection. And that they take lots and lots and lots of head shots.  Every woman needs to know your faces.

 

NOTE FROM A YOUNG WOMAN:

I'd like to encourage everyone to be extra safe this weekend as "International Meetup Day" takes place in many cities worldwide including Boston, Chicago, and Seattle. This is a meetup event for neomasculine followers of The Return of Kings. Many meetups will be led to bars.

Please watch your drinks, travel in groups, and be safe.

And so it begins

Iowa caucuses tomorrow and so begins the primary season.
Please, folks, choose candidates who are qualified and honest. PLEASE don't make me choose between Trump or Cruz and Clinton!
Please?

It's so hard

It is so, so hard not to respond to some of the utter hogwash making the rounds of social media these days.

For example, the guy who suggested that anyone who might vote for a certain candidate should move to Canada, instead of voting. And said leaving the country would contribute to maintaining democracy. So, let me get this straight – democracy is best served by the removal from the voting ranks of anyone who disagrees with you?

Pretty sure there’s a different word for that.

Once again yesterday someone posted the specious claim that anti-gun folks would change their tune when the bad guys break into their homes in the middle of the night. First mistake – I’m not anti-gun, a gun being an inanimate object. What I am ‘anti’ is idiots and criminals and – dare I say it – people who like guns entirely too much having guns. Especially guns that allow them to fire thirty rounds in thirteen seconds. And second, no… let it go, Michael. They’re not listening.

“My dog is smarter than your honor student!”  Need I say more? This person must have received some feedback, judging by how quickly she deleted the post.

I could go on, of course, but what would be the point?

I’d much rather focus my attention on the positive posts I see. Such as the one by Sindy about John Hall (high school teacher) contributing to her life. Or almost any of the cute / funny / heart wrenching dog videos people post. Or the post by one of Rachel’s friends, saying, “Life is not a spectator sport.”

Or the ones by my wife showing the reno job she and her brother are doing for their ailing mother. Or Sherree’s sharing a video of the guy getting a baby kangaroo to snuggle into his bag. Or, speaking of Sherrio, any pic with her bare feet in the foreground and the ocean in the background.

Angela’s reposts of her pics from college and Disney days. And her frequent sharing of fox videos (to be clear, the furry animal).

It’s all about what you choose to care about.

Karmic comeuppance

Every now and then life gives us little reminders of the need to be kind. I received such a reminder the other day.

Waiting in line for my morning bus, I was one of several people who bore witness to a little scene when another bus pulled up and a young homeless woman trying to board lost her jeans. I don’t mean they slipped a little. I mean Miss Commando mooned us for fair.

The view was so unexpected that not one of us moved as this person tried frantically to find her bus pass while balancing her worldly belongings and of course, trying to return her apparel to a more appropriate alignment. We just stood there, trying to look anywhere but. (Sorry, couldn’t help it.)

She struggled onto the coach, found a seat, glared at us as the bus pulled away and just then, the woman in line next to me, one of the regulars snorted and the whole line dissolved in guffaws.

We should have been more charitable. At least, not laughed. I felt bad for a moment and then forgot about it as I immersed myself in Paradise.

I had been at work about fifteen minutes and was eating my muffin when I realized something was amiss with mine own apparel. Some places should just not feel breezes. And as you’ve probably surmised, it turned out I had split my pants in a most impressive fashion. And I could not reconstruct when the malfunction had occurred.

I’d made promises I needed to keep, so there was nothing for it but to remain at my desk and get the work done and just hope I didn’t get called into a meeting (I wasn’t). Besides, this has happened to me before – the cost of stuffing my girth into the same three pairs of pants day after week.

When it was time to go home, I grabbed a bright red hoodie I happened to have at work and tied it around my waist, put on my coat and headed for the bus.

Payback stuck in the form of one of the regular street folk who laughed loudly, tapped me on the shoulder and proclaimed to the world, “Mister, you stylin’!” She was joined by maybe a half dozen others in celebrating my fashion sense with loud brays.

I looked straight ahead and kept walking.

And the score from Third and Pine: Karma – 1; My dignity – 0

Fear

I promised myself I would stay away from blogging, flash fiction meetings and letter writing until I had made a milestone in editing da book. Well, the milestone is now behind me, so here I be. I’ll leave it to you to decide whether that’s good news.

I was watching a speech by Melinda Gates and was inspired to write down the following: “Let’s not be afraid to fail. In fact, let’s be afraid to not try.”

Cool quote. Not the first person to express that sentiment but she expressed it well. And it got me to thinking (smell of burning circuits).

I get differing reactions from people when they learn my hobby and passion is writing novels. Of course, many of my friends are writers of one stripe or another, so their reactions are not the same as what I get from people who consider the creation of a shopping list a literary chore.

I get that. I get that some people consider writing a necessary core activity to their lives. And that others consider it something to be avoided at all costs.

For me, writing is something without which I would… well, to be honest I don’t know the answer to ‘what, if not writing.’ I suppose I’d play my guitar more but that’s a pastime, not a passion. Writing fills me with self-worth. A pursuit that begins with whimsical supposition is for me the height of creativity in a soul that cries out to create.

Being a writer is fun and funny, fascinating and (for me) fantastical. But honesty requires that I extend the alliteration to include one more f-word.

No, not that one. The word is fearful.

The Patent Desk is out for first round reading by several people I trust both for their literary acumen and for their honesty. The point being that they will give me feedback as needed to make the book and my writing of it better.

The thing is, I’m scared Trumpless at the prospect of allowing people I like and respect to read my work. I’d sooner go to the top of the highest building in Seattle and lean over the edge. Eat mushrooms. Let a butterfly land on me. And those of you who are familiar with my odd collection of phobias will appreciate that I’m talking serious fear.

Truth be told, I have to force myself every time to post a blog entry. Scares the pants off me.

It’s a fear of disappointing, I suppose. Alright, I know it is.

It’s a fear I’ve had to confront. Because the job of a writer is to communicate. And that’s not something you can do without a reader. So I have to press on.

When it comes right down to brass tacks, at 62 and counting I’m orders of magnitude more afraid of not trying than of trying and failing. Only Buddha knows how much time I have on this earth and I’m not inclined to waste any of it. I’ll spend as much as possible of that time writing.

If only it didn’t mean actually letting folks read my work.  (Yeah, I’m a puzzle.)

You don't know...

…how much a person has become a part of your life until she goes to take care of her mother for a month and you’re missing her the first day.

…how lucky you are to live where you do until you’re riding home on the bus and look across the lake and the water is so flat and the hills so green and the Mountain is out.

…how incredible it is to have children until they both grow into these wonderful people who amaze you every time you’re around them.

…how scary it is to be a writer until you actually send out copies for comment – Oy!

…how cool your job is until you find yourself actually looking forward to flying on a Sunday.

…how beloved the dog is until you are able to watch him slow down.

…how twisted our brother is until it’s two weeks past Christmas and you still can’t figure out the point of the stocking stuffer he gave you.

 …how truly fortunate you are until you find yourself writing a list like this without having to, you know, think about it.

This morning...

…. as the bus crossed the floating bridge over Lake Washington, I was treated to one of the great sights of nature. The Mountain was out, silhouetted by a stunning array of high clouds lit from below by the red-amber prologue to sunrise. It seemed not merely to announce the day but rather to proclaim it.

I know this probably seems a tad hyperbolic but I promise you, it was a truly peak peek and turned my morning around. It made me think of beginnings rather than endings. And I needed that.

You see, from the time I woke up this morning, well before the alarm announced it was time, I have been worrying about today. More specifically, I worry about you and what you might do today.

We’ve never met. I don’t even know your name. My daughter is very private about some things and I have not been invited to explore too closely my curiosity about the meeting with you she has planned for today. I know only that you will meet with the objective of helping her to deal with the comet trail of emotions she’s been dealing with these past months.

And years, if we’re going to be honest.

I worry about you because I can’t know how good you are at what you do, how sensitively you will receive the information she will pour out for you, how welcome you will help her feel or how trustworthy you will prove to be.

She badly needs someone who is neither family nor friend, who has no history with her but who will seek to understand her story. She so profoundly needs a neutral corner from which to prepare for her next round of battle with demons she is only now beginning to understand.

Please don’t see her as broken. She has been beaten – both literally and figuratively – and bloodied, but don’t you dare see her as broken. The moment you see her as ‘lost’ you will disqualify yourself for the task.

She has been waylaid but never lost. Even from the bottom she was always looking up. She reached out for this help but she must not be smothered. She is a strong person, a good person, a superlatively intelligent person. You are there to help her find perspective, not to fashion her plan.

The utterly terrifying part of all of this is that of trust. She has to place trust in a stranger and as her father and friend, I have to place trust in both of you. I do trust my daughter because she has proven herself trustworthy at the most difficult of times.

You are the wild card, the uneasy unknown.

Please, if you do nothing else today, please, please just listen.

Let her tell you. Because somewhere beneath the hurt and beyond the doubt, she knows.

A new year

Another year has gone by, which will come as no big surprise to any of you.

Troubles and triumphs, fun times and sadness. I suppose you could say that in a retrospective of any year but the one ending in a few hours as I type this has been singularly spiky in terms of ups and downs.

We’ve marked a college graduation, a couple of new jobs, a close friend’s retirement, relocations, a book project finished (sort of), lots of progress on decluttering our dwelling, not so much on decluttering our lives.

Both daughters learned life lessons - many of them painful - and had experiences from which we wish we could have shielded them.  But they persevered and are both back to living their lives under their own direction.

The pride we feel in both our daughters is quite profound. And the love we felt during our collective visit over the holiday now ending reminded me of what family can and should mean.

I hope this next year finds each and all of you happy and healthy.

A holiday missive

I sit in my home office in my floppy sweater and slippers and sweat pants. Daughter One is preparing to go pick up her boyfriend to join us for the evening. Daughter Two and her boyfriend are just now waking up after late night cross-country flights. Mary is wrapping.

I have worries today. Such as, did I get enough stuffers for Mary’s stocking? Will everyone enjoy the meals we’ve planned? How will I get that durned Santa blow-up figure to stand upright?

Okay, I get it. Not exactly earth-shattering concerns. But I do have more substantial worries. Will my editorial readers like the book and give me the feedback I need to proceed with final edit? Will I receive Cochran’s book on ISO 9001:2015 in time to have it read before the training in two weeks? What to do with all the crap that has settled in this office as we work to de-clutter the house (and how did my writing space become the designated bin-de-crap)?

I admit I find myself somewhat ashamed of this paltry attempt to find drama in my life. The fact is, I am better off than a high percentage of dads in this world. My kids never had to wonder whether food or shelter would materialize. Or whether they were loved. Or welcome. And growing up, neither did I.

 Most of my friends and I grew up in a bubble of time and place and circumstance in which our subsistence was assured. We were halfway up Mazlow’s Heirarchy of Needs the day we were born. And if we missed out on ‘Esteem’ or ‘Self-Actualization,’ the failure was at least in part a function of our own choices, or lack thereof.

This is the time of year when many of us gaze upon the mountains of gifts under trees and wonder at the concept of ‘enough.’ Don’t get me wrong – I do not propose guilt at largesse. The urges to provide and to please are both positives, to my mind. But the charity we all seek this season will be more complete if we extend the ring outward, don’t you think?

I find myself reflecting on the people who through no fault of their own find themselves today in less secure circumstances.  Some of them are short on cash, some suffering from illness, some just having trouble sorting out life. I wish hope for them all.

One demographic that we can each and all help are the teens who are ‘aging out’ of foster care. Please consider helping one of these kids, many of whom just need a secure place to stand as they make their start. And perhaps every now and then a shoulder to lean on.

Many of these kids reside in the twilight existence of ‘almost.’ Many need not much more than a hand and a nudge.

You know what to do.

http://www.childrensrights.org/newsroom/fact-sheets/aging-out/

http://www.jimcaseyyouth.org/about/aging-out

http://www.aecf.org/resources/helping-children-aging-out-of-foster-care-prepare-for-independence/

https://www.covenanthouse.org/homeless-teen-issues/foster-care

Generation Betterthanus

Not long ago, I came across a posting on social media in which a young(er) person went off about how my generation has ruined the world and it’s up to the younger generation to save us from our folly by getting behind Bernie Sanders’ candidacy. (I will refrain from pointing out that Ol’ Bern is a member of the generation being slammed and widely supported by my own friends, also of the target generation. Oops, I said it!) What made this posting come to mind again today, since I saw it some weeks ago is that I observed some protesters in their usual place across from my office building this morning and they were similarly opining as to the worthlessness of generation mine.

I guess we’ve been the worst thing since smelly toe jam. Dang, and just when we were feeling pretty good about ourselves. We’ve messed up the world and the youngsters wish we would just melt away and let them get on with the task of repairing the mess we’ll be leaving behind.

Fair enough, but I wonder if the current generation of young adults will give us any credit for all the things that were created prior to their arrival on the scene that make it possible for them to pontificate from the comfort of their computer chairs.

I was talking to a friend and colleague today who spent a significant portion of his adult life running a plant that made large moldings – think stackable chairs but on a much larger scale. This guy’s duties involved coordinating all the purchases of ‘stuff’ they needed to make their products. Everything from the smallest rivets to billets of aluminum, plastic resins to paint, operating manuals for huge machines to copier paper. Most of those items he purchased on a just-in-time basis, to arrive just as they were about to be consumed, so when I say coordinating, I really meant he spent a lot of time frantic running back and forth to keep the plates spinning. And I surmise that he did his job well.  

It made me think back to a couple of my jobs as a plate spinner for manufacturing startups. My point here is not about the job of coordinating all these inputs but rather about the sheer number of different inputs and inputs to the inputs that went into making the products that we rely upon and take for granted every minute of every day. You see, each of our upstream vendors – the makers of polyethylene beads and the ink formulators and the paper mills and so on – had their own list of vendors, who in turn had theirs. And all of these inputs worked together to create the world in which members of the next generation find themselves so uncomfortably ensconced.

Some of the things we made we would have been better off without, no question. We know now that asbestos is a killer in the long term but when I donned my ‘Hot Papa’ proximity suit aboard ship in the early 70s, I was glad that it would protect me from flames or from spills of liquid nitrogen. In those days, I was frequently elbow deep in asbestos while lagging a pipe in the machinery spaces. I wish we hadn’t used it and it may rear up to bite me yet but at that time it was what we had and we viewed it as a miracle material. So now we’re paying in spades for our ignorance.

I wish we hadn’t developed many of the weapons systems of the last century, not least among them nuclear, chemical and biological weapons. I look back and wonder how we could have been so misguided. Thalydomide was a horrid mistake as are assault weapons for the commercial market. Drones – that one is yet to bite us but trust me, it’s coming. For every technological generation, I’m sure there is something that we would have been better off not developing.

And we haven’t always been exactly prescient when it came to lending our support and casting our votes for politicians. You can be forgiven your screeds about how hopelessly hopeless my generation is as to politics, given the Klown Kar of candidates with which we have provided ourselves during this electoral cycle. Damn, wouldn’t mind a few do overs in that sphere.

This is not to be taken as apology. It’s not. I am not guilty of wrongdoing. Wrong deciding, maybe, I’ll own that. But here’s the thing about politics and about life, for that matter – you vote where you are, when you are, with the information then available to you. More than once, subsequent developments have proved the folly of my choices. But they were (usually) made in good faith and if you can’t accept that, I’m not the only one with a problem.

So continue to post your screeds if you must. If you want to feel superior, that’s probably the way to go. But if you want to avoid the condemnation of the generations that follow you, stop posting and get to work.

Do better than we have. I readily admit we’ve left room for improvement.

Writing

It’s an odd thing to do as a hobby, I suppose. After all, most of us during twelve years of mandatory schooling did everything we could to avoid writing assignments. When we couldn’t, we would scrutinize the wording of the assignment to discern the minimum effort that would meet the teacher’s requirement as to word count, spacing, sources, etc.

We all looked askance at the one person in our class who actually enjoyed writing and would turn in the well-researched paper, the interesting opinion piece, the compelling story. That person always seemed intent on ruining things for the rest of us, poisoning the well so that none of our more minimalist efforts would could possibly satisfy. Not as long as the ‘good student’s’ submission was available for comparison.

To this day I can bring to mind the faces of (names withheld to protect teacher’s pets), the students with whom I shared teachers and recess but not our dedication to our studies. With one of them I shared every classroom and teacher from kindergarten through eighth grade. She was my nemesis, that evil kid whose presence on the class roster each September quite effectively banished my own thematic offerings to the realm of less-than.

So, one might think that my emergence from state-sanctioned education would signal the end of my interest in writing. As you’ve probably figured out by now, it didn’t quite work out that way. After high school I found myself writing just to write – bad poetry, song lyrics, a couple of atrocious scripts, the occasional short story. During my time in the Navy I found that long hours sailing the ocean blue provided lots of ideas for story lines and plenty of time to explore them in writing. Foolscap became my single largest non-nicotine expense. I didn’t enjoy cards in the mess or board games, so my down time was divided between playing guitar in the shelter of the blast shield for the #2 Terrier missile launcher and writing at an unused desk in the calibration lab.

Writing settled my soul at a time that I felt a bit shut off from the world. Then, in the course of transferring back to the States for discharge, somewhere between Subic Bay and Treasure Island, I lost the bag that included all my writing to that point. Never got it back. Crushed me. But rather than being discouraged, I found myself even more attracted to writing. And it sort of freed me. I was released from the history and weight of all my earlier attempts at coherent writing.

And so, I started anew. Wrote a book (now lost to the ages), then another (got an agent but eventually abandoned it in a welter of rewrites). Wrote song lyrics as a volunteer staff singer for a church. Wrote essays and small stories, edited a few theses. Basically, I would write anything just to be writing. Took creating writing courses four different times at four different institutions of higher learning.

I’ve never stopped, never entirely. And now, I can’t stop. As I’ve shared before, anywhere I’ve spent any time at all is likely to be awash in scraps of paper, browbeaten notebooks, my computer filled with starts, a few paragraphs on this or that idea, the sourdough starter of the writing addict.

I have a monkey on my back. And this particular monkey is welcome to ride.

Michael whining

As I type this the temperature in Fairbanks, Alaska is reported by the National Weather Service as 17 degrees below zero. The highest the temperature is predicted to reach between now and Wednesday is 15 above zero.

Normally, I’m not particularly bothered by sub-zero temperatures. I always go fully prepared with warm clothing, including toasty socks and layers for the bodkin. I even take Long Johns. Heavy hiking boots. Ski gloves. My own window scraper, just in case the one the rental car company provides proves unequal to the task.

Of course, I take what we’ve come to call my Alaska Coat. It’s a REALLY warm parka with a plethora of pockets, each stuffed with cold weather accessories such as extra gloves, muffler, knit cap - you get the picture.

My preparation is complete.

Well, sort of.

The thing that’s missing at this point is health. I have a cold. Wait – did I say A cold? No,no,no, I have THE cold. The mother of colds. The cold from Hell!

I’ll be okay, really. I’ll ride in a heated tube, then drive a heated car, eat in a heated restaurant and settle into a heated room, where I will sleep under the covers from both queen beds. I will be working in a heated office until time to turn around and repeat the process in reverse order, all within a succession of warm artificial cocoons.

So, I can’t really whine about catching a cold just in time for a trip to Fairbanks, can I?

Sure I can! 

Waaaaaaah!

A time for heroes

             Monday morning, I will board an airplane for a three-plus hour ride to another large city, so that Tuesday and Wednesday I can work with a nonprofit that trains and employs people living with disabilities. Wednesday afternoon, I will board another plane for the trip home.

               As I board planes these days the same few thoughts occupy my mind. Ticket, check. All my stuff, check. What goes in the up bag and what in the throw bag, check.  Will seatmate be a troll, a heavy perfumer, a hulk?

               My status as frequent flier means I get to board near the front of the line and my routine is so long settled that I have plenty of time to scan the crowd as they file on. I find amusement in the people who clearly don’t understand the concept of checked baggage. Watching a person trying to stuff a ten gallon backpack into a five gallon space can be high entertainment, assuming you’re not the person in line behind them. Occasionally one of these people becomes truly nasty in their self-absorption and you get to watch the scene develop until they’re actually kicked off the plane. High opera!

               The cabin staff go through their programmed shtick of facilitating, guiding and yes, arguing in the attempt to meet that holy grail of the airline industry – the full-cabin, on-time pushback.

               All of this plays out in the twenty minutes or so required to stuff a couple hundred humans into a flyable metal tube. And at some point in the process, a small but insistent voice will whisper in my ear, causing me to wonder whether this will be the time.

               Our world has become a place in which carrying out your normal activities carries the weight of volunteering for martyrdom. Not dramatically, not even really likely. But possibly. Could happen. Has happened, and to people who thought it as unlikely as will I as I board those planes.

               Still, we board the planes. We go to work. We attend the big games, ride the subway, assemble for events, eat at restaurants, write what we believe, say what we feel.

               Because not to do so would be surrender. Because this is a time for heroes.

               I do not refer to the folks who throw themselves on grenades to save their comrades, although certainly I honor them beyond measure. I do not refer to professional athletes, because I do not honor them.

               The heroism called for by these times is of a quieter, more personal nature.

               It is the heroism of London in the Blitz, of the miners who go back down, of the Syrian father in the photograph who faces drowning and starvation and hatred upon arrival to try to bring his family to safety, of the mother who will not lay down her burden although arms are leaden and back is strained because that burden is a life that deserves a chance.     It is the heroism of just carrying on.

               We face the terrorism heralded in the media. We get on planes that might be brought down and up elevators to heights not reachable by fire equipment. We assemble in places with too few exits if the shooting starts. We send the children that we love more than life off to school in the morning.

               Yes, I do believe all these and more are examples of the heroic actions we need to take every day.

               But we also need to display another kind of courage. The courage to not allow our distaste, distrust, outrage and fear to become broadly brushed across convenient canvases.

               Many of our politicians are willing to harness the power of collective fear in rallying support for hateful and counterproductive platforms. But the people I fear most are not ISIS and not Trump. The people I fear deepest in my soul are the people cheering for Trump. These are the people who are willing to trade who we are for the illusion of action.

               The people I fear most are those who are content to blame the massacre on mental derangement (or Autism? Really, you cowardly idiots?) rather than on the fact that in this country just about anyone has access to overwhelming firepower.

               The people I fear most are those described by Elie Wiesel as bystanders.

               I like to believe of myself that I would take the bullet for the child, run into the burning building to save the invalid, ram the car before it gets to the crosswalk. But those are opportunities I hope I never have to face, and probably won’t.

               The opportunity for heroism today, the opportunity presented to us, each and all is that of rising to the promise of the American social experiment. Of rising above the hate mongering of political opportunists and haters of every stripe. It is the opportunity to carry on, yes, but also to resist.

               I have the opportunity to challenge the hateful comments when I hear them, to defend the right as I know it. And of course, to simply carry on.

               I hope and intend to rise to the challenge. I will board the plane. And the next one, and the next. Because if ever it were true, this is a time for heroes.

 

Please Google “You will not have my hatred.” Listen to what Antoine Leiris has to say. Please.

Today

Today was a good ‘un. I finished recording a teaching module before lunch time and I think it’s one of my better efforts. I know business training might not seem sexy to some of you but it’s what I do and it’s always nice to feel you’ve done something useful, well.

Mary made elite status with her primary air carrier midway through her flight to Dallas today and I will do the same somewhere over Wyoming on my way back from Omaha next week. In this time of declining comfort and courtesy aboard airplanes, it sure is nice to be able to claim an exit row aisle or even (dare I say it?) get upgraded to First Class. Don’t care about the food; it’s all about leg room. Small victories, doncha know.

Having found and purchased appropriate binders to contain the manuscripts of my latest book last night, this evening I can begin printing and prepping the copies to go to my first round reviewers. I love writing, love the process and just don’t get the published authors who go on about what sublime torture it can be. Even so, it’s always nice to have one in the can, so to speak, especially one I like as much as I do The Patent Desk.

To top things off, when our office manager went through the desk of a former colleague who retired last week, what should show up but my copy of On the Nickel, one of my all-time favorite movies? Since it’s out of print and not likely to be reissued it was a big deal when I was able to find a copy and it had gone missing over a year ago. I must have loaned it to this guy to watch – we shared music and movies all the time - and we both forgot he had it.

I know none of these looms large on a global scale. We face immense societal problems that must be resolved and I hope to continue doing my part.

Still, for the moment and in my little corner of the world, I am content.

As I said, today was a good ‘un.

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.