What I Was Thinking

I've been doing some reading on John Hughes, researching what might have happened to the characters of the Breakfast Club on Monday. My idea was to create a blog, which I did, called shermerhigh.blogspot.com, and create accounts for each of the characters--Claire, Andrew, Brian, John and Allison; and even Carl the Janitor and Principal Vernon--then go back in time before the detention and have each relate their personal high school and family experiences, then the events leading to the Saturday detention, reactions Saturday night and/or Sunday, then start into Monday. I watched the movie and took notes on every small detail, such as the names of various teachers mentioned such as the guidance counselor, a Mr. Clark and a Mr. Tierney (with a history of slight mental illness), etc.

Then I read two interviews with John Hughes, who grew up in Shermerville, which was recently renamed to Northbrook, which is the actual location of the high school used in the movie, as well as in Weird Science and a few others I think. He explained that due to community expansion and big business muscling out small farms, farm communities became what he called bedroom communities, where the local kids became outnumbered by the rich kids. John Bender was one such kid.

It struck me then that as much as I relate to Bender, he doesn't belong to me. John Hughes created him and only he truly knows where he is bound. Hughes wrote and produced a movie called Reach the Rock, which got a critical and popular thumbs down, about a man who is blamed for his friends' death, who leaves town and comes back years later and raises hell. Not very uplifting. Hughes comments that the protagonist is as if John Bender had stayed with Claire after Breakfast Club and never moved on. I guess Vernon knew what he was talking about when he said, "Look John Bender up in five years and see how funny he is then."

The original version of the Breakfast Club was two and a half hours, but the studio made him cut it to ninety minutes. Not only that, but the studio destroyed all the negatives, leaving Hughes with the only copy of the original movie. Can you say, "Director's cut?"

At any rate, I'm moving on. The idea of the blog came from reading The Darth Side: Memoirs of a Monster. It had a short run on blogspot, but it became quite famous after being written up on Slashdot. The blog was written from the perspective of Darth Vader throughout episodes 4 through 6, better known as the original trilogy. It was pure genius and a wonderfully entertaining read. You can find it now if you are interested. But this feels different somehow, because his was a joke and mine would be more of a serious effort, which would simply be plagiarism. And that is a very bad word indeed for someone who hopes to create.

So here's hoping I can create characters so meaningful, if only to a cult few.

Wow!

I am blown away by the outpouring of stories that you all have contributed. Thank you so much for taking the time. I hope to tell you soon what it is I have in mind, but to do so now would be speaking out of turn, and possibly a jinx, if you believe in that sort of thing.

Here's another question for anyone who is interested. What are some of the nicknames given to friends or acquaintances of yours, and how was that nicknamed earned? For instance, in a small town where I once lived, a very large and simple boy named Dan was called Dandroid. A girl in the same town was attached the Moniker Handjobala, another Easy Edith. I'm especially interested in nicknames that have been given in reverence or respect. One of the big guys in my school was called Hoss--not original by any stretch. Another big fella I knew was called Yank. That one could go either way, but this was in Houston, and he was apparently from the north, and nobody messed with him.

Do tell!

Tell me about your high school experience. Were you part of the "in" crowd, or did you walk the line in between, not attracting the attention of anyone, not cool, not an outcast? Or were you picked on unmercifully? Were you a bully? Or bullied? Were you ever unjustly accused of stunts pulled by another classmate? Have you ever taken the rap for another, a friend or enemy? Tell me about really embarassing moments.

Do share, and please encourage your blog friends to come by and do the same. This is all leading somewhere. I hope. If I have the courage to do it.

Thanks, and Keep It Coming

Thanks all for the ideas. I agree that Claire wouldn’t suddenly be destitute and strapped with a deadbeat husband. I’ll try to come up with another game plan for tomorrow’s post. Hughes doesn’t think there is any reason whatsoever for all the characters to end up in the same room again, but the day they spent together, regardless of how their nascent friendships did or didn’t fall apart the following Monday, altered the paths of their lives. That day was important to all of them, and a reunion would be possible if it were sought after, even if only by one of them. Consensus points to Brian as the facilitator of that meeting. The fact that everyone assumes Brian is rich and successful makes me want to go in the other direction with him. I also had the idea while rinsing the shampoo out of my hair that Claire could find Bender working on a construction site, and he could represent himself as a successful architect, citing all the buildings that he has designed. But the reality is that he is a carpenter barely making ends meet. His rebellious attitude is well intact and holding one job for more than a month is a challenge for him.

Toast votes that it end with them finally together in the library. Bender could pull a joint from behind his ear and lift an eyebrow. I’d like to integrate Carl the Janitor too, and the principal too. Perhaps the principal could find them at the end, invading the library, not saying a word either, but taking it all in with dawning comprehension.

Keep any ideas you may have coming. I don’t know why this movie means so much to me, but I sometimes feel physical pain when I think about it. I always felt I could have been one of those actors, could have turned in an emotionally stirring performance, but certainly no better than the ones given. High school was a series of rejections, humiliating moments. To be in the same room with the equivalent people from my past with the same results would have been my personal nirvana. The same can be said for the masses that love this movie as I do. As a writer, I hope to have one, just one story that captures gives the release to the raw angst that this story does.

I Can Do This

Ok, how about this...

Claire didn't have the courage to stand up to her friends in school. John walked away from the Saturday detention on a cloud, but come Sunday, doubt started to trickle in. By Monday morning he knows it won't work, but refuses to give up. Claire tries to avoid everyone, including her friends, but her entourage still surrounds her as Bender makes his way towards her in the halls.

Pan out to the future. Claire doesn't have any children contrary to what I had postulated before. She is living the life of someone who has made the wrong choices--all of them. Age has faded her looks, and her eyes are tired and dull. Her husband is a useless drunk who refuses to get a job. He watches football and spouts on about the big game and the winning pass he threw. Claire nods and finishes his sentence for him. She's heard it a thousand times. She comes across her senior yearbook and thumbs through it. She see's a picture of Bender and lightly runs her fingers over it. A tear runs down her face.

She goes online and looks up her high school on Classmates.com, but Bender's name isn't there. Of course, she thinks, why would he put himself on Classmates? Ah, but Brian. There he is. She starts to write him an email. "Hey baby," comes the surly voice of her husband, "how's about getting me another beer!" She rolls her eyes and brings down the browser.

Eventually she does send an email to Brian, who is glad to hear from her, and they get together to have lunch. But she is unable to pay, and Brian notices little things about her that have changed. She's no longer the rich girl, and life has humbled her beyond what is comfortable for him to see.

"Have you seen, you know, the others?" Claire says.

He looks away. "No. You saw to that, didn't you?"

This scene would start from glad-to-see-you-again to you-blew-it-you-bitch. Big argument. Brian is pissed at her, she cries and leaves with her face buried in her hands.

Then it could shift to Brian, who feels bad that he lost his cool. He's done alright for himself, happily married to a woman he ironically met at Niagra falls. If you don't get the irony just ask, or watch the movie again. He gets it in his head that he wants to get the group together, but he doesn't know where anyone is. He'll find Bender last, as he is the most important in my mind, the one who can save Claire. He'll seek out Andrew to help him.

This is just a beginning, but I am thinking that each of them is missing something from their lives that the other can fulfill. They pass each other on city streets and don't see one another as the story switches from character to character. Only at the end do they finally meet in one spot, where they all fall together, hugging and crying. We draw the curtain, and feel for certain, that this time they will do it right.

The Breakfast Club

In 1985 I was a year away from dropping out of college, drunk almost nightly, trying to forget where I was from and where I was soon to return. I didn’t know who I was, but I knew who I didn’t want to be. Tied by an invisible tether to my father, a man who would divorce and marry still another time, gambling on a better future at the expense of the time, destined to repeat—and to be alone with his memories of a wasted past.

With this as my backdrop, movies were my escape. Movies and books. A hero always knew what to do, always said the right thing at the right time. It was kind of depressing now that I think about it, living up to an impossible ideal. The teen movies of the time were all about sexual immortals to whom intercourse was a simple matter of choosing who, but never a question of if. For me it was more like if ever.

Then along came John Hughes, the writer, director and producer of The Breakfast Club. He had already brought us Vacation and Sixteen Candles at the time, and would continue with other brilliant films such as Weird Science and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, but The Breakfast Club in my humble opinion was his best work.

He brings together five entirely different stereotypes of high school students in a Saturday detention at the school library—the rich and popular girl, the jock, the outcast, the pot-smoking rebel, and the bookworm. Only the jock and the princess run with the same crowd at school, but social boundaries cannot withstand the deluge of commonality.

Each of them is challenged by one another, until layer after layer is peeled back to expose a frightened and vulnerable person who is afraid to stand alone. Each is tortured by the hopes and dreams—and apathy—of their parents. In the end they are bonded, as if the intensity of the day had melted all social constraint, leaving them stuck together like a smoking mound of cooling lava. We are left with a glimmer of hope as Claire gives Bender one of her earrings as a token of her commitment to the future.

That’s where the fairy tale ends, and well it probably should. John Hughes has been approached for a sequel, but he declines:

"I know everybody would love to watch it. But I'm too fond of those characters," Hughes said. "I thought about it. I could do it in prose. I know what will happen to them. I know them. But to do it with real actors - with Molly and Judd and Ally - they'd never come back together again. There's no excuse that could ever put them in the same room ever again. There isn't anything in their lives after high school relevant to that day...It's like Ferris Bueller. You don't want to see him today. You'd hate him. He'd either be a bum or a politician."

So that is the question: What happens to the characters on Monday? The logical conclusion in my mind is that things eventually return to what they were before. One day won’t erase a lifetime of programming. The outcasts had nothing to lose, but eventually they will succumb. Claire will try to avoid John in the halls, but John Bender will press the issue with her, to the point where Andrew will step in on her behalf. Actually, this changes things a little, because I can envision the two becoming friends again. I don’t see Claire ever coming around. Brian, the brain, will say hi in the halls, but when met with tepid responses from Claire and Andrew, will wilt back into his place. How do you find common ground for all these disparate characters? We know that they all suffer from oppressive parenting, but what else could draw them together that would be strong enough to overcome the pressures of their peers?

The sequel I think would have to take place far into the future, after Claire has a couple children with a frustrated ex-jock who can’t make ends meet, after Brian has leveraged his education into a lucrative career, perhaps as a CEO of an internet company that IPOed for huge money, after Andrew’s knee finally did blow out in college leaving him with nothing but a bad drug habit and imagined enemies. Ally Sheedy though, she grew up nicely. She really was a transformed beauty after the movie, and regardless of whether or not she was accepted for her transformation, she was truly transformed inside. She gained confidence and became an actress of school plays, and eventually joined a comedy troupe. Later in life she finds Andrew and finds that both of them have changed places in life. Bender realizes after high school that he has nothing, and will amount to nothing. He has it out with his father, and realizes he has to leave the house on his own. At this moment he realizes the futility of his situation and digs in deep and finds strength. He takes a job as a mechanic, the only skill that he has. He crosses paths with Brian, who commissions him to build a custom car for him.

How do they come together, all of them? I don’t know yet. But let me pose that question to you, my dear readers. Give me your take on the future. How can we put them back together in a believable fashion? I want to propose to Mr. Hughes that there is a way.

Believe

Moni made an interesting comment in regards to my last post. Here's an excerpt:

Frankly, I like a man to act like a man. When I first met my exhusband he was a "work boots and flannel shirt" kind of guy. The kind that wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty. Now, he's turned into a metrosexual, wearing the bracelets and rings and cologne. He dresses to the tee. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just the whole thing of being true to yourself.

Maybe it's my fault for wanting him to dress a little better, but I think I created a monster.

The man of yesterday wouldn't have changed his dress or lifestyle to adapt to anyone's image of a man. A man knows who he is. It's not your fault Moni that he changed. People by nature are always exerting their will on others to conform to their ideal mate/friend, all the while hoping to fail, albeit unconsciously. How many women really want to see a man on a first date crying at the end of Millon Dollar Baby? Uh, I'm just going to get some popcorn. We want what we can't have, and apparently what we don't want.

I'm just as guilty as anyone. There is such a thing as healthy compromise, but cleaning our slates for the sake of pleasing another is pure disaster, and is the reason family law is so lucrative.

Remember, be strong, hold on. Believe.

Iron John

As is my wont, I was chatting with the local librarian about my son’s aversion to scary movies, so she pointed me to the fairy tales section. Fairy tales are perfect for boys from five to seven. It helps them to address their fears.

On my journey to learning the craft of writing, I’ve encountered Joseph Campbell who wrote The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Campbell talks at length about the symbolism of ancient stories and fables, of religious ceremony and rites of passage. There is ubiquity across cultures of certain themes, an eerie sameness to the stories of gods that have never met—virgin birth for instance. Stories that harness the power of symbolism reach into the murky depths of our imagination and manipulate emotions we do not understand.

A common male theme is to be taken from the mother, leaving home to be raised to manhood by another male who is not the father. You see this all the time. Look no further than Star Wars for an example. To be a real man in some instances involves the actual slaying of the father.

Two nights ago I read to Jackson one of the books I brought home that day called Iron John. A savage, wild man, is caught and caged by the King. The King’s son loses a golden ball into the cage, and asks the man to give it back. The man, who introduces himself as Iron John, agrees on the condition that the boy release him. The boy says he does not have the key, but Iron John tells him to find the key under his mother’s pillow. The boy does as he is told and unlocks the cage, but on the condition that Iron John take him along, as the boy’s father would surely kill him for his deed.

Iron John raises the boy to manhood. And the story goes on.

The poet Robert Bly wrote a famous book (but I have never heard of it) called Iron John: A Book about Men. Apparently this book caused quite a ripple in the feminist community, for reasons that are too haughty for me to understand. Bly asserts that this ancient fable, older than the Bible, contains lessons that are meaningful for men. One conclusion, and I have read this even with Joseph Campbell, is that our society has taken important ceremony away from our young boys that helped us make that tough transition to manhood.

For now, I tend to agree, because there is something missing from our lives. I’m not sure that men even exist anymore really. The strong man of the past suddenly became Archie Bunker, and because of a flaw in the fabric the whole garment was tossed. It’s gauche anymore to stand up for the male condition—because that would be anti-feminist? Our whole society has become weak, afraid to say what is clearly in front of our faces. A man has instincts, desires that are built in. Do we act on all of them? Of course not. But should we be ashamed and hide because they exist? See my last answer. It’s time for a whole lot more honesty people. I don’t just mean speaking it. Let’s also hear it without rancor.

Two Sketches

More in the AM, but just in case you stop by before I get back, here are my first two sketches, copied, but not traced, from pictures I found in a how-to book on cartooning. I'm not perfect, but I do like these a lot:

Sketching

I’ve taken advantage of my son’s burgeoning interest in drawing to buy a book on cartooning, and surprised myself this weekend by drawing a horse with a disneyesque smile. I also draw a little cartoon moppet. I’ll dust off the scanner and show them to you later, but I was quite pleased with myself.

I have to cut it short today. My wife called me home Friday afternoon because she was sick, and stayed in bed almost for the entire weekend. Work is going well but I feel a psychological deadline coming soon. The boss here wants me to go full time, and as soon as it comes out that I wish to remain a contractor, I fear some of my responsibility will be taken from me. I want to be farther along when that happens.

Bright Future

My wife and I have decided not to fight it anymore, because therein lay the problem. Ken Keyes, one of two authors that helped transition me from an angst-ridden teenager to a semi-actualized man, famously wrote that we can’t control the world around us, but we can control how we react to it. My wife has reached that conclusion on her own; a method of enlightenment ten times the power of the third hand variety.

What am I talking about? Get ready to groan people. When our baby needs us, we are going to be there, no questions asked. We just lost our patience. But thinking back, whenever Jackson cried we went to him, sometimes sitting up for hours. Contrary to popular belief though, children aren’t static little units; they grow, adjust and change. Eriksson postulated that a child has to fully experience each cycle of life to healthily move on to the next. This is a phase, and this too shall pass.

Now my wife is talking about having another, maybe a little girl this time—as if the house needed another boss. Sure, it’s a lot of work now, but the future’s so bright, I gotta wear shades.

Who Dies First?

Jackson asked me last night, “Who’s going to die first daddy, me or Emmett?”

“You two are only a couple years apart, so I call it a dead heat.”

“What’s a ‘dead heat’?”

“It means that it’s so close it doesn’t matter.”

“I think I’ll die first because Emmett is younger than me.”

“Well… If you take care of yourself, eat healthy, stay away from drugs and alcohol, you’ll have much better odds of living longer.”

“What are ‘drugs’?”

“Drugs are what people take to make themselves feel really good for a very short amount of time, which makes them want more and more until someday it kills them.”

“It kills them?”

“It can. Many teenagers today die from drug overdose, which means taking too much.”

Jackson thought about this for a moment. “Do you drink alcohol?”

“Sometimes, but only the occasional beer or a glass of wine.”

“Will it make you die?”

“It’s not good for me I guess, but it won’t kill me.”

“I think you are going to die before momma.”

I screwed my face up in mock shock, and he laughed. “That’s why we have life insurance.”

“What’s ‘life insurance’?”

How did this conversation get started anyway?

Terrible Twos

Having kids is great, but today I’m going to complain. I’m reluctant to do so, much for the same reasons that our president, at least in my estimation, is reluctant to admit to a mistake—it feeds the opposition like water to the cracked, dry earth.

Our two year old, Emmett, has officially crossed over to his terrible two’s, a cliché I know, but as for every well-worn expression, the origin can be traced to a powerful source. He won’t sleep anymore, not unless mommy or daddy gets in bed with him. We are trying to hold out, but sitting in a rocker next to his bed is like riding coach as an annoying flight attendant rams your lolling head with the drink cart. After an hour of faking sleep and checking to see if his eyes were closed using the barely-open-eye-slit method, I gave up and hopped into bed with him.

I turned over with my back to him, and he complained until I rolled over to face him. I was quite frustrated, now looking him in the eyes, nose to nose. He smiled and stroked my cheek and said, “Thanks daddy.” This is where I will resist the urge wax poetic on parenthood. You don’t need to ask do you? I’m a sucker.

Mommy swapped places with me at three. This morning she could barely talk on the phone, as signs of weariness and frustration were setting in. She feels like a bad mother, for being too tired to take the kids anywhere. Ironic, isn’t it?

Screw Loose

For a mere one hundred twenty five dollars, I learned a little about electronics, namely about relay switches, fifteen vs. thirty amp breakers, and signal detection. I also learned that I was a hair breadth short of doing it right in the first place.

One screw. I was one screw short of putting it back together correctly. I tried to put it back in but it wouldn’t bite, and what the hell anyway; the thermostat was secured to the wall with two others so why worry? Try: because the heat won’t turn on. It turns out that the screw not only held it together, but also completed the circuit.

Anyway, the electricians cost an hour minimum, so I had them install the rest of our thermostats. I thought about having them empty the dishwasher with fifteen minutes left on the clock. Instead, we chatted about the Academy Awards.

I told the electrician, the only reason you are here is because I've got a screw loose. My wife overheard me and took me aside. "How many times have I told you? You just shouldn't talk."

Themophobia

It was another of those home improvement weekends, when once again I thought I could cheat the system. I was only partially successful. This weekend I strapped on the electricians hat and removed the living room thermostat, and tried to replace it with another more modern and programmable. And like so many times before I called dad to bail me out.

My wife is results oriented, not unlike a light switch, either on or off, good job or bad. Success is gauged not based on effort. Her philosophy is that of Mr. Miyagi. You either install a thermostat yes, or you install a thermostat no. You install a thermostat guess so—squash, just like grape. Oh sure, she told me to start in another, less important room. But what can I say? I’m a cowboy at heart. This morning, huddled under a blanket in our ice cold living room, you can guess what kind of chilly send-off to work I received--a three-word portent: call the electrician.

Our house may just be the Millennium Falcon of homes, cobbled together with flotsam and jetsam—it may need a rap on the dashboard, but the hyper-drive technically functions. If I'd have started in another room, my confidence would have tacked in the red. Our bedroom room was a snap, a typical four wire configuration that transcribed perfectly from the instruction manual. But our living room was another story, a total mystery. The wires that once completed the installation of the old thermostat had a much lighter gauge, in other words, much thinner, and so I assumed to be of substantially less voltage. I mustered the courage to touch them, and didn’t feel a shock. Have I killed it? That’s for the electrician to say now, but I have a few theories. If I were living alone I would test them out, but with my wife looking over my shoulder, failure is not an option.

Oh well. I was going to tell you about my weekend of playing Pokemon with Jackson. That will be tomorrow’s subject. Let’s just say that I had an epiphany. My parenting style might not be perfect, but I do get in the primordial ooze and sling mud. That has to count for something.

Jackson called me this morning on my way to work.

“Hey daddy, Trapinch just evolved!”

“What is he now?”

“He’s a … Mommy what does this say? A Vibrava!”

“Cool, one step closer to Flygon.”

“Yeah. We’re totally going to beat Wallace now! Do you wanna talk to momma?”

“Does momma want to talk to daddy?”

He asked the muffled question. “No she doesn’t. Ooops, wait, she changed her mind.”

She never stays mad for long.

I'm Buggin'

I call them stink bugs, but now I don’t know why. They’re harmless and take residence in all my window panes, and I’ve become accustomed to opening the screen and giving them a flick like a child’s paper football, aiming for a spot and celebrating a successful field goal.

With the coming of the New England winter, these and other bugs take refuge where they can find warmth. We have a ladybug hut were resides a small colony that will be released in the spring, but stink bugs get the Roman thumbs down when momma finds them, and thus the executioner, ie moi, gives them a painless ham-fisted death, and a fast pass to the septic tank.

Brushing my teeth a week ago, a stink bug crawled from underneath our toiletry basket to say hi. Alone a bug has my sympathy; in hoards I call the exterminator. I thought briefly about squashing him and getting it over with. I threw one outside a month ago and haven’t slept soundly since—it’s freakin’ cold out there, and he had a drop of gasoline’s chance in a furnace of surviving. So I scooped him up and let him crawl on the back of my hand, and took him to a corner of the house that gave him the least chance of detection. By the next morning, he was back under the basket.

Then my wife spotted him and pronounced sentence. “Ok,” I said, “just give me a minute.” She waited patiently, tapping her foot. “Don’t worry, I’ll get to it. Go on now.” So she left, and I picked him up and started for that far corner once again.

“Daddy, aren’t you going to kill it?” Jackson asked. Both my boys were taking a bath, and my oldest was peering up at me.

“I’m going to hide it in the other room.”

“Can I see it?”

My youngest son Emmett agreed, “See bug!”

I put the stink bug under their noses, which caused Jackson to crash back into the tub wall as if I had Jedi powers, and he readily came to his mother’s point of view. And so it came to pass that a little mole revealed my deception.

“So you’ve been hiding the bug in your office have you?” My wife had that look on her face, that half amused expression she gets when I’ve done something clumsy.

“I’m gonna kill that kid!” I said facetiously.

But our little stink bug was given a pass, and my wife tacitly agreed to ignore him until the summer. I only prayed that he wasn’t a she.

Yesterday morning I felt a little crunch under my bare foot as I stepped out of the shower. He was a tough little dude, not quite dead as his antennae seemed to conduct the orchestra of his last rites. I covered him with a couple squares of toilet paper and finished the job. May he rest in peace.

Romancing India

Just a quick note because I have some proving work to do today. It gladdens my heart to see that we are aligning with the second most populous nation in the world (by my count anyway). If India has our back, I won't feel so nervous about an emerging China.

Was that quick enough?

A Better System

Eve has inspired me to clean my desk this morning. What I call a mess however is what Eve would consider classified per the Dewey Decimal System. You should check out her desk.

I am going to update my links soon, so for all those newbies who have been visiting lately, stay tuned.

Much work to do and snow accumulation on the way. Will chaos on Iraq take hold? Some people in India actually like us. China chooses their words to America carefully over Taiwan. Bush needs to explain himself to the people, but don’t hold your breath waiting for that to happen. Politicians are posturing over the Dubai port deal.

There needs to be a better system. Suggestions?

The Frisco Kid

Tanya posted an interesting question on her blog yesterday. What characters from film or fiction still touch you every time you see or "read" them? My answer surprised me.

After the original Star Wars movie back in 77, Harrison Ford was only known as Han Solo. But unlike Mark Hamill and William Shatner, he would quickly distinguish himself as a talented actor. As storied a career as Harrison has, I doubt many remember or know of a movie called The Frisco Kid that came out in the midst of the Star Wars craze in 1979.

Harrison played a bank robber, opposite Gene Wilder as a rabbi from Poland sent to America to marry in San Francisco, and to establish a church. Wilder is devout, refusing to ride on Saturdays, and is a good man who guards his Torah with his life. He is naïve about the wicked ways of men, and is ill prepared to deal with the outlaw gunslingers of the old American West.

Like an angel sent from heaven to protect Wilder comes Ford. The two cross paths and circumstances keep them together, and the unlikely friendship is born. Ford is crass and foul mouthed, and Wilder is outwardly derisive of him, and they are constantly at odds. Ford is frustrated with Wilder, and threatens to leave him to deal with the Wild West alone, and Wilder reminds him that nobody ever asked him to stay. But Ford, ever with the heart of gold, is there at the end of the day, waiting around the bend.

After several tests and ordeals, with San Francisco in sight, Ford tells Wilder that it’s time for him to mosey on. But who will be my best man at my wedding Wilder asks. Shouldn’t that be for your best friend, one of your Jewish friends, Ford replies? But you are my best friend; you are my only friend.

This is where I pretend to have an itch on my nose. I’m weak, I know.

But later in a skirmish with outlaws, Wilder is faced with the dilemma of killing a man who will otherwise take the gun from him and kill both of them, and he pulls the trigger. Wilder no longer wishes to be a rabbi. In San Francisco, sitting at a table in a restaurant, the most personally memorable scene in movie history unfolds.

Again, this is just me, but this scene is vintage Harrison Ford, and the reason that I think he is the greatest. He’s not polished or likely as talented as the Bogarts and Stewarts of the movie world, but he is one of a kind. He is frustrated with Wilder because of the inner transformation that Wilder has put him through. Ford knows that on this earth, there is no person closer to God that the man before him, who forsook his personal safety to bring God to San Francisco. But Wilder feels unworthy of the post he traveled so far for, and Ford won’t let him walk away.

The scene is their exchange across the table. I can’t find the transcript, so it goes something like this:

Wilder: I’m not a rabbi.
Ford: Don’t say that. Of course you’re a rabbi.
Wilder: I’m not a rabbi.
Ford: Listen you stupid bleepin bleeper, I didn’t bring you all this way just to have you back out now.
Wilder: I valued the safety of a book over the life of my best friend
Ford (flashing his signature grin): But I forgive you.
Wilder (eyes glossy, almost crying): I know you do
Ford: So stop all this foolishness and tell them who you are
Wilder: But I’m not a rabbi
Ford (pointing his finger at him with a menace in his voice): I’m warning you, don’t say that again.
Wilder (pauses and seems to think about it): I’m not a rabbi.

Ford picks up a balled up napkin in a lightning quick motion and beans Wilder in the head and screams that scream you know so well, “Don’t say that!” That moment makes me want to cry. It is so raw and unguarded, and shows you at once how much he loves his friend.

Many will see it and chuckle, but for me it is a magic moment. Maybe I relate to it because I have father issues, and feel a deep void that yearns for that kind of friendship. I don’t know.

Reading Banville

I went to the gym this weekend and did a light workout. Unlike my previous first stints, I stretched out before jumping right in. I’m feeling a bit stiff…

I’m reading John Banville, or better put, I’m learning vocabulary from John Banville. I’ve downloaded some images of varying types of clothing cuts, such as collars, sleeves, and dress types. The man can describe what a woman is wearing as if he were an exclusive fashion designer; describe a sunset from a painter’s perspective, and quote history like a Harvard professor. My pen is scribbling as I reread entire passages. Sometimes I stop and let my eyes go lazy as my mental drum tosses his words around and around. At first I was annoyed with the lack of forward motion, but I changed gears. Banville isn’t a frosty cool one you throw back with your buddies; he’s that dusty bottle of wine you’ve been saving for a special occasion. Smell the cork and drink some water to clear the palette. And sip slowly.

What Dad Would Do

An hour before my presentation, the boss runs into my office and informs me that my document doesn’t have nearly enough information to convey the architecture of the system. Mind you, he has had this document in his possession since last Friday. He stepped to the white board and scribbled a picture.

I took over this project from one of the guys that interviewed me for this position, and the minute I took the job, he tendered his resignation. On my first day, he presented his ideas for this architecture that I am now working on. His name was Omar.

“Why don’t you just tweak Omar’s document and bring that to the meeting?”

“My understanding is that this meeting is about requirements,” I explained calmly. “You can’t build a system when you don’t know what the software is supposed to produce.”

“But you aren’t going to hold anyone’s interest with this kind of presentation. You need more pictures of the overall solution.”

Couldn’t you have told me this yesterday? Or the day before? Or the day before that? “Ok, I’ll draw this diagram and append it to the document.”

My drawing software was inadequate, so I downloaded Visio, which is more than enough, but I couldn’t learn it in time. Meeting time came around and I was stuck. My hands were two frozen meat balls as I felt my impending doom.

Ten engineers sat around the table watching me as I sat down with my computer and plugged it into the projector. A black speakerphone lay in the middle of the table where members of the operations team in Buffalo waited to begin.

For those not in the industry, there is a process of software development called RUP, or Rational Unified Process. It begins with all the people who are affected by the development of the product sitting in a room just like this one, reviewing requirements in the form of use cases, which detail every nuance of every service the software provides. This is the time for non-technical people to get involved, to have a say before the engineers take off. Up until now, all interested parties have a say in the final product. Apparently my manager didn’t understand this, but by the end of the meeting he did.

My nerves calmed as I realized what a catalyst the document was for conversation. Ideas were like pennies from heaven, falling everywhere. My pen scribbled as people debated back and forth. After the meeting, engineers came into my office with new ideas, or wanting clarification on points that I brought up.

In all, my structure stood up to the scrutiny, but I’ll have to be wary. I see that what they are paying me to do is a process they don’t understand, or believe in, but I see the light bulbs over heads of some. I know this because of statements like this one, from a senior manager after the meeting: “I have to admit, this is a great way to do this. I had no idea how many ideas were in my head.” My manager just nodded his head with a guarded shade in his eyes. I don’t know what he was thinking, but what he said was, “Thank you Scott for all your hard work.”

My wife says to write emails so that there is an audit trail for everything I do. Watch out for him.

For me this is an application of a process I read in a book to bone up for the interview. I’ve never actually done it. I tried to sell something similar to my previous employer, but he thought it was swatting a fly with a trebuchet. I won’t get anywhere waiting for someone to lead me by the hand. I’ll have to get there myself, and drag this entire company behind me.

I’m proud to say that in this way, I’m not so unlike my father after all.

Today is the Day

Today at one thirty I present my first design documents to the company masses. I'm not nervous actually. All will be well.

I saw a strange movie last night, Broken Flowers. Bill Murray. I always like Bill Murray, even if he just sits in a chair with that blank look and says nothing. His interaction with his polar opposite, mystery loving, Ethiopian neighbor is priceless. This was a strange movie though, in the spirit of indy filmdom, it ends quite unconventionally, with questions unanswered. Or maybe I missed the flight. Has anyone else seen it? If so, can you tell me what the hell happened at the end? I won't spoil it by giving you my two cent opinion, at least for now. Just tell me what you thought.

I forgot to register my thoughts on the Lindsay Jacobellis snafu. If you didn't see it, or didn't hear about it from thousands of media outlets, Jacobellis had the lead in a four-person snowboarding race by such a margin that victory was assured. But she decided to get fancy over a jump in clear view of the finish line and did a stunt, landed funny and slid off the track on her tush. She managed to finish and win the silver, but nefariously went into the history books, a feature of future highlight reels. Remember the old ABC Wide World of Sports? The thrill of victory, and the agony of defeat. Insert Jacobellis. Not exactly what she had in mind.

I will say this to all the detractors: she's just a kid, so cut her some slack. And even if she wasn't a kid, go bleep yourself. She fought one hell of a race, and I for one was quite proud.

Atta Girl Sasha

It turns out that my presentation isn’t until tomorrow in the afternoon, but I got some feedback from my thirty-plus page document. The word is good. In fact, the commenter wants to use my doc as a template for future versions. Not bad. Some of my pre-interview studying has paid off.

I was up until midnight watching the Olympics. It’s cliché I know, but I love watching the women’s figure skating, and in the Summer Olympics I am a sucker for the women’s gymnastics too. I’ve heard women complain about my demographic, that we are a bunch of lecherous old men. For me there is just so much beauty, such grace, heart, determination, and excellence bundled in a small package. Some of these girls are just sixteen, and yet they are performing under enormous pressure such that we will never experience in our lifetimes. I find myself rooting for all of them, and I feel sad when they fall and pride when they land without a bobble.

I watched Emily Hughes, younger sister of Olympic gold medal winner Sarah Hughes skate wonderfully in place of the injured Michelle Kwan. As good as she was though, the Russian Irina Slutskaya made her look like rookie, who is favored to win the gold—was I think, before Sasha Cohen started her routine. All I can say is: you should have been there. She is in first place after the short program, but it is within four one hundredths. Stay tuned for more competition.

I’m going to start working on another short story based on my post about the man in the wheelchair. I came up with an ending in the shower this morning, and when those hit me, it’s time to start writing. That’s how my mind works I guess: I need a basic premise, a sprinkle of theme, and a nice twisted ending.

Pack The Gym Bag

This weekend we signed up for a gym membership for basically the cost of one mortgage payment. I know everyone says this, but I will use it. Riiiiiight…

It all started when my wife and I watched Mr. and Mrs. Smith. I don’t need to tell you girls out there that Brad Pitt looks great with his shirt off. My wife looked at me and said, “Do you think you could ever look like that?”

“Well, I never have, but I’d like to give it one more try.”

We’ve both been feeling a little heavy. Inactivity and late night eating are catching up with us. I’ve never been perfect, but there was a brief time in my young history when I took my shirt off and liked what I saw. Today I look and think things could be worse.

***

On NPR this morning, I heard a story about a website that is connecting young men and women, boys and girls, with the wisdom of the elderly. This is an astounding idea. Maybe it’s because I’m climbing in years, but the elderly are largely overlooked, and any forum that gives them a voice is aces by me. They’ve adapted and survived everything life has to throw at them, so who better to consult?

The questions asked of the elders at first were simple, often mundane. Then they became more complicated, harder to answer. One was from a little girl whose parents leave her alone at truck rallies with predatory friends, who are becoming increasing overt in their advances. She wants to know what to do. Or another, a letter from a girl explains that she is best friends with a boy, and although she has zero sexual attraction for him, she feels that a real boyfriend would eventually come between them. She wants to know if she should marry him. Can you just see this discussion at a nursing home? I would love to be in that room.

***

Back to work for me. I’m not sure when I present my designs, so more on that later.

Busy Today

Just a quick note to anyone dropping by. I am working hard at finishing some software design documents that I have to present tomorrow. I cranked out a data model today, which means absolutely nothing to anyone reading, but to me and hopefully to my peers and superiors, this is going to look finger-licking good.

More tomorrow. Hopefully I'll have the good news that my client was quite impressed.

Thanks For Making Me Blog On The Weekend Eve!

Current clothing: Long sleeve cotton shirt, Old Navy pj-bottoms, socks, slippers

Current hair: Flat top. My wife has taken over for the local barber, bought her own shears. I used to have long moppish hair, but I got sick of it and cut it all off and loved the look.

Current mood: Recovering from a cold and a day with my cranky two-year old

Current refreshment: Poland Spring water

Current annoyance: My son won't let me go downstairs until he goes to sleep, and there is no way to sneak down because the stairs creak.

Current avoidance: Good question. Writing anything of substance.

Current smell: Popcorn that we just ate downstairs

Current thing you ought to be doing: Sleeping

Current thing or things on your wall: Picture of my kids, two traced hands, an old Mattise print from my single days of an indistinct naked woman

Current IM/person you are talking to: Nobody

Current jewelry: My wedding band

Current book: The Sea, John Banville

Current worry: Wow, none really

Current love: My children, my wife

Current longing: To write

Current disappointment: That I haven't written anything

Current lyric in your head: All I want is you, The Cars

Current music: The sound of my son caughing in his room

Current Favorite book: I'll let you know when I read it. I have lot's of historical favorites, but right now I am in desperate need.

Current undergarments: Spiderman underoos. Just joking.

Current desktop picture: My kids at Christmas

Current plans for tonight/weekend: Watch our recording of Friday's Battlestar. Then sleep the sleep of the gods.

So what are you currently doing? I told you that I owe you one. Tag Moni, you're it.

A Little Poop Humor

As much as you try parents, you can’t avoid it. You might as well tell the Greenland icecaps to stop melting. Sooner or later you are going to find the key to that creaky old box that holds your childhood memories, blow off the dust, open it up and pull out a few of those old poop jokes that caused you to spit Cap’n Crunch all over your sister at the breakfast table.

Or maybe it’s just me. I read in the Pocket Parent, or rather it was read to me by my wife after interrupting my own reading of Terry Pratchet for the fifth time, that one technique parents have adopted is to take one night off from discipline and let the children reprimand them for bad behavior. The parents play with their food and belch, and probably make other bodily noises I imagine, and the kids run out of breath laughing so hard.

My wife resisted it for a couple years. It started when I came home with a volume of Captain Underpants books. My wife put her foot down, and the books went into the darkest recesses of the catch-all closet. We gave it to Jackson for his sixth birthday, and now, every night before bed, Jackson and I read them together.

If you can handle a little potty humor, these books push the silly button for a young boy. The author Dav Pilkey is like Tom Hanks in Big, who is a young boy in a man’s body. This guy remembers what it was like.

Some people won’t like these books because the heros are two young boys who cause trouble, always pranking. They get in trouble with their principal Mr. Krupp, so they hypnotize him with a hypno-ring. Now every time Mr. Krupp hears the snapping of fingers, he becomes Captain Underpants. Later he acquires actual super powers by drinking Super Power Juice found in the cockpit of the space ship of alien invaders. Sounds silly? You bet. That’s why the kids love it. My son laughs so hard that he falls into choked silence for long stretches and his mouth wide open.

Last night we read this joke:

Why did Tigger stick his head in the toilet?
Because he was looking for Pooh.

And:

Knock knock?
Who’s there?
I’m a pile-up.
I’m a pile-up who?
That’s not true; don’t be so hard on yourself.

Jackson is still laughing.

A La Moni

Ok Moni, here you go:

Four jobs I've had:

Windshield Washer at Chevron
Bagger at a grocery store
Burger flipper at McDonalds
Car Salesman

Four Movies I Could Watch Over and Over again:

Breakfast Club - It's in my profile, but it's my favorite
Braveheart
The Gods Must Be Crazy
Outside Providence

Four TV Shows I Love:

Battlestar Galactica - The new one. The best drama on TV of any genre.
Deadwood - Seth Bullock is the man I wish I was. Perhaps he could simmer down just a bit.
Six Feet Under - May it rest in peace
The Sopranos - It can't end well

Four Places I've Lived:

Juneau, Alaska
San Francisco
Seattle
Couer d' Alene, Idaho

Four Favorite Dishes:

Beef Stroganof
Cheeseburger and Fries
Prime Rib
Pot Roast

Four Sites I Visit Daily:

The Dallas Cowboys Blog - Even in the off season, I just have to know the scoop.
PowerLine - Nothing liberal about it, and no bullshit either. These guys busted Dan Rather when he and his cronies tried to pull a fast one.
RealClearPolitics - A good spread of various news sources to quickly catch up on the breaking stories
Victor Davis Hanson - You might not like him if you're a hard-core liberal, but I challenge you to descredit his logic

Four Places I'd Rather Be Right Now

Sitting in the cockpit of my new MiG figher jet
Watching the Dallas cheerleaders taking a shower
Sitting on a rock I found atop Mt. Tamalpais that had a perfect saddle
Seeing San Francisco from Twin Peaks on a clear night, or from a vantage point on the Saucalito side where it seems you could reach out and touch the Golden Gate, at Fort Point where Kim Novak once dove in to be pulled back out by Jimmy Stewart
With my mom the day before she died

I Swear I'm Not A Stalker

Yesterdays post got me thinking about the ones that got away, and there have been a few of those. Of course nobody has ever believed me when I told it before, probably because I’ve always had a flare for the dramatic.

The funny thing about love is that when it fell overhead like a cloudburst, I usually had to ask if it was raining. Of course at home, soaked like a sea sponge, I was once again capable of basic math, but by then I didn’t have the numbers to add up.

I lived in Santa Clara some fifteen years ago. My friend Bob and I decided to buy mountain bikes in Santa Cruz, but we had to stop by his bank which was just down the street from the bike shop.
Bob had the personality that I would classify as type ice-breaker. Every group needs one; somebody who is fearless of beautiful women, able to introduce himself and his friends in the most intimidating of circumstances. The teller at the bank was vintage California, lean, tan, sparkling blue eyes and sun bleached, sandy blonde hair. She was the kind of beauty that severs the neural network connecting the mouth to the brain, unless of course your name is Bob.

In two or three sentences, the entire staff of Bank West was gathered behind the counter, laughing and cheering Bob’s decision to buy a mountain bike. I was dimly aware of all this as I watched her mouth, that bright smile that doubled her intensity.

We bought the bikes and rode them back to the bank, because for some reason, Bob needed to get more money from the ATM. The bank was closed now, and I felt a stab of disappointment that I wouldn’t see her again. I was a little short on cash myself, so I put in for forty dollars and stuffed my wallet in my bike pack.

“Is this the bike?”

I looked up and there she was, dressed casual now with her dad standing behind her. “Yeah, how do you like it?”

I got off and tilted it towards her. She ran her hands over seat, and then tried the gear controls and brakes. “Oh, this is very nice. Very nice.” Her face wasn’t more than a foot from mine as we looked at one another. I may not have been the Love God, but there was something carnal in that gaze we shared.

“Is there a good place to ride nearby?” I asked her.

“There are lots of great places to ride.” She was so excited as she explained to me a set of mountain trails she liked to go to. I wanted to ask her to come with me, but I felt a little weird with her father standing nearby, who was not threatening in anyway. Rather he seemed quite friendly. But I didn’t pull the trigger, and I went home a frustrated guy.

I couldn’t get her out of my head, so a week later I drove to the bank and waited outside for her to come out, feeling suddenly like a stalker. I saw her finally, so I got out of my car and walked to the ATM, as if I just got there. She looked at me as I went by and gave me a friendly hello. I did the same—and kept walking.

Insert chicken clucking here.

It gets more embarrassing, trust me.

So a month later, I actually opened an account. I went to her counter and she directed me to another window. If she recognized me I don’t know. My home address was thirty miles away, and it must have seemed very strange. I walked out frustrated again, but with a bad feeling this time. It was too late. I closed the account a month later, and vowed to at least say something to her.

“Aren’t you the one that gave me directions to some mountain trails,” I said like a total jackass. The Monte Python knight with a flesh wound had more sense.

“Probably,” she yawned without looking up.

It was one of those moments, and I’ve had quite a few, that I wished for the power to snap my fingers and simply disappear.

The Right Thing

I heard a story on the radio today told by a handicapped man, not totally paralyzed but bound to a wheelchair. He met a woman who saw through his disability and married him, because just like a woman, she fell in love with the intangible. He explained about the prejudice he has to endure; people are always assuming they are brother and sister; that she is his nurse, etc.

At a small Irish pub on Geary Street in San Francisco, in the twilight of my single years, I met an amazingly beautiful woman who was escorting a diminutive, legless man in a wheel chair. I had all the same thoughts the man on the radio described, but my internal censor stopped me short of asking the question; and as a result, I left without even attempting to get her number. I felt a strong connection, and yet I was trapped. Even if the two weren’t a pair, which I highly doubted, I could have turned out to be an insensitive prick for assuming it. The man was in a wheelchair, and undoubtedly, at least in my mind, he must have looked at people like me at the time--strong, healthy, and impossibly handsome (cough)—and wished to trade places, even for a day. Hey, there could be a story in that…

So out of respect I walked away. But the way she looked at me that night--you know the look guys. Normally we're like salmon swimming upstream, crashing into the rocks; she politely laughs while scanning the room. Not always though. Sometimes she really finds you interesting and often funny, which inspires the inner comedian. Maybe you get the slight touch on the arm that you pretend not to notice. She was all those things. And while I enjoyed it immensely, I was ever conscious of him, and I felt his helplessness and pain.

I used to think of that night a lot, but since I met my wife those coulda-beens don’t haunt me any more. The story on the radio however made me feel somewhat vindicated. I may have done the right thing after all.

No Beginning

Good morning all; good afternoon or evening to others. There was an interesting mix of reactions to my last post, and I’m grateful for every one of them. I’m not depressed or anything like that. I’m starting to realize that I’m much older now, and my memory is fading; outing the unneeded, such as those of the faces I took for granted that composed the landscape of my immortal and unchanging world. It was a glimpse inside of my mind when someone is telling a story to my slack-featured face and I say, “I’m sorry, what were you saying?” I partied a lot when I was younger, but definitely not anymore, for what should be obvious reasons—wife, kids, responsibility. All good reasons, for whose lack of probably had me sidled to the bar. Still, mix one part full moon and two parts free time and I’ll ride like Paul Revere.

One thought that arrests me is the concept of no beginning. God has no beginning, if you believe that. When I was a teenager, and most likely stoned—which I cannot verify for sure, but this kind of revelation is in line with that state of mind—I stared at the stars while laying on the hood of my friend’s car, in his driveway, waiting for him to finish getting ready. The impact of no beginning hit me like a wrecking ball through a shelf of fine china. How is it possible? And yet it has to be. My heart felt like a gyroscope as those two thoughts churned inside me until I was forced to shut it off. My mind is too simple to ever understand the basic nature of our existence. How can a computer program know what it is?

Think about it. We are just like software, unique from one another in many ways, but in the most important ways we are no different at all. We live, grow old and die. In between we struggle with the same issues, yet deal with them differently according to our programming. When backed to the wall we will almost to a man fight with vicious ferocity. We read stories that capture the human condition, that bit of programming that makes us all the same. We all want to love and be loved, and how successful we are with these basic tenets shapes the person that we are.

If there is a God, he made the laws such that we will never travel the breadth of this universe. The way out is one that we haven’t considered, to which we are incapable besides. Perhaps we have been banished to this place, a prison surrounded by the infinite vacuum of space, and given fragile vessels inside which we must adapt or die. Perhaps we are being tested, the last rite of passage into a holy fraternity. Hey, am I starting to make a case for heaven?

I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.

Temporary

Often I think about how temporary life really is. Not just life itself, but the communities we belong to that form and dissipate like clouds. Everything for which I laughed, cried, and raged no longer exist, as if it never did. I'm only connected by a frayed thread in my ravaged mind, which has been pummeled over the years with alcohol and deadened by apathy and the will to survive. Sometimes I reconstruct a friendly smile, or the ghostly image of a girl stumbling from the dance with tear soaked hands covering her face, and I feel a sense of loss, that maybe I should have paid more attention.

Perhaps heaven is lacing those shoes again.

Lunch With A Friend

I met the inestimable Mr. Schprock yesterday for lunch. It was a bit surreal at first; meeting someone I’ve only known by merit. I guess it’s like meeting a disc jockey or a famed author. There is a certain mental image you draw of a person, and it is always interesting to see how close you came to the target. Mr. Schprock has posted pictures of himself on his blog, so his was probably the bigger adjustment. I don’t look much like Wyatt Earp, the likeness of whom I chose as my avatar, after all.

As an aside, don’t you think Wyatt Earp looks a little like Kurt Russell?

Mr. Schprock is as likeable and personable as you would expect from someone who delights his blog buddies with wonderful posts and thoughtful comments. It was an honor.

Today I need to make some progress at work. I got lost on the way back from lunch, which challenged the inner navigator in me—and of course, like the guy I am, I didn’t ask for directions. So I was gone more than I had planned.

Jackson called to say good morning. He handed me over to my wife, while he and Emmett rewound a scene from the Wiggles of Greg prancing in a tutu. Just one more advantage of Tivo. Emmett gave my wife a kiss this morning, then looked her in the eyes and said, “High five momma.”

The Oxen is Slow...

One of my favorite movies from my teen years was High Road to China starring Tom Selleck and Bess Armstrong. I fell deeply in lust with Bess when she wore a bikini in The Four Seasons, and I’ve been waiting ever since for her to be so bold again. She was frustratingly clad in High Road to China, but I loved her just the same.

The point? Oh yeah. There was an ancient Chinaman who gave some advice to the intrepid heroes of this yarn: The oxen is slow, but the earth is patient. At the time I laughed at the inanity of the statement, and have used it in conversation where advice is needed and I have none to offer.

Him: My girlfriend dumped for some other guy.
Me: The oxen is slow, but the earth is patient.
Him: Huh?
Me: Exactly.

Maybe listening to NPR has broadened my horizons--*tongue in cheek*--but in the last couple days that phrase has been on my mind. For years a thread has been spinning in my head, trying to make sense of it. Perhaps I always knew.

Last weekend we took Jackson’s top bunk out of his room and put it in Emmett’s, replacing the crib which has been officially retired. Emmett has been sleeping in our bed for almost a year now. Believe me, this is the absolute best form of birth control there is. Beth and I didn’t hold out much hope that Emmett would sleep in the bed, but he did. For the first time since time immemorial I need an alarm clock to wake up in the morning. Gone is the foot in the small of my back, or the sudden back handed bitch slap.

He got just a little older, like the slow drip-drip-drip of water into an empty bucket—except it isn’t empty anymore. Time moves slowly, like the ox plowing the field, and yet it flies when you’re having fun. Soon I’ll have to steal my kisses when he is sleeping.

Before Jackson, when we found out we were having a boy, I had already planned his life. I couldn’t wait to teach him to throw a football, to build a model airplane; I wanted to juice my soul and serve it to him in a silver chalice. Now he is six, stretched out and skinny, no longer a baby, but a little boy with a mind of his own.

The earth is patient is another way of saying what’s your hurry? My answer of course is, there’s plenty of time for that later. Right now my boys want to be silly, to hide in obvious places, to run at half-speed just to be caught.

Emmett “calls” me at work now.

“Hi daddy.”

“Hey little buddy, what are you doing?”

“Haburbity glub ker go go.”

“Oh, you’re watching Go Diego Go?”

“Yeah.”

“Ok, I love you, let me talk to mommy.”

“Lubby too daddy.”

That my friends is as good as it gets.

Fighting

I was a tall kid growing up, and very outspoken, a combination that amounts to an outstretched hand and yelling ooh, pick me, pick me. Ironically though, I wanted to be invisible, above the rules. I didn’t want to grow up—to think about girls, to be serious about school, or to fight with the other boys for accidentally making eye contact. I may as well have willed the sun not to rise or a dog not to bark.

I have a natural fear of fighting; and that’s probably an insight to my active imagination. In an after hours diner once, I saw two men square off in an exchange of shouts. One got the better of the other and grabbed him by the hair and slammed his face twice into the floor. Both times there came a hollow, bone crushing thud, like you might imagine from a dropped coconut. The fight was gone from the man, who amazingly was able to sit up, bleeding and wondering why he was on the floor, likely trying to remember his name.

I was teasing a boy once on the school bus. We were friends—or so I thought. He warned me a few times that he was going to beat me up if I didn’t let up. Boyd Gardner followed me off the bus, which struck me as odd because his stop was well after mine, but I didn’t get it. Mike, the boy sitting with Boyd on the bus got off at the stop before mine, which was only a block away, and sprinted up the street. Still, I didn’t get it.

“Why did you get off at my stop,” I asked Boyd as we walked along together.

“I’m going to visit a friend.” I still didn't get it.

“Ok. Hey, I’m sorry about all that business on the bus. I was just joking around.”

“That’s ok.”

“I was starting to think you were taking me seriously.”

“Nah.”

"Friends still?"

He looked at me and smiled. "Sure."

Up ahead, at the intersection of two streets, Mike came to a halt and stared at us together. He was out of breath.

“I thought you were going to kick his ass!”

I turned to Boyd with a quizzical look. In one fluid motion, he dropped his school books and balled his fist and hit me square in the face. I can't remember what hit first, his books or his ham fist. What an odd sensation it was, not at all what I had imagined. With some amount of relief, I realized that it didn’t hurt. But still, I had no interest in letting it happen again. I tried to reason with him, but he had the battle lust and swung at me again. I ducked him easily and tried to hit him back, but he swatted me away like a pesky insect. It didn’t take long to reach the conclusion that I needed to get away, or I was going to get really hurt.

He was easy to avoid, being big and slow, but he was half again my weight, so he used that to his advantage and wrestled with me and threw me to the ground. He straddled over my chest and raised his fist, and there was nothing I could do for it.

Then suddenly he was gone in a streak of red, brown and white. This is one of the advantages of having a St. Bernard. I called Baron away and let Boyd get up, who decided to try this another time. He followed me off the bus a few days later, but I just kept walking. A day later and we called a truce.

There was another Mike at school that liked to harass me by hitting me from behind, then squaring off and offering to fight. I always refused. Then one day I wasn’t thinking when his familiar jolt surprised me out of my reverie. I chased him around like a broken windmill. Boyd walked up behind him and shoved him against a brick wall.

“You want to fuck with me?” Boyd offered.

“N-n-n no!”

“Then don’t let me catch you messing with him again, or you’ll be sorry.”

And that was that.

You Aint Seen Nothing Yet

Congratulations to the Steelers, now five time Superbowl champions.

Congratulations to Troy Aikman, who has been voted into the Pro Football Hall of Fame, which is not so easy to achieve, as there are only a select few that can be voted in each year. Some very good football players are still waiting to get in. Can you say Michael Irvin? Or how about the man for whom the zone defense was created for—Bob Hayes.

Enough football talk. The commercials during the Superbowl didn’t live up to the expectation. Nor did the halftime show. Hey Mick, hang it up buddy. If you performed like you did last night at the beginning of your career, you would have been a shoe salesman or a truck driver instead. My advice for you is to go back and watch the tapes of Paul McCartney, who knew how to bring his A-game to the really big show.

Has anyone seen the news about the offensive cartoons depicting Mohammed teaching suicide bombers how to strap on the vest in a Danish newspaper? A couple European rags reprinted the cartoons and now there are demonstrations, on the violent side mind you, across Europe and even in the states.

The protestors are paying homage to their heroes, the perpetrators of 9/11 and the whacks that blew up the London subways—and governments are apologizing to them.

Do not adjust your television sets.

I am starting to see that maybe the war in Afghanistan and Iraq was wrong. We should have launched a cartoon campaign instead and dropped those leaflets all over the Middle East, and apparently in New York City, Denmark, England and France. Better toss San Francisco in there for good measure, or just the Berkeley campus.

I say cram this right down the throat of Islam. I know some peace loving Muslims, and I love them dearly. But their religion is being twisted for purposes they don’t agree with. I understand how painful these images must be to them, but the truth they tell is undeniable.

The whack-jobs have tipped their hand for the whole world to see. You can take smart bombs and military invasion, but dunk the Koran into the toilet…

I’ve got news for all you radicals. You just wait until the media wakes up and realizes that it has the power to smoke you out. In the immortal words of Bachman Turner Overdrive, oh b-baby you just aint seen nothing yet.

What I Would Say

A few words on the president’s State of the Union.

I know most of you hate the president, so take a step back for a moment and breath. You can resume your normally scheduled programming when I’m done.

Was it just me, or did I hear the president say that we need to invest in alternative sources of energy? This should be an issue that both parties wholeheartedly endorse. John Kerry himself espoused some of the same ideas during his campaign, and in a way, he should be proud that he had anything to do with it. All Democrats for that matter should pat themselves on the back—publicly.

But what did they do after the address? They blasted GW for not insisting that car companies demand better gas mileage from new cars and trucks. Good point for sure. In my mind though, the Democrats are sliding further and further away from being real contenders in any upcoming contests. Why? Because they have become clouded with hate.

I’m no politician, but if I were a well-intended Democrat, one that entered into public service to help America, I would have had something like this to say to the cameras afterwards.

Ah hem! The president has said what I think Americans have been longing to hear for a long time. It’s true that we have become drunk on foreign oil. In the interest of our security, we need to pursue alternative fuel sources and reduce to what amounts to our tacit support for hostile regimes. So I applaud the president and will support him with my vote in Congress. However, the president could go much further. By raising the standard of fuel efficiency for our fleet of cars and trucks, the president could cut our consumption by at least 50 percent. But the president has made it clear that our parties have to work together, and I am confident that by combining our approaches, we will resolve this all-important issue. I for one am willing to put aside my differences to do what’s right for our country.

Of course I would be shot before the upcoming elections.

Random Thoughts

Does anyone out there think life has a point? Do you think we were put here for a reason, however small? Do you believe in coincidence; or do you believe that there is a master plan, that every chance meeting was not chance at all?

Do you believe in God?

My answer to these questions varies on my mood—and I’m comfortable with that; because really, I don’t have to take a stand on any of these issues.

According to my Aunt however, I have until the moment I die to believe that Jesus Christ is my savior, and she will do everything in her power to save me. I personally think Jesus will understand.

I pray, even though I accept that I may very well be talking to myself. Which is ok. There is power in believing in yourself. Christians believe that God is in every man, woman and child, so praying to ones self is the same as praying to God, and with the same results perhaps.

They say there are no atheists in a foxhole, and I know this is true. When the chips are down my hands go together. Lately I’ve been praying at night—a faint whisper for the safety of my children. It can’t hurt. Even though I rationalize that it’s pointless, I feel a quiet calm afterwards that everything is going to be alright.

What is the value of a human life to God though? People die by the thousands, like herd animals at a slaughter house. Sometimes I think if there was a God, he would have designed us a little better. We have a few flaws, in case you haven’t noticed. Foremost is our overwhelming need to reproduce. I’m very Freudian in the belief. As men we jockey to be the herd bull. Growing up we struggle to find our niche market within which we shine the brightest. Women simply hate one another for the same reason, but for them the predicament is worse. While men can be appreciated for a variety of skills-- such as musical talent, intellect, swell personality—women, at least in the estimation of men, really only have one asset that care about. Do I need to say it? I didn’t think so.

I’d say something brilliant like Bill and Ted, like “Be excellent to one another.” But that isn’t in our wiring. We are doomed to be shit-heads by our very nature that makes us attractive to almost no one. If there are aliens that do happen upon our planet, what would possibly motivate them to make contact. I would seriously question their intelligence, which would lead me to question their motives, and then of course, I would have to advocate war.

This post knew not where it was going.

Working Stiff

Hello yeah it’s been a while.
Not much.
How ‘bout you?

Steely Dan?

I’m sitting in at a strange desk in a strange office in a strange town. Say goodbye to icy landscape outside my window and the happy din of children jumping. Hello white walls and florescent lights, and bookshelves of abandoned technical manuals and paperclips and Ethernet cables.

Am I happy? Actually yes. I miss my family, but the selfish part of me is thankful to be learning the back roads. How many times have I sat in traffic at the Alewife station, wishing that I knew a back way around. Three days on the job and I’ve got it nailed.

I’ve stepped into something here—quite unexpected. It seems that I have been given the reins of my own project, a chance to put to task all the theory of which I so eloquently espoused in interviews. If I nail this, then I am officially a software architect, instead of the loose title I’ve held for the last eight years or so.

So, from now on, I’m up at five, and on the road by six, then into the office by seven. Leave at four, home by five. Good luck--especially when I stay up so late.

I hope my blogger buddies are still hanging with me. I have to watch my internet usage at work. Not only that, but this is important to me. Everyone knows I want to be an author, but like the song goes, I like adventure with security. Sticking this job opens a whole new avenue, a road to a peak only a minority subset of developers in my profession ever achieves. Just in case you are wondering, it also means higher pay, which always soothes the nerves. New England is not the cheapest place on the planet to live.

I’ll be checking in as time permits today. Maybe I’ll grab a sandwich and do the rounds at lunch.

The Deal is Done

Another opportunity popped up for more money and closer to home, but it wasn't a for sure deal, so I did the right thing and went with the bird in hand. It's funny, but the recruiter that got me the job did so in three days from inception to closure. Not bad for either of us. I submitted my resume to his company a couple weeks ago with no response, so I called the main line and asked to speak with a technical recruiter. Joel answered the phone and looked at my resume, hung up, and called me a couple hours later. We met the next day, and the next day I had an interview, and the next, today, I had the job. That has to be a record.

I put off my start date until next monday, as in a week from this monday. I'm spending some quality time with my family. No job searching, no working, just play.

Emmett, my two year old, is beside me learning how to click on a mouse on Playhouse Disney. He'll be a great programmer some day.

Be John Elway

I have a big interview today that could set me up with a good paying contract for the next six months or more. I have all the skills for the job and more, so it all depends on the questions they ask. I've been to interviews where the questions are so pointed that it seemed like I didn't know anything about technology I use every day to great effect.

There has been considerable drama concerning an investment I just put half our savings into. My cousin is a commerical real estate mini-tycoon in Houston, and he structured a partnership so that his family could all combine to qualify as one investor with the minimum contribution. I panicked at the end when I had to wire funds to the partnership bank account because I got the partnership papers and instructions to wire the money immediately, which sent off the alarm bells and I asked to pull out.

My cousin has been going through hell dealing with another family partner who has been screaming about I don't know what, so he is swearing off any family involvement in the future. Then I had a change of heart and asked to be put back in. People, this is half of my savings at a time when I am out of work, and our current expense exceeds what I was making before, and the salaries here in the Boston area are lower than what I was making. I was a little bit spooked.

Anyway, we are back in. The projected payoff is somewhere between three and five to one. I won't be a made man if it does pay in this range, but I will have some lattitude to invest in a business of my own. It would be a good start. When I pulled out, I felt more like a sailing ship in the middle of the ocean without a wind to push me.

That's the current status. I'll let you know how the interview went. I have to remember to not laugh suddenly, and keep the random spittle factor to zero. Keep calm, no clammy palms, and be John Elway.

I'll Be Bach

Just a quick note to let you know that I'm still alive. I've become one of those bloggers that falls off the virtual landscape once the job search begins in earnest. The editor from the Globe West wrote me back and politely told me that the news business is a hard one to break into, and that I should consider trying out a smaller newspaper to learn the structure of a news story, and to determine if I am truly a news person. I was relieved to hear something back at all; there is nothing worse than no reply.

We went to New York and visited with some old friends, and really had a nice time.

I'm submitted to several companies, and there seems to be opportunity all around me. I'm interviewing well as long as I hold the expectorating to a minimum. My nose is in the study material.

I miss writing, but my wife and I have been bouncing around an idea for a novel that might just have some legs. It has potential, more than most of my half baked inspirations that are no more than a single scene in my head.

I'll be back my friends.

Good News and Bad News

The good news is, I aced the interview. The bad news is, I'm too expensive. We'll just see about that.

Some excerpts from the interview.

Him: Do you have any questions for me?

Me: What's the working environment like here?

Him: Good I think.

Me: Do you look forward to coming to work each day, or is it just another day at the grind?

Him: I really get into it actually.

Me: How about the people here? Are they easy to get along with?

Him: Mostly, but there are a few.

Me: I worked with a guy that refused to work on a Microsoft product. He had that prototypical balding man's ponytail in back ( interviewer laughing ), and a belly full of ho-hos. He refused to do anything unless it was his way. He made it for a month or two until we fired him.

Him: Well, we've had a few of those come through here too.

Later, the CTO walked in and shook my hand. He had a bald pate and a pony tail down his back. Is it possible to interview and keep your mouth shut?

At one point I cracked up at a joke, and a tiny bubble of spit blew through a ray of sunshine and landed between us. He pretended not to see.

Got an interview tomorrow morning at 10. This one involves project management, and they fully understand that I have never functioned in that role. Should be interesting.

One more thing that my dad said to me that I totally forgot to include. He compared me to John Elway. Already I was put off, because I've never heard him say anything good about the guy, and frankly Elway reminds me of a donkey. Dad said this: "When he first came into the league, John Elway was the most baby-faced mother fucker you could imagine. But by the time he left the league, he was transformed--into a man. That's you."

Sometimes he really hits the whole dad thing in stride.

In My Corner

I have an interview today at two with a small company that hasn't really made clear what it is they're looking for. They definitely want someone with my general experience, but it sounds like they develop their own solutions instead of buying it from third party vendors--in other words, my kind of people.

I've always had the philosophy, one that doesn't sit well with my teammates, that it is better to develop it in-house than to rely on other people to get it right for you. This puts me in the extreme minority, and often I have wax poetic about the opposite. An analogy would be a Catholic saying he's Jewish just for a nights pleasure.

Another interview is setup for Thursday, where my new favorite recruiters, Steve and Tom, are trying to set me up as a project manager, even though I've never officially been one. Steve says Tom has an uncanny ability to match people to the hiring managers, and I'm the one.

I told my dad about it, who told me... Well, just listen:

"I've always told you that everybody stoops to shit."

"Yeah, that's true dad."

"It took me a long time to learn it. Things in Ohio were so bad that I moved to Florida where the work was, and my dad told me that they would have me for lunch."

"Wow," I said, "I can't believe that."

"But I did it. And I wore a brave look, but inside I was scared, like maybe my dad was right, that everyone was right, that I wasn't good enough. But I gave you the confidence and you do it without the fear."

"I'll give that one to you dad, I'm not afraid to jump in. But I could be better..."

"Bullshit. I've seen you when you dig in, like Clint Eastwood. Your face gets all scrunched up and nobody is getting in your way. You look those people in the eyes and tell them point blank how it's going to be. If another person can do it, you can do it better."

"Well, alrighty then!" I laughed.

"Ok, I'll get off the soapbox son. Just go get 'em."

How can I fail with that kind of trainer in my corner!

I still haven't heard back from the editors of the Globe West, but I promise to call every other day until I recieve an official rejection, and then I'll call every day after that. I'm good buddies with the receptionist, who remembered me and said the editor was at the main office downtown and hasn't been in yet.

Email, I told him, can be read anywhere.

Maybe I should have left that one out.

Could Be Interesting

I met with both recruiters. The first was very official, giving me the ra-ra speech about her company and what they have achieved over the years. I did my best to look like I cared. For those not in the software biz, a recruiter fills a vital role, one which I respect and value, but some recruiters think there is more to it than there is. Once I take the job, they send me a paycheck and I never speak with the recruiter again. They know it and I know it, so I don't understand why all the hoopla.

Anyhoo.

The second was my kind of guy. Being a recruiter is a sales position, and you may or may not know, but I hate sales people. But every once in a while I meet one that knows how to do it right. He introduced me to the account manager that has a particular job in mind, but my salary requirement is a little higher than the client is willing to pay. I suggested that he put me in front of the client and let me do the talking. They loved my spunk. We'll see.

But here is the real news of the day, and this is why I like to get out of the house once in a while, because shit has a way of happening. Chloesuggested that I take this opportunity to become a professional writer. I only mildly scoffed at that--there are bills to pay after all. I walked into the building--all marble, glass and steel--fifteen minutes early and looked for the company name on the directory by the elevator. I had just taken a deep breath and thought to myself, "And so the job hunt begins." Across the lobby was a sign on a window that said, "The Globe West."

If you are not from here, that naturally means the Boston Globe.

I couldn't help but feel a small sense of destiny. Go ahead and laugh, but things happen like that to me, little coincidences to which I've learned to pay heed. I stood in front of the doors and put my hand on the knob, but chickened out and turned to walk away, when I saw a beautiful woman wearing a long coat and winter hat.

She looked at me as I was turning around. I asked her, "Do you work here?"

"Yes I do," she said with a curious expression.

"So you write for the newspaper?"

"Uh huh."

"Alright, how does one become a writer?"

She laughed out loud, but not in a way I felt was directed at me if you catch my meaning. "That is a very good question, and every writer has a totally different answer."

"A friend mine," I said, "once wrote stories for a small California paper. Apparently there is a list of stories that the staff reporters won't do, but for a guy like me who is hungry to see his name in print..."

"Sure, we have a pool of freelance writers that choose from a variety of stories. I'm sure our editor would give you a trial piece to do."

And so she wrote down the names of her two editors, and gave me the phone number, and let me use her name as a reference. As I was leaving she said, "And stop by anytime."

Wow. I swear that wouldn't have happened in California.

I called and left a message, but the receptionist gave me the man's email address, so I introduced myself properly, in a manner appropriate for the task I wish to acquire: in writing.

The wheels of fate are turning?

Off to Interview

Quickly, I'm on my way to meet two recruiters, one of which has a client whose senior programmer gave notice. I've stepped into situations like this in the past--a complex jumble of code and nobody around to guide. This is where I shine, and I'll be sure to let them know.

I'm touched by all the responses. I promise to stop by later when I get the chance. It's hectic right now, holding down my job for the next two weeks while interviewing at the same time. And I have customers with support problems that don't know I'm leaving who inundate me with questions.

More later...

Feeling Good

And so the circus begins. I submitted my resume on DICE for a couple positions, and I got a call today from a recruiter, who I have agreed to meet with in Framingham tomorrow morning. This sounds like good news, but in my experience, meeting a recruiter is worth a free lunch--who said there was no such thing?

I feel a little better though. Yesterday I was getting a little down, as if looking for two days constituted abject failure. A guy needs to provide for his family. It's the hunter instinct.

My friend Jeryl has a husband that can best be compared to a sloth--a totally lazy, good-for-nothing leach of a man that is content to live off the fat-o--the-land. She is a very successful business woman, and was an attraction of mine when I was much younger. She knows it too. What a flirt she was. She always wanted a husband to give her kids and the good life, so she always picked the slick ones that seemed to be on a fast track to success. As you can imagine, this methodical approach to dating produced chemically stale results, producing one asshole boyfriend after another, culminating in a loveless, parasitic marriage. Now she has three kids, one of which suffers from an extreme immune disorder, where even a common cold could be fatal.

My heart goes out to her. But how does this guy look at himself in the mirror each morning? He is never around, and he physically abuses Jeryl. She raged at him for not being around for her and the kids, and he answered with a body slam and a full nelson. I've never met the guy honestly. She is my friend but we haven't been in the same town for nigh twenty years. I have a fantasy of walking in the house and beating the living shit out of him, like Ray Liotta in Goodfellas, walking out of the house and handing the bloody pistol to Jeryl. Hide this.

I have a lot to do. I will visit you all as I can. There is so much to do.

Wish Me Luck

Just to let you know, I lost my job yesterday, so this puts me in a situation. I've been working at home for the last year, and have enjoyed being with my family, even if behind a closed office door. My wife told Jackson that I have to find another job, and that when I find one, I'll have to be gone during the days again. Jackson said, "You mean daddy won't be back until dark?" Yes. He cried.

That's assuming I can find one in this area. I've spoken to recruiters, and the reviews are mixed, but consensus points to a recovering economy, that people in similar situations are finding work. We'll see.

So, if you live in the Boston area and know of a company that hires software developers of the java server variety, then I'm the man.

I don't know how much I will blog. There is a stack of books beside me now. Design Patterns Explained. XML Schemas. I have tutorials on web services, struts and tiles, and working with JBoss. I'll have to dust off the text books on database design principals so I can answer the haughty questions about first normal form and the difference between a left inner and a right outer join. I'll probably have to explain linked lists and hash algorithms, and solve the Tower of Babel puzzle in 8086 assembly language. All in all, I'll have to be Jesus Christ and Mohammed rolled into one great big power joint, one hit from which will knock your dick in the dirt--all to get a job that pays half of what I make now. And by the time I get the job, I'll be grateful.

Dial a Prayer

My Sigma Chi days were short. After accepting my invitation to join, I moved my scant belongings into a small room on the bottom floor--a pile of tee shirts, two pairs of jeans and a Sears cassette player. The window had a view of nothing but a parking lot surrounded by trees, and hardly anybody in the house had a car. I borrowed a VCR from the front room and practiced being Dan Akroyd from a recording of a live Blues Brothers performance. It's a funny thing how easy something looks until it's tried. John Belushi got all the press, while his partner quietly stood eclipsed by his shadow, apparently happy to do so. I learned to appreciate Dan Akroyd as I frantically scissored my feet like electric clippers in an all but impossible attempt to imitate him. Once in a while I could see a dark shadow pass the window after the dull report of a slamming car door in the lot outside, checking me out on the way by and avoiding my gaze as I tried to see who it was. I must have looked like a circus clown to them, bouncing around with sweat streaming in tiny rills.

I refused to sleep upstairs in the sleeping porch with the rest of the pledges, and in general I thumbed my nose at any authority whatsoever. Pledges were supposed to be humble, but I was anything but. The members were getting restless. All along it was as if I had a foot out the door. I never intended to stay, although I never consciously acknowledged this. I just wanted to know what it felt like to belong to a respected house.

But I have to be honest about something. I was drinking too much, and I had basically given up on getting a degree. My grades by now had dipped below a point eight, which means I had an F average. The friends I had anymore only had pity for me, seeing the inevitability of my way. Sigma Chi was my last shot. I was meteor, a bright comet that was about to fizzle. And like a dying man whose doctor has told him to make his final preparations, I was living like there was no tomorrow. I wouldn't be back next year, and only I knew that for sure.

You may remember Conrad, the guy who invited me to join. He and I went to a bar for a few drinks on a Friday night. We sat with Sherrie, who met me for the first time that night, but I remember she had the hots for my friend Jay the semester before, and like all women that approached Jay, she was something to behold. It must have been the Sigma Chi shirt I was wearing, which to me had special powers, like a super suit, that rendered me irresistible. I had a brief chat with Sherrie that I wish I could reproduce, but it ended with her giving me her phone number, then going away with her girlfriend.

Conrad looked at me funny as she left. "You think you did pretty good there, don’t you?"

"Yeah, I think she likes me." I was glowing and it showed.

Conrad shook his head. "No chance. She just got through telling me that guys are always hitting on her and she’s sick of it."

"You're a cute kid Conrad, but a little naive." I said, "Perhaps she just wanted to back you off."

He raised an eyebrow as he motioned toward the bar napkin in my hand, "No way is she going out with you."

"We'll just have to see about that."

I waited for as long as I could, a day perhaps, picked up the phone and punched in the numbers written with such flowing, feminine style. One ring was all it took. My heart stopped as I groped for something to say, but I didn't need to bother. A recording of a man's voice spoke first, kind and understanding.

"Let me ask you a question: have you accepted Jesus as your personal savior? Only through Him can you find eternal sal--"

In My Country

I saw a great movie this weekend called, "In My Country." Let's just say that we are lucky to live where we do. And let us just further say that being white is a privelege that can't be taken away, and can't be given back. Go ahead and whine. Self denigration, loud protestation and empathy don't change a thing.

I'll say the word, but resist your inner file manager, the one that says, "Ah, this goes right here" in the Shit That Doesn't Affect Me folder. Already your eyes are glazing over, because the phase triggered an unconscious brain mine, your heart rate accelerated and your hand is absently twitching the mouse towards the Next Blog button. It's a choice really, how we live our lives. We all know that bad stuff happens, and some of us are really put out by it. Hell, we might even get indignant and pretend to really care, especially when rightly accused of apathy. But next week I'll have totally forgotten about it, swimming in the Soma of my own petty problems, and my life will continue unabated on it's present course.

What's the word?

Later. I have more to say.

I admire the kind of person who gets up one day, tired of all the bullshit, tired of hearing people complain about the state of the world, tired of talking about the injustice of it all, and takes action.

Do you ever wonder what it must be like to be a field reporter? Someone who doesn't hear it first on the news; rather someone who gets a call at three in the morning. Get your ass to Oklahoma City. Someone who walks through the rubble of an explosion and finds a shoe that fits in his white-knuckled fist with a tiny, gushing foot still in it? Someone who witnesses an execution with the family of the condemned man's victim and his sobbing mother, tendrils of smoke snaking from underneath a metal kippah, the smell of burnt meat wafting and pervasive, like a roasted pig in a pit. Someone who walks through a refugee camp after eating a hot breakfast, and sees the body of an emaciated child, skin pulled impossibly taut over a rib cage like a vacuum sealed freezer bag, with a fly casually cleaning its wings atop a sightless open eyeball. Someone who has consoled and transcribed the events of countless victims and survivors of violent crimes.

I do. But I live right here, in my little office that overlooks my slice of the Shire while the world turns on its hostile axis. I wish sometimes that I would have joined the service, or traveled abroad. I feel fortunate to have shoveled shit, to have worked in the freezing cold, to have rubbed two pennies together and wished them into silver dollars, to have loved and lost, to have tried so many times, to have been told I couldn't do it, to have risen above the caste I was born to.

Maybe if we all had to see the dark side of life, to squirm from its oppressive grip, we would have some respect, for each other and for the lives of people who never even had a ticket in the geographic lottery. Maybe we would have more of a stake in the future.

If I could do it all over, I would live a different life. I'm happy, but feeling a little guilty, like I'm living on the backs of slaves. I'm not rich by my country's standards, but on a world scale I'm living in Graceland. Make that Disneyland.

But like I said, I'll get over it. A movie like In My Country is like a cup of Peets: jolting, but the buzz eventually wears off.

The word? Oh yeah.

Apartheid.