What I'm Up To

Some of you are wondering where the conclusion of my story is. Answer: I'm working on it. My wife proof-read it and gave me some critical feedback that caused me to go back and rework a few awkward parts, and to fill in more detail in places. I realized I was moving along at a very fast pace; and that it wouldn't hurt to describe the setting just a little bit.

Anyway, I want to have this ready for the contest that Flood pointed me to in a previous comment. But let me tell you, this is much harder to do than I thought it would be. I find myself staring at the screen, trying to picture the scene. I'm scanning the net for inspirational pictures, reading accounts of childhood carnival experiences. This is actually hard.

So, I am going forward and I'm not giving up. In fact, I'm going to do some more work on it now. So hang in there with me. I welcome all constructive comments by the way, from anyone. My aim is to be a writer someday, fully realizing that I have a span to travel.

I Hope You Can Hear Me

As usual, it took someone else to remind me that today was a special day. It's been something like five years since you've been gone. Since then my life has taken off in a radically different direction. I'm glad you met Jackson, and little Emmett would have been such a treat for you. I happened upon an old video of you holding baby Jackson, making him laugh like nobody could. I hollered to my wife, "Hey, it's my mom." Jackson came running to see. "I don't remember her," he said dispassionately, but he watched with me.

When you were alive, I was so close to my aunt, and even my step-mother Lorrie. You were always so jealous. But without you I am lost, doing it alone. My aunt calls me now to find out where I've been, and I hardly speak to Lorrie anymore. I hope you know that you were always number one, even when I lost the capacity to show it. I don't feel sorry for myself though, because I know that you understand. You were many things, but never a hypocrite.

Sorry it took me so long to remember that today was your day. Sometimes I think there is a lump of clay in my head, and you're not around to help shape it. Maybe someday I will be a writer, and maybe someday the world will feel the heat from the furnace you lit, that burns for still you today.

I miss you, and I hope you can hear me.

Drumming

This morning I put on an old CD and discovered three things. The first is that I've been listening to news and audio books for so long that I'm disconnected from my musical roots. Two, I love my old music. I know every word, every inflection, of my favorite cds from that dusty case--even the songs that never made it to the radio. Three, I still can't hit the high notes, but I'm one hell of an air drummer. The floorboard is my bass drum, the steering wheel my snare, the dash board all those other bongo sounding drums, and the passenger seat headrest a cymbol when I have a serious point to make. Every once in a while I catch a bewildered look from another commuter, a knowing smile from another. I play it cool when I settle in for a light, singing along while trying to look bored, but I still get caught.

As for Toni's question: am I a plotter? I start with an idea and work my way towards it. I try to plot ahead but circumstances change, and I have to be flexible. You know? I will be honest though. Until this morning in the shower, and not until I rinsed the shampoo from my hair, did I realize how my story (Part 1, Part 2) is going to end. Even now the details are fuzzy. It should be cool though.

Part Two Upcoming

I've written more of the carnival story, which is moving forward nicely, but I can't buy two minutes this morning to save my life. Ann Marie's site is back up, and the world is once again turning on its axis. More later...

You're Kidding Me--I Won?!

I am honored to have tied for first place in Ann Marie's writing contest. It was a bit surreal reading her review of my piece. In fact, it took two or three iterations before it sunk in that she had honored me so. It wasn't just that I won; it's what she said about the piece that gave me such a boost. So thank you Ann Marie, and sorry it took me a whole weekend to post a proper reply. The forces of domestic responsibility kept me away, even while my thoughts raced to post, to finish the story, to come up with new ideas. I'm on the path, and it feels great.

And a special thanks to Flood, who turned me on to another contest. What better inspiration do I need to finish? I think I've tapped into a writing sub-culture here. I hope some of my writing blog buddies will come along with me.

Ann Marie awarded me 245 blogexplosion credits, which basically guarantees me that 245 pairs of eyes will look at my blog at least once. I can apply those points whenever I want to, and at any increment I wish. I plan to wait until I finish the short story, and/or save them for posts that I really like. If anyone has experience with this and wants to share a strategy, I would appreciate the input. Perhaps I could create a post that links my favorite posts, or post the short story, and then have an italicized paragraph that points to further reading.

That's it for now. I need to get cracking on the carnival piece and make my morning rounds.

***

This just in: Ann Marie shut her site down. Apparently she's caught some grief from some participants. Had I not even placed I would have been grateful to have a forum to post, and a pair of eyes to critique. I think any writer that has been doing it for a while will tell you that rejection is part of the game, and getting used to it is the only way to make it. I wonder if Jason experienced some of this tension. This dulls the experience for me a bit.

Hoodwinked

You can never predict how much food the kids will eat. It's literally feast or famine. We were entertaining one of Jackson's friends that day, so we ordered a cheese and a pepperoni. The kids filled up on the dinner rolls, so we ended up boxing the remainder in large box.

Outside, my wife placed it on the hood while I strapped Emmett into his car seat. Beth corralled the other two, then strapped ourselves in and nodded a silent thumbs--up, taken from the growing library telepathic exchanges couples come to understand with each other.

Pulling out was tight, as there were two couples behind us having an animated conversation, and other cars trolling for parking spots, one having pulled in and waiting prohibitively close. I pulled back as far as I dared and cranked the wheel the opposite way. I crept forward and cringed, listening for the scrape of my bumper against the car that was parked next to me--but I squeaked by.

Out of the parking lot I turned left, passing back by the parking lot. A young man that looked vaguely familiar--or did he?--stepped out and waved at me as I drove by, and I stupidly waved back and smiled, thinking that I would sort it out later who he was. His wave wasn't urgent, just a casual hello, and his face was a placid mask of security. But who was he?

I asked my wife, "Did you recognize him?"

"No. I'm sure we don't know him."

"Then why the hell was he waving like that?"

"I don't know," she said.

"Do you think I almost hit one of the people in his group?" I thought with a start of anger of turning around and asking him if there was a problem. Don't be a punk I thought. But still, what was the deal?

"I wouldn't worry about it honey," my wife said.

"I suppose not." But it bothered me. It didn't make any sense. "But why would he make the effort to walk the edge of the street and wave?"

"True," my wife replied thoughtfully. Then, "Hey, where's the pizza?"

"You had it. Where did you put it?"

"On the hood of the truck... You don't think we drove off and left it, do you?"

Odd and Ends

This is the audio version of Anansi Boys, read by Lenny Henry. I'm not from the UK, and regretfully have never been there, but I'm guessing that those who do live there know just who he is. I read his bio on the back of the jacket. He had his own television series, so it is no accident that the man has talent. He even has an official web site.

On the job front, I had the day off yesterday from my annoying office mate. I have to be extremely careful, because my feelings for him are starting to bubble out, manifesting in passive aggressive statements to other co-workers. That can only lead to trouble. He was gone yesterday, and I realized what a wonderful day it truly was. I was in a cheery mood.

It kind of popped for me two days ago, when our project manager requested some more specific time and task estimates. Annoying office mate started into a schpiel about how he didn't have any documentation from me on certain aspects of his work. In a meeting the week before he told my boss that my designs were too complicated, and had he come aboard earlier he might have made them simplier. He's been pecking at me like a little bird, and I'm starting to come apart. As a contractor, I don't go to all the meetings, so I don't know what is being said, but I can only imagine based on what is said when I'm in the room.

After the most recent skirmish, I just deflated--and he knew it. He was all apologies and support. "I know how difficult this project must be for you. Management should really have given you another two months of design before assigning developers."

"Mm hmm."

"So, uh, do you want a sub?"

"No thanks."

"No, my treat, for being giving you such a hard time."

"I'll pass."

"Are you sure?"

"Listen man. I'm tired. Really tired." And that was putting it mildly. Being an architect is like holding any position of relative authority. Some people like to throw stones. If you throw back, then more people join in. That's why sometimes I wish I were a Wolf Larson, crushing dissent like a noxious weed.

Anansi Boys

I was late for work this morning. I'll grab a sandwhich and do my blog rounds, but quickly I want to tell you about a great book on Audio I am listening to: Anansi Boys by Neil Gaimon. I read Gaimon's Coraline a while ago, which is a young adult book, childish in it's simplicity and fairy tale nature. Anansi Boys however, is for a slightly older audience, still with a young adult feel. It's a wonderful story, and the narrator is just incredible, but I am ashamed not to be able to report his name as of yet. I will find out and get back. The narrator reads it like I am certain it was intended, reflecting that English humour with spot-on accuracy. I didn't realize after Coraline just how funny Gaimon is. I'm about half way through, anxious every morning and evening to get back in my car to listen to just a little more--I haven't been so attracted to any story in time immemorial.

I'll update later with an Amazon link, and also to give credit to the wonderful narrator.

Howdy

Ok, so I didn't win or place in the contest, but I stand by what I said before--which was? Oh yeah, it's not winning that matters, it's... Oh, never mind.

I really have to get some work done this morning. I spent all Friday afternoon switching over to my new template, and now I'm tempted to spend all day making the colors opaque. I've read the accounts of my fellow bloggers who've started down this road. The consensus points to a journey that never ends with a satisfied smile.

I hope to start another short story soon. It already has a nice twist and surprise ending. Now I just need to start writing it. I should employ some of you as first pass editors to help flesh out grammatical errors. My wife busted me for a run on sentence in Hard Love, which reminded me of how cavalierly I threw it out there without so much as a second opinion.

I'll stop by tomorrow. Today I need to get serious.

Contest Over

The short story contest is closed and the results will be posted tomorrow at noon (if I read correctly). Winning or placing would be nice, but the contest already gave me a primer--a relit pilot light. I had another idea last night that I plan to work on. Part of my writer's block is an over exacting self editor--every idea had to be a gold mine. Basically I need to dare to suck. Besides, how many times have we all surprised ourselves with something wonderful out of nothing?

Before I forget, I have to tell you what my two-year-old did this morning. If you are a guy that gets squeamish over sentiment, then click away.

Emmett yelled this morning for his mother at 6:30, which in parent-time is the equivalent of teenage noon. I was greeted with bitter disappointment. "Noooo. I want mama!"

I approached him like a hunter to a felled beast, unsure of the mortality of the wound. He rolled away from me and attempted to shake loose from a blanket that had properly entwined his legs together. With his back to me he pointed to the tangle and demanded, "OFF!!"

I smiled and whisked the blanket away like a magician to a tablecloth. I bent over and kissed him of the soft velvety skin stretched between the neck and shoulders. He cocked his head to deny my access and giggled. When I pulled away he straightened out and said with a half laugh, "Again!" So I did, but this time he let me in, so I gave him a daddy zerbit.

When I was finished, I stood up and waited. Without turning around, he pointed to his ear and said, "Kiss my ear." And I did. That seemed to satisfy him.

That was a Hallmark moment people, the kind that memories are made of, a cinderblock in the foundation of parenthood. Take note all you dads that don't value time spent with your kids. These small little moments mean more than a brand new Porche for graduation, although some teenagers would disagree--as in all of them.

I'm volunteering at my older son's school today. I read a story and supervise a craft. The kids get in a circle afterwards, and the teacher directs a synchronized thank you, which is too cute for words.

Then I go to work and deal with the shithead. Such is life.

Have a good weekend my friends. Live long and prosper, be excellent to one another, and may the force be with you--and not necessarily in that order.

Peace out.

Chip Off the Old Block

Marla knelt before him and looked up. Mascara rills meandered away from her red puffed eyes. "He's crazy I tell you. Your dad is crazy!"

Steven put his hands on the backs of her white-knuckled hands, which were gripping his knees as he sat on the edge of the chair by her makeup stand. He blinked back his own tears.

"I can't marry him--he's psychotic," she continued. "But you are so sweet, unspoiled. Stay with me."

"He's my dad Marla," Steven said in labored, broken pieces. "And he needs me."

"It's too late for him, but you... I'll be the kind of parent you deserve, send you to good schools--"

From the front door erupted a thunderous crash, as if the door would splinter. Then came a furious yell from without, "Where is my son!"

"Oh Jesus," Marla cried, "wait here." She ran to the front door and screamed, "Go away Jack, or I'll call the police."

"Not without my son! Steven, open this door."

Steven rounded the corner and faced Marla, with a bag hoisted on his shoulder. "I have to go. I'm sorry."

Marla sagged and tenderly wiped a tear from his eye with her thumb. "If you ever need me..."

Steven hugged her then opened the door, then hopped into the truck with his father.

His father said, "Did you get them?"

Steven unzipped the bag that rested between them. Inside were two ceramic lamps. "How much can we get for them?"

My Brother Walks

First, the very, very, very, very... You get the point...
Good News!!!

My brother was admitted to a rehab center for a period of sixty days. No jail time. There may just be a God after all. Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you. He'll keep his job and his house, and his daughters will have a father.

We are planning a trip to go see him in Texas when he gets out.

Thank you.

At the same time, my father and step-mother had her son Mike committed to rehab, the guy that was drinking rubbing alcohol--remember? Mike escaped and returned to the house and confronted my dad. Dad picked up the phone right in front of him, so Mike attacked him. Dad described what happened next like a scene from a Chuck Norris flick. He hit Mike with an open palm in the chest, which picked him off the ground and put him on his back, then jumped on top of him and said politely, "Don't move a fucking muscle--you're going back."

He confided that this was all he had in him, that his old body couldn't take much in the way of retaliation, but I don't believe that either. He's feeling his age, but he's one bad dude when he gets his Tempest swirling.

So my half-brother and my step brother are both on the road to recovery, at least I can only hope.

Today, I am beaming!

Mr. Schprock gave me an idea a while ago, having made a comment about a post I entered some time back, so I decided to submit another entry to the story contest, this time with a bit more levity, and more bend to the truth. I don't know yet if the host will allow a second entry, but I wrote it anyway.

I call it Chip Off the Old Block.

Update : See the previous post. I seperated the story into a seperate post.

Hard Love

Rudy heaved himself onto the kitchen counter as quietly as he could, then crouched over the top of the refrigerator and lifted the lid from a ceramic, pale green cookie jar and took out a chocolate chip and a peanut butter with cross-hatches pressed with a dinner fork. Gingerly, with all the skill he could recall from playing Operation with his little brother, he set the lid back, but still did not avoid a hollow, tinkling report as it settled into place. Rudy cringed and hopped down to the floor and peered around the corner into the living room, where his step-mother lay on the couch, immersed in the world of the evening news.

He tried his best to walk casually, padding softly on the shag carpet, palming the cookies at his side as he passed in front of a stand upon which two floral lamps cast irregular light over a cherry wood mounted portrait, yet leaving it mostly in shadow.

"Hold it mister." Rudy recoiled and crashed into the stand, jarring the lights that rattled and fizzled out. The television flicked his step-mother's shadow at him like a dark tongue as she advanced, fists clenched, face dark, featureless. "Show me."

He raised a sweaty, trembling hand that gripped the remains of his ruined plunder; bits and crumbs fell away as a sob arose from his chest.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to love you?"

"I'm s-s-sorry," Rudy began to wail.

"No, but you will be."

Story Contest

Eve posted a link to a contest that Jason is hosting, so I decided to give it a crack. The limit is 250 words, which is a surprisingly short amount of time to make a point. So here is my entry to the contest, which literally did not have the punch that I would have liked. I had a whole dialog planned where the kid gives the step-mother a whole lotta what for, but I ran out of words. Long time readers will recognize the theme. Here it is:

Update see previous post.

My Little Green Dragons

I am the assistant coach of my son's soccer team, and had to stand in as coach all of last week while the real coach was out of town. We had only had two games previous, and as of yet we hadn't scored a single goal. The kids are only in kindergarten, around six years old, and the coach doesn't believe in pushing them at all because he wants them to have fun. His own son is on the team and hangs on his leg like a remora to a shark.

Last Thursday was my first practice with the kids, and I had big plans to teach them to get between the goal and the ball. There are no goalies, and only four kids play on a team. The goal is small, so if the kids could just be a little obstructive, the other team would have a hard time scoring even once. It sounds simple, but we're talking about six year olds, who get distracted if a bee flies by.

Parents are funny. I was the official stand-in coach, but as soon as the other fathers got wind of the coach's absence, every one of them had to have a hand in it. It was chaos. I didn't assert my authority because frankly I felt foolish to be arguing over something so silly. But come game day, on Saturday this weekend, I was definitely the coach, as the other fathers stayed on the sidelines.

I've listened to the kids over the first two games, and watched the other team players walk by after scoring a goal and yelling, "What's the score now? Like eight to nothing!? Ha ha ha." Jackson noticed when the coaches allowed our team to keep five on the field to balance the scales. "Hey, we have five and they only have four." I could only tell him the truth that the other team was giving us a chance to catch up. He didn't say anything more, but I saw his eyes.

Our players just fiddle around, shadow boxing while the ball whizzes around the field. Even Jackson only jogs like he missed his breakfast. The kids have been nearly dead, no enthusiasm whatsoever, and the coach always smiles and says, "Well, at least the kids had a good time."

Well I say, bull-fucking-shit.

Saturday's game started out like all the rest. The kids were hard to keep focused, but I'm allowed to be on the field with them, to guide their actions. We went down a few goals early. They had a few players that were so focused, really good, that ran all over the field uncontested. My son played back on defense and I told him to shadow the ball from side to side, and when it came close to kick the skin off it. And miraculously, as I looked back, he was doing just that. I've never seen him so determined. The other kids started playing too. I got in their ears and pushed them to run, I was yelling across the field like a general, not caring what the parents thought. I was determined to get at least one goal today. Then the second miracle happened. Shawn, the most distractible of all the kids, came alive and dribbled through the whole crowd and planted one in the middle of the goal.

Then the other kids snapped out of their trances too, and two other players did the same. At half time, one of the parents ran out to the referee, standing right next to me, and asked what the score was. She looked at me and said dutifully, "not that it matters mind you."

"You're damn right it matters," I said back. She smiled as she found out we were playing a tied game.

But then there was James. James is a portly little guy who can barely move his big body, and he is all ours. Since he can't run much, I put him on defense and told him to watch the goal. They scored on him. He looked at me with eyes almost crying and said, "I never do anything! Not against the black team, not against the blue team. Not against anybody."

"That's because you don't run kid." He looked up at me, surprised. I continued, "All you need to do is get those wheels turning and give it everything you got. I promise you that you will make things happen." Within minutes, James was facing down the other team's soccer ace, who had managed to beat everyone and was racing towards the goal. James ran right at him and kicked the ball away from him and collided solidly, and both kids fell back stunned. James looked up at the sky and thought about crying, until my big mug filled his world. "Now that is defense my little friend." He smiled. "Now get up and do that again." The ball went down the field and we scored again, and the kids all flocked around me and we slapped the high fives. James said, "Hey, what about me?" I kneeled down and held out my palm, "I saved the best for last."

We won six to five, and it was the most fun those kids, and those kids' parents have had in three games. The parents looked at me different after the game, and a few mentioned that I should have my own team next year. I have to say, it was a thrill. Who'd have thunk that coaching little kids could be so satisfying?

Fly Girl

A friend of mine sent me a photo of herself sitting in what appears to be the cockpit of a plane. We used to be neighbors in San Franciso an eon ago. She was a teenager then, bright eyed and innocent, still figuring out who she was going to be. Her email was short and sweet:

Probably wondering how I ended up here.

Come on make up a story. It'll be fun.

How are you?

So, without further ado, here was my response:

Tina,

You were on a flight home from San Francisco. It was supposed to be a short hop, and the weather forecast called for a storm front moving in fast over the Hawaiian Islands. The captain made the call: we can make it. The crew had dinner the night before at PF Changs, and decided to order a batch of entrees and split between them. The Mongolian Beef, always a party favorite, was infected with the Mad Cow disease. The insidious virus wormed its way into their bowels, unnoticed--yet.

The flight started like any other, routine, dull, and boring. The take off was perfect. As the plane leveled itself at thirty thousand feet, the lead flight attendant picked up the mike and cleared her throat.

"The captain has turned off the no smoking sign. You can unfasten your seatbelts, but we suggest keeping them fastened when not..." A loud blast that would have made Dizzy Gillespie proud spouted from her clenched butt cheeks, amplified by her futile attempt to stop it. "Oh my! I'm so sorr..." Now a loud belch, followed by another report from the other end. She fell to the ground, writhing and shaking.

That's when the storm hit, rocking the plane with such violence that overhead bins popped open and vomited carry-on suit cases, laptops and purses onto the heads and laps of the passengers. Pandemonium broke out, especially when the captain stumbled out of the cockpit, shaking like a parody of Steve Martin's wild and crazy guy skit, "C-c-c-can a-a-any-bb-body f-f-fly th-this thing," then fell flat on his face and didn't move, except for a few twitches of his right foot.

Screams of panic blended into a perfect symphony that no football stadium could overtake. "We're all gonna die" and "This thing is going down," were common. You get the picture.

But then there she was, calm and beautiful, standing with on foot on the captains back, elbow resting on her knee, chin in hand, surveying the cacophony with a grin. One by one the passengers saw her, and one by one they fell silent, as if a volume knob were being turned slowly down. Then the only sound was the churning engines outside, and the raucous wind that savaged the plane.

"I'm a pilot," she said plainly (pun intended).

A murmur went through the crowd as they acknowledged their new deity, a new American Idol if you will forgive the blasphemy.

"Well," she continued, "at least I dated one once."

Screams, crying, hysteria!

"Joking. My god people, you need to loosen up, have some fun." She turned towards the cockpit that by now smelled like an outhouse. The copilot was slumped backwards over his seat; head tilted back and mouth open wide.

"Somebody get me a beer," she cried, "and get this stinking corpse out of here."

To make a long story short, because I have to get back to work, she landed the plane with practiced grace. As the plane came to rest on the tarmac, reporters swarmed to the cockpit to see who had saved the lives of four hundred passengers, and snapped the picture you sent, which is now on the cover of the Los Angeles Times.

Am I right?

By the way, I'm doing well!

Scott

Dad Calls

There isn't much I can do about it, that's true. Dad refuses to call his son, and I think I understand it now.

"Hey Son!" He always calls me son now. I saw an old skit on television, Joe Piscabo played an old man. You know he's getting old, the narrarator said, when he starts calling you son. I reserve judgement for the day when I do the same. Hell, I think I'm already guilty.

"Hey Dad."

"So what's the latest?"

Might as well get to the point. I couldn't have small-talked anyway with gravity heaving at my chest. "It finally happened Dad, like I said it would. John failed a drug test, and he is turning himself in tonight, possibly tomorrow."

"Aw hell!"

"So I'm just going to say this once Dad. Although there is a chance, and I don't want to be overly optimistic here, that John may get lucky and get rehab, this may be the last chance that you have to speak with your son for eight years at worst."

"Things here haven't been going so well either. Mike has been drinking Scope and rubbing alcohol, anything he can get his hands on. He's killing himself."

Mike is my step-brother by my dad's most recent marriage, one that has outlasted anybodies most optimistic estimate, and one that may just make it like it should. My step-mother has three sons, and each is a bookend on the unholy trinity, disgusting, disrespectful and woeful at best. I've come close to blows with all of them, and haven't seen or heard from any of them for nearly fifteen years. Except for Mike, who never liked me much. But in the month approaching my wedding, Mike answered the phone when I called for dad. I felt awkward because I didn't invite him or his brothers. My step-mother didn't come for maybe just that reason.

"Congratulations," he told me on the phone, "You deserve to be happy."

"Thanks Mike," I said with an offhanded tone, as if to say ok, now put dad on the phone.

"No, you're not hearing me," he said, "I mean it, you really deserve it."

I paused, and despite myself, I choked up just a little. "I hear you now Mike. Thank you." And he was gone.

In recent times he hit bottom, fathered a few children and ran from it all, drank himself into submission. I saw him at dads some months ago before Christmas, a broken tattered man, five o'clock shadow and bloated white face, long flannel sleeves pulled up over the elbows, greasy long black hair and near handle barred mustache. The life was gone from his eyes such that one had to look away for fear of falling in.

"I'm having him committed," my dad told me, "and it is going to rip his heart out."

"What can you do dad? Someday he'll thank you, but it will take time."

His words were terse, controlled. Was he starting to cry? "Listen, I'm going to hang up now and call my son."

"Ok dad, I'll call you tomorrow." I paused. "I love you dad."

Disconnected.

Twenty minutes later the phone rang again.

"Well, I talked to him."

"You did?! Wow, that's great dad."

He words were spaced apart, as if he were in pain and every syllable might be his last. "I... couldn't... help... it..."

"Yeah," I said, softly, trying to encourage.

"I told him that when he was a boy..."

I waited.

"He was always so put together, so proper. His pants had an even crease and his shirts were ironed and perfect. Never a hair out of place. Don't go to court looking like a bum. Be the John that I know."

I was stunned. "Do you have any idea what that meant to him dad? You may not feel like you are worth it, but I guarantee that you gave him something to hold onto there. That blows away anything I had to say!"

John promised to call dad later that night. I hope he did.

My Brother

The biggest personal tragedy in life is wasted potential. What holds people back? At the root of it all is self-doubt, insecurity, the belief that others can do it better. My brother has always had the heart of two men. He was a lot, and I mean a lot like Tanner of the Bad News Bears, full of sauce and a never-say-die attitude. When he was knee-high he took on kids twice his size—he was afraid of nobody. My dad once coached a Little League team while my brother and I helped. John was younger than the boys on the team, and eventually attracted the older boy’s attention, in a negative way, and before long he was picked on. John slugged the biggest of the bunch and ran away. My father and I watched as the entire team chased him from infield to out and back again. Dad laughed, and he was so proud. His boy was a scrapper. He had heart.

As a big brother, in the short time that my brother and I shared the same residence, I give myself a C. I never hit him, no matter how badly I wanted to sometimes. Whenever he got in trouble with the local neighborhood kids, I was there to break it up. But I picked on him mercilessly about girls. “Oooh, you like her don’t you?” Noooooooooooo! He would scream to my sheer delight—daily. I always stood above him, keeping him in place. I was always top dog, and he needed to know.

As we got older, I stopped growing and he didn’t. I enjoyed a five year head start on him, but around 21 or 22, the size difference erodes like the sandy shore. We stood upon a rooftop, both of us wearing tool belts atop a plywood sheeted roof. Block layers surrounded our building on scaffolding; their hard-helmeted heads floated around the building like beach balls. I was irritated with my brother for being lapsidaisical. I had learned to run, and he was slowing me down. I threatened him like I always did. He straightened both arms to his sides and balled his fists.

“I’m not back down to you any more.”

My heart rattled in my chest as I realized he was serious. I lashed out and slapped him across the face—not hard, just enough to show him I was boss, desperate to hang on to my status that was already denigrated. “Ok then, let’s see what you’ve got,” I taunted.

He just stared at me, unblinking, still as a cobra. He repeated, “I won’t back down any more.”

I hollered some ridiculous challenge, but he only stood there. I finally walked away. One of the brick layers chided me later for picking on the small guy. I could only say, “He’s my brother.”

It changed between us after that. I apologized to him that night, something to the effect of, “John, what happened out there… I was wrong.” And of course he agreed.

He beat me at arm wrestling five years later, and any illusions I had of being his big brother were gone, at least in any definition I had to that day understood. He was bigger and stronger, and I had nothing left.

We share the same father, John and I. John has our father’s name, but I always had my father. John had his mother, who divorced our father when we were kids, when she was pregnant with our sister. Dad never paid a penny of child support, often not having a penny to support himself—but that was his own damn fault. My brother and sister grew up without a father and got stuck with the controlling, fire and brimstone, God fearing mother, the one who beat me for the short time I lived with her. I was glad to be rid of her. But John never recovered from losing his father. To make things worse, Dad never called him and still never does to this day. Why? Because dad is fucked up, thinking that he needs to have something of value to say to his son, something to offer, placing no value on the sound of his voice or in his love.

Houston is the capital of drugs, the test market for the latest mind altering substances. Drugs and God are the culture. There are gangs and violence, and now the jails are overflowing with the poor and desperate refuges of Katrina. Houston’s murder rate has more than doubled since the hurricane, and the crime rate has spiked off the chart. My brother got caught holding an exorbitant amount of ecstasy, or X if you will, a few years ago, and barely avoided going to jail as a dealer, and has been on probation, reporting monthly to deposit a jar of piss. He has a daughter and an ex-wife, and just found out about another daughter that he supports but never sees.

My sister knows about the life my brother leads because he parties with my sister’s ex-husband, who she left because of his insufferable cocaine habit. It was just a matter of time before the piss test yielded a positive result.

I don’t know what is going to happen now. John has a lawyer that feels good about his chances to be allowed to undergo rehab. John is financially responsible, having just bought a house, and an employer who will pay for the rehab and hold his job for him. John is number one in his company for what he does, and that is no mean feat. John has always been the one with the heart to do it better than anybody else, and that isn’t just the intense love that I feel speaking. I’ve said that I don’t know how I feel about God, but he heard from me last night.

I said goodnight to my own son last night. When I look at him I see my brother as a little boy again, and I can’t help but wonder if someday Jackson will have the same problems. I kissed him on the forehead and asked him for a hug, which he was all too glad to grant. I can’t help my brother now, but I’ll be for goddamn sure that I can give to my boys what my brother so desperately needed. I held Jackson tight and told him, “I love you more than anything.” I felt unimaginative at that as I searched for something more prolific. He didn’t break away like he sometimes does, sensing something deeper than the usual good night routine. I turned away from him lest he see the tears forming in the wells of my eyes and managed feeble see-you-in-the-morning.

Life Taking A Turn

Come back tomorrow perhaps. I think it will be a long post. Maybe the saddest, maybe the most heartfelt. Certainly the most introspective.

Sorry I haven't been around.

This Weekend

I appreciate the advice on how to handle my officemate, and the offer of cheap counsel. The hug thing is a little beyond my means, but I kept my cool yesterday. He came in with a more subdued attitude, shook my hand and assured me that he has total respect--for himself. Ball buster.

I gave him something a little harder to do. As part of the design process, I like to implement some of the more complex portions to make sure I didn't miss something. It's a very dumb version without any safety checking or any bell or whistle, but it's enough to prove that I'm not dreaming. He was quite impressed with what I did get working, and it may have mellowed him slightly. Then I gave him something to do that he couldn't quite get his head around--and voila! A slice of humble pie.

An office mate that starts as early as I do, but is a full-timer, overheard management talking about my refusal to go full-time. The tone was respectful, but my salary requirement was too rich for them--as I said up front it would be--that it would blow the whole salary scheme for other employees. There is something to that. Knowing your value and demanding it. With it comes a certain respect, even if it isn't deserved. I feel deserving, don't get me wrong, but just by holding out or saying no creates the effect.

On the parenting side of things, last night was the third night in a row that our youngin slept through the night--no cry outs, no nothing, just blissful, uninterrupted sleep.

Ahhh.

We're headed out to Newport Rhode Island this weekend for a family getaway. I've never been there, but I hear it's nice. We wrapped a bunch of easter gifts for the boys--a couple Air Hogs fliers, plastic barn animals, some candy and money in easter eggs, and got them ready for the trip. The easter bunny will find us no matter where we are.

Happy Easter to all. Have a great weekend.

Frustrated

I've been a bit sparse lately, and there is a reason. Work is heating up, and I'll tell you why. I am a contractor, which carries a higher monetary reward, but the moniker carries with it a certain notoriety, a stigma if you will--people look at you different, regard you in silent judgement. I was asked to go permanent last week and I respectfully declined.

I am designing a software solution that is going along very well, but the company knows that I may leave, are afraid that I will leave before the work is complete, at least this is what I surmise. They hired a knuckle-headed, know-it-all to eventually take my place, who constantly harangues me about the decisions I've made, quibbling over every small detail, while working on pieces that I've assigned him and doing sloppy work that side steps in some cases the design I've set forth. He's been thrust upon me before I was ready to assign work, so he's programming on the edge of what I've thought out.

So, tonight I'm writing design documentation in a desperate attempt to stay ahead, and preparing to present my completed design by early next week. I fully expect to be sabotaged by the new guy, who is the type that takes great pleasure in being contrary for the very sake of it.

In short, I'm ready to rub his fat face into the carpet. I've already told him to back off, not to interrupt me when I'm speaking, that sort of thing. I'm losing my cool.

Luckily I have a few people on my side, and others in the office have stated plainly that they couldn't work with him. He buys candy and puts it in a bowl, then posts a sign outside. Everyone stops in and gabs now, mostly the marketing and support people. The developers are too busy working. He barks out to join conversations three and four cubicles away, and almost always unnoticed by anyone but myself.

I just need to get this done and implemented, put that feather in my cap and move on. Meanwhile, God give me patience and protect me from frustration. What was the old definition of frustration? The feeling you get when you want to kick the shit out of someone who desperately deserves it. Close. And accurate.

Check Please

My friend Danny dropped me off on a Friday night and told me he was beat and had to go get some rest. Tomorrow was a big day. I lived in a trailer park in age gone by, where units sat side by side and abutted end to end, seperated by uneven, cracked paved roads only wide enough for two small cars or one big ass pick up truck, where water collected in lakes after a good storm.

I didn't call him a pussy that night because I was glad to be rid of him. The night was boring and we'd cruised the local hangouts, but nothing was going on. There was probably a great party going on somewhere, and everyone knew about but us.

Inside I could hear dad snoring from his bedroom, so I shut his bedroom door to take the edge off. I flicked on the Atari and stretched the control to the couch and scootched the dog over with my rump and started into level one of Space Invaders.

Then an explosion rocked the trailer and the windows rattled to the point of breaking. I ran outside and saw though a smoking fiery hole in the trailer perpendicular to ours, the one whose end was no more than twenty feet from ours.

And Danny ran out it's side door.

It turns out that he was a little bored himself, and went there straight away--obviously. He and his buddy there were banging rocks on gun powder from an emptied 30-30 shell near a propane tank whose valve was open a peep. The powder smoked and they leapt to the floor when the whole place went up. Nobody was injured.

When Danny got married several years later, when it was my turn to tell a funny story, one that captured the essence of our mutual friend, this is the one I told.

Blank faces, crickets chirped.

Check please.

They Call Me The Fireman

Thanks for the title George.

Good weekend. The wife and I went out on a date for the first time in a three years. We met with friends for Thai food and Singha. Our neighbors watched the kids. They have a nine-year-old daughter who loves little Emmett, and the feeling is mutual. Her name is Ashley, but in Emmett-speak she is just Ashy, and he does whatever she says. She is an up and coming gymnast and does back arches while he crawls under her like a car through a tunnel.

On Sunday I almost blew myself up starting a fire in the burn barrell. I started with a pile of dried out leaves, added a little gas, then newspaper, and a little gas, then a tee-pee of dried sticks, and a little gas. Before lighting it I thought to add just a little more gas. I lit a bit of news paper and held it at arms-length and held it to the top most tier--the WHOOF! It was like the world shifted one space to the left in an instant without me. I stood there like Wile E Coyote, my eyebrows singed and the fuzz along the arm of my sweatshirt brailled into black plastic balls.

Luckily I made the kids stand way back. I said, "Whoa," and looked at Jackson. He said, "That was cool!"

My wife felt it inside the house and ran outside. "What the hell is going on out there!?"

Jeezezzuh

It all begins, like it always begins, at a funeral.

***

“Hi Aunt Sandie,” I said. She held the hug longer than I did. Her face was gaunt and her eyes were slightly puffed and red; and I could tell she had been crying.

She held my face between her hands. “Do you need a drink, a beer, vodka?”

“No thanks.”

“I have anti-depressants,” she offered.

“I’m ok, really.”

“Don’t hold it in Scotty. You’re going to need something. Are you sure you don’t want a beer? It will take the edge off.”

“Everything I need is right in here,” I said, pointing to my heart.

***

We sat in the waiting room—waiting. My aunt and uncle doubtless wishing they could have a smoke. But the god damn liberals had taken over the world. My cousins Tracy and Trisha were there too, looking about them like snared hares, wild eyed, fidgeting—nervous.

The doctor was East Indian, stoic and cock-sure. He pronounced, “Your mother’s cancer has spread from her lungs through the esophagus and into the brain, and down into the pancreas and liver. She will not wake up again.”

Tracy and Trisha burst into tears while I stared at the doctor. The news was expected, as my mother was in ICU with a tube through her mouth and into her lungs, artificially injecting air that she was no longer capable of processing without it. The doctor was numb to the histrionics.

I met his unaffected gaze with one of my own. “She was a three-pack-a-day smoker.”

Tracy stopped crying as if a switch had flipped. “My mom and dad both smoke. Could they get cancer too?”

The doctor replied, “Yes, of course.”

“But, but, but w-what if they quit now?” Tracy asked, looking at her mother now.

“It might already be too late.”

***

“Have you accepted Jeezezzuh as your personal savior,” Chaz asked, as if Jesus was Texan.

Not a hair was out of place. He was blonde and of medium build, and quite handsome in that Houstonian way. I wasn’t ready to lay it all on him right now. “My faith is a personal matter that I do not wish to share.”

His eyes seemed to become perfectly round as they misted over, as ice will do on the first day of warm weather. “I know that it’s hard for you to understand right now, but God has a plan for your mother, just like he has a plan for all of us. She is with Him now, and she couldn’t be in better hands.” He glowed like Captain Kirk in a love scene.

A little ball of hot butter rolled in my chest, and my teeth clamped together. “Frankly, it’s of no comfort to me that God has a plan for my mother or not, because I think it stinks. My mother is dead, so she is no longer involved in my plans, or those of her grandchild’s. My personal salvation is not the issue, and I’ll thank you to keep your focus on my mother’s eulogy. No disrespect intended.”

“I understand,” he said with a kind smile, but I could hear the disappointment in his voice, and the resolve.

***

“Hi Scotty, its Trisha!”

Her husband’s name I saw on caller id, but I acted surprised as I always do when someone calls. “Trish!”

“Wow,” she said, “how long has it been?”

“I know. Hey, I heard about your dad. I’m sorry.”

She didn’t say anything, so I continued. “I talked to Tracy, and she said that he has lung cancer.”

“When did you talk to her last?”

“It seems like a month ago.”

“Ohhh.”

“How long does he have?”

“The doctors give him one year, two at the most.”

“How did he take the news?”

“He was very upset, and was crying all the time. But now he feels a lot better because he found God.”

Internal groan. “I’ll bet he did.” There are no atheists in a fox hole I thought to myself. “I have to say Trish that you and Tracy seem to be taking this very well.”

“Well, I know this is going to sound funny…”

“Ok.”

“Tracy has been sending dad some tapes, and he came out here and met with Chaz. Chaz put his hands on his chest and felt the cancer inside. I know how it sounds Scotty, but Chaz healed him.”

“As in your dad doesn’t have cancer anymore?”

“I know what you’re thinking, and I would think the same thing, but yes, I truly believe it. When my dad goes to the doctor, the doctor is going to tell him that the cancer is gone.”

“That does sound a bit far fetched, but I hope you are right Trish.”

“I know it won’t prove anything to anyone, as the assumption will be that he was misdiagnosed, but I already believe.”

Maybe Chaz can bring my mother back to life.

***

Any plans of moving to Houston have been cancelled. I love my family, and there is nothing wrong with faith in a deity, but God rests within me, and he is me, and he is my children and my wife and my friends, and sometimes the man who isn’t lying when he says he needs money for a beer. He was my coach the congratulated me for scoring my only touchdown, the one who laughingly told me to jog as I almost tripped over second base in my haste when I hit one into the weeds. He’s every bit of joy and sorrow in my life. He is me, and he will die someday too.

Soduku

I had a big blog planned for today, but it will have to wait for tomorrow. My wife and I are new addicts to Soduku, a game created by one Count Dooku a long time ago in a galaxy far far away. It really is an evil game, and a huge waste of time. The wife has decided that her mind is going to turn to jelly if she doesn’t start using it soon, and this is definitely a way to keep the mind tiles moving about.

Come back tomorrow. Let’s just say that, just when you think you heard it all, somebody comes along and proves you wrong. I think there is something to the claim that America is being conservatized by the radical right.

Wrong Decisions

I feel like my life is built on wrong decisions, a string of left turns when I should have turned right. It's not enough to say that I came by in honestly, that my father didn't teach me right. I'm in my forties now.

I'm trying to remember what it is I did, or didn't do, that makes me feel this way, but I can't remember. But it's there, making my heart feel sick.

Ah, here's an example. As some of you know, my mother died of lung cancer, caused by a lifetime of smoking cigarettes. One of our last conversations, in full view of the end, she asked me to do her one favor.

"Sue those bastards."

"Who?" I said.

"The tobacco industry, all of them! They did this to me."

I didn't even pause to think about it. "Mom, when I was old enough to buy your cigarettes for you, I asked you who the Surgeon General was that so clearly warned that smoking caused cancer. How old was I then?"

She didn't smile, nor did she look hurt, but she didn't reply.

"Eight maybe? That was thirty years ago, and you've been smoking several packs a day ever since. What possible grounds do I have to sue the tobacco companies on? I love you Mom, but there is nobody to blame here but yourself."

I let the doctors take her lungs out for research, because I thought maybe she would have wanted to help find a cure for the disease. But I was only guessing. All I can think about, when I allow myself, is her chest open like the kitchen cabinet, and the doctors carving her out--and how vain she was about her appearance.

We can't be children forever.

History Of Violence

I just watched History of Violence last night--remember, I have kids, so don't blame me if I'm just getting around to it. I was pleasantly surprised with this movie. First, I had no idea what it was about; in fact, I didn't even read the jacket summary, just popped it in the player and let it rip.

** Spoiler Alert **

It starts with a pair of psychopathic killers checking out of a motel by eliminating the entire staff, thus relieving themselves of financial liability. Then we pan to a fine, upstanding, well-adjusted family in the Midwest, doing really swell together; as in, "Gee Wally, mom and dad sure are groovy." At this point I was certain that the killers would roll into town and terrorize family and friends for two hours before finally being taken down before the credits roll. No sir. The hero Tom, known only as Vigo by all my romance writing friends, a heretofore modern Ward Cleaver, takes care of these two assholes with eerily efficient dispatch.

Ok, now what? And that's just it, there is plenty more, and still more twists. Safe to say, I had no idea what was going to happen next. I thought I did a few times, but the story kept bending away from expectation.

One thing I will say, William Hurt did not deserve an Oscar nomination for his role. He was good, but he was no Joe Peschi in Goodfellas.

Oh, and I saw The Forty Year Old Virgin too. What a refreshing comedy it was too. It was typical in some aspects--the whole friends giving bad relationship advice thing--but the story didn't stay focused on those aspects for too long, where other movies of it's type make such inanities the central plot. The actors were fresh and hilarious, and the banter between the players was combative and tense, but with underlying affection. A lot of fun, if not a little too long.

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.