Got Foam?

A few weeks back the fam and I visited a dear old friend at her home out in Port Townsend, Washington. It's a beautiful little custom crafted cottage style home on the outskirts of a quaint village that sits on a forested peninsula of Puget Sound. It's seriously that cute.

While there, Tam enjoyed a cup of cappuccino. Our friend heated the milk on her vintage O'Keefe and Merritt range and then used this super cool little Bodum whipping device to foam the milk. She then poured the foam into the perfect little cup of strong coffee and, viola! the most charming and delicious coffee beverage served in the most perfect little cottage kitchen in one of the most perfect little rustic locations in the lower 48.  Needless to say, driving off that afternoon Tam was quick to comment we needed one of those cool little foam whippers.

Fast forward 3 weeks and you find us standing in a Sur la Table cooking store. It took just a moment for the highly knowledgable clerk to direct us to exactly the foamer we were looking for: a Bodum, cute as a button, twenty bucks. Click ahead 2 minutes and you find us, Bodum whipping thing in hand, thinking we were ready to check out, looking at the whole line of Nespresso machines cleverly set up on a counter adjacent to the quaint little number we had come to claim. Clever indeed. "Would you like to try a sample and see how it works?" Two snap-your-fingers-quick samples later the nifty little Bodum is back on its shelf. Yep, from rustic $19.95 to techno-quick $399.95 faster than you can say "half caf-decaf extra foam."

Oh well. We don't live in a custom crafted cottage in the woods by the sea. We live in a mid-century ranch. Our kitchen's populated with stainless steel appliances and stone counter tops. It's a device type kitchen. The new machine heats and foams the milk and dispenses the coffee all in the blink of an eye. And it looks cool on the counter.

After all, it turns out-- as is so often the case-- rustic is for vacations, not the day-to-day. Come on over for a cup. Tam might let you push the button.                                            

Loving It

I had the pleasure of running into an interview with a friend's dad that was published on line a while back. He is in his 90's but has lived a full and successful life as a writer of comedy. Already you know he's one of the luckiest guys alive. What a way to make a living.

As I read the interview two things came to mind. First, success really is in part a measure of what you do. Not in the sense of "doctor, lawyer, Indian Chief" but, rather, being in love with what it is you are actually doing. Being in love with what you do for a living is really one of the greatest pleasures and good fortunes in life. Second, real success at work is being in love with the work you do rather than who you think it makes you. Too often it seems people are in love with themselves and their perceived role in the working world. Let's see, what do you call the latter type? Oh yah-- a big shot.

It's an old story: The guy who just can't get enough of himself whether it's in sales, film, medicine, or at the local big-box retailer. These are the people who rather quickly get in over their heads because they can't resist the sense of celebrity-- on any scale. The big boss. The guy or gal who usually has to prop up their sense of worth by walking on the backs of others. They do what they do in pursuit of some ethereal need for more. An insatiable need to be the center of it all. And usually, eventually, they fail. And usually, too, they are never satisfied.

Anyway, the interview is a good read and I think you'll agree you're reading about a man who, very early on, recognized what he loved to do, found a way to make it happen, and pursued no other agenda. Wholly satisfied to be doing the work. What a success and inspiration. Not to mention what a lot of funny material!

The Father's Waiting Room: It's An Eye!

Monday's are one of two big eye days at our hospital. On some days there may be 15 or more cases; cataracts, lens implants, and so forth. A great deal of eye surgery has become routine high volume stuff but, in fact, is a critical service for millions of people who are afflicted with cataracts and who regain effective vision from such procedures. Needless to say, a great many of the customers are well over the age of 65.

Last Monday as I was walking by the pre-surgery holding area I saw 3 husbands standing in the hallway, waiting for their wives to get situated in anticipation of surgery within the next 30 minutes or so. Tossed together by the necessity of their wives condition, they were suddenly talking and laughing nervously together about life and their immediate circumstance. It was too obvious and too good to resist: I had to stop and comment to the group: "So this is what's become of the father's waiting room 40 years later!" It was too funny and they immediately laughed and understood.

Before the age of birthing centers, birthing rooms, and making childbirth an event for the entire family to share in a "home like setting," the menfolk used to sit in an institutionally sterile waiting room, usually chain smoking cigarettes, while their wives were hauled off to the "delivery room" to have the baby "delivered." It happened several thousand times a day during the 40's and 50's. So here they are all these years later, still standing around together, finding support in the company of strangers, while the wives go off to have something done in the hospital.

Chalk it up to the Boomer generation: Opthalmology has become the new obstetrics for a whole lot of husbands out there.

Needs Assessment

Talking with a friend at the hospital the other morning she asked how the dog was doing. I told her he's doing pretty well overall and we've been pretty happy with our decision to become dog owners. I told her how Ev is really getting involved with the dog, laughing and playing with him regularly. "Every boy needs a dog" was her remark. And to that I replied:
             
                                    1. Every boy needs a dog

                                    2. Every girl needs a horse

                                    3. Every man needs a woman

                                    4. Every woman needs a husband

                                    5. Every husband needs a mother

                                    6. Every wife needs a bartender

                               
Here's wishing all the wives and mothers a great week!

A Hero's Legacy

You'll have to indulge me here. I wrote this a few years back on the anniversary of Apollo 11 and Neil Armstrong's first steps on the moon. I dug this out Saturday night on learning the news of Neil Armstrong's passing. Nowadays it doesn't seem to take a whole lot to have the title "hero" put in front of your name. But, for me, Neil Armstrong was an old school hero. RIP Neil Armstrong.

I can’t sleep tonight and the light of a nearly full moon floods the bedroom making it all the more difficult.  And as I lie awake I think back over forty years to a summer day in 1969 when two Americans landed on the moon and each went for a walk on the lunar surface.

That event was the culmination of a pledge made by our President not quite a decade prior.  It was the ultimate demonstration of intellect, technological savvy, and good ol’ American know how and will.  That event occurred 12 years after my birth.  It seemed fantastic, it seemed to portend our national omnipotence taking flight both literally and figuratively.  It was grand on a scale that, at least to a 12 year old boy, gave one the confidence that man can do anything.

In 12 years my life had evolved from John Glenn to Neal Armstrong; from smoky four engine propeller driven airliners to jets which cut travel times by halves and thirds.  Planes were in, trains were out.  Color television was in, black and white was out.  Everything seemed to be getting faster, stronger and better.  And America seemed to be getting richer and we were, in spite of those noisy but ne’r do well Soviets, we were powerful—and you can make that a capital P.

Now I lie awake and I think about those first twelve years and compare them with this last forty.  The launch of the Apollo missions correlated with the arrival of a new era of technology; the tools which promised to make all things possible and all problems solvable were finally at our door step, ready to be unwrapped and put to use.

In the last forty years that is what we seem to have done.  We Americans have unwrapped those packages and put them to work.  All over the world, mankind has done the same, racing to mine all the many benefits of our great achievements in science and technology.  

Here in the U.S., forty years after this great event which filled us with pride and confidence and hope, we live in a country which no longer manufactures a whole lot of anything.  Our steel manufacture is gone.  Our auto manufacturing has withered into near oblivion.  Clothing, textiles, household appliances, Schwinn bicycles, Tonka Toys; all of these items have been shipped to overseas manufacturers.  Global communications, shipping and tracking systems have allowed us to export all manner of drudgery affording us all so much more leisure time—time with which we can now spend improving our lives and those of others. Just what we wanted.

The information highway has evolved to where we can share all types of scientific and technical information to afford people the world over knowledge and insights to create better ways of doing things in providing food, shelter, education, and health to every man, woman and child on the planet.   Cellular technology allows us to communicate instantaneously across a broad reach of the planet, again allowing us to aid and assist and care for one another.

Unfortunately, the export of production has left us with hundreds of thousands looking for work.  The export of jobs leaves many of us struggling to find a place in this life, in many cases unable to help ourselves let alone help others. 

And the electronic wizardry birthed in the moon mission has, indeed, given rise to a new era of electronics.  Unfortunately, much of this technology leaves us isolated and withdrawn from life as we spend hours absorbed in meaningless video entertainments.  And the information highway, when not used to provide access and instruction in the manufacture of roadside bombs and illegal and socially destructive drugs, can be used to sit mindlessly scanning page after page of celebrity gossip, pornography, sales of things we neither want or need, and all other sort of entry which is creatively labeled news or entertainment. 

And the tool that would be the cellular telephone somehow struggles to rise above the probable millions of text messages which are sent each day, most of which qualify as the inane distractions of the millions who have nothing better to do or can’t pay attention to what it is they should be doing.  The cell phone has become the Saturn Rocket of a generation that is totally distracted.  But it’s not all for naught, cell phones can be used to order pizza, take candid pictures someone will later regret, and detonate roadside bombs.

The United States has become like the 18-year-old son of the man who has everything and all the money in the world.  We are flush with opportunity and well endowed with means.  It just seems we can’t stop going to parties, don’t know what we want to do when we grow up, and really, we just don’t care- because we don’t have to. Not exactly the giant leap Neil Armstrong was referring to.

All that aside, man! Wasn't it great in 1969 when Neil Armstrong stepped out onto the lunar surface and spoke that incredible line?  "That's one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind."

Return to the Ponderosa

"Ma'am?"

Do you remember the first time you were with a girl, or do you, girlfriend, remember the first time it happened to you? It's the kind of thing that would happen in a coffee shop. Perhaps the morning after a really great night before. And you're both twenty-something and she's wearing your rumpled shirt and all smiles and happiness. And then the waitress comes up, the one who's not too happy, doesn't like cute girls, resents every moment of the last 4 decades of her life-- she comes up and asks the boy, "Coffee?" And he, all warm and fuzzy, "Yes, please." And then Madame Resentment turns to the beautiful young woman looking over her reading glasses and order pad, looks her dead in the eye, "Ma'am?" No more smiles on the girlfriend's face. "Ya, coffee."

The waitress turns on her heel and walks off. End of warm and fuzzy morning. "Bitch! That f&%#ing bitch just called me ma'am! I'm not married! I'm not thirty eff'n years old! Where does she get off calling….." It's such the end of a beautiful morning. I've never understood that experience so well as I learned the other evening.

Against our better judgement we returned to the local Ponderosa buffet restaurant Thursday evening. Always a challenge. I'm usually able to do it but it's a tough pill for Tam to swallow. But Ev somehow had his heart so very set on eating there we had to saddle up and head to the Pond.

If the buffet tables filled with high fat, high sodium, high sugar, carbs and deep fried pieces of meat-like-substance couldn't scare us away, then the parade of ultra-heavyweight customers sure as hell should have. Or the 16 month old sitting in her highchair sucking down an orange pop. And if all that really wasn't enough to remind us why we didn't want to be there, then the guy wearing the red tee with the Coca Cola script across the chest which read, "I Enjoy Vagina" really truly shoulda been the sign we needed. (Seriously. They make these things. How have I gone 55 years and not had one of these?! Can someone tell me?!! )

Just in case you think I'm kidding.

But I digress. None of that stopped us. We step up to the cute teenage girl at the register, and we order three salad bar buffets. And then it happens:

Girl at the register, looking at Evan: "How old is he?"
Tam: "He's five."
Girl: "What'll he have to drink?"
Tam: "White milk."
Girl: "And you?"
Tam: "Sprite."
Me: " And I'll have a Coke."
Girl, looking directly at me, "One senior salad bar?"

I was nearly speechless but quickly recovered enough to ask, "At what age?"
Girl: "55."
Goddammit anyway!

At least she didn't say 65. I saved a buck.

The Rod Stewart Effect

Ho, Ho, Ho!

I heard on the radio the other day that Rod Stewart is working on a Christmas album. Oy vey! I went through a period when I was all about holiday music and I gobbled up (wow! great choice of words) every genre of holiday music I bumped into back in the day of, yes, seriously, record/CD stores and book stores that sold such things. (Anyone else miss Borders?)

Around early December I still pull out that file of music and give 'em a spin for a few weeks. Then it's back on the shelf for another 11.25 months. I have jazz and electronic, Motown, Sinatra, Crosby, Day, Martin, country, blues, bluegrass, swing, and on and on and on. I even have a gob of the "Very Special Christmas" releases. But Rod Stewart?

I have never been a huge fan of Rod Stewart with one exception: Maggie May. That song had amazing appeal to this 14 year old waking up to KHJ on his AM clock radio. "Wake up Maggie I think I got somethin' to say to you..." God, the very thought of being in school and tangled up with, what I assumed from the song, was an older, wiser, and wilder woman was simply beyond the beyond! God let me be similarly late back to school just one day! Amazing and fantastic stuff to a hormonally infused teenage boy.

He's done a lot of other good tunes but that one is the touchstone for me. And, for me, it's just way too long a walk from Maggie's bed To Irving Berlin's White Christmas. I can't imagine I'll be adding Rod's holiday offering to the file.

Tractor People

I went to an antique tractor show this past weekend. The Mid Michigan Old Gas Tractor Association had their annual convention outside of Oakley. Old tractor shows come with the territory when you live in a region that generates most of its revenue off the land. If you've never been to one I can recommend the experience... that is if you find yourself in some region where they have such things. But I'll warn you right up front:

       1.)  They're not easy to find. They hold these things in the middle of nowhere so there's plenty of room to, well, play with old tractors.

       2.)  Some visitors, especially the male type, are likely to come away thinking they need a tractor.

With those two warnings understood I'll tell you what's great about tractor shows: people. The people who attend tractor shows are-- similar to those at car and airplane shows-- nice people who are all about enjoying their hobby.  What I really enjoy seeing though are the typical farmers and the farm families: the old, the young, the young farm couples. They're all out spending a weekend in the sun enjoying their heritage and the tractors that have made it all possible. The asshole quotient at an antique tractor show appears to be zero. Even the idiot quotient seems impossibly low given all the moving equipment, noise, and activity.

Farming can be a lonely business. You don't check into an office filled with co-workers. Many times the only talking one does is to swear at a piece of equipment... or the weather. It's not that often you get to socialize with others in the business-- it's almost never that you have a day or two away from the farm. A tractor show offers just that opportunity. It's mid-August, the wheat is off, the beans and corn are on hold for a few more weeks: You go, you hang out, you talk tractors, and about as dressed up as you'll see anyone is wearing a clean Farmall, Allis-Chalmers, or John Deere tee shirt and matching cap.

It's about as authentic old-time Americana as you'll find these days. No big sponsor tents. No celebrities. (Unless you want to count the several old time bluegrass bands that play off in one corner of the grounds. Average member age? I'm guessing 70+.) No big flashy beverage sponsor. No official snack food, soft drink, outfitter, or supplier. Just crafts, charity sponsored food vendors, and tractors.

Not a bad way to spend a day. If you can find the place.

My Akin Hangover

It seems by now the coverage of Missouri Representative Todd Akin's remarks should be well enough left alone. It's been news for more than 48 hours and that's like a lifetime in current media cycles. But at the risk of seeming to be both an opportunist and a Johhny-come-lately, I continue.

I continue because for me, Todd Akin is to conservative politics what vomiting is to a hang-over: it's just a bad start, a prodrome of worse things to come. The morning after is gonna be hell. The fact that this man, so highly regarded for his staunch conservative values, the fact that he can come out with a comment that is at once outrageous beyond comprehension and wholly ignorant-- and still retain the support of such conservative groups as the Family Research Council-- that is absolutely terrifying. It chills me to the bone that there are such powerful, well-funded groups actively seeking greater political power in order to promote and advance narrow-minded, pseudo-moral, pseudo-Christian, intolerant views.  Not just more power but, it would appear to be total control to dictate choice in American life. No taxes. No abortions. No fags. No Mexicans. Hey, how about no poor people? They're a pain in the ass as well.

This period in American history stands at the threshold of being remembered as the time when capitalism usurped democracy and fundamentalist social conservatism usurped liberty. As incredible as that statement may seem, when taken in light of the immeasurable ignorance and insensitivity of candidate Akin, coupled with the fact that there are those who continue to support his campaign, anything is possible. Certainly we are living in a time when people are frustrated, poorly informed, highly reactive, and weary of the status quo-- fertile soil for the growth of intolerance.

Not so long ago the far right seemed to me like just a noisy bunch of religious extremists. Weirdos. The rise of the Tea Party has suddenly given the far right new birth and new berth as they lock arms in their march against, well, it seems like damn near everything. "Heaven's yes! I'm against that!"

Obviously in didn't take long for the majority conservative candidates to come out against Mr. Akin's stunningly insensitive and ignorant comments. What's frightening is, below the surface, there is a tide that seems ready to forgive and over look his ignorance: "the Family Research Council condemns Akin's remarks but is still standing behind him because of his overall conservative record." I feel rather certain they're not alone in their position.

I'm not opposed to all conservative values but all of a sudden "conservative values" have been draped in a cloak of intolerance. And, as much as that makes me want to vomit, I worry more about the headache and illness that follows the morning after.

I Should Be So Lucky

I know this man. He tells me he'll be 86 next week.

He's not at work. He's working at play. I ran into him this weekend at the annual meeting of the Mid Michigan Old Gas Tractor Association. He was operating this old loader to lift logs, 2 at a time, and set them in place for the steam powdered saw mill the group operates when they have their big meets. He spends the day doing this and hanging out on the gangway, watching the logs get buzzed into boards.

I know him because he has bad knees. He tells me they're all worn out but working fine, so no surgery as yet. And, I know him because his shoulder needed to be replaced a few years back. He was 81 or 2. And he headed south to Florida 3 weeks later……..on his motorcycle. He still rides. He can't scratch his back with that right arm...but he can with the left, he tells me with a smile and a twinkle in his eye. A happy man.

A few years back, he and his late wife brought me a photo to look at of the two of them on their honeymoon, c. 1946 or so. The two of them looked like wild passionate young lovers getting ready to set off on a tour of the west……. riding double on their Indian motorcycle, leather coats and helmets. He tells me she's gone two years this October and his face shows just how much he misses her.

But, I should be so lucky. 86 years in good health. Full of life. Riding around on a tractor in blue overalls, yellow shirt, and red cap. A life filled with good friends, a great hobby, and even better memories. A happy man.

Pit Sign Up

If Mother Nature were a member of the Michigan weather pit crew, she would be standing like that guy in the picture above. Her sign would indicate something like, 5 laps to go. Not 'til the end of the race; just 'til it's time to pit for fuel and tires.

The days are sunny and beautiful but the mornings are starting to resemble October just a little too closely. I don't need a sweatshirt or jacket just yet but Tam sure does. And the afternoon breeze has cooled from the balmy Miamiesque humid blowdryer effect we've lived with the past several weeks. And a couple of those trees across the street-- what's with that shade of green?

There'll be plenty of opportunities to wax poetic about the change of seasons, the beauty of a Michigan autumn, and the coming of winter. More later, I'm sure. In the meantime, I'll just drive like hell and enjoy the rest of this near perfect summer we're enjoying.

Happy motoring. It'll be time to put on those full-wet tires before you know it.

The Larger Problem

I picked up the above image and quote off a friend's fb page and shared it on mine. I think it was originally lifted from a post on fb by a group called Being Liberal.

After seeing the post a friend of mine commented, "I wonder what the deficit was in 1954?" And I had to agree, it's not a bad question to raise. After all, as the U.S. was emerging from WWII with enormous debt we had an industrial and manufacturing economy without equal. We had people working, a communist threat to keep our weapons programs humming, and huge public projects in the works like the interstate highway system and rebuilding and expanding our airports and schools.

The economics of the 50's and 60's, while not recession proof, were certainly of a far different complexion than what we see today. Although Americans could be found digging shelters in fear of nuclear attack, the American Dream was really starting to come together for many as the suburbs began their sprawl, men went to work every day, kids were in attendance at well regarded public schools, and moms were home with the babies. Americans felt they had accomplished much and were headed in the right direction: Up.

Today it seems as if the whole scenario has fallen apart in the third act. For much of the audience, what was a G rated romantic comedy-drama has deteriorated into a dark and frightening R+ rated violent drama of despair. What that has produced is a growing audience that simply says, "I'm not going in that theater. This is a multiplex. I can afford a ticket and I'm going into the romantic comedy-drama (fantasy) I missed the first time." And it's become obvious to many that there are not enough seats available for that show. No matinee pricing. No kids under 5 get in free. It's expensive but, they'll tell you, definitely worth it. Too bad the seating is so expensive and limited, but that's just how it is.

I'm not that concerned with the difference in economies between 1954 and 2012, although the difference is critical. I'm more concerned about the change in the personality of our society in that period of time. And it hasn't even taken all of that. From my perspective it starts around the turn of the millennium although the wheels were set in motion a few years before that. From that point on, however, we see a stark change from a society moving together to one that's moving apart: Public schools decimated by publicly supported private options; jobs offering a lifetime of employment and benefits being decimated by export overseas; a volcano of wealth among the financial sector and a rising tsunami of just getting by among what used to be referred to as the working class; a constant rage against affordable healthcare; serious consideration being given the gutting of Social Security. In part it's a rising tide of entitlement confronted by a seawall of resentment, two vastly different perspectives on life and society. We are now a society of haves, have nots, and used to haves.

What bothers me the most is that we have stopped asking: How can we keep everyone on the team? We have stopped believing it's essential to keep everyone on the team. From the perspective of many it has become just too damn expensive to keep paying for the entire squad.We've even started to point fingers at those who should go.

The great experiment that is democracy cannot survive this fragmentation. Freedom from want and need and fear and hunger is the foundation of social, political, and religious freedom. There are many changes that need to occur to secure our economic well-being and the final health of this nation. The journey, however, can only be won by our all rowing together. Nobody can be allowed to drag their paddle. But, then again, no one gets out to ride in their speedboat.

Without unity, without a common belief in the well-being of all, without a commitment to achieve a larger success as a society as a whole, there will be no domestic peace. There will be no dream if it becomes simply unattainable for most.

Rumor Has It

A guy on the radio today made the comment that nothing is more annoying than suddenly finding out you are the subject of an outrageous rumor. He said something to the effect that that everybody has had the experience of suddenly finding out you are associated with some outrageous event or circumstance. Everyone has found themselves in the position of thinking or saying, "where the heck did that come from??!"

I'm no angel. Given my sordid past I doubt I'll ever be hanging out with any angels. (Given my current set of beliefs I'm okay with that.) Point is, I've ducked in and out of enough "situations" to have earned the less than esteemed honor of having been the subject of more than a few rumors. Rumors, like criticism, don't bother me one bit. I am who I am. I work hard. I do far more good in life than bad. And, at the end of the day, I'm able to talk about who I am and what I've done-- good or bad.

The funny thing in all of this-- the thing that made the subject appeal to me and get me thinking and writing was this: When the radio guy went on about the outrage of finding oneself the subject of an outrageous rumor, it was this that came to mind:  The only rumors that ever really pissed me off were the ones that were both embarrassing…….and true.

There are few things more annoying than getting caught doing something you knew you shouldn't while thinking it was hidden from view. The only feeling possibly worse than that is the gut-feeling you get while spinning the lame-ass tale of denial.

T.H.I.N.K.

A fb friend posted the above photo on her wall, or whatever you call your homepage. It's from the Great Parenting Practices fb page. I don't know the site, but I love the T.H.I.N.K acronym. It's new school for my Mom's old school, "If you don't have anything nice to say, than don't say anything at all." Although, admittedly, the T.H.I.N.K. formula does leave room for constructive criticism vis a vis "h," helpful.

I don't think so much about Inspiring my little guy at 5 with what I say as much as by what I do. Kind? Yes. Necessary? Yes. Helpful? Definitely. True? I'll take the fifth. But taken as a whole it seems like a pretty good guideline for communicating with your kids.

As easily as seeing that young girl sit there with that poster I can even more easily see any number of employees from any number of businesses sitting there holding up that sign for their bosses. I see it in hospitals, I've seen it in restaurants, I've seen it in big retail stores: Managers berating their subordinates. In the situations that come to mind I don't even recall the managers being especially angry-- just mean and inconsiderate of the employee(s) in their charge.

In an era when so much emphasis is placed on customer service and customer satisfaction, nothing strikes me as more contradictory and as more distastefully than seeing the inconsideration and mistreatment of an employee by their manager. One sniff of that and I know the bottom line is not about caring and concern for anyone other than the manager for his job and the company for it's thrift. In my limited experience I've seen more than one manager who seems incapable of abiding by the T.H.I.N.K. acronym and seems to prefer instead to utilize the acronym derived from the words Foul, Unnecessary, Condescending, Kick-ass, Yell, Offensive, and Uninformed. Maybe that's just because some managers are more comfortable with the latter and incapable of the former.

A Perfect World

Recently an Egyptian muslim colleague of mine was distraught over the fact that, here in the states, the media holds the muslim nation responsible for every act of terrorism. The victims of terrorism always are shown on TV with their mourning family yet, he said, you never see the mourning families of the muslims. He was responding to the news of massacre in Burma, an unspeakable tragedy in which the muslims are cast in the role of victim.

He fears for the future of his four children. Not as muslims who may one day be persecuted. He is afraid of the rising tide of insanity and the weapons and technology available to extremists worldwide in their relentless pursuit of mayhem. He fears his young children will never know a world at peace and that mankind may not be able to survive long enough for his children to die of natural causes. He fears the power and reckless selfishness of extremists of every stripe.

A few days later I overheard a conversation out at our local airport cafe. A couple of visitors from out of town had met there at the cafe and were about to part ways. The only part of their conversation I heard was, "Well, we've got to do something. If we let him have four more years he'll ruin America."

I had to think, isn't it amazing how people can live on the same stage, players in the same production, and yet so completely unaware of any concept of cooperation, common effort, and shared success?

I think if I ever ran for office I'd have to set out from the start by declaring the starting point is everybody lives, eats, and sleeps. It seems to me the persistent, and seemingly growing, psychology of superiority is the plague of our time. I'm right, you're wrong and there is no middle ground. I'm right and you're wrong and there is no room for both views.

Tolerance is the reason America has been so successful and why this country stands as a wonder to so much of the rest of the world. Like my Egyptian friend said, "Why can't the world be like the United States? Anyone can come here and we all tolerate each other." Unfortunately, it seems we are now on a course to become just as intolerant, just as controlled by secular mores, just as economically imbalanced as much of the rest of the world. Apparently a rather significant faction is tired of "paying the way" for everyone else.

Greed and self-preservation are manifestations of biological drives. Humanity only survives by recognizing the need to usurp the biological impulse to a greater social agenda. Whether here or in Burma, intolerance is always the enemy.

Helmet Laws

I read this post on the NPR blog August 5th. The British cycling star Wiggins pretty much got lambasted for his comments on legislating helmet use. Helmet laws are a big deal in Michigan where the legislature just recently repealed our long-standing helmet law for motorcyclists. We don't have helmet laws for bicyclists-- not even for kids.

It strikes me as odd that people are forever discussing helmet laws in the context of saving lives. When you die, your guilt, your worry, your responsibility, your pain, your material and spiritual poverty -- it all dies with you. You're dead. Plain and simple. It's not dying that the parent or cyclist has to worry about. It's not dying.

I always ask parents of youngsters if their kids wear helmets when they ride. And when I see riders who've been injured on their bicycles I always ask if they wear a helmet. Perhaps I'm a bit too harsh but I always tell them that what you really want from a helmet is protection from injury, not death. I mean, protection from death is a reasonable objective as well, but head injury is the culprit.  Spending the rest of your life absent a significant chunk of your memory, or a precious sense like taste, or your cognitive ability, or your motor function, or all of the above, is just not an attractive option. In low speed impact (e.g., falling off your bike) helmets can significantly protect your -- or your child's-- cabeza. Simple. (One can probably argue, though, that at speeds much above 30 miles an hour the protection offered will be minimal. In fact, if you're really interested read this article.)

The argument for helmets is similar to all manner of health related arguments: Smoking, excessive eating, excessive drinking, living in an urban area-- that sh#t'll kill ya! Like the helmet, I never worry about getting knocked off. I worry about the bad stuff: stroke, shortness of breath that tethers one to an oxygen tank, debilitating heart disease, de-conditioning to the point you can't walk to the mailbox and back. (The what??)

Ultimately it's a personal choice for any adult-- helmet, rotten diet, sedentary lifestyle, smoking. And, like the author argues in his blog, it can't be legislated so much as socially enforced. I would like to think the fear of permanent physical and mental impairment should be motivation enough. Such logic does, however, require one to assume fully competent mental capacity at the start.

Incommunicado

Every time I get on an airplane I am reminded of just how addicted we all become to our "connectedness." Regardless of the fact we have nothing to say, no one to say it to, and nothing we need to hear said, we can't stop. For example, I can't remember the last time I was on a plane that pushed back from the gate without having someone still on their phone. For example, upon landing and as soon as the wheels hit the ground the phones come on and the whole damn airplane starts to check for voice and e-mail. For example, the woman sitting ahead of me last Friday had to be implored by her husband to get up with the kids and get off the plane….because she was in the middle of a purchase transaction on the Aeropostal web site. Seriously.

Last week I spent about 5 days without access. Not quite "no lights, no phone, no motor car"  but conditions were primitive enough to leave me off line and fully disconnected from TV as well-- Olympics or not. Surprisingly, it took only about 4 hours to start to enjoy the loss of technology. I mean, my phone worked, but I had no one to call. And almost no one wanted to call me. And, once I realized it didn't matter, that there were other things to do, that nothing bad was going to happen, then I could actually look out and start to think about where I was and who and what I was seeing.

Here's a tip: Try it-- at least the next time you take some "time off." You may risk symptoms of withdrawal: irritability, inability to concentrate, feelings of hopelessness and abandonment.  But you'll survive it. And who knows? You may find you like the unplugged life.

Where's Our Churchill?

NBC pissed a few folks off by interrupting the broadcast of the Olympic games the other night but I thought it was great: Tom Brokaw did a piece on the resolve and perseverance of the British during the early months of World War II, the months before the U.S. entered the war.  It was a time when the British were pounded night after night by German bombs raining massive destruction and loss of life-- men, women, and children. All of Europe had fallen to Hitler and Great Britain stood alone against Hitler's heinous war machine.

Winston Churchill rose up in that time and led his people by virtue of his powerful voice, a voice which engaged the common spirit of his countrymen. His was a voice which enlisted the common spirit of sacrifice. His was a voice which enlisted a common spirit of courage. His was a voice which engendered concern for others, deference of self to the success of the whole. His was a voice so compelling that he had the audacity to proclaim, "Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties, and so bear ourselves, that if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will still say, This was their finest hour." This, in the face of the fall of France and all of Europe, with a battle against all odds about to begin.

In this day and age such talk would be immediately attacked, dissected, and ridiculed on national media. We would have a loud and vocal group telling us just how misled, ill-advised and uninformed is such a leader. That's not to say the least about how much we would have already heard of the man's drinking and other personal shortcomings. Instead we would be told about how we need to protect individual rights. How we should not be expected to pay more taxes. We would be fed all manner of twisted facts and estimations to convince us to turn inward, place our needs before those of others, to look toward the success of the individual to fuel the success of the whole. In short, to convince us we've already done enough.

By the standards of this day and age Churchill would not have faired well. His words would probably have been twisted, distorted, and discredited beyond all usefulness. His personal demons exposed, magnified, and displayed for all to see and despise. If he'd had an ounce of luck remaining, he would have been forced into retreat and exited into obscurity as a professor of government at some university. All of that, and half the world would be speaking German. 

I watched this piece and had to draw parallels with where we find ourselves today. I listen for voices calling for resolve to raise the tide of humanity, even just in our own country. I listen for voices asking us to think of the future, the society as a whole; to think of our neighbor and his needs. At times I think I hear such voices but they are faint and without stature. I do not see the engagement. In it's place I see selfishness, neediness, greed, short-sighted planning to meet the needs of a few. I see fear on the part of those who are in a position to give.

The battle we face is far worse than an enemy across the English Channel. We are at war with and among ourselves. We need a Churchill, an FDR, a voice. We need a compelling voice of reason to regroup this nation and get it back on the road to prosperity. Not the kind of prosperity that permits one to enjoy multiple homes and off-shore savings accounts. Rather, the kind of prosperity that allows us to go to bed at night with the assurance we are safe: Safe from hunger, safe from illness, safe from the elements, safe in our beliefs, safe in our personal choices. That our future, that of our children, and that of this world, is secure. Such an accomplishment would, most certainly, be our finest hour.

Fog Horns

While we were out on the west coast of Washington state last week, I woke up one morning (always a good start) to a dense cold fog. I could see the tree across the street but the ocean at the end of the block was completely obscured by the solid white cast of fog. And then, a fog horn. One long low blast. Coming through the dense fog it's a sound that is simultaneously beautiful and frightening. An alarm, the call of warning, to all those at sea: You can't see where you're going-- use caution, slow down, look twice, use your senses, expect the unexpected.

How often do I wish I had had that kind of device in life? Often. How often did I? Often. Unlike the disciplined captains of ocean going vessels-- at least the ones that don't carry oil-- in my life I've been slow to heed those sentinels of danger.  Siblings, friends, mentors. I've had more than one or two trusted and well-meaning individuals try to steer me clear of the rocks that jut from the rough surface of life's sometimes stormy sea-- especially treacherous with one's head in the fog.

Like those unfortunate captains in maritime history-- Exxon Valdez,  Costa Concordia, Titanic-- sometimes we're just destined to screw up. With luck, however, we find our way. Unlike those unfortunate sea captains, a couple of dings in our hull but we remain afloat. Even better, we learn to recognize the sound and significance of the fog horns: They don't mean to stop the ship, just slow it down, make one take a second look, redouble one's effort to take care and stay on a steady course to safety.

I don't know how you teach a child, especially an adolescent or young adult, how to recognize a fog horn. Maybe it's human nature to resist such advice, to ignore the warnings, to run head long and full speed ahead in the personal fog banks of life. So far I've been fortunate in not having to run any rescue operations. I have sounded my horn a time or two, and will continue to do so, as long as the noisy thing works.

Here's hoping for clear skies and happy sailing.

Proof Positive

I'm sitting here on the steps of my big brother's house in Tacoma, Washington. That in itself is pretty incredible. Not just that I practically used to live here and now am finally here again after having not been back in over 8 years, but the fact that I'm sitting out on the front steps. The steps are dry, the sky is blue, and it's going to be hot-- all on the west side of the mountains in Washington State. Even for summertime that's somewhat of a treat.

Stepping out here the first thing that struck me, however, was the sight and smell of Puget Sound. I haven't been where I could wake in the morning and look out at the water for a couple of years now, not since we sold our place in Chicago. Doing so this morning makes me wonder, what is it about having the sight and smell of the water so close at hand? Although I'm a coward when it comes to open water swimming I have to say there are not many things I enjoy more than to be by the water, hearing the water lap the shore, smelling that unique earthy smell of water, fresh or salt. Last night even, before we lost the last light of day, we had to go down to the water's edge and enjoy the last of the sunset on the Sound. (You're welcome for the photo.)

I'm going to have to vote with the scientists on this one: Darwin was right. Being over 50% water I think it's where we come from. Oxygen is just too ubiquitous to know the difference and I've never been around a pile of carbon (unless you want to consider the wonder one feels when struck by the sight of mountains). But water gives me that sense of calm and content I don't find anywhere else.

Being that we are water and from water, it's only natural that being around water gives one that same feeling of comfort and connectedness that a chocolate chip cookie gets from seeing a pile of flour. A sense of happy connectedness, of peace, of calm, of belonging-- all the while hoping you don't get eaten alive!

Am I a scientist, or what?

A Champion's Motivation

I don't think anyone can deny the athletic greatness of Michael Phelps. He is a true champion in addition to being what seems like a fairly fun loving guy; a guy who is a team player and supports his teammates in their efforts, even as competitors. Phelps deserves the gold on several fronts.

But what, you might wonder, makes Phelps tick? The answer lies to either side of those big ears. Phelps never appears without those Sol Republic track headphones. It's not the headphones, though, it's what's coming through them:

   "Michael? Michael! This is your mother. Get that water out of your ears! Now you listen to me and you listen good! I didn't come all the way to London England to see some damn castle or Queen. And I certainly didn't come all this way to watch you lose. Are you hearing me? Now you get up there and you swim that little tush I powdered and diapered for the first year of your life right off!  Understand? Do you want the whole world to see your mother cry on television? Close up? Is that what you want? Now you get up there and you swim boy, swim!!! Look this way if you love, honey. That's my boy."

The rest, as the saying goes, is Olympic history.

That Kid Across the Street

I was lucky enough to meet that kid in the red shirt at age 8. He was that "neighbor boy across the street", as a parent would like to say. My parents especially liked to say that because, as luck would have it, he was a great "neighbor boy across the street." Good parents. Good home life. Good student.

474-2767. I called that number a million times: Wanna ride bikes; run trains; go swimming at Sackett's? Outside of a safe and caring home, nothing is better for a kid than to grow up with a really good friend. Someone who's different but shares the same interests. Someone who's different but shares the same life goals. Someone who's different but willing to go as far, do as much, and disagree when needed.

Now he's doctor Dan and I'm doctor Schmidt and we haven't seen each other for probably 2 or 3 years. But I couldn't forget him if I never saw him again. I expect I will see him again, though. And hopefully soon. Somehow, he is now, just like back then, a best friend.

Happy Birthday Danny Freeman. Let's hop the fence for a late night swim.

Trying to Recall

An acquaintance of mine, a man about my age, recently was told he had some type of early memory loss going on. It might be Alzheimer's. It might be post-traumatic. It's supposedly real and, they fear, progressive.

I don't know about you but whenever I hear a story like that I start to think of myself and do inventory. What about the times I forget what I'm doing? What about the times I forget where I put my wallet? What about the times I call my son by the dog's name-- or vice versa?

I see dementia on a fairly regular basis. I see it from mild to extreme and I'm not sure what it is. Are these people vacated from their former selves? Is it all still there and simply trapped behind a wall unavailable to them and hidden from us?

At the end of the day I'm not sure and don't want to find out. Meanwhile, as long as I can keep my there, their, and they're sorted properly, I'll remain reasonably confident my memory still works.