Cutting the Dog's Hair

Thoughts on Maryann's Voice and the Essential Nature of the Earth

2011-01-11T11:18:00.000-08:00

During my life, there have been certain insignificant things that I felt that I ought to remember, although the reason why has never been clear. The memory became useful when the image of the future that the memory required actually materialized. Only when the memory became a true memory, something in the past, no longer something that I knew would happen, was I permitted to forget it.

I did mostly forget these moments and as I've gotten older, fewer new ones have happened.

I do remember one incident though that happened about fifteen years ago. I call it "remembering Maryann's voice." Maryann worked for me for a period of 2-3 years, I couldn't say exactly how long or when, but she was never more or less than a good person to me, a good worker, a good mind, an attractive face, with whom I formed no special emotional attachment, but for whom I felt respect and by whom I felt respected. She left me amicably and responsibly. Here's the strange thing, when she left, I felt sure that I would need to remember her voice, that its sound had impressed itself on me in a unique way. There were probably 40-50 other employees who worked during that time, all of whom stood out in many ways, their voices, their personalities, their faces, but somehow I knew that I would need Maryann's voice for a specific phone call that I would get from her someday. I didn't know what for, only that it would happen. As it turned out, after she'd been gone ten years, completely gone, no contact whatsoever, as so many people leave the first jobs of their lives, she called on the phone and I knew her voice instantly because it was the exact moment I had foreseen. I was not experiencing deja vu, in fact it was the exact opposite. The moment was significant not in what had happened, but in that it had happened at all. I was doing exactly what I had foreseen. The content of the phone call was incidental. I had been waiting for it and it had happened. There have been a handful of very similar incidents in my life.

I was awestruck by its occurrence because it fulfilled a prediction that I had unwillingly made about my own future. A knowledge that simply came to me, unbidden. It was the event that I had already seen happen. A prediction that all along felt more like a certainty than a prediction. Meaningless as it was, it was important in that it actually happened and gave me reason to believe that the future and the past happen simultaneously, or at least that knowledge of the future is not out of the question.

After I heard Maryann's voice I had another "revelation", namely that I would never need to know her voice again. I won't be able to prove that until I die, furthermore it is hardly startling, but still, it is what I saw.

I have also seen this. I have seen that the earth will go dormant, bereft of humanity and then it will seed again. Meaningful life, earth life, evolving life, sentient life will rise again. The earth will bear fruit; it is in its essential nature.

Cashier

2010-07-28T02:51:00.001-07:00

Thirty years at a cash register, you might think that it was tedious, but far from it. Touching hundreds of thousands of hands was a privilege, among day to day exchanges, rare in its intimacy and its replication.

Here's my story:

Customer: I want to buy this food that you have made and are selling, here is my money.

Me: I want to accept this money that you have made and proffer, here is good food.

Our hands touch and the deal is sealed. The food from my and my fellows' hands is eaten. Don't pass quickly over the word "eaten." Break it down. It is extreme touching, often with fingers and always with nose and tongue, smelling, touching with lips, putting food into one's mouth, rolling it around, feeling the texture, the temperature, the flavor, squeezing it between the teeth, the smell again, the comfort in its ingestion. Hunger satiated. Food eaten. Touch is never more intimate, more complete, literally taking into oneself from the hands of another, an act that in its frequency, is often taken for granted. It is the true essence of touch and ought never be taken lightly except when trust allows, because it is only trust that allows true intimacy to be taken for granted.

If all goes well, the privilege of the exchange, the consummation of the relationship gets repeated. Once in a while, once a month, every week, every day, twice a day...truly, an expression of confidence and comfort, an act of free will that exemplifies the meaning of trust. With some people, I shared this trust for thirty years! Each event the most narrow expression of love. All the events, an overwhelming repetition of the simplest, clearest and dearest exchange, often simply on a recommendation or reputation...this restaurant can be trusted. We were. I was.

On Marriage

2010-03-25T05:31:00.000-07:00

I have a friend who has led an interesting and satisfying life. She is very happy and can take credit for having been successful at marriage, no mean feat.

She is a teacher and recently responded to a student who was feeling bitter toward marriage in general and her father in particular. Here is her eloquent reply to her student.

Trusting Men

by Helena Halperin

Everything you say is perfectly logical, but I disagree. I am writing as one who has been very happily married for 47 years. That’s rare. My husband is much better than average in many ways, and we have not had unbroken, consistent bliss. No one does.

Love does often follow lust, and, like lust, may not endure. However, love founded on deep friendship can endure the waxing and waning of lust.

Can you “completely trust” a man? Can you “completely trust” yourself? In either case, I think the answer is “probably not.” Does it matter? Maybe not.

I don’t think “compatibility” is the most important criterion for whom to marry. You won't remain “compatible” as each of you changes in unpredictable ways on an inconvenient schedule. When I married, going off to Africa for a year wasn’t part of what either of us imagined, and was clearly outside the bounds of what a responsible spouse should do, but it was an important part of my life path. Choose flexibility always. And be extremely flexible yourself.

Most people marry with promises of sexual fidelity and intend to keep them. Many people fail there. Maybe those promises are unrealistic. I think it’s easier to stay married if you also try to stay “faithful” in the sexual sense, but I find it sad when straying sexually, giving in to lust that is usually temporary, destroys an otherwise good marriage.

People usually marry when they are still young, then change greatly in the following 60 or so years they will live. If change seems like betrayal, the marriage will be too confining. If the marriage can accommodate great changes in each partner, unpredictable changes, changes that may sometimes seem like a betrayal of original assumptions, and if it is founded on great respect, good friendship, lots of laughter, and good will, it may become the best friendship imaginable. It is wonderful to come home at night (it doesn’t have to be every night) to share your triumphs, defeats and insights of the day with one who knows the context.

It is wonderful to raise children with someone whose love and good sense you can trust. It is wonderful to grow old with the person who knows your history, your children, your joys and sorrows very well. It is wonderful in later life to share memories of so much. It is so helpful when conflicts and uncertainties about your children may still plague you, to have their other parent as your partner.

I suppose a childless marriage, with all the flexibility and good will in the world, could also work, but it seems to me like half a life.

I invite your response.

Helena Halperin

2000 Words About Salem

2010-02-22T10:23:00.000-08:00

I’m embarrassed to say that up until a week ago, I had never been to Salem. Let me modify that, I had a business meeting there several years ago that lasted about two hours, but I had never been there just to relax and look around. I had never been to Salem to see Salem. Recently, thanks to the new economy, relaxing and looking around have become my favorite pastimes and I’m here to tell you that Salem is worth every valuable minute of your time.

Boston, my hometown, is a messy place to drive. The legendary traffic might gradually slow to a crawl on the interstate. A five-minute trip can become a forty-five minute curse, and you’ll never find out why. Parking is hard to find or expensive, sometimes both and never neither. In Salem, the locals think traffic is heavy when they get stuck at the same light twice. They have a point, and I’ve heard it gets much worse in the month of October, but I was up there recently during midweek and I can tell you, the lack of traffic alone made me feel like I was on vacation. It wasn’t rural calm. Nope, there’s plenty happening, people going here and there, obviously an industrious place with lots of restaurants and shops, things to do and lots of people doing them, maybe a delay when a parking lot empties, but traffic? Not a problem. And parking? Plentiful.

Truth be told, I had mixed feelings about Salem. It might seem impossible to have feelings about a place I had never been, but Salem is part of our national consciousness. Most of us learn at a very early age, before we are even capable of understanding, that Salem is that notorious colonial place where a real “witch hunt” took place. Foolish young girls playing on the fears and superstitions of an entire community claimed that they were cursed by some of the townspeople who they didn’t like. Religious extremism and group hysteria combined to drive people mad and blind them to their own hypocrisy while they sought scapegoats to purge themselves. The girls were eventually discredited, but not before several innocent people were “convicted” and hung for their “crimes.” Today, it seems impossible to imagine. And since I paid attention to history I asked myself, what was wrong with the people of Salem?

During the decades after the witch trials, New England grew into its heyday, a world-class center of industry, whaling, importing, exporting and fishing. Capitalizing on its own fine harbor, albeit small by later standards, Salem became one of New England’s wealthiest seaports, which was saying a lot. By 1790 it was the sixth largest city in America.

After the decline of New England’s industrial importance and the need for deeper and bigger harbors, Salem gradually became a cultural and financial backwater. A third class cousin to Boston which had already taken a back seat to New York, Salem would eventually realize that it could make money on its heritage, its wits and charm and on its historic shame. Through clever marketing, Salem became and is today the Halloween capital of the nation as if its witch trials bear a resemblance or are somehow related to our fastest growing costumed holiday. The entire month of October is taken up with a pasteurized, polished, well-publicized and fantastic illusion that has absolutely nothing and everything to do with Salem’s sordid past. If you’re interested in that sort of thing, I hear it’s quite a show.

Frankly, for me, it was a reason not to go. I am not a gawker. I don’t want to stare at the hideous. I am not a big fan of Halloween. Why would I go to that place? Of course, my denial of Salem, based on vague notions and faulty logic, was as silly as Salem’s promotion of itself. Perhaps Salem is to blame for me not knowing it, but the reality of Salem is far different from its image, and I’d say, far better.

We arrived on a Wednesday afternoon and checked into the Salem Inn, an historic brick structure of three adjoining townhouses which was originally owned by Captain Nathaniel West, one among hundreds of well researched and interesting Salem characters, himself a victim of a very public and particularly sordid divorce trial. Because of our national obsession with new and better, in many towns West’s townhouse would stand out as a unique historic feature. Not so in Salem. Perhaps it was the shame of the witch trials, but more likely it was the sheer magnitude of Salem’s wealth, whatever the case, Salem got this part of its historic preservation completely right. West’s house and history, although very fine and interesting, are just another dot on a thoroughly researched map of perhaps the finest historic district in the United States! The McIntire Historic District, so named because many of its premier examples are the work of Architect and Housewright, Samuel McIntire, is an area of over four hundred Federal era homes around the Inn that have been preserved and maintained, many in their original splendor. To be sure, some of these homes are museums, but by and large they are living, vibrant 21st century domiciles that do not reek of mold or dust. Salem is alive!

As if that weren’t enough, there are three other historic districts in Salem: Derby St., Lafayette St. and Washington Square. Although none of these districts are contiguous, Salem is so conscious of its heritage that when walking from one district to another you’ll be hard pressed to know when you’re out of an historic area. Homes are often and prominently labeled with construction dates, builder, homeowner and/or the trade or profession in which they worked.

Without consulting a guidebook, my wife and I began to get an idea of who these people were, what they did for a living and what kind of community Salem was, but unlike at an historic re-creation or in Boston, we were not being spoon-fed a scripted story, or conducted on a history trail that is burdened by the intensely modern city around it. With the help of a couple of brochures from the Inn’s supply, we imagined the streets, unchanged except for their surfaces, gauged the proximities, we spent the entire day on foot, and considered the tradesmen, whose lucrative work might have seemed hopelessly archaic except that the smells of the very same sea still fill the streets of Salem. And a tall sailing ship sits at one of its wharfs.

Not your typical coastal village with miniature streets, Salem grew up as a commercial hub, with wide avenues and a thriving commercial center, the place where the region’s great traders made their homes. These were not crusty old fishermen. They were young, educated, powerful, smart, handsome, and brave men. They were also despicable, cutthroat, scandalous and depraved men. In short, they were in some ways just like us, but they were more capable. They moved mountains of goods and resources by sea on sailing ships. They amassed great wealth. Walk around historic Salem, you’ll see where they lived, and guess what, all the sights are free. The traders already paid for it.

Before you exhaust yourself, check in at the Peabody Essex Museum. This will cost you a little bit of money, but it is well worth it. It is certainly one of the state’s finest museums. It is well-staffed. The curators and other personnel are professional and courteous; there is no barrage of info or herding. We saw one art exhibit and an artifact display, but I most enjoyed the Yin Yu Tang House, the premier exhibit in the museum’s permanent collection. First I want to point out that this house, an actual home built and lived-in in China up until 1980, is very aptly suited to the museum because of Salem’s interest in and preservation of its own old homes.

The Yin Yu Tang house was built around 1800 and was the continuous home of eight generations of the Huang family before being sold and transported in its entirety to Salem. The Huangs were shopkeepers and tradesmen, not the wealthy aristocrats of Salem, but still a respectable and financially secure family. What is most remarkable about the Huang family home are its dissimilarities to our own homes. It has doors and rooms and roofs and windows and stairways, but that’s about where the similarities end. This is like no place I have ever been. It is a literal and metaphoric door into another world. I could not have dreamed it up. I am not interested in spoiling it for you. Go. See it. Take your time. I’m going back.

We were only there for 26 hours, but somewhere in that timeline we drove to Winter Island, a small harbor island connected by a bridge on a very short manmade neck. In addition to a handful of homes, the island sports a roomy Victorian mansion home for wayward boys (I wonder what the recidivism rate is) and an oddly named Wakiki beach.

Next land mass over, at the Salem Willows the remnant of an old style amusement park seems to be growing a little wilder, a little less interesting for its honky-tonk entertainment value and more interesting for its truer recreational potential, which I think is as a seaside pedestrian park. When we were there, all the shops were shuttered for the winter. The park was snow covered, even the trees looked cold so we decided to stay in the car, but then I spotted a fox. After it went down the boat ramp to the beach, I followed it on foot from a considerable distance. Fortunately I had my camera with me. What’s cool is how easy it is to keep an eye on a fox on a beach where there are only rocks to hide behind. And if I stood still when he looked toward me, he couldn’t see me. Back home in Hyde Park, a coyote (we have a surprisingly large population) will slip out of view in seconds, if he feels like it. The fox had a mangy looking tail, which is a bit of a disappointment considering how luxurious a good fox tail can be, but just the idea that I was sharing the beach with a fox made me feel good, not so inescapably trapped in the urban. Looks like another place I’ll be seeing again.

Finally, and fittingly we stumbled on one of those incredible restaurants that plug away day after day serving a hundred or two people with very little fanfare but with a tremendous amount of grace and true class. It was an accident. One of us said she was hungry. We turned to read the menu on the storefront wall and the man walking in front of us stopped, held the door and practically ushered us in. His manner implied that there was no place else we could possibly be going. He was right. Red’s Sandwich Shop is just about the best restaurant I have ever found by accident. I never saw an ad, never read a word, never heard a review, a comment, a whisper or a clue. No sir. This was pure luck. It just so happens, I love sea bass, my wife does too. Seared sea bass, 6oz at least, cold beet and fennel salad on a bed of raddichio, a cup of unseasoned, perfectly cooked brown rice...$6.95 We’ll take two. No joke, Feb 18, 2010. $6.95 I wanted to order four and take two to go, but I decided not to indulge my greed. Even more amazing was that there were about eight other specials on a par with that one.

Their menu says that they won an award for the best breakfast in Salem for 23 consecutive years running and in fact there was a fellow diagonally across the aisle, an obvious regular, who ordered bacon and waffles, but I didn’t even care...the lunch could have been half as good for $6.95 and I’d go back.

Then we went home. Less than an hour away by car, around a gallon of gas, about 20 miles. I can do it on my bike in less than 90 minutes. Goodbye Salem. Hello Salem, now I know you’re there.

One more thing Salem, for ignoring you for all these years, I want to say I’m sorry and thank you for taking me back, no questions asked. Would you mind ditching that Halloween costume?

Hats Talk

2010-01-30T21:02:00.000-08:00

When I was still a young man, I realized that I would go bald. My father was bald, my mother, sparse. My father’s father, a cue ball. My oldest brother, ten years my senior, was hairless by the time he was thirty.

I liked my hair but I was going to lose it. Not that I had much choice, but I decided to embrace it. That was made easier when I realized that the most important women in my life all loved bald men.

My hairline began to recede in my early twenties, right on schedule. By the time I was twenty six my hair was half gone. I bought a pair of electric clippers and learned to cut what was left as deftly as a barber. No more appointments for me. I washed it with bar soap. Later, on the advice of a dermatologist, I switched to a mild dish detergent. I don’t think it made a difference to my scalp, but it was cheap enough; a single two dollar bottle lasts almost two years. When it’s shorn close, the wind caused by stepping out of the shower blows it dry.

Baldness is a cinch. To me, a man without hair looks just right, while a man with hair looks odd, almost artificial. I’m not passing judgment, just saying, a head of hair on a man over fifty makes me laugh. Sorry guys, your hair is lovely, but I feel for you: cut, color, comb, what a pain in the neck. I’m not surprised that more people don’t shave their heads, but not having hair was a pleasant surprise, and is a genuine pleasure.

Still, despite acceptance, baldness comes with a few minor insecurities. Do I look older than I feel? Does my wife like my baldness as much as I do? How about women who’ve never met me? Is the skin on my scalp healthy and attractive? Do I have a pleasant shaped head? What about corners or points? How about bumps? But easily the worst thing, in fact, the only drawback exclusive to being bald and what occasionally makes me wish I had hair is cold weather.

I knew this problem was coming because I had all those role models. So being a former boy scout who likes to be prepared (yes, I wore one of those vintage boy scout hats that are pointed at each end and come to a peak), I started wearing hats long before I lost my hair. It gets cold in New England. I bought no-names and brand names: Stetsons, Kangols, Capas, and every style I could lay my hands on. I wore dress hats, cowboy hats, fedoras, caps, crushers, outback hats, skullcaps, headscarves, do-rags and stocking caps. They were cotton, felt, wool, leather, linen, canvas and hemp. Anything. Everything. Hats from Russia, India, Nepal, Pakistan, Europe, Africa, North America, South America, anywhere, everywhere. Almost.

Of course, if you know me, you know where this is going. No hat was right. None of them felt like hair. I was always aware of having a particular one on and they each made a statement that I didn’t want to make. Embarrassing or serious or funny. Take baseball caps for example. If you wear one everyday, after a while it becomes part of your persona. I couldn’t be so casual, so acceptable, so ordinary. I wanted people to look at me and form an opinion, even a bad one. I couldn’t be just another guy in a baseball cap. Every other hat seemed to have its own personality too, and after trying each one out, I decided I didn’t like it. This went on for years, so I gave up a lot of hats. Some I wore for a while, some just for a day, or a week. Some I wore until they fell apart, but not too many. Of course I still have some because they are special or perfect for a particular job or event. On the coldest days I still wear a nice thick stretchy wool hat that pulls way down over my ears. In the brightest summer sunlight I like a broad brim that keeps the rays off my head and neck. I can picture myself in Mexico, sleeping against a whitewashed wall, white cotton everything, droopy straw hat and three-day’s growth of beard and mustache. What a hat that would be! Under my bicycle helmet I wear a red headscarf, scorpion adorned, and to a funeral I will often wear either a black or a gray fedora with a black hat band. Hats talk.

Probably because I like being bald, I didn’t realize how much I wanted a main hat, a hair substitute. One brilliant, sunny day on Cape Cod, my wife and I were walking around the Wellfleet flea market with our kids. I was about thirty. My hat obsession was well into its seventh year. As usual, we were looking over the hat table and to my shock and dismay she picked up a beret and handed it to me. I shook my head and put it down, not a beret, I had ruled them out a while ago, I had a navy blue one at home in my closet. I circled around the table a couple of times and then went back to it. I picked it up again, showed it to her as if she hadn’t already given me her opinion, hoping she would say no, I even gave her my sad eyes, but she nodded. Yes, she said. Try it on.

You have to understand, not only was this a beret, something I considered too French and effeminate, but this particular beret was red, --no, gorgeously, unashamedly, magnificently, in-your-face red. How could I wear that? I looked around, hung my head a little, saw that no one was paying any attention and slipped it on. I adjusted it with a little twist of the wrist, tipped it jauntily down toward my right ear and then was distracted by my kids. As you might know, kids in a flea market require a lot of attention, especially toddlers, so I did my job and that’s when the miracle happened.

I forgot that I was wearing the hat. Literally forgot. No one had noticed me put it on and when I walked away from the table, chasing after my kids, no one hollered. No one asked me for money, my kids didn’t say anything, my wife was otherwise occupied and I was wearing a completely comfortable, apparently invisible, bright red stolen beret. Eventually I remembered that it was on my head, realized how natural it felt there and found the vendor and paid him his asking price. Usually I dicker at the flea market, but the hat was two dollars. Yup, I found my hair replacement and it cost me two dollars. I’ve been wearing it ever since. Little babies love it. It catches their eye; I’m the only man they know with truly red hair. As for adults, other men probably hate it, but they admire the chutzpah that it takes to wear it and much to my delight, women know a man when they see one in any color hat, but especially in a red one.

Finally, the first one wore out, and I’ve had to spend a little more since then, but I bought one for five dollars from a street vendor in New York about eight years ago. Sometime in between I bought one from a retail-clothing store. It was in the women’s section. There might have been one other, but I think that’s it. Twenty five years, maybe twenty bucks, four actual hats and I still have two of them, which is what prompted me to write about this in the first place. I have two of them and they are different.

One is a little smaller than the other and a little lighter, they’re both definitely red, but you know how color is, the slightest variation stands one out against the other. I prefer the smaller one. I like its slightly faded color, its barely wider band, its thicker little nub at the top, they’re like your hair’s characteristics, untamed cowlick, left flip on the right side, widow’s peak, gray roots, but no one else even knows that I have two, that there’s a difference, and that it matters to me which one I’m wearing. I don’t think my wife knows the difference, or if she does, it makes no difference to her. But these hats are my hair, I know how each looks and feels, and I prefer to wear my hat just so. I tease people with hair about vanity, but obviously I’m vain too, it’s just that I can take my vanity off or put it on at will and no one suspects a thing.

Today I washed them both and laid them out flat. See, look at these. Different hats. I probably won’t wash them again for a year. Right now I have to wait for them to dry. In the meantime, I’ll be bald.

Brown Study

2010-01-20T07:55:00.000-08:00

I thought about voting for Scott Brown. I wouldn't say that I came close to voting for him, but I considered the idea without horror, so I think I understand why so many people did. Oddly enough, it is one of the same reasons I voted for Obama; I am not happy with the status quo.

In the Massachusetts senate race the choices, profoundly divergent, were also profoundly limited. After Alan Khazei, a truly independent voice was eliminated in the primary, we were left with either Coakley, a cipher of the Democrats, or Brown, a Sarah Palin Republican with wit and brains. Martha, the status quo, or Scott, the attractive symbol of change. In Massachusetts we like to think of ourselves as being leaders in the fray, keepers of the keys to liberty, wise in the ways of politics, a place for the nation to look when it has lost its way. We have relished being the birthplace of the Adamses, the abolitionists, the Kennedys, a lone voice against Nixon, a strong arm in the election of Barack Obama. So why did we elect a right wing conservative? Change.

After eight wearying years of George Bush during which even staunch Republicans became disillusioned, we needed change. We were tired of being a rogue nation on the world stage that would sooner die than reach accord on inconvenient ideas like climate change in which we could be singled out as one of the chief offenders. We were tired of Bush's secrecy, his unlimited spending in a cause we never fully understood or supported, his continued assault on privacy and his imperious disregard of international conventions and the laws of our own land. We were tired of his handling of the economy, our houses becoming worth less and we were angry that our banks and bankers were acting like rich, spoiled brats with no parental discipline. We needed change.

Obama promised change and we embraced him with both arms. Daddy, welcome home. Father Abraham, where have you been? Conservatives and liberals slapped each other's backs and gloried in our stand against racism, our historic venture into the vast potential of a post-racial landscape. Look, world, we are Americans, there is no place like this anywhere else on the planet. It was a prideful moment, but as pride often has a way of doing, it blinded us to our own motives. We were looking for Abraham Lincoln when we would have been better off with Franklin Roosevelt. Although it is still possible, change is a tricky master and Obama has not yet figured out how to lead it.

That is no more evident than in Massachusetts where there is already a universal state health insurance plan signed into law by a Republican, where banks have not failed, where unemployment is under 10% and declining, where, until last night, not a single Republican graced its congressional delegation. Despite all of the apparent good news here, people still want change. I want change, I can feel it deep and inarticulate burning within me. The Obama revolution, which promised to speak it, is still burning inside me without a voice. So I asked myself, what change do I want? Is Scott Brown going to bring the change I want? My answer was no, so I voted for Coakley because her party's positions are more closely aligned with my own. But far many more people, independents like me, said yes.

Yes, they said, we want change. We don't like the way that our politicians behave. In Massachusetts we have seen the results when a single party controls it all. We have watched politics as usual become corruption as usual. We know what the party can do when the party is the only party. In Massachusetts, you are either a party member or you are on the outside. Outside your own government. There is no dialogue, no loyal opposition, no consideration or deliberation. It's a lot like George Bush's government all over again; you're either with us or against us. Martha Coakley embodied that and she took it for granted that that was enough to win the election. In fact as she began to lose control, a control she never really had, and all of the national Democrats came pouring into the state to rescue her from herself, the Republicans came here for the opposite reason. They came to ride the wave behind a man who stood up on his surfboard, bronze and tan in the Massachusetts winter and said that he was the new voice of change.

Sadly, people believed him. Gridlock will go on. Incivility will continue to fester. Money will continue to rule. Perhaps now even more than ever. Scott Brown is the color of the day, another change in shoes who will no doubt become a part of the business as usual machine. Scott Brown is not a voice for change because neither the Republicans nor the Democrats can be the voice of change. They are just different sides of the same old coin.

Tiger Mauls Owner

2009-12-02T13:48:00.000-08:00

First, I’d like to make one thing clear: I’m a hypocrite. No question. I’m not proud of it and when my kids or my wife point it out, I’m not always easily convinced, but that doesn’t change anything. I’m still a hypocrite and after a few seconds, maybe a few minutes, sometimes a day or two, I’ll finally come around and recognize how right they are. Sometimes I repeat the same mistake over and over again. The lessons aren’t easy to learn, but that’s one of the lessons, right? Learn from my mistakes. Grow, mature, improve. Hopefully.

Does that protect me from further criticism. No. So if you don’t like the rest of this commentary, have at it, lay into me. I deserve it.

Here’s what you deserve. You’re a fool. You are disappointed by Tiger Woods, you expected more from Roger Clemens, you can’t believe that David Ortiz took performance enhancement drugs. You think that Manny Ramirez is a decent man just because he is the greatest natural hitter to play the game since Ted Williams, another splendid spoiled brat who thought that he was a better specimen than the rest of us. You’re buying it. You think that there are some people who are so much better than the rest of us at what they do that when they prove susceptible to the illnesses wrought by money and fame, you’re surprised. Worst of all, it matters to you. After all, you say, they’re the role models for your kids.

You’re a fool. You pay big money to watch the world’s best athletes. You subscribe to the sports networks, you get a warm feeling when your athlete wins. You buy products that they endorse. You think that their name imbues your sneakers with skill, perseverance and grace. You wear their swoosh where everyone can see, you glory in their image, you admire their likeness. They mean something to you. You’re the role model and you are a fool.

Your son or daughter aspires to their fame; that would be one way to get your attention. You don’t have a library worth a damn but you have season tickets to the Sox. You skip the PTA meeting because the game is on. You don’t ask them how they are feeling, what they are doing in school, who they are spending time with, but you soak up everything written about the latest Belichik scheme, the weaknesses in the secondary, the machinations of the people who talk about the people who manipulate the people who play professional sports. You are a fool.

Here’s my recommendation to you. Shut it all off, until you heal and can see athletes for what they really are. Stop making high school, college and professional sports a transcendent priority. Don’t buy tickets, heck, don’t take free tickets. Don’t buy their foolish jerseys, don’t wear their caps, don’t buy the newspaper to read the sports page, don’t listen to sports talk on the radio, unplug ESPN, take up your own sport, play with your own kids, get the skinny on physical education in the sixth grade. Don’t be such a fool just because Tiger can hit a stupid little ball further and more accurately than anyone ever before. Can he teach you anything truly worthwhile? Tiger Woods, the idol, doesn't really matter.

Before Reading a New Biography of Lincoln.

2009-11-08T06:16:00.000-08:00

Lincoln endures. I have a new biography in hand, A. Lincoln by Ronald C. White. I’m excited to begin. I wonder what he’ll bring to Lincoln, what he’ll offer, what he’ll attribute, how he’ll try to humanize him.

I've been trying to understand Abraham Lincoln for quite a while. I read my first biography of him when I was a boy, and he has been my hero ever since. It sounds funny to me, odd, for an adult to have a hero, but it’s true. When a significant new biography of Lincoln comes out, I usually manage to get my hands on it pretty quickly. I never tire of reading the basic facts of his life and I love the nuances that almost always lead to the same conclusions. I haven’t read anything new lately. I think the last one I read was by David Herbert Donald. It was magnificent. With my apologies to a great writer, a Lincoln biography written well can’t help but be magnificent.

In my mind, my father shared the heroic pedestal with Honest Abe for a long time, but Dad had a natural advantage; he was flesh and blood and loved me personally. We hugged each other. He grew up in a poor family in a small Midwestern town, was a proud descendant of William Bradford, was farmed out by his parents for money at an early age, performed very well in school, worked on the Mississippi River, left home, fell in love with and married my mother, put himself through college while in the service, sired nine children and gave up his own financial security in the process, started and ran his own business for decades, expressed his opinions comfortably, taught me how to camp and hunt, gave me his great spelling genes and his easy smile, failed at one or two very important things and survived. That was the nub of what he taught me. He learned his lessons and grew. Ultimately, he changed; it wasn’t easy, life’s lessons can be hard to face, but he did and as a result, he changed and that was also the essence of Lincoln. Learn. Acknowledge. Change.

For a long time I thought my father and Lincoln looked alike. Dad was tall, his face was weathered and lined, but other than those few similarities, they didn't look alike at all. Not really. Dad was bald, but much better looking, especially as a young man when compared to the recently discovered photo of Lincoln in which he appears haughty and possibly even conniving, much like a Dickensian villain. Yet Lincoln grew into his face right up to the end when in the last photos taken shortly before his assassination, his expression spills over with love and compassion. His eyes seem to embrace, understand, forgive and even see deep into the future; after all he looks directly into my soul two hundred years after he was born.

Is that fair? Can a few photographs reveal the soul of a man so thoroughly? If he had not risen from poverty, had not fought the Civil War, penned the Emancipation Proclamation, delivered the Gettysburg address, had not been murdered at the height of his success would I see love and sadness in his eyes? Does everyone see what I see, or is it simply that I need the tales and personality, the power and the myth, his willingness to make the ultimate sacrifice more than do other people? Is it possible that now when both men are dead that Lincoln loves me as much as my father loves me? I think so. In fact I think that in some ways Lincoln loves me more.

When I’m feeling small, unsafe, my father’s ready smile and big warm hands are talismans of memory that I can conjure to feel more secure. When I am demoralized by the latest political scandal or the degradation of politics in general, Lincoln rejuvenates my hope. These days politicians on the left and on the right seem to fall all over themselves to embrace Lincoln, to be seen as his heir. It’s a sign of recognition, an acknowledgement that there is a transcendent ideal that at least inspires voters if not the politicians themselves. Because of that, Lincoln has almost as much impact on my day-to-day life as my father’s warm smile and ready hand.

So I will read this 676 page tome with great interest and try to look at Lincoln anew, but I don’t really expect to find anything new. It never fails, a writer intends to tell us about Lincoln the man, and publisher’s blurbs proclaim the latest insights, Lincoln resurrected, but inevitably the author ends by telling us how unlike other men he was and confirms what we already believe. Lincoln was a better man.

I also want to be a better man, but I’ve always been slow to give up my own misconceptions, so I’ll go on reading the biographies, looking for a way into Lincoln that I can pass on to my children. After all, they should know their father.

A conversation with my grandson

2009-11-07T07:35:00.001-08:00

My grandson asked “What’s in it for a good man?” as if I’d know. It took me by surprise, such a sophisticated question, and not for the first time the thought of lying crossed my mind.
"Let's talk about a thief, a bad man. Maybe we can get to it in a round about way. What’s not in it for a good man is a question I can handle better.” I replied.
“A thief isn’t welcome in his own family, and though he might be loved, his mother hugs the boy he was, not the man he has become. And if he has a girlfriend or maybe even gets married, his girlfriend or wife will want his money, which she rightly knows is not his, and so she knows she has as much claim on it as the thief.”

“Oh, but it is his, isn’t it? He stole it? No?”

“Yes, he stole it, and that's why it will never be his.”

“I get it, but he can give it to his friends and it will be theirs, won't it?”

“A thief’s friends are thieves. They are the only ones who accept him for what he has become because they want the same acceptance, something they realize is hard to find and that they can't steal. They sell their friendship for friendship.”

"I am friends with my friends."
"Yes, you are."
"So does that mean I buy my friends with friendship?"
"Only if you would stop being a friend to someone who doesn't promise his friendship in return."
He thought about that for quite a while.
"That's hard to know."
"It's something we find out about ourselves as we go along."
“But the thief has friends?”

“Yes, but mostly they are thieves, so he can’t trust them. They aren’t the same kind of friends a good man has. And anyway, he can't tell the difference.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“No, but that gets at what's really in it for a good man. I guess you could say it's things that are not things.”

“Like what?”

“Real friendship. Trust. Love.”

“But what about money?”

“What about it?”

“Can a good man have money, lots of money?”

“Yes, but good money is the hardest kind of money to earn.”

“What does THAT mean? I thought money was all the same.”

“Money that was never stolen, that never comes from a thief, that didn’t harm anyone in its travels from palm to palm, is rare money indeed.”

“How can a good man tell?”

“Sometimes it’s obvious. The money of a thief, for example, is obviously rotten. But sometimes the money that paid the killer to kill gets spent in the supermarket and is used by the supermarket manager to hire the artist who designs the advertisements who spends the money to buy a chair that I built.”

“So is it all bad?”

“No, but mostly.”

“So why do you sell your chairs?”

“I need the money to live.”

“You need the thief?”

“I do.”

“That’s sad.”

“It is. That’s another thing in it for a good man.”
“What?”

“Sadness. Friendship, trust, love, AND sadness.”

The boy was helping me build a chair. He worked diligently sanding the legs, occasionally stopping to feel his work with his fingertips. He had a fine and delicate touch. His finished work was almost as good as my own.
“Grampa, am I a good man?”

“You’re still a boy, but you will be.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve seen the past.”

“I’m asking you about the future.”

“I know. It’s all the same.”

“No it isn’t. I haven’t been there yet.”

“I suppose not, but I have.”

“How could you have? You’re here now.”

“Yes, but I was you once and now I’m in your future.”

“Will you always be in my future?”

“I believe so.”

“I’m glad.”

“That’s good, gladness is another thing that’s in it for a good man.”
"Grampa, why do you tell me these things about a thief?"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean why a thief, why not a murderer or a liar or a cheater?"
"Well, they are all thieves."
"How do you know?"
"It's what they are. A murderer steals lives. A liar steals the truth. A cheater steals trust."
"Oh, I get it."
"Good. Can we go back to building this chair?"
"Yeah, one more thing. What do I do if I find out my friend is a thief?"
"I'm glad you asked, that's the hardest and the easiest thing. The easy thing is being friends with the part of him that isn't a thief. The hard part is figuring out what that part is."

Ernst Primeau

2009-10-19T00:45:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, I spent the afternoon with Ernst Primeau, who was an artist of some reknown, but who has recently, about a year ago, given up painting and is now lonely, miserable and in denial and whose son, Robert, has just returned from Europe to Boston to tell him of his marriage to a widow with three children and four grandchildren. Ernst is now a pissed off step great grandfather. He did not have much good to say, but his life stands up like a bleak backdrop against joy, a reminder of the meaning of love. I decided to try to write his story. He is cooperating, although quick to cast aspersions on me and everyone else. His story is underway. Maybe his outlook will improve before I'm done writing.

Health Care and Rugged Individualism

2009-08-31T07:03:00.000-07:00

In the debate over health care, it seems that the proponents of the status quo have an edge over the rest of us. I think it’s fair to say that their primary spokespeople are members of the insurance industry. In the main, they are not suffering a lack of care, nor are they victimized by high rates. As individuals they are covered by their own best products and profit from their sale. They are unlikely to be among the people who fall through the cracks of insurance coverage. They were the victors in opposition to the last national healthcare reform led by Hillary Clinton in the early 1990s. Their chief tactic was the dissemination of fear to all of the enfranchised parties: consumers, physicians, healthcare workers, pharmaceutical companies, equipment manufacturers, hospitals and HMOs. Additionally, they evoked the American spirit of independence and emphasized the success of free market capitalism in creating the most versatile, flexible, and dynamic economy in world history. They convinced a majority of people, from pundit to pauper that they would be best served by doing nothing. What an attractive choice! No wonder they’re at it again.

After reading David Brooks’ recent article regarding the late Senator Kennedy’s evolution as a lawmaker, I was struck by his assessment of the American character and his opinion that this is why we, as a nation, have resisted national healthcare. He writes:

“We in this country have a distinct sort of society. We Americans work longer hours than any other people on earth. We switch jobs much more frequently than Western Europeans or the Japanese. We have high marriage rates and high divorce rates. We move more, volunteer more and murder each other more.

Out of this dynamic but sometimes merciless culture, a distinct style of American capitalism has emerged. The American economy is flexible and productive. America’s G.D.P. per capita is nearly 50 percent higher than France’s. But the American system is also unforgiving. It produces its share of insecurity and misery.

This culture, this spirit, this system is not perfect, but it is our own. American voters welcome politicians who propose reforms that smooth the rough edges of the system. They do not welcome politicians and proposals that seek to contradict it. They do not welcome proposals that centralize power and substantially reduce individual choice. They resist proposals that put security above mobility and individual responsibility.”

I don’t disagree with Brooks in this characterization, but I believe it points the way for the next generation of healthcare reformers to show how national healthcare fits our character.

Healthcare is a unique kind of consumer "product." In its necessity to the pursuit of happiness it is like national defense, freedom to travel, free speech, clean air, clean water, the rule of law and private property. Without these we do not have a free society. Just imagine if we each had to contract different providers for each of these "products."

An individual’s freedom to change jobs is profoundly affected by a prospective employer’s health care plan or lack thereof. Our insurers dictate the kind of care we receive. The prices we pay for services are not the result of a free market where information is readily available, but by a byzantine and accidental cabal of government and insurance near-monopolies who adjust willy nilly to support an overall structure of profit and gain, often at the expense of health and almost always at the expense of transparency.

As an example of this, I ask you, and this is not meant rhetorically, does anyone know how much a mammogram costs? I use mammogram as an example because this is one of hundreds of diagnostic tools that is widely accepted and used throughout the country. It has been touted as the best way to detect early stage breast cancer. Insurance companies pay for it without question once a year. But what if a woman has a feeling a month after her annual check up that she should get another one, and her doctor disagrees, how would she go about getting one. If her insurer won’t pay for it, can she buy one? What will it cost? Who will administer it? Furthermore, does anyone know if a mammogram really works? Does anyone know if there is a risk to flattening a woman’s breast to the point of pain? Does anyone know if a mammogram is more effective than breast examination by a qualified physician? Is there a marketplace where these questions are answered?

In determining the price for a mammogram, like the price for anything, a seller of mammograms must take into account the cost of the machine, the cost of the service (which includes examination and administration), the cost of real estate, the cost of advertising, marketing, and modernization and the number of mammograms it will deliver. Within each of these costs there are deeper and hidden costs such as the upkeep of the machine, the education of the personnel, the tax on the real estate, the market study, etc. etc. etc. Over centuries, businesses have developed sophisticated techniques for managing and anticipating those costs. The price is set and in every component of that price, there is a built-in profit. For the most part, that is at it should be. It’s the American way. So how much does a mammogram cost? If you ask your HMO or your physician or your insurer, you’re bound to get different answers if you can get any answer at all. Healthcare is in a special marketplace not governed by typical rules.

While a healthcare provider can make many typical business assumptions, there are many it cannot make. For example, if a drug became available that could virtually heal breast cancer, the maker of that drug could expect, with an ordinary product in a traditional business model, to be able to charge an incredibly high price for it and quickly recoup its research and development costs. As the new treatment became more widely used and subsequently produced, the price would fall as production became cheaper. But in fact the reality is, if a company was to deny its customers a wonder-drug, we would decry its inhumanity and probably force it to forego the windfall profits so that our daughters and wives and mothers could benefit. We all want the benefits of healthcare breakthroughs and we all feel entitled to them. Additionally, we have come to a point in our cultural growth where we believe that denying those breakthroughs to others, especially children, is inhumane.

How do we manage this special situation? It’s fairly simple, a system that creates benefits for everyone should require everyone to pay. There is already a system in place for requiring everyone to pay; it’s called national income tax. We use it now to do the most American of things: national defense, enforce clean air and water standards, administer a national legal system and provide social security and healthcare to our oldest citizens. We even use it for arguably narrow interests such as the space program, the national endowment for the arts and national programs for higher education for our soldiers. We do not find these to be anathema to our self-definition. We all agree, it is as American as apple pie to pay for what we get. I posit that our national stubbornness in clinging to our outdated healthcare system comes not from an expression of our national character, but a denial of the principles we espouse, a failure of individuals to acknowledge our common humanity and a failure of our politicians to recognize and articulate the way in which universal healthcare rises to the greatest common good and guarantees individual mobility and personal responsibility.

Irony

2008-12-04T03:27:00.001-08:00

Barack Obama is the door through which black conservatives can walk.

President of Where?

2008-11-05T07:40:00.000-08:00

As a white man, I am heavily invested in the success of President Obama. His promise to create change resonates deeply in me, not only because I have been disappointed by the Republicans over the past eight years, but also because I feel personally victimized by race relations on a daily basis. As a shopkeeper in a predominantly black neighborhood, I know what distrust looks and sounds like. I know how skepticism acts when it's personified. I know how it feels to be greeted warmly or warily. I know how language divides and alienates. Perhaps that sounds like whining, especially when compared to the gross victimization of African Americans, but hear me out. I am not looking for compensation, or a bigger piece of the pie or a leg up, or any other special treatment. In fact, what I'm looking for is more of what I get from most people already, black and white, especially children, a look straight in the eye that says "Who are you?"

So far the change that has taken place is only in the degree to which people have decided that race ought not be the deciding factor in this election. The outcome is proof of that. But there ought to be more. Much more. I have heard pundits talk about Obama as a role model who young black boys can choose to emulate when the road diverges and the choice between good and bad behavior has to be made. I have heard black ministers extol the way that he has inspired young people of color to work for our American democracy. I have heard young black mothers enthusiastically proclaim that now they can tell their children that they can be anything they choose to be. This is all evidence of unmitigated success, but consolidation of that success depends on the next steps.

For the first time in the past 30 years, I have been engaged in intimate conversations with black people about American politics. Sure we talked about Bush and Kerry, Bush and Gore, about the peccadilloes of Bill Clinton, but not with enthusiasm, not with the intense interest that leads to a thirst for analysis and constant update, in other words, not in the way that we've been talking about Obama. That's new and fresh. It leads me to believe that maybe there's no turning back. Politics is addicting. I don't know anyone who has become completely disengaged after being thoroughly involved in a political race, especially a successful one. Yes, apathy has a way of working its evil into our system, particularly when there seems to be a great divide between the governors and the governed, but when a person has participated in an election and helped make something happen that seemed unlikely if not impossible, he'll never look at politics in the same way again.

There are subtler things at stake here, too. Subtler, yet far more profound that can transform America more completely than Obama's election. The realization of these depend on the continued engagement of blacks and whites in a dialogue about race and not race. A dialogue about rich and poor, about liberal and conservative, about religion, sexuality, defense, science, education and differences of opinion. That is what this historic election comes down to. That is what is at stake here. The chance we have right now is to move past the idea that a person's views can always be attributed to something beyond his or her control, as if knowing someone's color or religion or sexual orientation determines exactly how that person thinks and worse yet what they think of you. Because of Obama's election I am freed from being that white guy who owns the restaurant. Now I'm just the guy who owns the restaurant and my restaurant can be judged on the quality of the food it delivers, not the color of its owner.

When I'm standing in my shop and I greet a new customer, I can expect more than ever before. I can expect not to be seen as a white guy first, with all of that weight. I can expect to be seen as a man who might have voted for President Obama. No one can predict where I stand on an issue without getting to know me. As far as anyone knows, I didn't vote my race. The challenge of this presidency is to get all Americans thinking about every issue and working toward common values and uncommon success. Now that we have delved into talk about race we can also recognize that there's a lot that has nothing to do with race. Like buying a meal. Like owning a restaurant. In other words, maybe now we can start to take race in stride.

The sureness of that stride will depend on how we treat Obama's failures. He has inherited the toughest set of circumstances since FDR won the office, failures are bound to come. I'm invested in his success because now I can speak my mind about his failures without fear of being labeled a racist. And I can expect that the next time a black man or woman runs for office, black people won't feel compelled to vote for him or her because of color. Nor will they expect me not to vote for a person of color because I'm white. Tomorrow has finally come.

2008-09-05T15:47:00.000-07:00

Well Obama opted for experience and McCain opted for inexperience. Obama went left and McCain went right. Obama went old and McCain went young. Obama went male and McCain went female. Obama went inside Washington, McCain went outside Washington. Obama went pro choice. McCain went anti abortion. Each VP choice was primarily political in spite of each candidate professing to put country first...nothing about who would be best to run the country in the event it becomes necessary, although I would give the edge to Obama for Biden's experience and to McCain for pageantry and excitement.

I've been accused of pretending to be an independent. I'm not pretending. I am an independent and have voted Republican as often as Democrat. I voted for George H.W. Bush, it's only our latest version of Republican that truly upsets me and pretty girl is one of them...guns, bedrooms, money, oil, Christianity and jingoism are her themes...she just looks better saying it than all the others have. Kind of makes me want to gag, yet it's a stroke of political genius by McCain and has solidified the right wing of the party that was threatening to stay home. The right wing enthusiasm for this woman is just about the biggest pot of hypocrisy I have seen in a long time. Just put this shoe on the other foot and try to imagine how it would fit. And let me get this straight...McCain is a maverick? Huh? Bush's go to guy on the war, a maverick? Spin, spin, spin. This Republican party is the party of Karl Rove as described by George Orwell. Almost every time a pundit talks about McCain they bring up the maverick label, but good ol' boy John has been with George W. 95% of the time. Some maverick.

The fact is, Palin's nomination changes nothing in reality. The Republicans are still the warriors, the de facto big government spenders, the authors of the greatest infringement on civil rights in our lifetimes, the people who would drill and soak every drop of oil out of the ground rather than develop alternative energy, the global warming skeptics who believe in wishful thinking over science and the men and women who are afraid of other men and women loving each other, the people who would never abort a baby but certainly not pay it any special attention after it has been born, the people who have turned a surplus into the greatest debt in our history, who could have used that money to pay every mother who had an abortion a lifelong wage to keep and care for her baby. Based on conservative figures, we have already spent enough money in Iraq to give every mother $40,000.00 per abortion since Roe v. Wade was legalized. That's 40k for every abortion in the US since 1973! Do you think we could have cut those abortions in half with a little better education, health care and effort? Do you think the Republicans in power really care about eliminating abortion?

The Republican party of John McCain and Sarah Palin is the Republican party of George W. Bush not the Republican party of Colin Powell, or Dwight Eisenhower or even George H.W. Bush. This crop are mean spirited people who only learn to love and forgive and embrace differences and difficulties when they happen in their own immediate families and even then they have a hard time with empathy. These are people who believe in helping only people who help themselves; they think that people who are raised in the habit of helplessness and hopelessness are better off dead. These Republicans, and John McCain has been firmly ensconced in their center for a quarter century, have opened the income gap wider than at any time since prior to the great depression. Guess which side of the gap McCain is on. These are oligarchic capitalists who believe in the God-given right of the very few to take from the very many. These are the men in boardrooms who take huge payouts while their companies go down the drains or get bailed out by the feds. I'm not talking about small businessmen and women whose backs bear the burden of this economy. These are the people who created the savings and loan crisis in the 80's, and the credit crisis now. They believe in private profits as long as the risk is borne by the public. Free market my ass. These are greedy, greedy men.

Please don't let the abortion issue blind you to the life sucking policies of the morally and fiscally corrupt party currently on the right. I understand the deep moral quandary abortion creates and so do these cynical Republicans. The real party was hijacked by a few people for their own benefit using a smokescreen of social issues that they barely care about! C'mon, get the wool off of your eyes. Since Roe v. Wade was passed we have had five Republican administrations who haven't changed the law because the majority of Americans don't want the law changed and that includes plenty of Republicans. If you want the abortion law changed, convince the people who you live with, don't elect another fat cat who would just as soon send your son or daughter to die as he would threaten the Iranians and North Koreans. You might be able to convince me that abortion is immoral, but you'll never convince me that pre-emptive war is moral or that burning all the world's fuel is moral or that letting people drown because you don't want to spend the money teaching them how to swim is moral. And guess what? We need the government to help us change those things, we are in a collective mess and the way out is collectively. We need tax breaks for creative companies, we need help to buy solar panels, we need early childhood education, not for the rich, but for the poor, we need remedial education for those who fall through the cracks, we need universal health care. We need, we need, we need. Since we cannot shrink the government, we need an activist government that does a few things very well.

We need Muslims and Jews and Christians and Atheists and every variation of people to work on these problems together. Righteous Christians are selfless. Self righteous Christians are part of the problem. George W. Bush sold us a bill of goods on the back of so called religious values. He even hijacked Christianity! Don't be fooled again. Sarah Palin doesn't believe in abortion. So what, she believes in war and she doesn't believe in global warming. She thinks having a gun and being tough is important. She thinks that spending $720 million a day, $500,000 a minute, on war, John McCain's war, is just fine thank you. Fine.

I'm voting for Obama, he did pull himself up by his bootstraps with a little help from a strong mother and a country that was making an effort for people like him. He is the product of a society in which people of little means could rise to the top based on their effort. Too bad we don't live in that country anymore. The next Einstein could be a poor kid in Appalachia or NYC, but no matter how smart he is, he cannot make it on his own. He needs a measles shot or some other government sponsored handout like a polio inoculation, he needs cultural good will and access to education. And if he's smart enough to make it to the best colleges, he'll need help with the $200,000 tuition. He's the real American dream. Not any son or daughter of George W. Bush. We know they'll do fine. Oh and by the way, if he goes to war and gets hurt we should treat him in a network of premier hospitals not the substandard ones we currently maintain across the country which during recent Republican administrations have required their patients to sue for treatment of exposure to agent orange and for mental health counseling.

Speaking of veterans, what's John McCain's claim to fame right now? He can win the war we should never have started. That's right, he'll arm our soldiers better. He'll empower the generals, he'll make us strong again. Sorry John, I don't want an America that thinks the way to change the world is to beat it into submission and as far as I can see that's your only asset, you just might be able to do it. No thanks. I'll take my chances with the tax and spend Democrats, they look a damn sight better than the Republicans who aren't taxing us but are spending us into poverty while they let everything go to hell. They'll let our kids fix everything, even if they don't have the support or the money we grew up expecting. I'm sorry, she looks really good, but Sarah Palin is nothing but a pretty young face on an old man's ugly game.

A Badge for Emily

2008-08-29T05:47:00.000-07:00

It had been arranged. His first real kiss was scheduled to take place on the second floor in the town recreation center at the appointed time. He had never been there before, which was almost as concerning as the fact that he didn’t care if he kissed her or not. She wasn’t Myrna, after all, the girl he could stare at for hours.

The rec center turned out to be awful, the kiss not so bad, not punishment anyway. The center was almost empty. The Catholic school kids got out a half hour before the public school kids, but they rarely went to the rec center.

The room was bare. He wondered about that. Why did a rec center have a room with just a couple of couches, a table and a lamp? It didn’t make sense. He didn’t think that kids standing and sitting around talking could bring the room to life. He could understand why there were no pool tables; they were risqué, associated in some tangential way with cigarettes and whiskey, but why not a ping pong table? Or at least a TV? Anything would have been better than an empty room. Although it appeared that way, it seemed absurd to think that adults might have intended that this room would be specifically reserved for making out. He wondered if she was as nervous as he was.

They wore uniforms, so the clothing might have been of no consequence, but she was one of the early developers and her breasts had begun to push against the fabric of her shirt, opening a little space between the buttons. At least her bra did. He noticed that. There was talk among the boys and, surprising to him, among the girls too, about which of them stuffed her bra. What puzzled him most was that the girls needed to discuss it. Didn’t they just know? There was no talk about Emily; hers were undoubtedly real. But still, it looked like it was the bra that pushed on the shirt, not what was in the bra. He wouldn’t try to confirm that. Kissing was almost too much to contemplate, never mind the vague rest of it, which he knew would be happening soon enough. Too soon, maybe.

For some reason it didn’t make much difference to him where Emily was concerned. He never imagined what was under her bra, at least not in the eager way he daydreamed about Sarah or Cheryl, but especially Myrna, the Puerto Rican girl who looked like more like a woman, who would not settle for him or any of the boys in the class, although she did make it seem possible; she smiled so sweetly. All the boys wanted Myrna and her smooth coffee ice cream skin. They weren’t sure what it was they wanted, but she surely had it. And she didn’t even speak English. He imagined that was an obstacle that could be overcome. He thought language wouldn’t matter where love was sincere.

When Emily got to the rec room, she was just as clueless as he was. He thought she really liked him, but in retrospect he figured that maybe she was in it for the same thing that he was--get that first kiss under the belt, over with, gone. She certainly didn’t seem to be in love with him, not the jelly way love turned him stupid about Myrna.

After their rendezvous he and Emily were briefly regarded as a couple, “going out” was the term, but it had no basis in reality. They certainly never went anywhere together and they barely even talked in class or in the halls. The awkwardness of their first kiss, planted with great concern, finally blossomed into an abundant harvest of nothing. They didn’t talk on the phone, they didn’t meet at recess, they didn’t go to dances or even sit near each other in class.

He didn’t get it at first, but eventually he understood that their relationship, such as it was, was simply a fiction manufactured by the girls in the class, something that they wanted to be true, a successful product, not of desire, but of his own lack of resistance. In that, at least, he hoped Emily was a conspirator but he realized that no matter what he thought, theirs was primarily a public event, a class drama, something that they would act out privately and then each confirm publicly. He was a badge for Emily. He didn’t mind much, but he wondered what was in it for him since Emily was not also the badge he wanted to wear. That would have been Myrna. He figured that it had to be the kiss, so he put his mind to it, if not his heart.

The trek up the stairs to the rec room was uneventful except that he felt like an intruder. He was in the territory of the public school kids. The Protestants. This was a godless place. A reason why Protestants advocated birth control and its matter of fact existence made the upcoming kiss seem even more sterile. There was no giving in or sneaking away, no delicious infraction or naughtiness. Their kiss would not be the least bit illicit. It was an appointment. It was going to be clinical, deliberate, and efficient.

The first thing they did was sit down on the cold leather couch. It crinkled and squeaked. It was bad enough that they squirmed, but this particular bit of squirming had a sound track. He remembered being happy that it wasn’t also hot.

As was the fashion, Emily’s skirt was short. Her bare legs were whiter than he remembered. He thought her face was interesting, not beautiful by any means, but not ugly either. It was roundish, kind of heart shaped. Her lips were plump. He didn’t care for them much but he knew that the girls regarded them as something special.

He wondered just exactly how to go about kissing her. If she’d had any experience, he knew he would look stupid if he pretended that he’d also had some. He decided to throw himself on her mercy at the outset, tell her that he had never done anything like this before and see how she reacted. It was a good strategy. She looked relieved. She said that she had never kissed anyone either, at least not in the way that they were intending to kiss, which was with their tongues. He had already confirmed that, asked her if that’s what she wanted to do.

French kissing. French kiss. He liked the sound of that. It didn’t quite rise to immorality, but it was close. There was something about the French, he knew, but he didn’t know what it was. There was a girl who had stayed with his older, married sister for a while during the previous summer. She was his age, French, she couldn’t speak a word of English but that didn’t stop her from getting her message across or him from understanding it. Her voice was like a love song, but not in a way that he could articulate. She was simply not like the girls he knew. By the time he had decided that he would try to kiss her, she was waving goodbye at the airport. Yes, indeed, a French kiss sounded like just the right thing even if it was going to be with Emily.

So they sat down beside each other and traded stories of their nervousness-- even nervous about that, they abruptly stopped talking. By then he hoped that she would have aroused some feeling in him, some urge to compel him to put his arm around her, but he felt nothing. His thoughts were clear though and he knew that she would expect his arm so he draped it over her shoulder and turned her face toward his. She acquiesced easily and he said something about it feeling like the right thing to do. He thought maybe she misunderstood; he worried that she might believe he had feelings for her. Rather than clarify he decided to let it drop and inched his lips closer to hers. He could see her freckles, feel the thickness of her hair as he put his hands on her head. Everyone in his family had very soft, very thin hair. Hers was luxurious, dark and curly. He wondered if she was German or what exactly.

He and his brother, very close in age, shared a room. Once, when they laid on their backs and hung their heads over the sides each on his own bed facing the other so that his hair hung down toward the ground and his upside down face turned the other into an alien, they stuck out and touched tongues across the small divide between the beds. It was an irresistible and thoroughly repugnant moment. Occasionally after that, one would say to the other, “Let’s touch tongues.” And they would almost always do it with thrilling repulsion until they outgrew it. It was fine practice. It had inured him to the potential of Emily’s tongue.

Emily, who lived nearby, had signed up for the room in advance and when she arrived she reported that hers was the only name in the book. They would be alone. They had plenty of time. Too much, really. Only a minute or two had passed when he leaned in toward Emily’s face, found her hair with his hands, noticed the fullness of her lips, the enormous size of her brown eyes looking back at him. Only a second or two followed before he kissed her, closed mouth, on the lips and then drew back, then suggested that they try it with their tongues, which they did and then a few seconds more while they did it again. The whiteness of her legs lit the room. He knew that she was doing whatever he wanted and he felt the great enormity of the thing flattening him. He was responsible for her pleasure and since he was feeling nothing and she was reflecting that entire nothing back at him, he felt a profound sense of disappointment. He thought they were done. She agreed. Was that all there was to it? Was that what everyone got so excited about? He hoped that they had done it wrong. He hoped that she would forgive him. He thought she looked as though she felt exactly like he did. She only said “Now we are ‘going out.’ ” He nodded solemnly.

Myrna left school mid-year. There were rumors that she had a much older boyfriend. Someone found out that she was 15. She had gotten pregnant and had to leave. Though he tried, he couldn’t imagine the conversation that must have taken place between the nuns and her parents. Perhaps no one said anything because all of them must have known what was what. How does a fifteen year old get pregnant? Maybe she didn’t have parents. He was disappointed and relieved, felt as though he had escaped an awful fate. After the initial whispering, none of the girls talked about it. It was not an event.

Fable

2008-07-30T06:47:00.000-07:00

Way down in the land of good, or over or up, whatever your perspective, lives a woman, or a man or a child, who has never been tested.

This woman is exceptionally ugly or beautiful or ordinary, but because beauty or lack thereof in the land of good is neither here nor there, it is almost not worth remarking except that visitors to the land of good always remark. And the remarks often sound like these:

Oh, did you notice how ugly she was?

He was far too ordinary for my taste.
My, what a lovely child!

And when the visitors leave, they almost always say that the land of good isn’t what they had expected, not nearly as bad. You might think it strange that people expect the land of good to be bad, but if you consider that people in general are not looking for good and are almost always surprised by it, then you will begin to understand.

The untested woman, child, boy, girl, man, ugly, lovely, whatever lives near the entrance of the land of good and on occasion looks longingly out into the wider world. Perhaps this too, seems strange, but again it’s important to consider that looking is a very good thing and longing is a very fine emotion. All good.

The child decides to leave the land and venture out into the wider world. Still good. Everyone agrees, a child should go out into the world, especially bad people who stand at the door of the land of good waiting for innocent children, naïve teenagers and complacent adults to step across the line. Bad never has to wait long because the people of the land of good believe that experience is good even when it’s bad. To put it another way, in the land of good, bad is as important as good; good wouldn’t exist without bad and so therefore, bad is good.

In general this is a confusing concept and so some people, particularly those who live outside the land of good, try to adhere very strictly to the rules of good in order to gain permanent resident status. They punish people who are not good, which is both good and bad. They teach their children about a very narrow road that leads into the land of good and they scold them whenever they venture off the road. Again, good and bad. These people, almost all adults, are generally very good people, but alas, they don’t understand what the people in the land of good, almost all children, know almost without thinking, namely that bad is good, and too good is very bad.

The test, obviously, is to learn how to accept the bad with the good. Very few people can do it, but very few out of 6 billion, say one in a thousand, still add up to 6 million. Not bad. The trouble is that the percentage is steadily declining, in fact it has been declining since the creation of people and that group which had started out as a very large percentage, is rapidly falling. Not good. The good news is that so far, the population is growing so fast that the real number of good people hasn’t gone down, but no one knows how long we can keep that up. All the evidence suggests that the land of good has a crisis on its hands, which as you can imagine is both bad and good.

It’s good because it usually takes a crisis for meaningful change to take place, but bad because a crisis means that some good people are going to be hurt in the process. In fact, the crisis has caused many good people to act uncharacteristically bad, for example, many good people have become dogmatic trying to protect the land of good and many bad people have altogether given up trying to enter the land of good. What was once in balance is now out of whack. In fact some things have gone so far out of whack that most people don’t know what’s good or what’s bad, which isn’t as bad as it seems because it makes the test fairer and a little bit easier to pass.

By the way, did I say that tests are both good and bad?

You'll Barely See It Coming

2008-04-08T05:32:00.000-07:00

On Friday late, closing time in the restaurant, I met a woman with a little time on her hands who ordered a meal, ate it, but wouldn't leave until she told me about her homemade cookies which she was marketing, and I, being an expert, was to judge for myself these self-described treasures. She would bring me some. She paid with a bad credit card, then after a blank look and a little bit of confusion gave me a good one and carefully put the bad one away, in her left pocket. She put the good one into her wallet.

After the meal she came to sell me the cookies, but she said her meal was bad, threw it away, couldn't say exactly what was wrong, it was gone, but she would gladly fish it out of the trash to show me, for my expert opinion. I wondered if she thought I should taste it. She was very friendly. I didn't believe her about the meal, after 30 years in this business you get a sense about people and food, but I gave her an apple, no charge, and then when she asked for a cup of tea, I felt even more sure that she was lying about the meal, and that she just wanted something for nothing, but I wasn't in the mood to fight, so I gave her that, too. Then she brought up the cookies again. I nodded, agreed to taste them, seemed the best way to move her along, I think she would have contested any other strategy, or worse yet, elaborated on her methods. So I nodded again. She was undeterred. Asked me my name, said she'd drop them off for me. I hoped she'd forget. She acted like she knew me. From way back. There was something about her, too familiar, inappropriate, I don't know what else, but she wasn't alright.

Was it Alzheimer's? Or another form of dementia, I wondered, the lines are so fuzzy who can tell, although Alzheimer's is always my first guess, so much publicized it's a well marketed disease that we all think we have. Memory loss is such a tricky thing. We plan to avoid Alzheiner's if we can, but in spite of crosswords, sudoku, writing other-handed, learning to ride a unicycle, writing exacting poetry, and other shaman's tools for sanity, I don't see very much hope of fooling the reaper. It's coming baby, and if we don't get it, someone we love will. It's part of the triple threat, cancer, heart disease, Alzheimer's, the triumvirate of deadly diseases. I'm going to get one. You too, probably. God, whatever happened to dying peacefully in our sleep?

We shall see. I think.

Questions

2008-03-02T12:44:00.000-08:00

Lately I've been asking myself how we, as a nation, determine public policy. I've been wondering if we have some very basic, nearly universal national beliefs. Of course there is bound to be some uniquely different point of view, and I grant you that the unique view might be the right one, but for now, I'm just trying to get at something that everyone I talk to will agree on. The true family values, if you will. Values that transcend political parties, that are at least implied by every religious and ethical construct and are considered "good." Yes, simply put, I want to know what we all consider good.

The first way I've tried to approach this is by looking at what I consider good for me and my family. We need enough to eat. We need a place to sleep. We need to be safe. We need love. We need healthcare. We need education. We need freedom to pursue all of these things.

The implications of holding needs in common are several. First, we recognize a shared humanity. Second, we recognize shared goals. Third, we recognize shared impediments. Interestingly enough, the shared needs also require us to recognize that our degree of interest in all of these things are individual. I do not need as big a house as you. I need a higher degree of education to do my job. She needs a kidney transplant. This points toward a need we didn't assert previously. We need to be individuals. We need to be different simply because we are, in the same way that we need to breathe air because we do.

In America, providing for needs, including those held in common with all of our fellow citizens, has largely been the responsibility of the individual. We do have a publicly funded education system, but its quality has been suspect for some years now and private schools have flourished because unlike public schools, they produce consistent, dependable results and are answerable to their constituents. Fire and police departments and the military keep us more or less safe, but with very few guarantees, witness our high murder and violent crime rates vis-a-vis other Western nations. The judicial system keeps us free, but there too, the system has always worked best for an individual when private money supplements the public structure. Who, with money, will choose a court appointed attorney? And then of course there are health care and housing, two needs left almost entirely up to the individual. A poor person cannot live without the fear of homelessness or the uncertainty of health care.

What is different about those that puts them into the less funded category? Why do we not guarantee housing? Why do we not guarantee healthcare? Why aren't our taxes, which are used to fund all manner of things, not used for universal health and shelter? Do we really not hold those needs in common? Are there people who would opt out of good health or a place out of the elements? Or more importantly, are there people who think that there are others who don't deserve those things? When we leave these things unfunded and instead spend money on the arts, scientific research, or entertainment, are we shirking our most basic responsibilities to each other? I think so.

I love the arts. I want to see artists thrive. I love science, I want new discoveries and improved everything. I love sports and get a kick out of competition and entertainment. But all of those are gravy. I don't understand why meat and potatoes are kept from us while gravy is paid for. Should we be gilding the state house, funding historical research, anthropological digs, street art, infrastucture around stadiums, luxury waste disposal, gambling and gaming, and etc. when there is a child without a roof, without a healthy environment, without a teacher? An adult who can't read, who doesn't know the basics of good nutrition, who can't love her child the way that she wants because she is working so many hours that she doesn't have the time?

Why are thing so broken? Is it possible to reallocate tax money so that those things which we all agree are our collective first priorities are funded before anything else? Do we have to start all over again? Is that even possible? Are there alternatives that will produce the results we want? Can we imagine starting from scratch? Is there anyone willing to give up everything to take the chance that we can do it a lot better if we start again? Has it ever been tried at a state level? Do the successful European nations teach us anything, or is their star rising on our investment in their safety? Is it even possible to extend the needs of a family to the nation at large?

On Being Black

2008-02-24T07:53:00.000-08:00

Recently, thanks to the candidacy of Barack Obama, there have been a spate of "blackness" assessments. Frequently, and I suppose that it's the color of his skin and the simple fact of his success, Obama has been criticized for being less than genuinely black. I can't quite grasp the meaning of this criticism, but what I generally take away from such an indictment is that the person making the argument is black and disagrees with Obama in some way or other that the accuser finds repugnant. In that case, Obama's lack of blackness is regarded as "wrongheadedness" which furthermore must be due to too much white pigment, after all, he had a white mother.

Let's step back a minute and see if we can figure out exactly what blackness is and isn't. First, I think we can quickly rule out color in its most visual meaning. The darkest skinned African, perhaps a Rwandan, or an Eritrean, who has managed to escape his native country, done what it takes to become an American citizen, worked his proverbial butt off and is now buying and developing real estate, feels no impediment from his color especially when compared to the difficulties of being in a war ravaged society, and does not identify with black Americans and their historical struggle, is not genuinely black. At least not in the American sense. This person has money, has been enfranchised with the right to vote, is taking advantage of the rules of law, including those against discrimination, is thrilled with being here and is acting more like a European immigrant than a typical black American. Maybe his children will experience something different, maybe not. But okay, if I buy that then maybe the litmus test for blackness is slave ancestry.

Let's take a look at slave ancestry. Who has it? Who knows his ancestry? Who knows that he was descended from slaves and slaves only? What do we do about mixed race ancestors? American Indian blood? What about blacks who are descended from free black men? Or how about the black man who is descended from Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemings? Is he more black than the immigrant black African with no white ancestry? Or less black than the descendants of Jefferson's black slaves with whom Jefferson did not procreate?

Perhaps the test is longevity under the American sky, the extent to which one's family has been subject to the American apartheid with all of its inconsistencies and regional differences? Too many variables there. And again, there are tenacious families who have been here since colonization, earned an education, managed to rise above their peers, black and white, literally became rich and entered the upper class of America. I'm sure they sometimes feel their own blackness, but in the eyes of the less fortunate they are considered more akin to rich whites than "real" blacks. They even have power. I'll bet a lot of people put Obama, with his Harvard degree and very fine clothes, squarely in that camp.

No, none of these seem to be the right test for blackness and if we were to provide some kind of definitive analysis along any of these lines we'd no doubt end up in a far worse mess than we're already in and even those who would assess Obama's lack of blackness, his half whiteness, would be unhappy with the results because other half-black Americans whom they would point to as exemplary blacks, men whose blackness was unquestionable would suffer in the analysis and we'd be missing the point.

So what is the point? Is the point attitude? Does righteous indignation hold the summit? When a black man succeeds, thanks his God for his family, his wealth, his health and his overall good fortune, and lives happily, does he have less claim to his blackness than the man who has all of those material and earthly successes, but maintains a full measure of indignation because he feels he might have been more if not for the injustices of our color divided playing fields? Now we're getting somewhere because I think a lot of us would say yes, brother, you're right. You could have been more and it's whitey who has kept you down. I confess, at times I have thought so myself. And maybe there's something to that idea.

But then I look around a little and I see something strange, something that makes me sit up and question myself. I see men, black men who have used their indignation to succeed. We all know a man like this, who has taken the demon by the horns and wrestled himself onto its back and is riding that demon to success right now. Is this the blackest of black men? Maybe, but wait a minute, where would he be without his demon? Does his success depend on the demon? Was slavery good for him? Shame on me. What a thought! Obviously, the lessons we learn are not always worth the price we pay for them. Still, they are lessons learned and we can pass them on to our children.

So, now that he is on top, this man who has conquered his demons and ridden them to success, now that he is on top and has given his children all that he lacked, do the children lose their blackness? Even a little bit? Is that another price to be paid? Does a black man's success in America create a new black child, one less authentic? Is Barack Obama one of those men? Or one of those children? Or is he something all together different? With his Kenyan father, his Indonesian boyhood, is his blackness even American?

Now I'm confused. I don't know what qualifies as black, still I can feel that a man means something personal when he levels that complaint and disagree though I might with it having been leveled at all, I can't quite argue it away because there is something there that I haven't quite put my finger on, something I agree with, something that makes me nod my head and say "maybe Obama isn't so black."

Is it regard? Is the black man who continues to regard his downtrodden fellow's plight to be as important as his own success the man with the highest claim to blackness? Yes, that's it! That's the answer, but whoa, hold your horses, there's a problem with that, too. That man with empathy, with a history of adversity, with good will toward his fellow, might just as easily be white pigmented as black, or he could be brown or yellow. If the test is about empathy, history and commitment to the race, two things are certain, the blackest man could easily be Jewish, and Obama has demonstrated plenty of empathy. So now we're back at square one.

And being at square one is not such a bad place to be because now we can throw up our hands, throw out "blackness" and assess Obama not by the color of his skin, whatever that is, or the loyalty to his race, whatever that is, but by the quality of his record, the integrity of his ideas and his ability to bring us all into the discussion about the future of America. So far he's doing reasonably well. He has a long way to go, but so far he's made a legitimate claim on his own personal authenticity, not some undefinable blackness.

And one more thing, if he wins the presidency, every person can feel the pride of possibility, the legitimacy of the American dream, where a man is judged not by the color of his skin, but by the content of his character. Every person can take pride in a new inclusiveness that makes any one color less important, less defining, and a multitude of colors more invigorating. The tremendous talent in this country that has been hidden behind color and gender and poverty might be tapped. That is one very powerful reason to vote for him. It is an affirmation of the ultimate American ideal. You can do anything. You can be president. Yes, you.

A Pleasant Drive

2008-02-22T03:23:00.000-08:00

As part of my job, I make deliveries. I enjoy making deliveries, but when a delivery goes bad I forget what I like about them. Take yesterday for example. Everything was running along fine. I had my food, my supplies, my drinks. My car was neatly packed, I had plenty of gas and I was leaving early. One delivery at 5:00, a second at 5:30. Perfect. Until I got out onto the street.

All week the streets have been quiet, it's mid-winter school vacation and a lot of lucky people are in warmer places. Did they all come back on Thursday evening? I don't know. But anyway, everyone who was at work must have decided to leave at the same time. Here it was 4:30, usually a busy time, but gridlocked? Not likely. Was it like this at 3:00? Would it be like this at 6:00? Relax, I thought, you have 30 minutes to get somewhere that takes 15. Wrong, it took all of 30 and then some. Still no problem, I've got leeway. Called the client, asked him to meet me on the street as he always does, bring his cart, that's the routine. No problem, he said, be right down. 5 minutes, 10, 15, called him back, did you forget about me? No, I can see my guy right there, he's on the phone, I'll get him right down to you. 5 minutes, 10, wait there's someone looking around. Hi, I say, I have food, are you here to get it? Yeah, I'll get a cart.

I'm thinking, get a cart! get a cart! What the hell have you been doing for the past 25 minutes? Another minute passes, where the hell did he go? Where's that stupid cart? Finally, he's here with the cart. I've been here for 25 minutes, I tell him. He says, I've been down here, I didn't see you, they usually come in. I don't know who "they" is, but I've never gone in before. And why should "they?" Why unload from car to cart, walk 100 feet into a lobby and unload again from cart to cart. Makes no sense, but what's worse, and more pressing, now I'm already overdue at the next delivery which should be only 10 minutes away and that customer isn't answering her phone. I'm getting that knotted up feeling that 10 minutes away might be a lot longer tonight.

Yup, certainly not 10 minutes, and every bit of 30. On my way to a place I've never been before, I can't see the addresses, I can't read the street signs and the frustration of a heavy traffic commute is spilling out all over. Cars are speeding off at green lights, rushing through yellows and honking viciously at anyone who doesn't fit into the hectic grooves, and that just to travel a block and get to the back of the next grid. There is no play for mistakes, which I make, have to circle past my turn, find the right lane this time because hell is waiting if I'm in the wrong lane, ignore the angry revs and glares and finally park in an illegal spot. There aren't any legal ones anyway, and of course this is just one minor inconvenience that I would ordinarily take in stride, but tonight, now that I'm late, late! I can hardly believe it, the illegal parking spot feels like the weight of a senseless bureaucracy placed squarely on my shoulders. Late! I'm pissed off that I have to park illegally to make this delivery, but so it is, and then I go into the clinic, leave the food, the client is happy and I'm done. Done. 13 hours after my day began, I'm done. Shit, I swear. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit! Doesn't help.

All the stress has nowhere to go but to my heart or my head or my mouth and I pick up my voicemail messages and even though my day has already run forever, my wife is politely asking me to pick up her prescription on my way home. Geesh.

Cutting the Dog's Hair

2008-02-21T04:54:00.000-08:00

Sam, the dog, has so far been in our home for seven years. He's probably eight years old, but the shelter was vague about his history, didn't remember his birth name or exactly how old he was. He was an import from Taunton's kill shelter, (now there's an oxymoron!) but he was rescued by the Milton Animal League, a no-kill shelter about two miles from our new home and we found him as they did, big and black and shaggy, so big in fact, that the shelter had named him Bear. But belying his name he was not the least bit aggressive, lying in a depressed heap kowtowing to his dominant mother, politely waiting to eat and pretty much deferring to everyone and any dog who crossed his path. He was so calm that I thought the shelter was mistaken, that he was really way past a year old, on his last legs and not likely to take up much space in my life before he passed on to the dog netherworld, and being only a little better than Taunton, I was pretty happy to take him home for a while, hoping that his shelf life would last just until my daughter went off to college. Wrong.

After we brought him home, the first thing we did was drop him off at the groomer for a shave and a bath. Phew! He came back acting like Sampson with his strength gone, not only did he look completely different, but he was so embarrassed to be naked that he spent the next day crawling under tables and hiding behind chairs. His tail was long, ropy and bare like an opposum's. I was embarrassed for him and believe me, baldness usually makes me feel proud. This was acute and sudden baldness, no time to develop pride. Think of chemo victims with their heads hunkered discreetly down between their shoulders wrapped in tell-tale scarves. Sam didn't even have a scarf.

That should have tipped me off right away. The dog was clearly, obviously, undoubtedly, embarrassed. Who knew that dogs could be embarrassed? I felt for him, poor guy. But he got over that pretty quickly. Maybe a day or two, a week at most. Hair grows and haircuts wear off. But more importantly, to me anyway, I didn't even notice that Sam was already growing on me. Dog empathy?

I must say, once he got over the embarrassment, he looked like the bright young guy that he was. He strutted like any cock in the barnyard, his tail held high, sniffing every rock in the neighborhood and pissing on it just for show. I was proud just to know him, but uh oh, I thought, this guy is going to last a long time around here. Little did I know.