Thankscoming

This is my third year of writing a Thanksgiving Day post.

This year, I feel oddly liberated from our family's Midwestern traditions.  And I don't feel like it's so important that we're all together, doing the same thing in the same place.

I'm not longing for the chilly Illinois winds. And for family news, gossip and pictures?  I've got Facebook.  Colorful fall leaves?  They're already in the blue bins.

Instead, I'm thinking ahead.

Here's a list of things I plan to be thankful for next year:

- For finally meeting young Kalven

- For seeing my niece and nephew bring new children into the world

- For the weekend in Tallahassee with Tommy and Andrew, watching the Seminoles beat the Gators

- For the 2012 Sidewalk Chalk Art festival - posing with my giant neon shark (see "mother earth" from the 2011 show (not mine) to the right here)

- For peaceful, blissful, un-lonely hours spent driving in the mini, top down, watching cattle and palmetto and keeping an eye open for turtles and snakes in the road

- For the redneck voice - (another great year) - and that I got to say "Jimbo Fisher" a lot with it

- For Starbucks (OK, I really do need to lay off the caffeine (that was said in the redneck voice))

- For earning my post-graduate degree in adolescent management - enough said

- For Florida - the gulf, the storms, the sun, the feeling

- For the chance to look up at the stars and see the Milky Way on the beach at Boca Grande

- For seeing Matthew take one more step toward the Air Force Academy

- For seeing Tommy step up to his destiny

- For seeing Andrew get one year closer to the man I know he will be

- For the wonderful women in my life

- For Julie (again and again)

- For my parents

- For my cool, smart brother and his new peace

- For my new friends and old friends - and for me learning how to be a better friend

- For a victorious end to the fight - and a blessed return to normality

I am optimistic and hopeful.  And thankful.

Bring me back the coach

It was a complicated week-long journey of twisted teenage pretzel logic: unpaid speeding tickets, missing vehicle registrations, inept police departments, interstate licensing regulations, motor vehicle appointment scheduling mix ups, about-to-be-revoked licenses, and a non-renewal letter from State Farm.

The underwriters decided that the $30,000 we've paid in premiums over the last 6 years wasn't enough for the risk.

So, the parental management team threw up their hands. Here again was our nemesis - the dreaded two-headed demon of frontal brain dissociation and teenage hormones.

My reaction, of course, was to escape into a ghost book or a new conspiracy theory. But before I could, Julie pulled out her journal, sat down next to me, and read me a story. It was an entry I wrote myself, on a cold day in February, 1999.

"Today we cleaned out the garage and set up the Playschool hoop inside. Andrew and I started a game, and he dunked the ball every time.

Then Tommy shows up. He and I play alone for a while. I narrate, saying things like 'the kid never misses!' His face is lit up with a huge smile. Then the three of us start playing a game - Tommy and I against Andrew. Tommy is wearing his new coat from Kohl's, not a Bulls coat but it's the same colors, red and black - and he loves it."

Well, Tommy decides he wants to be the 'coach' for Andrew and me. He sits on the steps and says, 'time out for some snacks for the players.' The 'coach' goes inside and gets some snacks for us. He comes back into the garage with a Tupperware bowl filled with orange Jello. It's actually half-eaten and it has three spoons in it. He also brings out some strawberry yogurt.

His heart is so bright and innocent and warm. I ate the Jello on the sidelines with the coach - the great, irreplaceable, bounding Tommy."

It's been a long time since that frigid February day, but I remembered it again - with longing - as she read it, like it was just yesterday. It is a reminder of the essence of the soul. I can see him again like I've always seen him - from a diaper-wearing, bottle-drinking backyard explorer to the coach of the garage basketball team.  Goodness and innocence.

And it importantly reminds me of something else: when the zombie underwriters send you a nasty non-renewal, or when the DMV pushes you into their maddening maze, it's time to stop, sit on the steps, and have some orange jello.

It tastes like goodness and innocence. Simple, sweet, pure. And it's good for your soul.

Thank you, coach. Now let's go fix those little things.

The Unconquered

In Doak Campbell Stadium, watching the Florida State football game from the student section, I remembered.

It was parents' weekend. The unlucky N.C. State team looked like a group that the Globetrotters would have paid to be their foil.

It was an afternoon of life in the moment. In a place overflowing with karmic celebration - youth and innocence, pride and passion, hope and excitement. In their college faces, a prescience of possibilities; of dreams yet fulfilled but confidently expected.

I imagined their futures as I looked around.

It was impossibly larger than real life; like it could only have been created by a gigantic glitter-boy generator. There were sequined drum majorettes, spinning their batons high into the blue fall sky, conducting uncontrollable expressions of joy. The sun sparkled off of the band in strobing flashes of light.

Among hats and helmets, pom poms and round-off flips, a Seminole warrior atop an appaloosa charged onto the field and plunged a flaming spear of defiance into the turf.

I looked across the waves of garnet and I could see their goodness. They stood in their tee shirts and jeans, tomahawk-chopping and chanting for the entire game.  In rows and aisles, they were absorbed in every play, every song, every hand gesture.  They laughed and high-fived. They took turns starting the noisy crescendos that began every kick-off or punt.

These are the same strangers that are frustratingly glued to their smart phones and laptops and who spend too many hours on Facebook. They stay up too late and are sloppy. They cook on their George Foreman grills at 3am in their tiny dorm rooms and apartments. They sleep until noon. They text too much.

But God, they are wonderful.

They hunch over their white Apple laptops in libraries, smiling at each other and posting on Facebook. Drinking Starbucks. Thinking about going to Ken's Bar at midnight.

They're a new species - and they make me believe in the future.

As technical geeks and academic magicians, they've been able to overcome challenges never imposed upon (or imagined by) previous generations. They're expected to embrace change and learn it overnight. And deal with economic pain in our society unseen since the great depression.    

They're not timid - not frightened by people telling them that they can't do something. They've been empowered by instant communication and distant connections. They've seen more in their 20-odd years than most of us saw by our 50's. They have hundreds of close friends they network with every day and  new attitudes about marriages and mortgages and expectations.

As I think back on that afternoon in the student section, I get goosebumps.  I remember. It's that same feeling I had, long ago. Before minivans and mortgages.

And I know who the Seminoles really are now.

They are the unconquered.  And they are just in time.

Memories of the Witch Sisters

Every year, when the oak leaves would begin coloring our backyard and driveway with russet and crimson, and when the skies would turn gloomy and heavy and low, my father would begin telling us about the witch sisters.

The witch sisters were probably born on a piece of scrap mat board dad pulled from the bin under the work table in his old art gallery on 111th street.

Like bluish wisps of Bond Street smoke curling from his pipe, the sisters materialized into our childhoods.

In those days, he was a great storyteller. He spun the lives of the sisters through the autumn air as if he was weaving strands of DNA together - witch DNA - one part likable and one part evil.

Those sibling sisters were among his most creative productions. We'd rather hear about them turning someone into a frog then the history of the Union Stock Yards or some old building on Prairie Avenue.  Give us the girls.

Before the internet, before Ghost Adventurers - before ghouls were cool - we could download the witches. Anywhere - on the front porch swing, accompanied by rain and thunder as we watched the autumn storms. In the station wagon on the way to Tippecanoe or Fish Lake.  And at bedtime, where everyone would (and could) fit into the same bed, listening to the tall tales of the fall.

Tales beloved and remembered every Halloween.

Thanks to my father's artistic touch, we could see them in all of their wicked glory.

As the stories would unfold, the images were etched on left-over mat board and brown wrapping paper. Their pointy hats, warts and flowing black dresses. Personalities and quirks. Dark castles and haunted houses, teetering and comic; part Albert Gorey and Part Tim Burton. A spooky Dr. Seuss.

The stories were alternately scary and funny.

The witch sisters worked by day in a six-story room for making broomsticks.  It had all the required materials - straw, sticks, and whatever else was needed - illustrated in magical detail.  The Broom Room was the place where naughty children were taken; cleverly captured by the sisters and, until they were contrite or escaped, helped the sisters make their brooms.

When finished, they'd be eagerly tested; flown up into the cavernous space and accompanied by evil cackles and room-spinning moves.  Quidditch before J.K. ever thought of it.

The children's punishment was always administered by the eldest sister with surprising fairness, but that lack of evil courage was resented by the younger sisters. They would complain and scheme behind her back. The matriarch was often found scolding her sisters for inappropriate acts; some of them unseemly - even for witches.

Everyone's favorite witch was the youngest of the sisters. She always carried fire - whether it was a lantern, torch, or matches.   She was resentful and confrontational, and would always throw fire on those that got in her way. Or she'd burn things up. We loved her.

The middle sister lived in the shadow of the other sisters and unfortunately, I can't seem to remember much about her.  But she had some big personalities in her family and it was easy to get overlooked.

The memories of the sisters are becoming somewhat foggy, like the Halloween scenes they lived in.  But, in retrospect, the most remarkable part about the witch sisters is that a father of seven would find the time and the energy to give them life - and to share his creativity and excitement with all of us.

Which we all have today - in our own ways - thanks to my dad.

Call of Duty

In the early morning hours of June 6, 1944, my father's uncle was hit with bullets from a German Browning machine gun as he was climbing off his Higgins boat, in the freezing ocean water, just off the beach in Normandy France.

The same uncle he used to sit with in his backyard, drinking root beers and talking about baseball.

On the other edge of the world, his twin brother was in the Pacific, sweating and scared, climbing through island mangroves with his M-1 Garand carbine.  While this twin survived, he was never the same, having lost his sanity and his brother while the war raged throughout the world just a single generation ago.

William Tecumseh Sherman said, "War is cruelty. There's no use trying to reform it, the crueler it is the sooner it will be over."

And although the real visions of the war are dimming with time, they can still be seen.  In faded tattoos on veterans - the pale ink images of ships, symbols and companies on wrinkled and spotted forearms.

They have witnessed what most Americans will never see. Incredible, extreme violence and suffering. The core or warfare - eliminating the enemy by causing their death.

Perhaps they have earned metaphysical retribution for those indescribable moments of terror in their lives - a new life, after the war, which is sweeter, more valuable, and more poignant.

But as those real memories blur in the distance, the newest generation of children all over the world have been recruited into an electronic, virtual reality version of that experience - the "Call of Duty" computer game.

It started it's existence as an interactive version of D-Day, but evolved to include many battlegrounds and killing fields, a menu-driven cafeteria of war's death and destruction.

The latest version is the seventh installment of the game.  Within 24 hours of going on sale, more than 7 million copies were sold. A Japanese version was also released.  The total sales of the 2010 version alone exceed 25 million copies. Just six weeks after the release, Activision reported Black Ops had earned $1 billion in sales.

And all over the world, we are now losing a new generation of children to World War II - again - but this time it's the cyber version.

Black Ops (Call of Duty) is mesmerizingly and almost medically addictive and disturbingly and shockingly desensitizing.  It has graphic images of limbs being blown apart by high caliber bullets and blood being sprayed from torn arteries.  Points are collected and tallied on screen for each measure of carnage and gore.

Internet versions of the game allow players to join the virtual battle from anywhere in the world - one  click on an X-box icon and they appear on the other player's screen instantly. A 15-year-old in a basement in Ohio can engage in a real-time virtual fight with a 17-year-old in Kiev.

For the players, the hours seem to be mere seconds. On the surface, it appears to be just a video game. But complex social, psychological, and neurological effects are all in play.  It's anything but a harmless video game.

"Game players have some or even many symptoms of drug addiction, in that some players become more concerned with their interactions in the game than in their broader lives.  Players may ... gain or lose significant weight due to playing, disrupt sleep patterns to play and suffer sleep deprivation as an effect, play at work, standing in the middle of nowhere looking into space for a considerable amount of time, avoiding phone calls from friends and/or lying about play time." (1)

I have heard countless stories of college student addictions.  Having had academic success in high school under the watchful eyes of their parents, they falter in college under the spell of Call of Duty.

Move over marijuana and Miller Lite.  C.O.D. is the new headliner, featuring all-night sessions, sleepless weekends, and an indifference to college academics. In 2008, one of the five FCC Commissioners, Deborah Taylor Tate, stated that online gaming addiction was "one of the top reasons for college drop-outs."

And 20 something women know all about the perils of Call of Duty. There are Facebook sites, blogs, and support groups for women whose boyfriends have become Call of Duty zombies.

Constant exposure to three-dimensional geospatial views within the game are also potentially harmful, and can trigger epileptic and other types of neurological disorders.  So extreme are the jarring changes in perspective that many adults cannot view the game for more than seconds without experiencing vertigo or nausea.

So, 67 years after allied forces landed on the beaches of Juno, Gold, Omaha, Utah, and Sword, the memory and the pain linger.

And we are fighting a second battle, part cyber and part social .  Parents need to understand the truth about Call of Duty and its effects. It has a clear effect on the social development, physical, and behavioral health of teens and pre-teens.  It can strain adult relationships.

It is clearly and undeniably addictive - and tens of millions of copies are sitting in disk drives all over the world.  Addicts are as anxious to spin them as they would be to hold a lighter under a spoon.  

America has to begin saying "no" to the uber-cyber Call of Duty.

It is not harmless.

It is as destructive as the fifty caliber shells that rained down on the real soldiers in Normandy, on that fateful date in June, 1944.

1) Grüsser, S.M.; R. Thalemann, M. D. Griffiths (April, 2007).CyberPsychology & Behavior (Mary Anne Liebert, Inc.) 10 (2): 290–292.

Hair

I heard a voice say, "now keep your eyes closed so I can trim your eyebrows."

The voice was Sherry's, spoken between pillars at Salon nirvana.  Like a seductive Delilah, she was poised to steal my Samson Chi.

Clip it, snip it, steal it, keep it.

Half-Berlinian, half-Dublinian guys like me don't have a lot of body hair.  Sure, after years of rain and wars and living in forests and on cold meadows we've evolved into pale-skinned arm-wrestlers, but we've never had the DNA for GQ beards and sideburns.  

And substantial eyebrows in our gene pool are seen about as often as Paul McCartney is seen in the weight room wearing a muscle shirt.

I've never had them either, but lately things have changed.  Now there are some stray loners, like you'd see sticking out of a mole on the chin of a gnarly old witch.

Pull it, tweeze it, tug it, toss it

Wild and unwelcome, anti-Darwinian un-survivors of the fittest.   Crazy and curling and discolored, like the fingernails of some old Indian yogi that haven't been cut for thirty years.

These are new settlers on the Germano-Irish landscape.  Once populated by freckles and peach fuzz and Coppertone, it's now a dangerous alley with suspicious strangers and escapees from the nearby sanitarium.

What happened here?  It seemed so impossible a few short years ago. 

Wet it, comb it, part it, clip it

My mother always used to warn us not to stand in front of the Radar-Range when we were kids. Now I know why. It was a peach fuzz zapper.

Innocence long since zapped, now I have this strange hair.

Hair like my dad used to have (and still does) - his arms looking like that of an Icelandic Yeti monster. I remember staring at his arms in church when I was bored, thinking "how can someone's arm hair get that long?

God, if you're trying to pay me back for a lifetime of condescending feelings like that - of hair superiority and infallibility and permanence - congratulations.

In places where only baby-fine strands could be seen in the summer sun at Memorial Park Pool, I can now cut it with a scissors.

Not cool.   

Pinch it, squeeze it, twist it, pluck it

In my ears, curling and bothersome. On my ears, which feels like a constant stirring of insects, which are only quieted when I get the tweezers and start plucking.

Hair like my grandpa had. 

It's a freakish distraction for me and others.  On a Southwest flight recently, a three year old boy wanted to "play" with my arm hair.  His mother said, "Now JJ, don't do that, it's rude."  I told her I didn't mind, so he spent the flight with his fingers on my arms, brushing it this way and that, bunching it up in his fingers and pulling.

But where is the good hair, the cool hair?

I can't grow a beard (thanks again you know who).   When I don't shave I don't look like an off duty fireman playing hockey, I just look shabby - not even Bohemian. It's sort of like a splotchy faux acne made of red, white, brown and bronze whiskers. Well, maybe not whiskers in the macho Derek Jeter sense of the word - more like just hair.

So I wait. I know I won't have real eyebrows or a cool beard.

I've decided the next best hope for me is a pre-mature graying, where at least I can get to cool in a wise academic sort of way.

I'm waiting.

And thinking of Broadway.

Flow it, show it, long as God can grow it

I want it long, straight, curly, fuzzy, snaggy, shaggy, ratty, matty

Oily, greasy, fleecy, shining, gleaming, streaming
Flaxen, waxen

Knotted, polka-dotted
Twisted, beaded, braided

Powdered, flowered, and confetti-ed

Bangled, tangled, spangled, and spaghetti-ed


There ain't no words
For the beauty, the splendor, the wonder
Of my...
Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair


Oh say can you see
My eyes if you can
Then my hair's too short
Down to here
Down to there
I want hair
Down to where
It stops by itself
They'll be ga ga at the go go


When they see me in my toga
My toga made of blond
Brilliantine Biblical hair
My hair like Jesus wore it
Hallelujah I adore it

Wicked Wall Street

We learned last week that six banks account for nearly 60% of the US GDP, or 60% of all of the money in the US economy.

We also saw that the top 1% of earners in our country generate 20% of all income.  Ten years ago, the top 1% generated only 10% of the GDP.

This elite strata used to be filled with business owners and entrepreneurs - from silicon valley whiz kids to pizza tycoons and movie rental moguls.  Today, they're almost wholly constituted from financial companies.

Today's robber barons sit behind glowing green screens and look out on concrete and glass vistas they helped finance.  They are money managers, traders, executives, and consultants.  They invent things that average people can't understand, like credit default swaps and complex derivatives.

They spend more on lobbyists and politicians to keep the slot machines running than the entire GDP of many small countries.

And when it looked like their own reckless arrogance (see credit default swaps and toxic mortgage products) would be their demise, the US borrowed money at the taxpayers' expense to keep them afloat - so that the derivatives could keep coming - unchecked and unregulated - and the roulette wheel could keep spinning, smooth and well-oiled with fiat money.

It has been said that a few years ago, economists and government leaders understood that our financial system (primarily our banking and monetary structure, which include Wall Street and the Federal Reserve) was unstable and unsustainable, and that the US was at a critical juncture.

It was time to make a choice.  Start over (as in letting the banks fail) or delay the inevitable by continuing to move jobs overseas - stockpiling profits and manipulating the stock and equities markets.

Alas, they chose wrong.

They could only keep the consumers spending using credit.  Certainly not with new or better jobs or increased income.  Credit.  Mortgages from Freddie and Fannie, easy credit cards, lines of credit, home equity loans.  A bubble just waiting to pop.

And at the same time, they turned a blind eye to the export-dumping, currency-suppressing Chinese, who under-consume (because underpaid and oppressed populations can't afford the flat screen televisions they export) within the new global economy.  Drive the price of the currency down so that Chinese goods are cheaper than american goods, even if they have to be shipped from the other side of the globe.

Chinese goods, built with Chinese labor, then stamped with the logo of a US company, make their way into retail stores across this country.  When they're sold in a retail outlet in Detroit or Columbus they profit no one in Michigan.  Or Ohio.  Or Illinois.  Except the clerk at the register, who gets minimum wage.

With these new profits, banks increased the levels of their own capitalization.  They receive federal interest payments on banked capital as an ostensible hedge against future crises.  But these payments oddly entice banks to grow even more capital rather lend out money to soon-to-be-laid-off Americans.

And now that capital has grown to 60% of our country's GDP.

Wall street has weapons of mass destruction besides credit default swaps.  They are computerized, high frequency, high volume trading programs that execute thousands of stock transactions every second. They use quantum algorithmic formulas based on world news, other markets, insider information, and their own visibility into market orders at certain levels.

And so, each time the stock market plunges and surges, you can be sure that the big banks have been busy pushing the market one way or another. They buy and sell to themselves, affecting huge market swings, now common on a daily basis.

These millions of trades and their immense profit represent the new production line of the once-great american economy. Imagine Henry Ford's amazement that a single quantum-trading computer the size of a Model T's back seat could earn a thousand times more money in a single session than his whole plant could earn in a year.  Or ten years.

Is it surprising, then, that the american future seems so dismal?  Why would banks lend money to build a new plant in Indiana or Ohio when they can roll that money around in the stock market?

The result is that we have few visionaries and risk-takers.  Too few innovations by our best and brightest. And we make little use of the windfall of our vast natural resources.

Main Street is so afflicted by the loss of jobs and confidence and their inability to envision the future that they are on the verge of paralysis.  And too inhibited by regulations and taxation.

Local businesses hire local residents.  But local businesses are small businesses.  And on Main street today they're as uncommon as the horse and buggy.  The real small businesses got big-boxed out of the market in the 1980's and 90's - and kicked into the unemployment line.

What's left? The big box job with the plastic name tag? Or the small cubicle in a sea of cubicles; dialing for dollars and competing with colleagues in India?

Thus, the new american employee rides the current of change, channeled now by the ebbs and flows of corporate earnings and losses, of shorts and longs, of market winners and losers.

Wall Street has sat down in the american kitchen, poured itself a cup of coffee, and put its feet up on the table. Its cigar-chewing grin makes you think the news is bad, indeed.

Robot Voice

"... the checking account is overdrawn because I paid the car insurance ... it was $5600 ... what's the problem? ... you think insuring teenagers is cheap?" 

"... yes, they did put his braces back on. Why are you upset? ... I don't know, maybe he didn't wear the retainer ... that happens sometimes."

"... well it's not my fault, that teacher is sooo bad, she's giving everyone a D because someone stole the test.  Why are you yelling?"

"... and his phone was over a year old and you know it was one of those old slide keyboard ones. He can't use that ... so I got him a smart phone ... it was only $150 after his trade in credit just $30 more a month as long as we signed for two more years ... he needed it ... what's wrong with that?"

Listening to conversations like this, I regularly dream about doing a 781 foot swan dive from the top of the Sunshine Bridge. Because I don't think there's enough Xanax in Florida to make these exchanges less painful.

Even the great yogi masters would shake their heads sadly in cross-legged levitation and say, "Dees ees deeficult prohblem, meester John. Why you hev foor keeds?

But thankfully I have developed a work-around. The robot voice.

I have discovered that anything stripped of emotion and delivered in a electronic monotone tends to lose any harmful potency. Like a verbal Ad-aware or anti-emotional McAfee, this computerized delivery strips spam and viruses from the message and cleanses the code.

This robot-like context has an amazing effect. Consider the CIA android drone that took out two terrorists this week in Yemen. Hey, it was a flying robot, it just saw the bad guys and zapped em. What?

And the robot voice is a multi-purpose tool.

It can be used to diffuse an escalating situation, "You - are - eating - what - we - are - eating - or - you - will - go - to - your - room."  You can also add modifiers on the end of the sentence, which won't escalate the situation but are very pleasing to the speaker, "Do - not - spit - in - thee - kich - enn - sink - you - id - dii - utt ."

But the best and most typical use of the robot voice is just stopping the speaker at the earliest warning sign that an anxiety-filled exchange is coming. Then, raise a hand and refuse to listen unless the robot voice is employed.

A statement that would have been something like: "Oh my god dad, you're the one that said I need to study and not work and it's not my fault it's a V-6 and mom never gives me enough money for gas and I am driving my brother to school and why are you yelling at me?

Is transformed to: "Daad - myy - cahhr - iss - emp - teee - of - gaas - ahh - gannn. Caan - i - puhh - leees - haave - summ - mohn - eee?"

Wow, I'm kind of glad to give the kid twenty bucks for that kind of creativity.

It works for all kinds of everyday problems, like: "I - did - not - ask - the - doc - torr - fore - a - jenn - err - ick, that - iss - prob - ub - blee - why - it - iss - three - hun - dread - doll - errrs."

Whew, that didn't even seem so bad, see?  You just robotically reply, "You - will - call - thee - doc - torr - on - Mon - day, - right?

And you can add a modifier too, if it makes you feel better.  I sure would.

Under the Overpass

I waited at a stop light in a rust-belt town last week, squinting into the hazy sun and staring thoughtlessly at the overpass ahead.

To my unconscious mind, it must have looked like any other riveted steel tunnel in America; I didn't notice the details.

Looking through the bug-spattered windshield, a freight train began passing overhead - which was interesting enough for a picture, which I deftly took and e-mailed to myself.

Only after I saw the digital version of the setting could I see it with a different perspective.

We've been conditioned to associate "urban" with grungy and cool; active and exciting.  Bars, restaurants, night life.  Starbucks and night classes. Transportation.  Ethnicity, diversity.

Urbanites ignore panhandlers and street cons.  They don't see the traffic or pollution or construction; all are necessary evils.  The sounds of ambulances and police cruisers are just a frenetic background, although mostly unheard, to the excitement of city life.

The urbanophile will preach the benefits of living in the foreground - of fostered individuality within a shared and diverse society.  There, in the foreground, you can become John Travolta swinging paint cans and hips on a city street to the music of Stayin' Alive.  You can become self-actualized by teaching in city schools, walking a police beat, or by working at a methadone clinic (one was right across the street from my hotel this week).

But behind that veneer of trendiness and ideology, there is a decay.  A decay of sagging and naked wires strung low between tilted poles. Of vestigial, forgotten construction projects marked by fading orange cones and potholes.

And there are parades of billboards that showcase vast moral and social erosion.  Stopping racial crime, hiring an accident lawyer, fixing a credit score, or testing baby DNA to get the daddy to pay up.

And other signs.  For sale signs.  Empty storefronts. Abandoned homes, lines for shelters.

We need better places to live better lives.  Places where people can see not just the promise of the future, but the goodness of today.

We have too many weeds, too much rust, and sadly, too much resignation and acceptance.  The half-dead infrastructure is as despairing as the new generation of the homeless and the masses of the unemployed .

Will the next stimulus, with it's new wave of shovel-ready projects, begin the renewal?

Can the urban psyche even be repaired?  Or, will the next immigration movement come not from Mexico or Europe, but from the eroding towns in Ohio, Michigan and Illinois to places of hope in Texas and Florida?

Or, there's another option - and it requires no money and no commitment: stand under a decaying overpass in a cloud of diesel fumes and lead paint.

And act like it's glamorous to be today's urban yuppy.

Teen-Blaine and the Escape of the Sane

Teenagers.  Seriously God, what were you thinking?

Maybe the explanation is that it's a divine but careless chemical experiment.  Someone stacked too many beakers of combustible hormone cocktails - in a meth lab - and right over a fault line - and the next emotional tremor is going to shake the room and tip all those chemicals into a giant mixing vat.

When that happens, the synapses snap into an ADD-like frenzy of neuronic activity.   While mine are erratically sparking like your grandpa's old lawn mower, theirs are red-bulling and overflowing in Niagra-like torrents of ones and zeros.  Mine are pausing on whether to choose regular or decaf.

Feeding hormones into the teen brain is like buying every twelve-year-old a new yellow Camaro, throwing them the keys, and saying, "I bet you can't get that thing over 90."  I mean, whoever set this thing up could have just used a little restraint.

“They are a plague upon humanity,” I lament, exhaling and complaining to my wife, who is more skilled with 10-somethings than I am.

Yeah, I know, it's only temporary.  I can see the horizon, and, although distant, it looks like a teen-free Camelot.  Until then, I can only watch for the Monty Python weight to fall from the sky - and seek escape into my underground bunker.

An escapist's world of cowboys and Jack Reachers. Of UFO's and ghost podcasts. 

I can escape.  But I can't win.

Because my teens have used their Dr. Evil minds to develop an amazing skill; a David Blaine-like sleight of hand.  The ability to make responsibilities disappear like doves into top hats.  To put your account number on their overdrawn bank statement.  

The trick is to make a typical teen problem, let's say - hmmm - an I-phone dropped into the pool, a speeding ticket, a suspicious substance, a bad grade, an emotional outburst, a general (and common) lapse in common sense, a bad attitude, etc. – not really their problem.  

During the discussion, the object of discussion begins to blur.  Mesmerized, the simple adult's eyes are drawn to a fancy silk handkerchief waved by the teen.  As the distraction is regarded, the real problem disappears.  From the silk, out pops a rabbit.   A cuddly little rabbit which further diverts the attention of the audience. 

Now, somehow (although no-doubt facilitated by hormones and energy drinks) the focus is switched to the parent - who until then had merely been the observer of the problem.  The magician now has a rube volunteer take the stage in his place - to be sawed in half or to climb into a box through which sharps swords will be driven.

The teen and the adult's positions are now reversed, and the observer's own actions are placed on the scales of justice.

This illusion is all the work of the magical teen-Blaine, who abruptly vanishes in a column of fog and is transported from stage to audience.  

Now, justice is measured by the audience – has there been fairness, impartial temperament, rationality, and adequate sympathy?  Is the observer even capable of meeting the high standards expected by the audience?  What about the observer's gestures?  Eye movements?  Vocal tone?  Were there hidden meanings behind the observer's choice of words?  And so on. 

The audience seems to agree, and settles upon the just vindication of the teen.

But now there is a growing rumble off stage.  The audience feels that somehow, the observer has caused this problem in the first place.

I have?

Wow. 

Time to escape to my ghost stories and crop circles.  Or maybe that 3-hour podcast on the Kennedy assassination.

Just like me to walk away from my troubles.

Time Traveler

The south Florida afternoon sun bore down upon us, and it followed us as we made our way across the asphalt of the parking lot.  Humid drafts of tropical air steamed off the baking pavement.  On waves of convection, they carried the sultry scents and sounds of summer.  Pine and citrus and grass.  Melting tar.  Voices and birds and crickets.

It made me think of other suns.  The suns of Rudyard Kipling in Bombay.  The blanched whiteness of suns in black and white photographs.  Parching tough-guy suns along cowboy trails in Tuscon.  Torrid tropical suns in Houston and Galveston and New Orleans.  Like Hollywood sets, set in time and illuminated by the feverish flash bulbs of rays long fallen and forgotten.

The same sun that drives the cycle of days, of years, of instance and infinity falls on me now.  I squint past the cars and shopping carts.  I imagine these rays falling in this same spot when it was filled with Palmetto and scrub, live oak and lizard.  And before that, Calusa, in this same oven-like space, sweltering on this same spot, squinting like me, smelling citrus and sweet grass.

It is a feeling of resonance, of self, of existence.  Of a moment.  A metaphysical realization. 

This time, this now, is as temporary and fleeting as the neon green ferris wheel that once stood here, stretching into the Florida night sky, on the gravel and shell; corn dogs and music and summer blue dresses. 

I remember other spaces under this same sun, with the bright intensity of that moment in time; ageless in memory - yet somehow sad with the recalling.   Squinting across dusty baseball diamonds and smelling the freshly cut outfield grass - times when my boys were mine, fully and deeply, with heart and soul.  Sitting in sandboxes and listening to cicadas, surrounded by barbie dolls and summer slip and slides. 

A squint, a focus, a memory, a stirring of the soul.

These feverish rays define our days, our seasons, our lives.  As I feel them, they remind me of other suns on other days.

Vincennes Avenue to Omaha Beach - the 116th on D-Day, June 6th 1944

The picture below is of August William (Bill) Diedesch, taken outside his family's home on Vincennes avenue.  He was my father's uncle. 

Around the time of this picture, he would sign up for the reserves.  His unit was called to active duty and they were fatefully assigned to Bradley's force for the action on June 6th, 1944.

August was assigned to the 116th Division, 29th regiment. 

The following is an excerpt from a story in the 1960 Atlantic Magazine, which chronicles the fate of that division as they landed on the beaches of Normandy in the first wave of the assault.

In everything that has been written about Omaha until now, there is less blood and iron than in the original field notes covering any battalion landing in the first wave. Doubt it? Then let's follow along with Able and Baker companies, 116th Infantry, 29th Division. Their story is lifted from my fading Normandy notebook, which covers the landing of every Omaha company.

ABLE Company riding the tide in seven Higgins boats is still five thousand yards from the beach when first taken under artillery fire. The shells fall short. At one thousand yards, Boat No. 5 is hit dead on and foundered. Six men drown before help arrives. Second Lieutenant Edward Gearing and twenty others paddle around until picked up by naval craft, thereby missing the fight at the shore line. It's their lucky day. The other six boats ride unscathed to within one hundred yards of the shore, where a shell into Boat No. 3 kills two men. Another dozen drown, taking to the water as the boat sinks. That leaves five boats.

Lieutenant Edward Tidrick in Boat No. 2 cries out: "My God, we're coming in at the right spot, but look at it! No shingle, no wall, no shell holes, no cover. Nothing!"  His men are at the sides of the boat, straining for a view of the target. They stare but say nothing. At exactly 6:36 A.M. ramps are dropped along the boat line and the men jump off in water anywhere from waist deep to higher than a man's head. This is the signal awaited by the Germans atop the bluff. Already pounded by mortars, the floundering line is instantly swept by crossing machine-gun fires from both ends of the beach.

Able Company has planned to wade ashore in three files from each boat, center file going first, then flank files peeling off to right and left. The first men out try to do it but are ripped apart before they can make five yards. Even the lightly wounded die by drowning, doomed by the waterlogging of their overloaded packs. From Boat No. 1, all hands jump off in water over their heads. Most of them are carried down. Ten or so survivors get around the boat and clutch at its sides in an attempt to stay afloat. The same thing happens to the section in Boat No. 4. Half of its people are lost to the fire or tide before anyone gets ashore. All order has vanished from Able Company before it has fired a shot.

Already the sea runs red. Even among some of the lightly wounded who jumped into shallow water the hits prove fatal. Knocked down by a bullet in the arm or weakened by fear and shock, they are unable to rise again and are drowned by the onrushing tide. Other wounded men drag themselves ashore and, on finding the sands, lie quiet from total exhaustion, only to be overtaken and killed by the water. A few move safely through the bullet swarm to the beach, then find that they cannot hold there. They return to the water to use it for body cover. Faces turned upward, so that their nostrils are out of water, they creep toward the land at the same rate as the tide. That is how most of the survivors make it. The less rugged or less clever seek the cover of enemy obstacles moored along the upper half of the beach and are knocked off by machine-gun fire.

Within seven minutes after the ramps drop, Able Company is inert and leaderless. At Boat No. 2, Lieutenant Tidrick takes a bullet through the throat as he jumps from the ramp into the water. He staggers onto the sand and flops down ten feet from Private First Class Leo J. Nash. Nash sees the blood spurting and hears the strangled words gasped by Tidrick: "Advance with the wire cutters!" It's futile; Nash has no cutters. To give the order, Tidrick has raised himself up on his hands and made himself a target for an instant. Nash, burrowing into the sand, sees machine gun bullets rip Tidrick from crown to pelvis. From the cliff above, the German gunners are shooting into the survivors as from a roof top.

Captain Taylor N. Fellers and Lieutenant Benjamin R. Kearfoot never make it. They had loaded with a section of thirty men in Boat No. 6 (Landing Craft, Assault, No. 1015). But exactly what happened to this boat and its human cargo was never to be known. No one saw the craft go down. How each man aboard it met death remains unreported. Half of the drowned bodies were later found along the beach. It is supposed that the others were claimed by the sea.

Along the beach, only one Able Company officer still lives -- Lieutenant Elijah Nance, who is hit in the heel as he quits the boat and hit in the belly by a second bullet as he makes the sand. By the end of ten minutes, every sergeant is either dead or wounded. To the eyes of such men as Private Howard I. Grosser and Private First Class Gilbert G. Murdock, this clean sweep suggests that the Germans on the high ground have spotted all leaders and concentrated fire their way. Among the men who are still moving in with the tide, rifles, packs, and helmets have already been cast away in the interests of survival.

To the right of where Tidrick's boat is drifting with the tide, its coxswain lying dead next to the shell-shattered wheel, the seventh craft, carrying a medical section with one officer and sixteen men, noses toward the beach. The ramp drops. In that instant, two machine guns concentrate their fire on the opening. Not a man is given time to jump. All aboard are cut down where they stand.

By the end of fifteen minutes, Able Company has still not fired a weapon. No orders are being given by anyone. No words are spoken. The few able-bodied survivors move or not as they see fit. Merely to stay alive is a full-time job. The fight has become a rescue operation in which nothing counts but the force of a strong example.

Above all others stands out the first-aid man, Thomas Breedin. Reaching the sands, he strips off pack, blouse, helmet, and boots. For a moment he stands there so that others on the strand will see him and get the same idea. Then he crawls into the water to pull in wounded men about to be overlapped by the tide. The deeper water is still spotted with tide walkers advancing at the same pace as the rising water. But now, owing to Breedin's example, the strongest among them become more conspicuous targets. Coming along, they pick up wounded comrades and float them to the shore raftwise. Machine-gun fire still rakes the water. Burst after burst spoils the rescue act, shooting the floating man from the hands of the walker or killing both together. But Breedin for this hour leads a charmed life and stays with his work indomitably.

By the end of one half hour, approximately two thirds of the company is forever gone. There is no precise casualty figure for that moment. There is for the Normandy landing as a whole no accurate figure for the first hour or first day. The circumstances precluded it. Whether more Able Company riflemen died from water than from fire is known only to heaven. All earthly evidence so indicates, but cannot prove it.

By the end of one hour, the survivors from the main body have crawled across the sand to the foot of the bluff, where there is a narrow sanctuary of defiladed space. There they lie all day, clean spent, unarmed, too shocked to feel hunger, incapable even of talking to one another. No one happens by to succor them, ask what has happened, provide water, or offer unwanted pity. D Day at Omaha afforded no time or space for such missions. Every landing company was overloaded by its own assault problems.

By the end of one hour and forty-five minutes, six survivors from the boat section on the extreme right shake loose and work their way to a shelf a few rods up the cliff. Four fall exhausted from the short climb and advance no farther. They stay there through the day, seeing no one else from the company. The other two, Privates Jake Shefer and Thomas Lovejoy, join a group from the Second Ranger Battalion, which is assaulting Pointe du Hoc to the right of the company sector, and fight on with the Rangers through the day. Two men. Two rifles. Except for these, Able Company's contribution to the D Day fire fight is a cipher.

Uncle Bill, we remember you and thank you - and all of the 116th.

Could a Cloud

Could I have met you

drifting and forming
far away, formal

not close up, transparent

I imagine you
there and not there

one moment a profile

one moment a longing

at the edge of existence

I could paint a picture of you
maybe asian, exotic
off a stark country cliff
above the French sea

In china white pigment,
you'd be watery and wistful
a cerulean blue tint
soft shades of grey

Then you'd change in the twilight
turn neon and crimson
purple and passionate,
flaunting your beauty
waiting for night

But could a cloud
be a you
immeasurable
intangible
known and unknown
blurred at the edges

Could a cloud
be a you
and are you what I thought I saw then
when I was a speck
and you were the sky?

Cubbie Blues

Is the season over yet?
They lost again this noon
perished in the April cold
and Wrigley Field spring gloom

A grand slam but it's the other team
four more on the board
the Pirates served their pennance
and the Cubs are their reward

What we need now is a hero sort
to stop this juggernaut in reverse
this Addison addiction
this century long Clark Street curse

OK, the fans, they may not notice it
or anyone taking Prozac
but we're back down in the cellar now
and in my house we all know that

So before ivy leaves turn green
let's get him on the phone
get a blue Cubs pen and sign him up
my hero, Joe Pepitone

If I could catch it

In a craft made out of willow reeds
under grey skies, clouds opaque
we sailed upon new spring waves
an equinotical vernal date

Our souls together thus were borne

on drafts of wind unseen

warmed by love and innocence
in the temperate seas of spring

I thought if I could catch it then
in words I could express

I could give it to you endlessly

but its essence would not be etched

We float instead, past flotsam memories

past old Riley, with his rake

past crumbling limestone yesterdays 

and garden lives that once were great

Past growing things and summer vows

in a garden, in a church

in the seedings and the rootings

pasts and presents are converged

We float across the yellow green

then forsythia waves of gold
and see rich jeweled islands cobalted blue
just emerged from winter's cold

There, a flock of new magnolias
perched on a twisted old green fence
poise their pink wings to fly away
perfumed and intense

The lockers locks de-iced

hyberbation thawed

there’s a leaping of our hearts

a joy that winter stalled

Shedding hats and gloves and woolen coats

back to our new selves underneath

we smell the smell of leather gloves

then our selves are more complete

A parrot green with eyes of orange

has a key now in his beak
to a safe that holds a telescope
to see things once oblique

A squinted eye held to the scope
old dolls lost are seen again,
pony tails and pink ribbons
reunited childhood friends

There’s your birthday dress,
with its ruffled top, mom put it on your bed
your friends are coming over soon

for spring happiness again

Do you see your favorite album?

it’s fifties, no it’s rock

it’s Simon and it’s Garfunkel

it’s Cowsill family pop

Now a shimmering spirit

a soothing birthday potion

from dandelions and cherry blossoms

bittersweet and potent

We slip into Jacob's forest now

a shadowed Sherwood in her backyard
to sneak in and make a real faux camp
I’ll give you a head start

We’ll see cardinals, larks and blue jays

as they dance around the trees

disappointments don’t exist there

only inner peace

Squirrels, raccoons and grapevines

tea parties, rabbit holes

you’re alice in her looking glass

watching mysteries of the soul

The captain sends you to the crow’s nest

to spy for trains down at the corner

we close our eyes and listen

from you, our sole reporter

It’s the soothing of the railroad sounds
steaming brakes and clanking steel
cityscapes and city sounds
iron ships without a keel

You spy the station wagon

in the driveway, an old ford

In 70’s rides you saw the police

until the Wright’s they were ignored

I see you on your birthday then

and you’re tender, young and pretty

you’re holding your little sisters’ hands

Goat and Meg and Sticki

If it’s not like this now then you’ve just made things up

in the intervening years

spring is always out there

and won’t ever disappear

Like how I saw you in the kitchen

with all your still best friends

bell bottoms, beads and peace signs

none have ever reached an end

And in places there on Bell and Hoyne
you’re still holding hands with the girls
but your hands to hold have multiplied
like sparkling family pearls

Our ship lifted off and took to the sky
its great white sails unfurled
our captain pointed to a southern point
and gave the wheel a twirl

We moved up through the giant oaks
toward their ancient towering arms

they protected all our growing up

and kept us all unharmed

We sailed then almost aimlessly

we turned and lurched and twisted

as the captain threw the anchor out

I thought we almost missed it

But we floated up there in the sky

and I recognized the space

a sacred mission, a sacred heart

a childhood holy place

You looked down through your telescope
and saw yourself down there
white gloves and white dress
spring flowers in your hair

And you felt it then and you feel it now
with borchardt in the garden
and the next one there that would heal your soul
when you needed that department

We waved at you and you looked up
and the sailboat lifted us together
and the spring songs floated up to us
and they’ll be with us for - forever

The goats on your birthday

To-daay-aay-aay-aay on your birthday,
the mountain goats bleated
we two discussed
just what you needed

The Birthday Bird, as usual,
was no help at all
just hot dogs on spools
and jumps from high waterfalls

The tall blue-green pets
from the Katroo pet department
well, they’re too fluffy and tall
for a Manhattan apartment

The deep sea divers, Getz and Gitz
suggested a time-telling fish

But with clock-keeping problems
of burping and napping
we re-ee-ee-eealy can’t see
a ticking fish happening

How about a gift card
from Wesley Ballou’s?
a health food boutique
in downtown Katroo…

They have cakes by the Snookers
and beer by the Trappists
And jellied green eel
in gold metal wrappers

Or deep-sleeping darts
To throw at the baby
Eighty minutes of bliss (assuming good aim)
and guaranteed Katroo safety

A pa-a-a-alm-reading session
from the gypsies in town?
On second thought,
you should turn that one down

You might get the blues
if they looked at your hand
and saw te-ee-ee-enage years
you’d have to withstand

We couldn’t bu-uy-uy you a jersey
of the Mets or the Yanks
but might spring for a tee-shirt
of the Katroo Fighting Francs

So really, we’re back
to the ho-o-o-ot dog event
a Birthday Bird favorite
with little dissent

A spe-eh-eh-cial birthday lunch
a meal, seven course (all dogs)
but with a new twist,
we’ll make it veggie - of course!

And then we'll wash Katroo mustard
with a dive in the pool
and the goats can climb rocks
and eat hot dogs off spools

Happy Birthday!!!!!

My kind of rain

She's my kind of rain

Like love in a drunken sky
She's confetti falling
Down all night

She sits quietly there
Like water in a jar
Says, Baby why are you
Trembling like you are

So I wait
And I try
I confess like a child
She's my kind of rain

Like love from a drunken sky
Confetti falling down all night
She's my kind of rain

She's the sunset's shadows
She's like Rembrandt's light
She's the history that's made at night

She's my lost companion
She's my dreaming tree
Together in this brief eternity

Summer days, winter snows
She's all things to behold

She's my kind of rain
Like love from a drunken sky
Confetti falling down all night
She's my kind of rain

So I wait
And I try
I confess all my crimes

She's my kind of rain
Like love from a drunken sky
Confetti falling down all night
She's my kind of rain

Oh, rain on me

On Valentines Day 2011

Lyrics: Tim McGraw Set This Circus Down

Ode to the magical cat

A wispy grey kitty
in a gypsy box kiosk
a tea party granny
in a tabby grey dress

but once a new baby
a campus cat princess
a college co-ed girfriend
all fancy and frisky

Our bff best bud
In dorm rooms, apartments
backyards and bedrooms
winters and summers

when it wasn't so crowded
we were together
me a Chinese waitress
and you Cinderella

then a cherished cheshire
a cheese-head bret favre girl
sleeping and dreaming
with barbie and friends

scratch my chin here
rub my head there
and you'll see my paw thumping
up and down in the air

Frankie we'll miss you
our girl with a boy's name
Our little Miss Magic
we'll be wishing to you