Christmas in Casper

This year, I got luggage for Christmas.

Let me just say that, on the surface, the aftermath of last week’s storm in Denver seemed to be taken care of. When we arrived on Sunday evening, the hordes of people sleeping in the airport were gone, the detritus of all those thousands of stranded passengers was gone, and except for the 8 or 10 foot snow banks, you’d never know that the airport had just dug itself out of a blizzard.

But all was not well in Mudville.

When we got off our flight from San Diego, we checked the monitor for our outbound flight, got the gate number and headed there. We had a couple hours to kill, so we stopped for dinner. We got to the gate in plenty of time, and watched as standby passengers hugged and congratulated the ones who’d been called for a seat on each flight.

In retrospect, this should have been a warning sign. Standby passengers shouldn’t be that friendly with each other.

We waited until it was time for our flight to board, and oddly, we heard nothing about it.

I got up to check the monitor, because our airline? Might have changed the gate while we were having dinner.

So I’m looking at the monitor and it very clearly says that the gate where we’d been sitting for 90 minutes was our departure gate. But the gate closest to the monitor? The back board at that gate lists our flight.

As delayed.

I can often be helpful, or at least I’ve been told I can be, so I very kindly approached the gate agent and said, “Did you know that the monitor has the wrong gate listed?”

I did not expect the response I got. I expected the woman to say, “Oh, really? Sorry about that! Thanks for letting us know, I’ll get that fixed right away, and we’ll make an announcement at the other gate.”

When the shimmering that always seems to indicate the shift between my imagination and the Real World stopped, the gate agent simply looked at me like I was an idiot and said, “We have no control over that.” And then she turned and walked away before I could ask her another silly question like, “How long will we be delayed?”

When I walked back past the monitor, I got my answer to that question: two hours.

The girls and I relocated to the new gate and settled in for a two hour delay. The last time we’d flown through here at Christmas, it had been a five hour delay, so at that point we agreed that we were pretty lucky.

And then I got the phone call from Orbitz confirming the two hour delay.

I called my dad and let him know, and as soon as I hung up? Another call from Orbitz telling me that the delay had been extended by half an hour.

At some point after ten p.m., the gate agents disappeared. I’m sure they didn’t vanish into thin air, like Cheshire Cats, but they might as well have.

At around eleven, just about the time that we should have been boarding our delayed flight, another gate agent showed up, and my phone rang. Orbitz again: flight cancelled. I calmly walked over to the gate agent, who was setting up her stuff for boarding, and asked, “Is it true that our flight was just cancelled?”

“Was it?” she asked. “Let me check.”

She tapped a few keys on the computer, then said, “I better go ask my supervisor,” and hurried off to Customer Service across the concourse.

Right about then, someone’s kid said, “Hey, the board shows our flight’s been cancelled!”

I told the girls to grab all our stuff and follow me to Customer Service…I wanted to beat the rush.

When I got to the counter, the woman there took our boarding passes, lackadaisically tapped her keyboard a few times. The agent next to her told the passenger next to me that she’d be put on standby for the first flight on Christmas morning, but that the flight was already overbooked, so while there wasn’t much hope, there was at least some hope that she’d be able to make it out in the morning.

Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. The agent I was dealing with said with a bored sigh, “I might be able to get you on a flight on Tuesday evening.”

Tuesday? Tuesday as in two days from now, Tuesday? I was incredulous. “Oh, no,” I said, “you guys have been rude to me and lied to me and this cancellation is because you couldn’t fix your airplane on Christmas Eve…you’re going to make this right. You’re going to do right by me.”

The woman looked at me with fire in her eyes. She grabbed our boarding passes and crushed them in her fist before slamming them on the counter in front of me. “I,” she snarled, “am not helping you!” She spun and headed for the Customer Service office.

“What??? I want your name!” I shouted after her.

“You’re not going to get it!” and she disappeared into the office.

“Sir?” said one of the other agents. “If you don’t calm down, I’ll call the police.”

I thought about that for a minute. I didn’t doubt for a second that he was serious. So I stood there silently, wavering between astonishment and panic. What happened to the option to go standby on Christmas day? What happened to the customer service representative calmly talking the distraught passenger through the choices available? What happened to the recognition that the customer has the airline a lot of money to make sure that he and his kids could be with their family on Christmas? What could I have said that would warrant a threat to call the police? I replayed what I said; I did not use foul language. I only raised my voice to be heard across the room by the retreating customer service representative. Correction: the retreating airline employee.

And the ultimate question: Now what do I do?

Other passengers came to the counter, were apologetically told they’d be on standby for the next day, received their hotel and meal vouchers, and left.

I held my ground at the counter.

Other passengers reacted with shock, incredulity, and anger. They were given their boarding passes for the cancelled flight and told to go away, and I wondered if I was seeing some new company policy: don’t help any customer who is upset.

While I stood there quietly, the police did, in fact, arrive.

It was then that I noticed the mob behind me. If I squinted just right, the whole scene turned black and white, and those skis that guy had? might have passed for a pitchfork.

The girl from our gate who had so helpfully disappeared when I asked if our flight had been cancelled reappeared to help get things straightened out for me. She was friendly and talkative, and she got me a hotel voucher and meal vouchers right away. She tried to arrange for our baggage to be set out for us before we left for the hotel.

And while we were waiting for that, she refused to let me out of her sight.

At some point her supervisor told her that there would be another flight in the morning, an extra flight to take care of the passengers on the cancelled Casper flight. The flight time was so early in the morning that by the time she got me flight vouchers, it no longer made sense for us to go to the hotel.

When I told my daughters we’d be spending the night in the airport, they said, “Kewl!”

I did not sleep. Alanna slept on the floor for an hour or two, while Heidi and I watched part of “King Kong” on Alanna’s DVD player.

By 6 a.m., our extra flight had still not shown on the monitor, but a phone call to the reservation number and we had confirmed seats for the flight departing at 8:15.

Before boarding, I asked the gate agent to confirm that our bags would be on our flight. She said, “Yes, I show them waiting to be scanned for your flight.”

Perfect. We’d be there in time for a late Christmas breakfast, even if it wasn’t to be my Dad’s amazing pancakes.

The thirteen of us on that extra flight were relieved to finally enter the terminal to see our loved ones, some of whom had spent the night in the Casper terminal and faced a two or three hour drive home.

For the first few minutes after the baggage turnstile began to move, there was laughter and friendly banter, except for the one slightly crazy-looking woman who had arrived from Denver three days before and still had not gotten her luggage.

And then the turnstile stopped.

Not one of us on that flight had picked up a bag.

We headed to the counter en masse.

There was one. One? One. Airline. Employee. At the ticket counter.

And she was looking at a line of thirty passengers headed out on the next flight to Denver.

We went home.

Most of our Christmas presents were in our checked bags.

So. We had breakfast.

And we opened the gifts we had.

And we made each other laugh.

And we had a terrific dinner, turkey with all the trimmings.

And the morning after (Boxing Day, if you’re Meg), we went back out to the airport.

And there were our bags. So, I got my own luggage for Christmas. A day late, but just as appreciated.

In a perfect world, I’d be able to say that I handled it all with dignity and grace, but even the world inside my head isn’t perfect.

Has Christmas been wonderful, in spite of the adventure? Yes, and partly because of it.

As I write this, it is snowing outside, and has been for more than four hours. Denver’s airport is once again closed, and we can almost certainly look forward to more trouble on our return trip.

But the snow sure is pretty.

Christmas Time Is Here

You can because it's cloudy. The cloud is at the top of this picture, in the very center.

Also? It's like 68 degrees, but with the wind chill? Totally 65.

Brrrr!

Headed up to Wyoming later today, passing through Denver, where I imagine they are just beginning to dig themselves out of all the fast food wrappers left behind by the stranded travellers this week.

Merry Christmas!

Twelve Ways to Make Christmas Shopping More Pleasant

1. Stop talking on your cell phone and drive.

2. Try to walk in some semblance of a straight line so that people in a hurry can get around you.

3. No, it doesn't matter what direction.

4. Please stop talking on your cell phone and drive.

5. Keep your kids close to you or leave them with a sitter.

6. Put things back where you found them.

7. Stop talking on your damned cell phone and drive your damned car.

8. The holidays are much nicer if you treat everyone with the same respect you demand from them.

9. Trying to talk on two cell phones while driving is one louder than stupid.

10. Freedom To Go To The Head Of The Line is not one of the Rights provided by our Constitution. Please wait like the rest of us.

11. Neither is Freedom To Drive Like A Moron.

12. Hang up your FRIGGING cell phone and PAY ATTENTION TO YOUR DRIVING!

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Planes, Trains, and Ships

Christmas, for me, always seems to be about airplanes. Or more precisely, travel.

Since I left home in 1979, the only Christmas I can remember that wasn't spent on the road or as a guest somewhere was the one I spent off the coast of Kuwait. 1993.

This year, my daughters and I will be traveling to Wyoming to visit my parents. I am not sure which of them is more excited about the visit. If I had to pick, I'd say it was my dad.

Like most kids, I got some cool gifts over the years, but what I remember most about Christmases when I was growing up was the laughter. And the music.

My mother has her PhD in Music Education, and though that came after I left home, she was the assistant music director at our church for many years, so from the time I was old enough to join the Junior Choir, my mom and I (and later my sister) had Candlelight Service and Christmas Sunday services to prepare for and perform in. By the time I was 11 or 12, I was in the Handbell Choir, and then the Youth Choir. My friends and I would join the processional, careful to take seats close to an aisle so that we could slip out for the bell loft before we were needed there, and then back down to our seats in time to sing with the choir. Performing added a level of excitement to holiday services that I long to recapture.

When Christmas didn't fall on a Sunday, our family tradition was to sleep in until at least 8 am...interminable for my sister and me until we hit our teens and actually preferred to sleep in. We'd all take turns opening presents, with my dad taking pictures of us nonstop, though mostly of my sister. When the base of the tree was visible once again, my dad would head for the kitchen to make the world's best pancakes.

One year, in my early teens, Dad and I went out for a tree on Christmas Eve...I have no idea why we waited that long, but those were lean years for us, so it's possible that until that day, my parents weren't sure we'd get to have a tree and food on the table. It's also possible that the season was so busy for my mom, and business so busy for my dad, that we simply put off getting the tree until the last minute. Whatever the reason, we found ourselves at the tree place in a parking lot on Hartford Road well after dark, looking at trees illuminated by the street lights and a string of bare bulbs through that thin, wind-whipped snow that falls only when the temperatures have fallen below freezing. When we'd decided, we went in to the office, where the tree guy waved us out the door again. "Take any tree on the lot, no charge," he said. "Merry Christmas!"

Our return home that night was both joyous and triumphant: we were men, and we had won that tree. Over the years, my mother has made many jokes about my father's frugality, and that tree remains in our memory as having elevated his sense of economy to legendary status. The Christmas Eve quest for a tree became a tradition steeped in egg nog and jokes, and on those few Christmases when I was actually home before Christmas Eve, my dad and I have upheld it. Once or twice, my brother-in-law has joined us. Men hunt tree.

My dad has an unbelievably creative mind, and no one who knows him will ever deny that he thinks of things in different terms than the rest of us. One year, he gave me a Marine recruiting poster. Not because either of us had any ties to the Marines, but because it had a photograph of a Phantom fighter on it. Cheap gift, a poster, right? Not very original? This was no ordinary poster: it was a billboard poster. One Saturday not long after, we wall-papered my room with it. That Phantom was 25 feet long, and covered two and a half walls of my room. No, my dad didn't just give me a poster. He gave me an image of the ultimate expression of my dream to fly, one that I'd see first thing every morning and last thing at night for as long as I lived under his roof. He gave me a celebration of a passion we shared, that we still share. The message was clear: "This is what yo can do, if you want to, Son." He gave it in a way no one I know has ever even considered, much less gotten...that poster stands as one of the coolest gifts I've ever heard of.

Years later, when I was in Maine to help build USS COWPENS, I went into the blueprint library at Bath Iron Works and printed out the exterior line drawings of the ship to give my dad for Christmas. That led to this:

...which is now on display at the Cowpens National Battlefield Museum. It was built mostly from scratch, out of plastic and fiberglass and wire and brass, and it is six feet long.

Over the years, there have been several occasions when I've been unable to be home for Christmas Day, so the family has moved the whole celebration and all the traditions that could be moved to whatever day I could be there. The important thing, as far as my mom and dad were concerned, was that the family gets to be together for the celebration. I will be able to offer this to any woman who chooses me: two Christmases.

For several years after my sister moved to California to be with Joe, the three of us have given our parents gifts that honor them with our creative talents. One year, we borrowed their video camera for several days before Christmas, and presented them with a short film about what Christmas means to us. The film was hosted by Joe as Wiley Beaton-Smythe, a vaguely British talk show host who goes around interviewing various people (all played by my sister and me) about the meaning of Christmas. Another year, we wrote and recorded a 40's style radio play about a Sam Spade-est-ce-que private eye hired by a mysterious and beautiful woman to find the meaning of Christmas. A couple years ago, we recorded an album of our music for them.

It's not just that I love how they made Christmas for us when we were young, I love that they gave us so many options for making Christmas wonderful now.

It's that one fact that makes being solitary at Christmas such a bittersweet thing; My most passionate Christmas wish is to share all of this with a woman who understands and appreciates it.

Anyway, I have all of that to look forward to.

And the best thing about Christmas this year is that my niece's EEG was normal today. There is no sign of the abnormal brain activity that indicated lurking seizures and infantile spasm. Yesterday, when Joe went to check on her in her crib, Clara heard his voice, rolled over, and started giggling.

So, this year, it seems there will be one more laugh in the Kalbfleisch household.

I Wish I Had a River

I called my sister on Thursday for the latest news about Clara, who was in the hospital last week, undergoing treatment for infantile spasm. The news was good, that the steroid treatment seems to be working, though we've seen this twice before...she'll start on a new medication, her seizures will disappear for a week, only to return in a week with greater intensity. Each medication is purported to be effective for 50% of those it's given to - so this being the third, and last, available treatment option, perhaps the Law of Averages will work in her favor. My sister is hopeful; I am not sure I have room for more disappointment.

What's been astonishing to me is how acutely I feel each piece of news about my niece, though perhaps it's my sister's pain that most deeply affects me. She and I have always had a special bond, but I am only just beginning to understand what motivated her to be so powerfully supportive during and after my divorce.

I seem to be feeling everything much more intensely lately. A cheesy Lifetime movie ended with me streaming tears this afternoon; what's more, I'd seen it before. Music can make me misty-eyed, if you'll excuse the alliteration. It doesn't even have to have lyrics: W.G. Snuffy Walden's rendition of "The First Noel" snuck up on me a little while ago, and Mozart's Overture from La Nozze di Figaro before that.

It must be because it's coming on Christmas, and they are indeed cutting down trees. They're putting up reindeer.

The other night, I took Heidi Christmas shopping. I had thought to let her go do her thing for a while while I knocked out my gift-hunting for her, but a phone call from an old friend kept me from getting much done. The call kept me on the outside of the Christmas rush for the evening, and I'm grateful for that opportunity. I honestly think everyone should set aside one evening during the busy season to simply sit and watch.

I guess that's how I've been feeling this Holiday season: on the outside, looking in.

I am hungry for something, and I know what it is, but like a kid looking up at a cookie jar on a high shelf, it's out of my reach.

When I get like this, I have a tendency to walk around in circles and cast off the things I have that I enjoy for want of the thing I don't have that I crave. Scott Peck would have said that I lack the ability to defer gratification.

It's not that I lack that ability, it's that I often choose the easier path, the one in which I don't have to exercise it.

I wish I had a river that I could skate away on.

Soundtrack

Inside my head, there is a large chorus singing in a minor key, with thematic counterpoints from cellos and violins.

I woke this morning to the call of the fog horns on San Diego Bay. Next to the sound of a lover's sigh as she snuggles against me and tries to hang on to the last vestiges of sleep, fog horns are my favorite thing to wake up to. They remind me of summers in Maine, of when I was young and the world had not shown me any of her crueler jokes.

I had a meeting this morning, out of the office and across the Coronado Bridge, just past my favorite part of San Diego: the beach in front of the red-roofed Hotel Del Coronado. I'd been asked to give a fifteen minute presentation, and the drive would be forty minutes there and back.

The sky was dark and low, especially out over the bay, where the clouds came right down to the water.

Given my mood, this was a welcome change from the perpetual sunshine we've been given for more than a week. The fog rolling in late yesterday afternoon, sweeping across the sea and pouring up the hillside below my office, gave us the first clouds we'd seen since Tuesday last. I'm not sure if the clouds were a precursor to my mood, or if the billowing vapor was manifested by my discontent.

Cresting the overpass on Pacific Highway, where the view of the airport and downtown is always best, the sun broke through the overcast for a moment, and I knew that neither the overcast nor my mood would last. This, too, shall pass, as my boss is fond of saying.

But what if I don't want the mood to pass? What if I don't want blue skies and warmth and sunshine? What if I just want an excuse to retreat a while, to hunker down under the covers to hold in warmth and ward off the daylight?

I don't want to spend today in the real world.

I don't want to spend the day in a world where selfish people act as though the rest of us should be okay with their erratic, cell-phone-impaired driving.

I don't want to spend the day in a world where babies have infantile spasms, and impaired cognitive development, and symptoms of autism.

I don't want the winter of my discontent to be made glorious summer by this sun of San Diego.

Just for a day, I want my world to be about biplanes with wires that sing in ninety mile winds and smell of gasoline and oil and leather, set to playful music on a single classical guitar.

Just for a day, I want my world to be about the softness of a loving woman's touch and the perfect eagerness of her kiss, set to Harry Connick or Dean Martin or Frank Sinatra, or simply to the beat of my heart.

HCOD Redux

Last year, I posted about the dreaded HCOD...the Holiday Cutoff Date. As I explained in that post, the HCOD is random date beyond which you and your new love cannot include each other in family Christmas plans. "Anything less than six weeks," I wrote, "and including each other in family plans on the Big Morning are uncomfortable and weird. Everyone will just end up trying to be polite while sitting unshaven, unwashed, and unkempt in their slightly-fuggy PJs, and that’s too much pressure to put on the family."

Begin a new relationship beyond mid-November and you're destined to be a little lonely on Christmas Day.

And then there's the problem of what to give - there's a lot of pressure on the First Christmas Gift Ever. It sets the tone for all the gifts that come after (or don't, as the case may very well be). It's hard enough making a meaningful purchase for someone you know well, but for the person you're still shy about, still uncertain of...those are treacherous waters, my friends.

This year, there is help on the horizon: www.findgift.com. There are so many choices here that finding a gift should be easy! Alas, one must be careful about the message in one's gift.

Some examples:

1. I'm not certain I'll like your family.

2. I want to maintain an air of mystery , or...I embrace your intrinsically selfish nature.

3. I know you're not , and I want you to know that I'm desperately okay with that.
4. Guess what I'm REALLY interested in!

5. I think it's time to redecorate your place in a South Pacific motif.

6. Is it too early to build a vacation home together?

7. No, really, I DO like your smile , but I could like it more...

8. I want to see you naked, but I also think you could stand to lose a little weight.

9. Your housekeeping habits need improvement, but that doesn't mean you should spend less time with ME.

10. Is it time for our blood tests yet?

The Internet can be so helpful!

And, Charlie...LIGHT A MATCH!

There's gotta be a better headline for this story.

I mean, the story is funny.

The funniest headline of the year was at the top of a story that was definitely not funny: Four Killed in Cartoon Bloodshed.

Maybe a humorous story needs an unfunny headline to maintain the cosmic balance.

And vice versa.

I still think they coulda done better.

A Star Is Born

It's not just pride that I say this: My daughter makes a great zombie.

On Friday night, I went to see her perform in "Night of the Living Dead" at the high school. She appeared in four scenes.

Thirty minutes before curtain time, when the audience began to take its seats, there were two sheet-covered corpses plainly visible on stage. As the play began, the corpses came to mindless life, rising from under their coverings with obvious effort. The audience was completely surprised; neither of the corpses had so much as twitched until the music began.

One of those two reanimated corpses was my daughter...she'd told me what to expect at the beginning of the play, so I'd been paying very close attention to them, and to the audience's reaction when they came to life. It was perfect...simply perfect.

If you've ever tried to lay still for half an hour, perfectly still, without breathing perceptibly, for half an hour, you get an idea of how she began her performance on Friday night. And she did it on the hard floor of the stage.

The discipline she can find, when she wants to, is nothing short of astonishing.

And that was only the beginning of her performance. It's been said that there are no small parts, only small actors. Heidi took that saying to heart, and though she had no spoken lines, she poured herself into the process of becoming her character on stage. She watched the film several times, then moved on to other zombie films, taking notes and pulling ideas from at least a half dozen places. She perfected a twitchy walk-of-the-undead that truly looked as though she only partially remembered how to move, and then she added a painful-sounding wheeze...the effect was stunning.

Afterwards, as I drove her home, she asked my opinion, and I told her honestly that I was amazed.

Last night, over dinner, she told me of plans for the musical, "Guys and Dolls".

"Will you audition?" I asked.

"Of course, Dad," she said.

Then she smiled a small smile.

I guess we'll be seeing some musicals now.

Licensed to Amuse

Tonight was graduation night for my improv class.

I won't try to explain the games we played in the lab...most of them involve a degree of physicality that makes them impossible to explain in writing without painting a fine glaze on the reader's eyes; there are high levels of you-had-to-be-there in this particular soup.

I will, however, say a few words about some of the people I've begun to know through improv in the last two months: These are kind, generous, intelligent, loving people, and I am glad they're in my life. It's rare to find another person who sparks your imagination and challenges you to reach without and within for warmth and growth, which makes this group of ten such human beings absolutely extraordinary.

Our graduation "ceremony" consisted of each person in the group taking a turn sitting in the center of our circle, to listen while the group pointed out the things they enjoyed about having each of us in the class. Some of the compliments I received were what I expected - things I've seen in myself; a surprising number were unexpected...things I never considered, and it's made me realize that people often see wonderful things in us that we never notice when left to ourselves.

I need to remember that. Yes, I do.

After sitting in the circle, each person had an opportunity to say a few words about what the class meant to them. I found it hard not to be emotional...it's astonishing how much more open and unreserved I am compared to how I was eight weeks ago. I love these people, this group of people.

The class is not over for me...there will be a holiday break, one which will seem far too long, and class will resume in January. Several of my classmates will return, and others will join the group, so the dynamic will change. Of course, improv is all about embracing change and building upon the unexpected, and Jacquie, our teacher, understands that it's important for her to assemble a group of people who play well with each other. Judging from this group, that's one of her great talents, so I have no doubt that it will continue to be something I dearly love.

Weather Vein

Whoever thought up this week's weather for San Diego needs to have their head examined.

Check it.

As I write this, it's 61 degrees (16, if you're Meg, who is brought to you by the letter "U".)(And while I'm at on the subject of Meg, I should suggest that you go vote for her in the Best New Blog and Best Personal Blog categories.).

But notice the bright red letters "Severe Weather Alert!" Apparently, we may have...shudder...FROST.

ALERT ALERT ALERT...SENSITIVE OUTDOOR PLANTS MAY BE KILLED IF LEFT UNCOVERED. Jack Frost is on a rampage in Southern California, and he may do a drive-by on yo' garden, and shit.

Apparently.

I'll contrast this with the weather in Casper, Wyoming, which is also listed in fair condition...at 20 degrees (-7, if you're Meg), with temps expected to dip down to -1 (-18...yeouch, Meg) over night. And no severe weather alert.

See, we're Weather Pussies here in SoCal.

I predict a run on plastic sheeting at Home Depot today.

Precipice

I woke up this morning in the middle of a conversation with one of my characters. I savored the talk...I like the man...and when I got up, I was on fire to begin writing the first chapter of Tale of the Tiger.

I got up and got dressed, mulling over this first conversation in my mind.

I found my copy of The Bridge Across Forever, then rediscovered my twenty-five year old copy of A Gift of Wings, which I set out on my coffee table to read later.

I realized that I'll need to do laundry today, so I sorted some of the dirty clothes, and loaded the laundry basket.

It was still too early to start the washer, so I went to the Vons to get a cup of coffee and a bite to eat for breakfast.

When I got home, I checked e-mail, replied to a post in one of the flight simulation forums I frequent, and read a couple posts in another forum while I ate my breakfast.

I fired up the sim and did some flying, not for fun, but for the photo opportunity. I'll be making some title art for Tale of the Tiger, and I needed a few screen shots to work with. The flying part added another .7 hours to my log book.

And now, I am writing this post.

Really, the things I will do to avoid sitting down to actually write.

Richard Bach wrote in his essay It is said that we have ten seconds, "...the only time I can write is when some idea is so scarlet-fierce that it grabs me by the neck and drags me thrashing and screaming to the typewriter. I leave heel marks on the floors and fingernail scratches in the walls every inch of the way."

This morning, I know exactly how that feels.

I love the creative process, the feel of writing, the way my fingers flow over the keys, the soft clickety-clack of the keyboard as my thoughts move from someplace other through my mind and out my fingers to become perceptible shapes on the screen.

It's the starting I hate.

What must a bird feel, standing on the edge of its nest, wings outstretched tentatively, with the unfamiliar beckoning touch of the wind ruffling its feathers?

I'll get there.

Of Words and Wings

I’ve had a couple ideas today…pretty good ones, if I do say so myself. The first involves embarking on a new writing project, one which I’ll share with you as it’s being written. I wasn’t quite ready for this one when NaNoWriMo started, or I’d have attempted to write it there. Thinking about it now, that’s probably a good thing. Even now, the story is still developing in my head.

If you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you know that I love airplanes. I always have – according to my mother, the first word I ever said was, “airplane”, though apparently the pointing (and undoubtedly the wild gesticulation) was necessary to understand the context of my toddler’s unskilled articulation.

I eventually became a pilot.

And then, after a couple near-mishaps caused by my own failure to account for the inattentiveness of others (or simply by that inattentiveness, depending on how you look at it), I took a break from flying. By the time I was ready to go back to it, the world – my world and the version of reality that I subscribe to most of the time – had changed and I could no longer afford to fly as often as I’d need to in order to be any good at it.

I never gave up my love of airplanes, though.

To keep my navigation skills sharp, I began practicing with computer-based flight simulators, and eventually made a virtual flight around the world.

Once in a while, someone with a similar love of aviation and a remarkable level of skill and patience will produce a simulation of a favorite airplane, and unintentionally (or intentionally, depending on how much credit you give the developer) inspire me. This has happened three times now: with the King Air I flew around the world, with the Spitfire I haven’t yet given up writing about, and this week with a 30’s vintage de Havilland biplane.

These airplanes capture my imagination and become the keys to a vivid, virtual world that extends beyond the limits of the simulation, beyond my time at the computer.

This time, I’m going to share the story that comes out of this world with you, right here.

If there’s one core truth to creativity, it’s that inspiration never comes from just one place. Just like the people who access creative thought, ideas are the sum of many experiences, many lessons.

Four of Richard Bach’s early books hold a special place in my heart. Biplane and Nothing By Chance were first-person accounts of two summers Richard spent barnstorming…flying his biplane around the mid-west, selling rides for $3. Those experiences helped him form the basis for his best-seller Illusions, a copy of which sits on my computer desk nearly all the time. Finally, A Gift of Wings is a collection of essays about flying, mostly non-fiction. It was reading A Gift of Wings that led me to finally seek out a flight instructor, and the day I flew solo was also the day I wrote Richard a thank you note for encouraging me to fly.

I’ve been asked a good many times over the years why I’ve never gone back to real-world flying. I have invariably given some bullshit answer about the cost of flying, just as I did earlier in this post (and just as I did when asked over lunch this afternoon), but the simplest truth is that I haven’t gone back because I don’t want to. There are other things that I hold more important at this point in my life, and for now, I’m perfectly happy to enjoy my flying from inside my head, while seated at my kitchen table.

You could see this as compromise if you want to, and perhaps it is. As Richard notes in The Bridge Across Forever, “The only thing that shatters dreams is compromise.” While I whole-heartedly agree, I refuse to accept that compromises must shatter dreams.

And that leads me to my second idea, which takes the form of a question: What dream have you set aside to make room for other things of equal importance, and have the compromises you’ve chosen shattered or merely postponed the realization of your dream?

While you’re thinking about that, I’m going to be writing about flying and other things in a new feature I’m calling Tale of the Tiger.

The View

Yes, this is it...the view from my desk. No, there are no whales in this picture.

We have shy whales in Southern California.

Opposing Mirrors

I watched a news piece about Michael Richards this morning, this one about his phone call to Reverend Al Sharpton’s radio show.  He wanted to apologize, again, for his outburst at the Laugh Factory last week, and the Reverend Sharpton wouldn’t let him.  

Now, I am the last person to condone an outburst like the one Richards treated his audience to, but I do wonder what really started it.  As with other “revealing” videos, the crucial minute or two at the beginning…the inciting event…is missing.  All we see is the reaction, and blameworthy as it may be, I wonder if what set him off wasn’t equally reprehensible.

Whenever someone crosses a line and enters a realm of Public Unacceptability, most people around them point their fingers and yell, “Ah-hah!  See?  See?”  The finger-pointers forget that something came before, something that drew the offender out, and something came before that, and something before that, and so on, and so on, like the reflections in two opposing mirrors.  Every one of us has a hand in it, no matter who we are or what we have done or where we live: in a moment of surprise at another human being’s carelessness, who among us hasn’t blamed it on the most obvious difference between us and them?

We see it everywhere, if we’re paying attention: Palestinians suicide bombers kill Israelis whose military kills Palestinians.  Shi’ites burn Sunnis alive after Sunni militiamen murdered hundreds of Shi’ites.  

Retaliation is not always so brutal…it very seldom is.  Have you ever sped up to avoid letting someone into your lane on the freeway?  Answered a telemarketer’s pitch with a tirade?  

The Reverend Sharpton wouldn’t let Michael Richards apologize because according to Sharpton, Richards has the power to help others heal from the effects of racism, and until he does something worthy of that ideal, there can be no apology.  

Doesn’t that just up the ante?  What can he do to help begin the process of healing, if no apology will be accepted?  

It surprises me that a man of faith would overlook the fact that spiritual and emotional healing cannot begin without forgiveness, and that forgiveness is impossible when the aggrieved insists that the apologist is being insincere.  

For some of us, the grievance becomes more important than any remedy.  We clutch at our anger, fearful of relinquishing it without knowing how to replace it, like a drunk holding tight to his brown paper bag.  

I don’t have any answers.  My thoughts on the subject only lead to more questions, except perhaps for this one: My world will be a vastly different place when I believe that every apology I receive is sincere.

How's Yours?

When I wake up most mornings, I have ideas in my head.

As anyone who knows me will tell you, this is usually a good place to grow them, but not such a good place to keep them until they’re needed.

I digress.

Mornings.

Ideas.

Usually, when I wake up full of ideas, they’re Work Related, because chances are that I brought a problem home to sleep on, like a college student with a garage sale bean bag chair.

I used to have ideas in my head every morning, but these days, Tuesday ideas are buried in an avalanche of rhythms after my Middle Eastern drumming class on Monday evenings. Two hours of drumming on Monday, and I hear Chiftetelli and Maqsum and all the rest in my head until they fade to echoes sometime on Wednesday.

Friday morning ideas…ahhh, Friday….these are the most wondrously frustrating ideas of all. Friday morning ideas are shouldadones. Now, if you have a functional mind (and quite possibly if you do not), you know what shouldadone ideas are: they begin with, “Oh, nuts! I should have…”

You have to be careful with shouldadones, because they can lead to paralyzing self-doubt. To question what you did by comparing it to some hypothetical thing you didn’t do is to stand on the crumbling edge of an intellectual abyss. It is very likely that you will fall, screaming, into the void that is insecurity until you finally come to rest, limbs akimbo, at the bottom of self-loathing.

I awaken on this edge every Friday morning.

I awaken on this edge every Friday morning because I am studying improvisational comedy on Thursday nights.

This edge is exactly where every student of improvisation should live.

Every single class offers me a moment when I chose something but could have chosen something better. For example, last week, we began with a game called, “How’s Yours?” in which one person leaves the room and the rest of the group chooses something everyone has. The person who stepped outside is then invited to return and guess what the thing is by asking each member of the group, “How’s yours?” and getting one word answers in reply:

“Empty.”
“Outside.”
“Metal.”
“Functional.”
“Mechanical.”
“Downstairs.”

If you haven’t guessed that the answer was “clothes dryer”, don’t feel bad; neither had I at that point. “Outside” threw me off. And while that answer was true for the classmate who gave it (as it is for me, come to think of it), it put me off track for a while.

When my buddy Bear went out, someone suggested “hair dryer”, which I thought was a good idea because it was so close to the first game that it might be more challenging. Also, I immediately came up with a one word clue that I thought might be funny: unused. You know, because I shave my head, and all.

Let me just say now that I am a dork, because obvious is almost never funny.

Bear came back and got these clues:

“Plastic.”
“Mechanical.”
“Unused.”

At which point, Bear asks, “Is it a hair dryer?”

He probably wouldn’t have needed plastic and mechanical.

On Friday morning, I woke up with a number of better clues in my head: Lonely. Shelved. Silent. Dusty. Disconnected.

Most learning happens when we make mistakes. Not necessarily big mistakes; learning can happen with all mistakes, large or small, if we’re paying attention and we let it. And by paying attention to the things we didn’t do, we can learn a lot.

So these Friday morning Shoudadones are a fantastic opportunity for me to learn about the imperfect way my mind works. Improv is all about embracing imperfection and running with it; when you think about it, that’s what life is all about, too. It’s not just okay to screw things up – it’s expected. And, it’s better when you do.

As my improv teacher says, “Dare to suck big!”

Babel

You must.  See.  This.  Movie.

Credo

-- I believe that before you see a William Shakespeare play, you should read it all the way through.  Out loud.

-- I believe that it should be against the law to drive while holding a cellular phone to your head.

-- I believe that you can trust God, but that you cannot trust anyone who puts a “Trust God” bumper sticker on their car, at least where driving is concerned.

-- I believe that Truth is larger than both Science and Religion, and that neither Science nor Religion, separately or together, possess all the tools required for enlightenment.  Something else is necessary, but I’m not sure what it is.  If I find out, I’ll let you know.

-- I believe that how you end a relationship is even more important than how you begin it.  

-- I believe that a sense of humor can’t happen without a healthy intellect.  I’d rather meet someone who’s funny than someone who’s smart, because funny is a two-fer.

-- I believe that coffee dates are pointless, because you can’t make an informed decision about your second date in the time it takes to sip down to the foam, even if you order a venti.  A good first date should last at least four and a half hours.

-- I believe that people with shared childhood experiences can love each other more deeply than people who don’t go back that far, and that’s why you should try to find the things you both did as children, even if you didn’t know each other then.  I played the violin.  How about you?

-- I believe that the only thing more humbling than the recognition that your child is smarter than you are is the realization that your child is growing into a strong, compassionate, sensitive, loving adult.

-- I believe that marriage should be between one man and one woman, unless one spouse happens to be of the other gender.  Vive la similitude!

-- I believe that the Second Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America is not unconditional: If you want to own a gun, you need to be a member of an organized militia, which includes the active and reserve military, the Coast Guard, the National Guard, a law enforcement agency, or the police reserve.  If you still want to own a gun, but you don’t want to join one of these organizations, you should still be allowed to keep your gun…in Afghanistan.  Or maybe you can go help put a lid on things in Darfur.  

-- I believe that rights are always attached to responsibilities.  To earn the right, you must live up to the responsibility.

-- I believe that infidelity always has consequences; even if your partner never knows, you do, and if you let yourself off the hook, it’s at the expense of who you were.

-- I believe that mystery is what keeps our minds engaged.  “What you see is what you get” is boring; give me an enigma to explore.  

-- I believe that the deeper one delves into one’s personal Truth, the greater the relevance one’s art will have for humanity.  

-- I believe that shared laughter is an irresistible turn-on.

-- I believe that a person’s past is what makes them who they are, and that their choices today make them what they will be.

-- I believe I’ll have a cup of coffee.

The Dark

The human mind is sometimes very cruel.  Mine is, at least.

Since the split with Sihaya, my sleep has been…irregular, at best.  I did not sleep at all the night she was making her decision, and since then, I’ve managed perhaps one full night.  

It hit me on the way home after improv on Thursday night that it had been exactly two weeks since I’d been relatively happy, and I got home with no desire at all for sleep until exhaustion overtook me at 1:30 am.  I had to be at work by 7, and that was made doubly painful by the fact that it was a government holiday, and therefore a day off.  

I held off on napping all afternoon, refrained from going to bed early, desperately hoping to avoid a protracted struggle to return to a normal circadian rhythm.  I went to bed at 11:30, only a little late for me, and looked forward to a long night’s nap.

Instead, I awoke at 5 from a hideous dream in which I sat helpless in the passenger’s seat of a car while a woman I love tries desperately to get in out of the radioactive rain that came after a nuclear holocaust.  In the dream, the door is locked, and I cannot figure out how to unlock it.  Even if I could, I can see that she is soaked to the skin, and I know that she is already dead; if I succeed in letting her in, it will kill me, too.  I am left with nothing but to stay in my seat, a passenger in an unmoving and unmovable car, unable to look away as my lover uses her last gasping breaths to plead for my help.  I know there is no where else to go; the whole world is awash with the same toxic horror that is killing her.  I know also that there is only so long I can stay in the car, and yet I haven’t the courage to go out in the rain and comfort her.  I awaken to the sound of my own voice: Oh, no.  Oh, no.  Oh, no.

I shall not be going to Tai Chi today.  Last week, Sihaya moved from her usual place in the front row to the back.  I had told her, the day before we broke up, that I can’t look at her in class; she’s distracting.  I had intended it to be a compliment, something flirtatious.  She is, after all, beautiful, and the woman I most desire.  I love watching her, but if I permitted myself to do so, I would learn nothing of the form.

But my comment, combined with my presence in the class, caused her to change the way she learns, and I have no wish to do that to her.

It’s beginning to get lighter now, the sky overcast with a purple-gray that is almost lavender.  The birds on the morning shift have begun to show up for work, and as usual, they seem to have had too much Starbucks.

I’ve written before about how remarkable it is for me to even remember my dreams; even so, I wish that my dream had not been so vivid.  I know that I should feel a triumph of sorts, another victory over the pain in my past.

I don’t.

I miss my best friend too much.  

Things I Don't Understand, Part 3

It has been a while since I wrote about things I don’t understand, and since I had the chance to read an old, long-forgotten Lewis Grizzard book, I thought it would be a good time to write Volume 3.

Our Fascination with Celebrity White Trash.  Yahoo! Entertainment News has ten (TEN!!!!) links to stories detailing the Britney Spears – Kevin Federline divorce.  Shit.  Eleven. There is an entire section of Yahoo! Entertainment News devoted to FULL COVERAGE: BRITNEY SPEARS.  I will not link to that page unless they link back to mine.  I wasn’t able to find a single story online today about the failure of a proposition which would have placed limits on Eminent Domain in California, but Britney is everywhere.  And just to show you how fickle the American Public is…I was also unable to find any stories about the upcoming TomKat nuptials. Mmmmmmaybe the whole Britney Divorce Cataclysm ain’t such a bad thing.

The Marine.  Who the hell green-lighted this little gem of a movie?  Oh, wait.  It’s produced by Vince McMahon.  Never mind.  (Side note: As a screenwriter, I hesitated to ask “who the hell”, and had edited out “the hell”, in case I should ever find myself pitching to that producer and he or she didn’t have much of a sense of humor.  I put it back in because it’s not likely that I will ever pitch to Vince McMahon.  Ever.)

Why We Aren’t Out Of Iraq Yet.  I mean, shit, the Democrats won the mid-term election on a platform of “End Bush’s War NOW!” and they’ve had control of Congress for oh, 25 hours as I’m writing this.  Why are we still fighting in Iraq?  I’m opposed to the war in Iraq, too, but it’s not that simple, is it?  Announce that the troops will be home by 1 November 2007, and you’re almost guaranteed to get 2,800 more of them killed before it’s over.  They’ll be lame ducks in the extreme sense of the word, unable to achieve anything more lasting than a desert tire track.  I have a suggestion for getting them home safely and quickly: without any advance notice, have the troops simply bug out for Saudi Arabia and Kuwait, all at once, and as fast as they can go.  It took what, five days to get to Baghdad from Saudi and Kuwait in 2003?  And that was when they were going towards the people shooting at them.  I bet they can get the hell out of Iraq in two days, three at the most, without getting anybody killed at all.  We should probably tell our folks to leave behind the hammers and saws and paint brushes they were using, though, because the Iranians are going to need that stuff to finish rebuilding where we left off.

Explaining

On Saturday morning, Sihaya and I perched on a picnic table, waiting for our Tai Chi class to begin.

“Everyone asked about you at Bill’s retirement party last night,” I said.

She nodded, knowingly. Thoughtfully. “Have you gotten tired of explaining, yet?” she asked.

I sighed. How should I answer that? “There’s not much to explain,” I said, flatly.

I wanted to ask if she could offer something for me to say when people ask why she’s not with me at social functions any more, but I knew that she couldn’t.

At least, not one she’s willing to share with me.

I wanted to tell her that I don’t say much because I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable around my friends and family if she changes her mind.

I had a sense that something was happening with her for a week or two before she lowered the boom. She’d been distant…loving, but lost in her own thoughts, which she attributed to two funerals in two days and the anniversary of The End of Her Marriage. Two Thursdays ago, she missed our good night call. When I called her at 11, she didn’t answer, and the next day she explained that she’d stayed late to talk with her dance teacher, which sometimes happens.

Her e-mails that Friday were terse, the polar opposite of the warmth she’d conveyed in all our daily exchanges since that first introductory e-mail. She seemed distant, scattered. We agreed to see each other that night, that she’d call when she left work so that we could watch Game 5 together…we planned for me to bring dinner.

When she called, it was already the fourth inning, and she suggested a total change in plans. She’d come to my place, maybe we could go out for dinner someplace where the game would be on. I suggested a place to eat, and she had trouble remembering it, though we’d eaten there two weeks before. She seemed lost.

When she said she’d still have to go home and feed the cats after we had dinner, I suggested that we go with the original plan and let me bring dinner to her. She was clearly tired, and I didn’t want her to have to face the drive home after dinner and the game…it seemed to me that she wouldn’t be able to really relax at my place if she came down, so I pressed her to go with the original plans. She agreed. (Besides, we hadn’t seen each other since Sunday, and that had been very brief…I missed my Sweetie, and I wanted to spend the night. There was Cuddle Time at stake.)

When I arrived with dinner, she was clearly tired. She greeted me with a very long, sad hug. And then another.

After dinner, she quietly said that she hadn’t been so depressed and sad since before her marriage ended. She couldn’t explain what was causing her sadness, this time, just that she felt that she was losing herself in the relationship. “I think…we…should…stop seeing each other,” she said.

There wasn’t much conviction in her voice, and as we talked, she began to reconsider. She asked me to stay the night…not to have me there, but because she didn’t want to be alone.

On our way home from Tai Chi that Saturday morning, she said that maybe we shouldn’t break up, that maybe what we had was worth holding on to. She asked for some time to herself to think, and the next morning told me that her decision was to stop seeing each other.

I was understandably shocked; just days before, we’d talked about the enduring nature of our relationship. I said some things in the moment that I regret, though not such bitter things as to be unforgivable, I think. Their memory will pass. They remain the only harsh words ever spoken between us.

The following Tuesday, we met at her place so that I could drop off some things of hers and I could pick up the last of my stuff.

We talked for more than two hours, calmly and respectfully. She allowed me to ask my questions, and tried to answer them thoughtfully and honestly. For all her trying, she seemed unable to offer more than, “I don’t know.”

I got the distinct sense that she was holding back, shielding me from something.

Coming, as this does, as we both recognized the end of the Limerance Phase of our romance, I wonder whether or not this is merely her way of processing the crisis of continuance that sometimes follows the end of the endorphin rush.

More than one of the people I’ve talked to think it is, or something close to that. Their opinions are based on what I’ve told them…as true an accounting as I can provide, to be sure…so I have some doubt as to whether or not they are simply reading my hopes.

Two or three friends have asked if I thought she had maybe cheated on me, and knowing my painful background with infidelity, is trying to protect me the only way she knows how – by ending the relationship to avoid reopening an old wound.

I must admit that the sense I have that she’s holding something back does make me wonder, but I would hope that she’d have given me the choice of how to process that information instead of assuming incorrectly that I’d be better off having such a decision made for me. No, I doubt that she’s been unfaithful.

And so, on Saturday morning, that conversation on the picnic table may have meant something deeper. “Have you gotten tired of explaining, yet?” I wonder if she was looking for common ground, something to grab on to before we spin all the way out of each other’s lives.

My answer, in the moment, must have stung.

Yes, Beloved, I am tired of explaining, when in the place of an explanation, all I have is the hope of us.

I love you, and miss you.

“When you find yourself
In some far off place,
And it causes you
To rethink some things,
You start to sense that slowly
You’re becoming someone else…
And then you find yourself.

Well, you go through life
So sure of where you’re heading
And you wind up lost
And it’s the best thing that coulda happened
‘Cause sometimes when you lose your way
It’s really just as well…
Because you find yourself,
Yeah, that’s when you find yourself.

When you meet the one
That you’ve been waiting for
And she’s everything
That you want and more
You look at her and you finally start
To live for someone else
And then you find yourself,
Yeah, that’s when you find yourself.”
-- Brad Paisley

And You've Already Paid Me For It

It isn’t that there’s a certain sweetness in it; it was very sweet.  

It’s that the vindication was so poetically understated.

I should go back to the beginning.  (Vizzini said, “If the job goes bad, go back to the beginning.”)

Two years ago, a colleague and former friend stood up in the middle of our annual professional conference, and in front of the entire body, stated unequivocally that my simple, already-paid-for solution to a complex problem was not viable.  “The last thing the Navy needs,” said he, ”is a couple of shade tree mechanics.”

I was, shall we say, discreetly offended.

For a while, my cubicle became known as “The Shade Tree”, and because I am a professional heretic, I continued to work through problems and introduce solutions…albeit more quietly.

I work for a small company that mainly provides training to the Navy.  I am employee number 7, and at this stage of our Global Domination Plan, there are ten other guys on the payroll scattered about the country.  The corporate philosophy explained to me when I joined the company was, “Do the work, and the contract will follow.”  My boss is a pretty savvy guy, and he long ago recognized that the most basic business credo of all (“Give the customer what he wants and he’ll keep coming back.”) begins with giving the customer what he wants.  My own personal approach to that has been to develop the things that Navy has paid for but deemed “unusable”.  I am, after all, being paid to train people how to use these things, so this part of what I do is in both our interests.

I have had a number of conversations that went like this:

“I have an idea for how you can make use of the Snarffblatt Gargleblasting feature,” I’ll say.

“No, you don’t.  That feature is broken.”

“Actually, it’s not.  Here’s what you—“

“Wait.  How much will this fix cost?”

“Nothing.  I didn’t fix it; it wasn’t broken.”

“But it doesn’t work.”

“Yes, it does.  Check this out—“

“We’re not paying you to fix it.”

“I didn’t fix it because it wasn’t broken.  And you’re paying me to train sailors to use it.”

“Exactly!  This isn’t training, it’s fixing.  And besides, even if it wasn’t broken, we wouldn’t know how to use it.”

“That’s what I’m saying.  It isn’t broken, and I can show you how it works.”

“We don’t want to know how it works because we don’t know how to use it.”

“I’m trying to tell you how to use it.”

“No, you’re not.  You’re trying to tell us how it works, which is impossible, because it doesn’t work, because it’s broken.”

…and suddenly, I find myself channeling John Cleese: “I’m sorry, is this the five minute argument or the full half hour?”

The usual result of all this unrequited forward thinking is that my ideas are a year to two years ahead of the Navy’s, which gives the unfortunate impression that I am unusually smart.  

This week, the Navy came to me with a problem, and I presented a solution I’ve been working on for five years.  

The Navy’s response was essentially this: “Hey, cool!  This works!  Who knew?”

Uh, I did, thankyouverymuch.  

Hey, Leonardo da Vinci never got his airplane idea off the ground – it took a couple bicycle repairmen to make a machine that actually flew.  

Don’t discount the guys under the shade tree, is all I’m sayin’.

Stuck Hear In Irak

Oh, sure, he has apologized now, sort of. “Oh, sorry, I botched the joke.” Like we’re all at a big office party and slightly tipsy, and he’s the ditzy blonde who forgot the punch line to a knock-knock joke instead of a United States Senator.

Food for thought: It's a safe bet that at least three of the men in the picture above have college degrees, two of them earned while they were on active duty. Clearly, their command of the language is excellent: effective parody requires deep understanding of the subject. This simple response to Senator Kerry’s insulting remark is nothing short of brilliant.

John Kerry’s “botched joke” shows not just that he’s an arrogant asshole with a stunning level of contempt for the men and women in the military…who are at the same place in their lives that he was 40 years ago…but that he’s surrounded himself with people who share that arrogance.

He may have attempted to tell the joke, but he didn’t write the joke…and probably didn’t even read it until it came up on the teleprompter. And if, "Just ask President Bush," is all they could come up with for a punch line, Kerry needs a new writer. He might as well have just gotten up and said, "Yeah? Well...your mom wears, uh, boots! Yeah! And you suck, too!"

This is not the first time Kerry has made disparaging remarks about our troops. During his presidential campaign, Kerry said that President Bush was “spending like a drunken sailor.” An odd use of stereotyping from a guy who’s never far from reminding us all about his service in the Navy.

Kerry’s website talks about his service in Vietnam, but never mentions his antiwar protests after he returned home. There is heavy emphasis on his daring leadership as a riverine skipper, and a quote from one of his citations.

He’d like you to think that the lessons he learned in combat stand him in good stead today.

But they don’t.

If they did, he’d never say anything remotely insulting about those who serve or have served with honor, the way he did, and he’d make sure that his speechwriters understood that. He’d make it clear that he respects those who have chosen a life path so similar to the one he chose as a young man.

Instead, he aims the machine gun of his contempt and sprays us all with staccato bursts of rhetoric, the object of which is to point out that we ought to listen to him because he’s smarter than we are.

He did go to Yale, after all.

After Kerry made his “drunken sailor” remarks, I wrote him an e-mail (through his website) to express my displeasure over the use of such a stereotype. To me, the fact that so much of what he says he’s done involves fighting stereotypes only reinforces the hypocrisy of his ilk. America needs fewer John Kerrys, not more.

Three months after I sent my e-mail, I got a fairly lengthy response from the John Kerry campaign that read, in summary, “Thank you for your support. If you’d like to contribute to the John Kerry for President Campaign, please send your check to…”

The note was signed by a Jennifer somebody, and because there is an Immutable Law of the Universe that states that All Women Named Jennifer Are Cute, I considered hitting her up for a date.

That is, until I remembered that Republicans are better in bed.

Okay, I’d like to write more, but it’s payday and Vons has a sale on beer.

When Words Fail

How do you express your anguish over the pain felt by someone you love without letting it consume you?  What words can offer comfort when there is no consolation to be found?

These questions have been on my mind of late.  

My niece, my sister’s seven month old daughter, has been having more seizures in the last week or so, and today…we are closer to the news we fear: that her seizures have descended into a condition called “infantile spasms”.  The EEG results from today put her “on the edge” of the condition.

The prognosis in cases similar to Clara’s is not encouraging.  Five percent of children who suffer infantile spasms do not survive to their fifth birthday.  Ninety percent suffer “severe physical and cognitive impairments”, even when treatment is successful – which it is not in more than half of those who suffer from it.  Even among those treated successfully, only one in twenty-five will have normal cognitive and motor-skill development.  Brain damage caused by infantile spasms leads to cerebral palsy in half of the children afflicted with it, autism in a third of them.  There are likely to be learning difficulties, behavioral problems, and psychological disorders.  Most suffer from epilepsy later in life.

Treatment prospects are not good.  In the US, the condition is treated with ACTH, which can cause weight gain, hypertension, metabolic abnormalities, severe irritability, osteoporosis, sepsis, and congestive heart failure.  The damage to her heart caused by the Tuberous Sclerosis may make this option very risky.  In most other countries, there is a drug called Vigabatrin, which can also cause somnolence, headache, dizziness (just what you want when you’re learning to walk), fatigue, weight gain, and decreased peripheral vision.  Vigabatrin is not approved by the FDA.

Nope.  There are no words of consolation.

Who Knew?

Screenwriting Expo 5, end of Day Three: wow.  Amazing day.

I should tell you first how I did in the Creative Screenwriting Open: Much better than I expected.  I know that I am a good writer, but I will admit that the only reason I signed up for the CS Open was that my brother-in-law wanted to compete.  Since he and I are writing partners, I thought we’d be able to compete together.

This did not turn out to be the case.

When I first realized this, I had a moment of panic.  I’ve never written anything like a script…lots of professional writing, quite a few blog posts, one novel (and parts of two others)…but never a script.

And then I realized that how I did wasn’t as important as what I learned from the experience.  This seemed to calm me down.

The rules for the CS Open went like this: Each screenwriter would be given a scene description, a pencil and paper, and 90 minutes in which to script it.  Entries would be judged on structure, dialogue, style, and originality.  

This was my scene: “Your ANTAGONIST has just suffered a defeat at the hands of the protagonist.  Licking his wounds, the antagonist rallies his ALLIES (or henchmen) and plots a counter-offensive.  But one of the allies is beginning to have second thoughts. In as non-cliché a manner as possible, write this scene in which the bad guy tries to regroup while facing subtle resistance from one of his own.”

Here’s my entry:

FADE IN: A PRESCHOOL CLASSROOM. Twelve children and their teacher are seated in a circle on a colorful carpet.  A thirteenth child, HEATHER HARDWICK, is seated on a chair in the corner, facing the wall.

               HEATHER
          (straining to catch
          attention of nearest
          child, a girl)
     Pssst!

               JENNY CARSON
          (mouthed silently)
     No!

Heather hikes her seat around slightly, half an inch closer to the group.

               HEATHER
     Pssst!  Jenny!

The ball rolls between Jenny Carson and Stevie Plimpton, toward Heather’s chair. Both Jenny and Stevie run to retrieve it.

               JENNY
          (whispering)
     What?

               MISS PRENDERGAST
     Jenny?  Hurry up, Honey.  Leave Heather
alone while she’s in time out.

               JENNY
          (looks apologetically
at HEATHER)
     Yes, Miss Prendergast!

Jenny and Stevie run back to the circle with the ball. Jenny rolls the ball across the circle.

               JENNY
     House!

Heather hikes her seat a little further.

               HEATHER
          (whispers)
     Jenny!

Jenny lets the ball roll by her again.  This time, Miss Prendergast is distracted by another student.  Jenny runs to get the ball, but Heather picks it up first.

               JENNY
          (whispers)
     What do you want? You’re going to
     get me in trouble, too!

               HEATHER
          (whispers)
     I hate Miss Prendergast and her
     stupid games! If we ruin the game,
     she’ll let us play outside.

               JENNY
          (whispers)
     How?

               HEATHER
          (whispers)
     You know how she is when
     a kid gets sick?  What if
     me, you, and Stevie all got
     sick at the same time?

               JENNY
     Ewwww!

Both girls look at Miss Prendergast, who now notices them talking.

               MISS PRENDERGAST
     Break it up, Girls! Please don’t
     make me have to tell you again.

Jenny grabs the ball and goes back to the circle.

               JENNY
          (looking back at HEATHER
           and mouthing)
     Gross!

Jenny rolls the ball across the circle.

               JENNY
     Kitty!

Jenny looks back at Heather, who pantomimes shoving two fingers down her throat.

               JENNY
          (whispering to STEVIE)
     Heather wants us to throw up
and spoil the game.

Stevie glances at Heather, who pantomimes gagging herself again.

               STEVIE
          (whispering to JENNY)
     Cool!

               JENNY
          (whispering to STEVIE)
     It’s gross!

               STEVIE
          (whispering to JENNY)
     Three kids sick at the same time?     That would be cool!

Jenny looks at Heather, who nods encouragement.

               JENNY
          (whispering to STEVIE)
     I don’t know…

               STEVIE
          (whispering to JENNY)
     I’m doing it! Come on!

Stevie looks at Miss Prendergast, to make sure she’s not looking.  He puts his fingers in his mouth.

Jenny looks one last time at Heather, who nods encouragement, her own fingers in her mouth.

Jenny looks at Miss Prendergast, and quickly jams her fingers down her throat.  She wretches.

Stevie does the same.

Heather smiles, hitches her seat back to the wall and places her hands in her lap.

FADE OUT

Now, when my brother-in-law and I were headed back over to get our pages after they’d been graded, he asked, “How do you think you did?”  

I told him that I’d be happy if I scored over 30 points, and very happy if I received a score in the 40s.

When I pulled my pages out of the file folder, I was shocked at the score: 81!

The reader liked my sense of action, but felt that the dialogue was too on the nose and that the stakes were not high enough.  

Not bad for the first time…essentially, without any training or real awareness of how to develop a movie scene, or even how to put it in writing, I got a B.  

Apparently, I can write.

Awash in a Sea of Ideas

I am not participating in NaNoWriMo this year.  Instead, I am attending Creative Screenwriting Expo 5, where tomorrow, my brother-in-law and I will participate in the screenwriting tournament.

We had the option of pitching a screenplay this weekend, and while we’re working on one, neither of us felt we were ready to pitch to anyone, much less the people who will be there to hear unrepresented writers pitch ideas.  Producers and executives from Universal Studios will be there.  Imagine Entertainment will be there.

I am certain that we could sell an idea, which in this case, would not be for money, but for an opportunity to come in to their offices for a second pitch to higher-level folks who could actually buy the idea.  For money.  

I am not so certain that we would be ready to make that second pitch on short notice.  And, since neither of us has actually written a screenplay before, there’s that whole Okay, so now what do we do? thing if we do sell an idea.

While we sat there listening to Simon Kinberg, writer of Mr. & Mrs. Smith and X-Men 3, talk about pitching a story, it struck me that the Hollywood establishment supports events like these because this is where the really fresh ideas come from.  The film industry needs aspiring writers as much as the aspiring writers need the industry.

The truly interesting thing about sitting in a room with a hundred writers is that creative energy forms an invisibly luminous pool, and if you’re sensitive to it, the ideas pour out of you.  

It’s a cool feeling.

Wish me luck!

And I'm Sticking To It

I write my Sihaya daily to tell her that she is a) beautiful (she is), b) smart (hey, she picked me), c) amazing (talented and lovable), and d) any of a limitless number of equally appropriate and complimentary adjectives. When she was in Europe, first on a cruise, and then visiting friends in Rome and Tuscany, and gone for three (very long) weeks, I kept it up, because years from now, I would like to be able to honestly say that since we chose to love each other, I’ve told her she’s beautiful every day.

Because she is.

And I never get tired of saying so.

Now, allow me to assuage your fears that this will just be one of those sickly-sweet posts about newfound love; it’s actually an explanation of why I’m finding it so difficult to post these days.

Time.

Now, aside from similar world views and senses of humor, my Sihaya and I really began with only two common interests – movies and food…and, well, okay, three common interests. Since we’ve been seeing each other, she’s broadened my horizons more than I ever thought possible.

Seriously.

Since she’s a belly dancer, I figured I’d learn to play the doumbek (a Middle Eastern drum…trust me, you’ve heard one), so I have drumming class on Monday evenings. On Tuesdays, I often go with my Sihaya and some friends to the theatre. My friend Bear invited me to join a comedy improvisation class on Thursdays. Fridays are date nights, and Saturday mornings we fill with Tai Chi. There is no room left in my schedule for full-contact needlepoint.

I would never have considered any of this before meeting my Sihaya. Oh, sure, I’d have thought about it, in a sort of wouldn’t-it-be-nice sort of way, but the fact that I now have a companion for most of these things…there is someone other than me who benefits from all these activities…that’s the inch that put me over a mile, so to speak.

Despite the difference she’s made in my life (and she tells me I’m making similar differences in hers), I’ve noticed recently that neither of us compliments the other with absolutes. Neither will say, “You’re the best (blank),” or say, “This is the most (blank) I’ve ever had with anyone.”

Oh, we compliment each other, to be sure. As I said, I tell her every day that she’s beautiful and I try every day to tell her how amazing she is; she tells me just as often how wonderful I am and how lucky she feels to have me in her life.

I’m not saying the absolutes are necessary, I’m just making the observation that they’ve been absent.

For a while, I thought of this absence as a choice we had both made, because absolutes can come across as less credible, and somehow undermine the integrity of what we’re building with each other. How can I possibly be the best? Haven’t we both learned that, having loved before and now again, that there isn’t just one person to love? That to love someone is a choice? Once you’ve said, “You’re the best,” to one person, can you honestly say it again to someone else?

My Sihaya does not see things from this admittedly cynical and simplistic point of view. When I mentioned this topic to her, she said simply, “To use absolutes like that is to ignore the whole of the person.”

Does she love kissing me because I am a good kisser or because my eyes light up when I look at her? Do I love spending time with her because she’s beautiful, and smart, and funny, or because she opens herself to me a little more with every day we spend together?

The answer, of course, is Yes. It’s all of those things and more.

A tribute offered to one aspect of the person we love means that we overlook the rest of her, even if only for a moment. An absolute compliment leads us away from the anticipation, the expectation of a still deeper relationship, and an even greater understanding of the one we love – it robs us of our desire to see more of the infinite mystery that is the essence of romance.

She’s an amazing woman, my Sihaya – beautiful and thoughtful and generous and loving – and every day, she becomes more beautiful, more amazing. Every day, I am more drawn to her. Every day some question is answered, some new mystery is presented, and so it goes. I devour every paragraph of her as though she is a sublime story well told.

So, that’s what I’ve been doing all this time. I’ve been reading.

Something Cardstock This Way Comes

Can you believe that it's already time to start thinking about Christmas cards?

On Sunday, Sihaya and I made a trip to Costco…always an adventure in itself…and while navigating carefully through the myriad obstacle/patrons on our way towards the rear of the store, my eye was drawn to the large, multi-aisled Christmas card section.

We did not stop. We were there on a mission.

But, the seed was planted.

Christmas cards? It's still the first half of October! It turns out that, yes, Virginia, the weeks leading up to Halloween are, in fact, the best time to be thinking about Christmas cards. (Sarcasm intended.)

In the car that evening, Sihaya and I talked about it, and she agreed that it is getting to be time. "I think they've even got snowflake stamps at the Post Office this year," she said. I'm not entirely certain, but I think one of us may have used the word "we" in the discussion, as in, "when we send out Christmas cards". There's a cool thought!

For the past several years (read that as, "oh, for about the last twenty-five years or so"), pretty much all I've done is think about it, when it came time to send Christmas cards. Rarely have I actually sent them, generally because I am so thoroughly focused on my own little world that I can't be bothered with any project that a) involves anything resembling effort, and b) indicates an awareness beyond that aforementioned weird little world. The result is that my Christmas Card List is woefully out of date, and probably needs to be put together from scratch.

When I was married, I rarely sent them because my ex-wife frowns upon humorous holiday cards, and quite frankly, I think the whole point of sending Christmas cards is to contribute to the joy of the season by giving one's friends a laugh.

I've never understood the logic behind a card that mirthlessly says "Happy Holidays". Oooh! A rosy-cheeked snowman card that says "May Your Holidays Be Warm and Bright!" Forgetting for the moment the irony of a rosy-cheeked snowman, why on Earth would a snowman ever wish anyone warmth and sunshine? I refuse to fill friends' mailboxes with suicidal snowmen.

If I'm going for the generic holiday wishes, I'd much rather send one of these:










"Hathy Holidayth!"














On the other hand, my ex-wife refused to put her name on anything that was even remotely funny, and she didn't seem to appreciate the humorous cards we received. No doubt, anything with a sharp edges and a sharp wit is hard to put where she can read it.