I think it was Jeff Foxworthy who said, “If you can’t think of anything nice to say, you’re probably talking about Hillary Clinton.” My thoughts have been turning to the political lately, which is one of the reasons I haven’t been writing as much as I once did. I don’t want my blog to become anything like a screed.
One topic that has occupied me of late is the growing concern over the conduct of our soldiers and Marines in Iraq. My opinions remain largely unformed on the subject, and that’s all I’ve got to say about that.
There is a tradition that seems prevalent in some of the blogs I read is the Commentary On Dumbass Celebrities, and though I myself have not taken part in this tradition (largely focused on TomKat and BrAngelina), an event took place today which compels me, and in that vein, I’d like to share a few thoughts with you.
It is my sad duty to report to you that Dan Rather has left CBS in a huff. Dan described a “protracted struggle” with network executives who had “not lived up to their obligation to allow me to do substantive work.”
Time for a quick review: Without expecting him to do any real work, CBS has been continuing to pay Dan Rather his very hefty salary, after sidelining him in the wake of a national scandal he created by airing a report which was at best poorly reported and unsubstantiated, and was eventually discredited – his report on the president’s military service during the Vietnam War. Sure, Rather stepped down voluntarily from his position as anchor, but at that level, people never get fired, they’re simply offered the opportunity to leave of their own accord.
It’s a tradition, you see, to allow people who have attained a certain rank and degree of notoriety to salvage a bit of dignity at the end they themselves brought about. Just like the captain of a warship that rammed another vessel, he was told, “Dude, you’re a fuckin’ psycho, and we’d feel more comfortable if you’d just leave.”
Only he wouldn’t leave. He just hung around.
For their part, CBS executives have been pretty cool about the whole thing. CBS News and Sports President Sean McManus complimented Rather by invoking Edward R. Murrow and Walter Cronkite. He also said, “I had one of our interns put shortcut icons for Solitaire and Minesweeper on Dan’s Windows desktop, but the guy just can’t take a hint,” though this remark has not been widely reported.
Dan, I have a couple things for you to think about:
First, journalism is, on the surface at least, all about image. As we used to say on USS COWPENS, “An ounce of image is worth a pound of performance.” All you had to do, all you had to do, was appear to be telling us the truth, and we’d have cried over your retirement as we did 25 years ago when Cronkite chose his sailboat over the anchor’s desk.
Second, when someone is paying your salary, they get to define the expectation of satisfactory performance. You were allowed to fuck up on a grand scale, in public, and leave with your salary and your corner office intact. In Japan, you’d have been banished to the subway with a thousand ribbons pinned to your suit instructing passersby to scream at you about your foolish arrogance. If you were in any way related to us mere mortals here in the US, the only way you could have prevented your ass from being escorted to the door by CBS Security would have been to pull a Tyler Durden-est-ce-que self-ass-kicking before they got to McManus’ office.
Nope, you got to keep your multi-million dollar salary with no expectation beyond you taking the spanking.
So let’s get this straight: You. Fucked. Up. You did. And you know you did, because your fallacious report impugned an unpopular president, which rules out politics as the reason you had to leave. You were, were, powerful enough, respected enough, that Bush wouldn’t have had the political capital to have you fired if there’d been even the tiniest shred of truth to that report. No, you had to leave because you had compromised your own integrity, and your continued presence would have compromised the integrity of the entire CBS news organization.
And yet you storm out four months before the end of your contract, as petulant and demanding as an ill-disciplined child. Why did any of us ever respect you?
* * *
When I read that news story, the Reuters piece that quoted Rather’s bitter departure, I came to a pair of unpleasant realizations: first, that this was the reason I never liked Dan Rather in the first place and that the feeling I always had was finally vindicated and second, that people like Rather are everywhere in positions of power and prestige here in America. That leaders who live by maxims like, “The buck stops here,” and, “A good plan executed now is better than a perfect plan next week,” and, “Ask not what your country can do for you…” are conspicuous only by their absence. That Dan Rather actually is what’s wrong with this country.
Our national motto officially remains, “E pluribus unum”, once proclaimed with strength and pride by all who lived here, and with envy by many who didn’t. Now, at least in practice, our motto seems to be, “You must respect me!” in a voice like Droopy the Dog’s. Hell, even people here illegally demand our respect, as if it’s a guarantee that comes with placing the bottoms of one’s feet on American soil.
Edward R. Murrow, indeed. If Murrow’s life teaches us anything, it’s that respect must be earned, and integrity is a precious commodity that must never be left unguarded.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Monday, June 12, 2006
Past President
I am, as the saying goes, a little verklempt. More than a little, actually.
Tonight was my last PTSA meeting as president.
I held the position for two years, having been reelected for the second year because no one else stepped up to fill the position, which is more or less how I became the maitre d’ for my eighth-grade French class’ French Restaurant project: I fit the tux.
I wrote about some of the events that filled the end of last school year, and no, I am not linking to those posts because the events themselves deserve to be left in the past. If you have a few minutes to dig, feel free to go back and read about them, but I – along with the faculty and staff, students and parents of Point Loma High School – have moved past them.
Of course, we may have moved past those difficult days, but there’s no denying that they’ve colored most of the days this school year. I can’t imagine how it’s been for those who work every day on campus; for my part, I’ve felt a little gun shy all year.
Over the last few days, I’ve felt a growing sense of relief, that my days of decision-making were nearing an end. It wasn’t until this evening, on my way to the meeting, that I began to feel a little sad. Another phase of my life is done, a part of my daughter’s life is nearing an end, and we’re both gearing up for what’s next.
I am a little sad. Sure, the last few weeks of school were tough last year, but overall, I’ve had fun.
So, tonight, I ran as loose a meeting as I ever have. I always felt that Roberts’ Rules of Order were a bit too stentorian for a polite group of twenty-five parents who love their kids and give each other credit for having at least that in common.
We settled the money issues, talked about some ideas for next year, and all of it with a sort of easy camaraderie. I’ve been a part of this group for just short of three years; many of these people have known each other their entire lives. That’s reason enough to consider it a great honor to be asked to serve as their president.
It is astonishing how many of the people in the PTSA give the full measure of their devotion to our kids. All our kids. Not just the twenty-five or thirty kids directly represented in the room, but all of the more than two thousand kids here.
I am humbled by their hard work, and I can say with all honesty that I never felt quite adequate to the task they asked of me.
At the end of the meeting this evening, I stood up and admitted that I felt honored to be asked, two years ago, and that I had no idea at the time what that honor really meant. Now, I said, now I know. To have had the opportunity to work with such selfless people, to share a little in the satisfaction of their hard work, that has turned out to be the real honor. The honor doesn’t come from anything I might have done to deserve the post, but from the extraordinary people I’ve worked with.
By way of thanks, I presented each of the members of my executive board with a bottle of Pinot Noir. Nothing extravagant, just a good little wine that they could share with their spouses, all of whom have worked just as hard, but without any recognition at all.
I am so very grateful.
Tonight was my last PTSA meeting as president.
I held the position for two years, having been reelected for the second year because no one else stepped up to fill the position, which is more or less how I became the maitre d’ for my eighth-grade French class’ French Restaurant project: I fit the tux.
I wrote about some of the events that filled the end of last school year, and no, I am not linking to those posts because the events themselves deserve to be left in the past. If you have a few minutes to dig, feel free to go back and read about them, but I – along with the faculty and staff, students and parents of Point Loma High School – have moved past them.
Of course, we may have moved past those difficult days, but there’s no denying that they’ve colored most of the days this school year. I can’t imagine how it’s been for those who work every day on campus; for my part, I’ve felt a little gun shy all year.
Over the last few days, I’ve felt a growing sense of relief, that my days of decision-making were nearing an end. It wasn’t until this evening, on my way to the meeting, that I began to feel a little sad. Another phase of my life is done, a part of my daughter’s life is nearing an end, and we’re both gearing up for what’s next.
I am a little sad. Sure, the last few weeks of school were tough last year, but overall, I’ve had fun.
So, tonight, I ran as loose a meeting as I ever have. I always felt that Roberts’ Rules of Order were a bit too stentorian for a polite group of twenty-five parents who love their kids and give each other credit for having at least that in common.
We settled the money issues, talked about some ideas for next year, and all of it with a sort of easy camaraderie. I’ve been a part of this group for just short of three years; many of these people have known each other their entire lives. That’s reason enough to consider it a great honor to be asked to serve as their president.
It is astonishing how many of the people in the PTSA give the full measure of their devotion to our kids. All our kids. Not just the twenty-five or thirty kids directly represented in the room, but all of the more than two thousand kids here.
I am humbled by their hard work, and I can say with all honesty that I never felt quite adequate to the task they asked of me.
At the end of the meeting this evening, I stood up and admitted that I felt honored to be asked, two years ago, and that I had no idea at the time what that honor really meant. Now, I said, now I know. To have had the opportunity to work with such selfless people, to share a little in the satisfaction of their hard work, that has turned out to be the real honor. The honor doesn’t come from anything I might have done to deserve the post, but from the extraordinary people I’ve worked with.
By way of thanks, I presented each of the members of my executive board with a bottle of Pinot Noir. Nothing extravagant, just a good little wine that they could share with their spouses, all of whom have worked just as hard, but without any recognition at all.
I am so very grateful.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Let's Not Forget
Through all the talk about 6/6/06, try to remember that 62 years ago today, the Allies invaded Normandy and took the fight back to the Nazis. 10,000 Allied soldiers died on the beaches that day.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
Doing My Irony
I wished I’d had a digital camera: this particular bumper sticker was of homemade quality, but there were several on the car’s tail expressing contempt for the Bush Administration. The one I’m compelled to write about in this instance read: “Overthrow the Facist Bush Regime!”
The sticker was on a sensible, environmentally-friendly, economy car, and though I’m sure that this is not fair, the image that popped into my head was of a passionately self-righteous, organic-cotton-muumuu-wearing woman in her early fifties who, on seeing video clips of Mr. Bush uncorking a particularly folksy malapropism, shrieks, “See? See?!?!?!? WE ELECTED AN IDIOT WHO CAN’T EVEN SPEAK THE LANGUAGE!”
As I said, I’m sure it’s not fair, but I’m a writer and I do enjoy my irony.
A footnote: When it occurred to me to look on the Internet for an image of a similar bumper sticker, I turned to Yahoo! and applied the following search phrase:
“facist regime” Bush
I discovered (to my delight) that there are no less than ten freaking pages of links, and no way to share this with you, my reader, without coming across like a sanctimonious prick.
(Of course, now my blog will be one of those links.)
The sticker was on a sensible, environmentally-friendly, economy car, and though I’m sure that this is not fair, the image that popped into my head was of a passionately self-righteous, organic-cotton-muumuu-wearing woman in her early fifties who, on seeing video clips of Mr. Bush uncorking a particularly folksy malapropism, shrieks, “See? See?!?!?!? WE ELECTED AN IDIOT WHO CAN’T EVEN SPEAK THE LANGUAGE!”
As I said, I’m sure it’s not fair, but I’m a writer and I do enjoy my irony.
A footnote: When it occurred to me to look on the Internet for an image of a similar bumper sticker, I turned to Yahoo! and applied the following search phrase:
“facist regime” Bush
I discovered (to my delight) that there are no less than ten freaking pages of links, and no way to share this with you, my reader, without coming across like a sanctimonious prick.
(Of course, now my blog will be one of those links.)
Friday, May 26, 2006
Memorial Day
A friend of mine sent me this thought today: A win-win situation: Dig a moat the length of the Mexican border, take the dirt and raise the levees in New Orleans, and then put the Florida alligators into the border moat! Any other problems you would like for me to solve?
Clever.
He also sent me this, which is timely, this being Memorial Day Weekend, and all. The music accompanying the slide show is from the movie, “Glory”, which is about the first US Army unit comprised entirely of Blacks.
The combination of the two got me to thinking about immigration and time spent in our nation’s service. One immigrant I met baffled me somewhat – we met in boot camp. He was a lunatic Brit from Liverpool…a “Liverpudlian”, as I have since learned…and twenty-seven years later, I remain astonished by his choice to join the Navy. Why? What was it about this country that inspired him to make such a choice?
If I may be permitted to put his choice into context, joining any branch of the military at the time was an unpopular thing to do; we were then just four years out of Vietnam, and a neatly-worn uniform nearly always came with the epithet, “Baby Killer”.
I never did get to talk to him about the reasons behind his choice. I was in awe of him simply for making it.
I have since met many immigrants, most of them Filipino, who were allowed to join the Navy by virtue of winning a lottery established for the purpose of limiting their recruiting numbers. One Filipino sailor I spoke with told me that many of his countrymen joined the US military to gain their US citizenship, a goal worth tremendous sacrifice. For them, the cost of a better life is paid up front.
During one man’s security background investigation, it was discovered that though he had already been serving for a dozen years and held a lower-level security clearance, he was not a US citizen. His mother had come from Mexico to be a cook for itinerant farm workers in central California, and had brought him and his brothers and sisters here when he was very young. He was serving his country.
President Theodore Roosevelt said, “In the first place, we should insist that if the immigrant who comes here in good faith becomes an American and assimilates himself to us, he shall be treated on an exact equality with everyone else, for it is an outrage to discriminate against any such man because of creed, or birthplace, or origin. But this is predicated upon the man’s becoming in very fact an American, and nothing but an American…There can be no divided allegiance here. Any man who says he is an American, but something else also, isn’t an American at all…we have room but for one sole loyalty and that is loyalty to the American people.”
You didn’t hear Teddy shouting, “All right, we’ll give some land to the niggers and the chinks, but WE DON’T WANT THE IRISH.” As Americans, we should all feel welcome here. Certainly, immigrant veterans have assimilated themselves by their very service.
He also said, “We have room for but one flag, and that is the American flag…” This morning, I read this post by my friend Betty. Towards the end, she writes, “At one point, the flashlight caught the image of the tattered flag I have had hanging on my porch since September 11, 2001. Last First Date Guy gasped in horror, immediately offering to take it down for me, to buy me a new one. Very calmly, I explained that I had a brand new flag in my foyer, but that I had no intention of taking the tattered flag down.
“I hung the flag that day because I was so proud to be an American, so proud to live in a country which could rise to the occasion, process our grief in a constructive way, help each other get through the cold night aftermath. Since then, I have been dismayed at the atrocities that have followed. I am appalled by the war, by the Patriot Act, by the dismantling of our civil rights, by the greed of the oil companies. I am confused by the hypocrisy of anger following the killing of American citizens by Iraqis, while the blood is still cooling in the bodies from the bombs we dropped on the homes of countless Iraqi women and children.“My flag reflects my dismay at the performance of our current president. I have not mutilated our country's flag, Mother Earth has. She is just as dismayed as I am. The wind and the rain has wreaked identical damage to my flag as George W. Bush has done to our country. My flag will fly until January 8, 2009, when his reign will finally be over.”
It goes without saying that I don’t share many of the sentiments Betty expressed, nor do I agree with some of her more emotional statements (quite the contrary; I take personal umbrage at the assertion that we dropped bombs on “the homes of countless Iraqi women and children”), but I am very grateful that we live in a country where she can write such things without fear of reprisal, where she can display a mutilated flag as a form of protest.
There are those among you who might be astonished at how much I do agree with her. I, too, am appalled by the USA PATRIOT Act*, the corporate juggernaut of greed, and by the way the war has been conducted.
I am deeply suspicious of the current debate about immigration, and whether it is indeed about the security of our borders. Why now, nearly five years after our border policy led directly to the loss of three thousand lives? Had President Bush announced immigration reform the day after 9/11, I might have understood such an argument. Now, however, I can’t escape the parallels with German National Socialism in the early 1930s. (No, I am not comparing Mr. Bush with Adolph Hitler. The President seems merely to be reacting to public outcry on the subject, and I believe there are far more sinister players on the field.)
Having spent my entire adult life in the service of the United States, first as an active duty sailor, and later as a consultant to the US Navy, I can’t help but think of all these things on a personal level. My direct experience of immigrants has been, on the whole, overwhelmingly positive. Surely, others must feel as I do.
At the end of Batman Begins, Police Lieutenant Gordon says to Batman, “I never got to say thank you.”
Batman replies, “And you’ll never have to.”
To Betty and to all Americans, whether you feel as she does or not, I must say that I am proud to be but one of the men and women (immigrants or the descendents of immigrants all) who have, over the course of some two hundred and thirty years, earned for you the privilege of hanging a tattered flag in front of your home.
No thanks are necessary.
* The “USA PATRIOT Act” is the correct title for Public Law 107-56. “USA PATRIOT” is an acronym which stands for “Uniting and Strengthening America by Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism”.
Clever.
He also sent me this, which is timely, this being Memorial Day Weekend, and all. The music accompanying the slide show is from the movie, “Glory”, which is about the first US Army unit comprised entirely of Blacks.
The combination of the two got me to thinking about immigration and time spent in our nation’s service. One immigrant I met baffled me somewhat – we met in boot camp. He was a lunatic Brit from Liverpool…a “Liverpudlian”, as I have since learned…and twenty-seven years later, I remain astonished by his choice to join the Navy. Why? What was it about this country that inspired him to make such a choice?
If I may be permitted to put his choice into context, joining any branch of the military at the time was an unpopular thing to do; we were then just four years out of Vietnam, and a neatly-worn uniform nearly always came with the epithet, “Baby Killer”.
I never did get to talk to him about the reasons behind his choice. I was in awe of him simply for making it.
I have since met many immigrants, most of them Filipino, who were allowed to join the Navy by virtue of winning a lottery established for the purpose of limiting their recruiting numbers. One Filipino sailor I spoke with told me that many of his countrymen joined the US military to gain their US citizenship, a goal worth tremendous sacrifice. For them, the cost of a better life is paid up front.
During one man’s security background investigation, it was discovered that though he had already been serving for a dozen years and held a lower-level security clearance, he was not a US citizen. His mother had come from Mexico to be a cook for itinerant farm workers in central California, and had brought him and his brothers and sisters here when he was very young. He was serving his country.
President Theodore Roosevelt said, “In the first place, we should insist that if the immigrant who comes here in good faith becomes an American and assimilates himself to us, he shall be treated on an exact equality with everyone else, for it is an outrage to discriminate against any such man because of creed, or birthplace, or origin. But this is predicated upon the man’s becoming in very fact an American, and nothing but an American…There can be no divided allegiance here. Any man who says he is an American, but something else also, isn’t an American at all…we have room but for one sole loyalty and that is loyalty to the American people.”
You didn’t hear Teddy shouting, “All right, we’ll give some land to the niggers and the chinks, but WE DON’T WANT THE IRISH.” As Americans, we should all feel welcome here. Certainly, immigrant veterans have assimilated themselves by their very service.
He also said, “We have room for but one flag, and that is the American flag…” This morning, I read this post by my friend Betty. Towards the end, she writes, “At one point, the flashlight caught the image of the tattered flag I have had hanging on my porch since September 11, 2001. Last First Date Guy gasped in horror, immediately offering to take it down for me, to buy me a new one. Very calmly, I explained that I had a brand new flag in my foyer, but that I had no intention of taking the tattered flag down.
“I hung the flag that day because I was so proud to be an American, so proud to live in a country which could rise to the occasion, process our grief in a constructive way, help each other get through the cold night aftermath. Since then, I have been dismayed at the atrocities that have followed. I am appalled by the war, by the Patriot Act, by the dismantling of our civil rights, by the greed of the oil companies. I am confused by the hypocrisy of anger following the killing of American citizens by Iraqis, while the blood is still cooling in the bodies from the bombs we dropped on the homes of countless Iraqi women and children.“My flag reflects my dismay at the performance of our current president. I have not mutilated our country's flag, Mother Earth has. She is just as dismayed as I am. The wind and the rain has wreaked identical damage to my flag as George W. Bush has done to our country. My flag will fly until January 8, 2009, when his reign will finally be over.”
It goes without saying that I don’t share many of the sentiments Betty expressed, nor do I agree with some of her more emotional statements (quite the contrary; I take personal umbrage at the assertion that we dropped bombs on “the homes of countless Iraqi women and children”), but I am very grateful that we live in a country where she can write such things without fear of reprisal, where she can display a mutilated flag as a form of protest.
There are those among you who might be astonished at how much I do agree with her. I, too, am appalled by the USA PATRIOT Act*, the corporate juggernaut of greed, and by the way the war has been conducted.
I am deeply suspicious of the current debate about immigration, and whether it is indeed about the security of our borders. Why now, nearly five years after our border policy led directly to the loss of three thousand lives? Had President Bush announced immigration reform the day after 9/11, I might have understood such an argument. Now, however, I can’t escape the parallels with German National Socialism in the early 1930s. (No, I am not comparing Mr. Bush with Adolph Hitler. The President seems merely to be reacting to public outcry on the subject, and I believe there are far more sinister players on the field.)
Having spent my entire adult life in the service of the United States, first as an active duty sailor, and later as a consultant to the US Navy, I can’t help but think of all these things on a personal level. My direct experience of immigrants has been, on the whole, overwhelmingly positive. Surely, others must feel as I do.
At the end of Batman Begins, Police Lieutenant Gordon says to Batman, “I never got to say thank you.”
Batman replies, “And you’ll never have to.”
To Betty and to all Americans, whether you feel as she does or not, I must say that I am proud to be but one of the men and women (immigrants or the descendents of immigrants all) who have, over the course of some two hundred and thirty years, earned for you the privilege of hanging a tattered flag in front of your home.
No thanks are necessary.
* The “USA PATRIOT Act” is the correct title for Public Law 107-56. “USA PATRIOT” is an acronym which stands for “Uniting and Strengthening America by Providing Appropriate Tools Required to Intercept and Obstruct Terrorism”.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Belated Blogiversary
My glasses are not clean. Dr. Lori would consider this a sin, I know, so I will not tell her and I ask you to, please, keep this a secret between us. (Actually, Lori would be amused, even as she clicked her tongue at me. We began our friendship as chat room compatriots, graduated to sailing buddies, then had a standing arrangement to be each other’s New Year’s date if we were both unattached, and now she is my eye doctor. And for the record, the New Year’s thing lasted less than a year. But, I digress.)
So I am sitting here with unclean glasses, listening to the iTunes playlist entitled “mix”, but which has become my “writing mix”. I’d rename it, but that would screw up the convenient alphabetical place it currently occupies. At the moment, it is playing a very cool tune from the Kill Bill Vol. I soundtrack called “Battle Without Honor or Humanity”. This tune is so cool that when I play it in the car, I drive like a fighter pilot…the kind of guy Sihaya calls a “multi-zippered sun god”. The song makes me want to wear leather and walk in slow motion.
Aside: Is anyone else annoyed by the fact that the WB’s Pepper Dennis uses KT Tunstall’s “Black Horse & The Cherry Tree” as a theme song? Maybe they just play a snippet of it for the commercials, to send the message that this show is supposed to be hip even if it is about a dorky-but-hot chick. Which means she’s still a dork, even if she is hot. Seriously, how many variations on the “pie-in-a-pretty-girl’s-face” theme can there be?
Back from aside: I know I’m several weeks late for the traditional Blogiversary Post, as it’s been almost thirteen months since I began this blog. It began with this promise: “…I am going to document the process of dieting and exercise and self-reclamation here...and intersperse the whole thing with tales of single fatherhood, friendship, volunteerism, career headaches, growing older, girl-watching, dating, and if I'm very lucky...sex.”
How have I done with that? Have I lived up to my self-imposed obligation?
For starters, you could read everything I’ve written after that first post and not find anything about dieting and exercise. Sorry…not much of that has been going on here.
I have, however written about connecting with my daughters.
I’ve shared my thoughts on simply being friends with a woman. I confess that I am still mystified at what motivates a woman in the romance department, but these days, I am not complaining.
There have been a few posts inspired by the volunteer work I’ve done, such as this one on the cost of education, and this one on simply being the PTSA President at my daughter’s school.
I know I said I’d talk about career headaches, but really haven’t had many to speak of. There was this one, and as an update, I have to say that the guy I flame sprayed is still the same. After he was disrespectful to B in an e-mail he sent to the entire command, B’s boss suggested that he and I hold him down while B beats some sense into him.
I’ve talked some about dating, mentioning a brief crush and a number of interesting dates that didn’t lead anywhere. I’m not dating any more, having been taken off the market. Last Friday night, Sihaya said that she feels a bit like she’s cheating, that being able to read my blog gives her an unfair advantage in getting to know me. She has nothing like it to offer in return. I replied that I can be patient; that I can wait for my knowledge of her to unfold over time. I like that she has access to thoughts I had before I knew she existed, and that those thoughts make me more attractive to her.
At some point in that conversation, I made her cry – in a good way – and no, I’m not going to write about what was said. She returned the favor the next night, but then, she does have an unfair advantage.
This has been a good year – writing here and sharing my thoughts elsewhere has brought me into contact with a number of people I deeply respect and admire, none of whom would ever have been more than phantoms at the barely visible fringes of my awareness otherwise. I am intensely grateful for such friendships.
Thanks for reading.
So I am sitting here with unclean glasses, listening to the iTunes playlist entitled “mix”, but which has become my “writing mix”. I’d rename it, but that would screw up the convenient alphabetical place it currently occupies. At the moment, it is playing a very cool tune from the Kill Bill Vol. I soundtrack called “Battle Without Honor or Humanity”. This tune is so cool that when I play it in the car, I drive like a fighter pilot…the kind of guy Sihaya calls a “multi-zippered sun god”. The song makes me want to wear leather and walk in slow motion.
Aside: Is anyone else annoyed by the fact that the WB’s Pepper Dennis uses KT Tunstall’s “Black Horse & The Cherry Tree” as a theme song? Maybe they just play a snippet of it for the commercials, to send the message that this show is supposed to be hip even if it is about a dorky-but-hot chick. Which means she’s still a dork, even if she is hot. Seriously, how many variations on the “pie-in-a-pretty-girl’s-face” theme can there be?
Back from aside: I know I’m several weeks late for the traditional Blogiversary Post, as it’s been almost thirteen months since I began this blog. It began with this promise: “…I am going to document the process of dieting and exercise and self-reclamation here...and intersperse the whole thing with tales of single fatherhood, friendship, volunteerism, career headaches, growing older, girl-watching, dating, and if I'm very lucky...sex.”
How have I done with that? Have I lived up to my self-imposed obligation?
For starters, you could read everything I’ve written after that first post and not find anything about dieting and exercise. Sorry…not much of that has been going on here.
I have, however written about connecting with my daughters.
I’ve shared my thoughts on simply being friends with a woman. I confess that I am still mystified at what motivates a woman in the romance department, but these days, I am not complaining.
There have been a few posts inspired by the volunteer work I’ve done, such as this one on the cost of education, and this one on simply being the PTSA President at my daughter’s school.
I know I said I’d talk about career headaches, but really haven’t had many to speak of. There was this one, and as an update, I have to say that the guy I flame sprayed is still the same. After he was disrespectful to B in an e-mail he sent to the entire command, B’s boss suggested that he and I hold him down while B beats some sense into him.
I’ve talked some about dating, mentioning a brief crush and a number of interesting dates that didn’t lead anywhere. I’m not dating any more, having been taken off the market. Last Friday night, Sihaya said that she feels a bit like she’s cheating, that being able to read my blog gives her an unfair advantage in getting to know me. She has nothing like it to offer in return. I replied that I can be patient; that I can wait for my knowledge of her to unfold over time. I like that she has access to thoughts I had before I knew she existed, and that those thoughts make me more attractive to her.
At some point in that conversation, I made her cry – in a good way – and no, I’m not going to write about what was said. She returned the favor the next night, but then, she does have an unfair advantage.
This has been a good year – writing here and sharing my thoughts elsewhere has brought me into contact with a number of people I deeply respect and admire, none of whom would ever have been more than phantoms at the barely visible fringes of my awareness otherwise. I am intensely grateful for such friendships.
Thanks for reading.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Cats and Dogs
I'll start off with an update on Clara: My sister was given a handheld device that serves to monitor the function of Clara's pacemaker, and was concerned late last week when it appeared that the pacemaker wasn't providing any stabilizing signals to Clara's heart. She called the cardiologist, who downloaded the data (cool use of technology), and it turns out that the reason the pacemaker isn't firing is because Clara's heart is doing just fine on its own. No word on removal of the pacemaker, yet...but good news, indeed.
Here's something I couldn't avoid commenting on: Madonna's kicked off her new world tour. At $380 a ticket, I will not be going. Not that I would anyway; for the same price, I can get season tickets to the San Diego Opera, where I can be assured of three things:
1. The music will be excellent.
2. The social commentary will not include statistics.
3. The choreography won't involve giant disco balls or bare-breasted dancers with ball gags.
Item 3: "The Da Vinci Code" made $224 million over the weekend, despite middling reviews and threats of protests. Thus far, no one has seriously threatened to kill author Dan Brown for writing the novel, which illuminates a notable difference between the predominant faiths of the world. Salman Rushdie is still living with the bounty on his head for writing "The Satanic Verses".
Back to the Madonna article: Rosie O'Donnell is a "Gay Icon"? Does she still qualify for that if she ditched her spouse in the Ueker Seats to sit in the $380 seats? She couldn't spring for two seats? I wonder what the conversation was like when they got home. Did Rosie get the silent treatment for a while, and then have to sleep on the couch? Is she going to have to make it up to her spouse for the next six months? If so, she's truly a Gay Icon. If life was fair, we'd all be getting a Microsoft XP-style bubble popping up right about now that says "There are unused icons on your desktop. Would you like me to delete them?"
Annoying Bit Of The Day: Websites that redirect you to their advertisers without first allowing you access to the site you want. I don't mind seeing adverts on your pages. I mind-but-can-deal-with popups. But don't make me click the Back Button to get into the website I wanted to go to in the first place. (I'd wonder if it was just my computer being sent a virus, but it's the only website doing it.)
This just in: Oh, crap!
Here's something I couldn't avoid commenting on: Madonna's kicked off her new world tour. At $380 a ticket, I will not be going. Not that I would anyway; for the same price, I can get season tickets to the San Diego Opera, where I can be assured of three things:
1. The music will be excellent.
2. The social commentary will not include statistics.
3. The choreography won't involve giant disco balls or bare-breasted dancers with ball gags.
Item 3: "The Da Vinci Code" made $224 million over the weekend, despite middling reviews and threats of protests. Thus far, no one has seriously threatened to kill author Dan Brown for writing the novel, which illuminates a notable difference between the predominant faiths of the world. Salman Rushdie is still living with the bounty on his head for writing "The Satanic Verses".
Back to the Madonna article: Rosie O'Donnell is a "Gay Icon"? Does she still qualify for that if she ditched her spouse in the Ueker Seats to sit in the $380 seats? She couldn't spring for two seats? I wonder what the conversation was like when they got home. Did Rosie get the silent treatment for a while, and then have to sleep on the couch? Is she going to have to make it up to her spouse for the next six months? If so, she's truly a Gay Icon. If life was fair, we'd all be getting a Microsoft XP-style bubble popping up right about now that says "There are unused icons on your desktop. Would you like me to delete them?"
Annoying Bit Of The Day: Websites that redirect you to their advertisers without first allowing you access to the site you want. I don't mind seeing adverts on your pages. I mind-but-can-deal-with popups. But don't make me click the Back Button to get into the website I wanted to go to in the first place. (I'd wonder if it was just my computer being sent a virus, but it's the only website doing it.)
This just in: Oh, crap!
Friday, April 28, 2006
United 93
I wasn’t sure I wanted to see this film. In fact, until this morning, I was against it.
The review I read this morning changed my mind. Sure, there’s all the talk about the passengers of Flight 93 as heroes (they were), but what brought me to this film this afternoon was the notion that it should stand not just as a tribute film, but as a reminder of how life has changed since before 9/11.
I spotted two right away – the cavalier approach to airport security, with cursory searches of passengers entering the security area, and the hot meals being served in flight.
Much was made in the press stories about this film that the passengers of United 93 were the first to realize that everything had changed. I’m not entirely sure that’s true. By the time they were presented with their final array of choices, the World Trade Center had already been attacked, and both towers were on fire. It’s more accurate to say that United 93 was the site on which Americans first fought back.
I learned of the terrorist action at around the same time they did, when I got a phone call from the woman I was dating at the time. She often called during her commutes when the traffic was slow, but this morning, her voice was a mix of shock and anger. “Someone bombed the World Trade Center,” she said. Not, “Good morning,” but, “Someone bombed the World Trade Center.”
I had been sound asleep, and it took me a few minutes to process what she’d said. I could hear the car radio in the background, and she’d listen for a moment and relay the sketchy misinformation to me. “No one knows who, but they used airplanes. Both towers are on fire.”
At that point, I remember throwing off the covers and stomping out to the living room and turning on CNN.
I was stunned by what I saw. Instead of the burning towers of the World Trade Center I expected, I was looking at the stone edifice of a shorter building. Seconds later, a banner appeared at the bottom which read, “The Pentagon.”
Oh, fuck, I said. Oh, fuck. I gotta go, Sharon, we’re at war.
The guards at the gate to the base where I worked wore body armor and carried firearms. I’d never seen them carrying shotguns before. As the off-going duty section leader, I raced back to the security office, where everyone not monitoring traffic through the gate was riveted to Fox News.
None of us knew it yet, but United 93 had already torn a hole a 115 feet deep in a Pennsylvania field.
My relief showed up, and together we made what decisions we could about security, which weren’t many. We made sure our students went to their classrooms. And we waited.
Just before 0800 or so, Regional Security called and directed us to lock the base down. Gates on the incoming side were to be closed, no further incoming traffic was allowed, for any reason. All students and non-essential personnel were to be sent home.
My boss had been Command Duty Officer the night before, and she arrived just as they were sliding home the bolt on the gates. She was sent home. Because she was still responsible for the command, she called my cellular phone, and though I would normally have been considered non-essential, I became her arms and legs inside the fence. At least, that was the plan. There wasn’t much for either of us to do but vent our frustration and calm each other’s fears.
I called my older daughter and found her home sick from school. She’d been watching the television, totally bewildered. I told her not to worry about me, that I was okay, and that I loved her. In retrospect, I might as well have just shouted I’m scared shitless!!!! into the phone, because I don’t think she was worried until that moment.
None of us knew that morning, of course, the extent of the changes in our lives. We simply sat, dazed, and watched as the inexorable moment washed over us.
The next morning, my cubicle mate and I sent e-mails to every ship in the Pacific Fleet: “Need a Tomahawk chief?” Several ships did.
On the 15th, my cube mate and I met separately with our department head to sign our annual fitness reports. He’d gone in first, and apparently spoken of our intent to find ships to go to so that we could do our part in the war, whenever we hit back.
Then it was my turn. Before I could say more than a few words, the department head slid my fitness report across the conference table in his office and said, “Chief, I just have one question: if you both go, who can do your job while you’re gone?”
“I don’t know, sir,” I answered.
“Neither do I, Chief. You’re staying right here.”
Shit.
That afternoon, I suggested that we double the number of training exercises we ran, and for the next eight months, I worked twelve hours a day preparing ships to go to war, an effort for which I received two medals, one as an active duty sailor and the other as a civilian.
Someday, I may travel to Shanksville, Pennsylvania and bury those medals in the field alongside the passengers of United 93.
* * *
As I waited for the film to begin, I wondered about my fellow moviegoers; how many of them had anguishing personal stories to tell about that day? How many could claim some connection to the events depicted in the film?
For me, there are two more connections.
One of them is fairly direct: a friend was a United flight attendant at the time who did a schedule swap that got her out of flying aboard Flight 93 that day. It was purest luck; 93 was one of her regular flights.
The other was a strong sense of personal responsibility for the events of 9/11. I cannot explain many of my reasons for feeling this way, but for years after the attacks, I believed them to be well-founded. The release of the 9/11 Commission Report has largely changed those feelings in ways I have yet to fully explore.
There has been a great deal of debate over whether enough time has passed for us to confront the events of 9/11 through the arts. I do not believe more time should pass; I’m sorry Leroy Neiman didn’t set up his easel and do one of his speedily rendered impressionist paintings while the towers were still standing.
It doesn’t take much observation to conclude that we Americans have become even more decadent, more complacent than we were when Osama bin Laden ordered the 9/11 attacks. Go stand at any major intersection for twenty minutes and count the number of people holding cellular phones to their faces while driving.
It’s long past time.
We should have been reciting the names of the United 93 passengers who fought back every day. (We’ve got time, after all, now that we can’t say the Pledge of Allegiance.) (LeRoy Homer, CeeCee Lyles, Sandra Bradshaw, Todd Beamer, Mark Bingham, Tom Burnett, Andrew Garcia, Jeremy Glick, and Richard Guadagno are believed to be the key players in the counterattack on the cockpit.)
It is definitely long past time for heartfelt remembrance.
I keep the flag presented to me at my retirement on the book shelf in my living room. It is in a triangular display case, the only formal display of career memorabilia I’ve allowed myself. The flag was flown on September 11th, 2002, over the ship which hosted my retirement ceremony, one of two such flags flown that day. The other was given to a shipmate who was so badly burned in the attack on the Pentagon that a year later he was still wearing artificial skin on much of his body.
Long past time, indeed.
* * *
Now, the movie does contain a few deviations from the official account.
First Officer LeRoy Homer is shown to be the first man killed by the terrorists, and the pilot is also shown being stabbed to death, both during the initial struggle for control of the cockpit. The transcript of the cockpit voice recorder shows that one of the terrorists had a problem in the cockpit and asked one of his comrades to bring the pilot back to the cockpit to help. Clearly, he’d have had no reason to do so if both pilots had been killed in his line of sight.
Second, and perhaps more importantly, the film shows the passengers gaining access to the cockpit and the crash as a result of their struggling for control of the plane. Again, the CVR transcript proves this was not the case. While the passengers were futilely bashing at the door with a service cart, the two terrorists in the cockpit considered turning off the oxygen to the passenger compartment, then argued about whether or not to fly the plane into the ground to prevent the passengers from regaining control of the flight. In the end, the two terrorists rolled the plane inverted and pulled as hard as they could for the ground.
Neither of these discrepancies detract from the essence of the film, which perfectly captures the sense of shock, confusion, and powerlessness we all felt that day.
Go see it.
The review I read this morning changed my mind. Sure, there’s all the talk about the passengers of Flight 93 as heroes (they were), but what brought me to this film this afternoon was the notion that it should stand not just as a tribute film, but as a reminder of how life has changed since before 9/11.
I spotted two right away – the cavalier approach to airport security, with cursory searches of passengers entering the security area, and the hot meals being served in flight.
Much was made in the press stories about this film that the passengers of United 93 were the first to realize that everything had changed. I’m not entirely sure that’s true. By the time they were presented with their final array of choices, the World Trade Center had already been attacked, and both towers were on fire. It’s more accurate to say that United 93 was the site on which Americans first fought back.
I learned of the terrorist action at around the same time they did, when I got a phone call from the woman I was dating at the time. She often called during her commutes when the traffic was slow, but this morning, her voice was a mix of shock and anger. “Someone bombed the World Trade Center,” she said. Not, “Good morning,” but, “Someone bombed the World Trade Center.”
I had been sound asleep, and it took me a few minutes to process what she’d said. I could hear the car radio in the background, and she’d listen for a moment and relay the sketchy misinformation to me. “No one knows who, but they used airplanes. Both towers are on fire.”
At that point, I remember throwing off the covers and stomping out to the living room and turning on CNN.
I was stunned by what I saw. Instead of the burning towers of the World Trade Center I expected, I was looking at the stone edifice of a shorter building. Seconds later, a banner appeared at the bottom which read, “The Pentagon.”
Oh, fuck, I said. Oh, fuck. I gotta go, Sharon, we’re at war.
The guards at the gate to the base where I worked wore body armor and carried firearms. I’d never seen them carrying shotguns before. As the off-going duty section leader, I raced back to the security office, where everyone not monitoring traffic through the gate was riveted to Fox News.
None of us knew it yet, but United 93 had already torn a hole a 115 feet deep in a Pennsylvania field.
My relief showed up, and together we made what decisions we could about security, which weren’t many. We made sure our students went to their classrooms. And we waited.
Just before 0800 or so, Regional Security called and directed us to lock the base down. Gates on the incoming side were to be closed, no further incoming traffic was allowed, for any reason. All students and non-essential personnel were to be sent home.
My boss had been Command Duty Officer the night before, and she arrived just as they were sliding home the bolt on the gates. She was sent home. Because she was still responsible for the command, she called my cellular phone, and though I would normally have been considered non-essential, I became her arms and legs inside the fence. At least, that was the plan. There wasn’t much for either of us to do but vent our frustration and calm each other’s fears.
I called my older daughter and found her home sick from school. She’d been watching the television, totally bewildered. I told her not to worry about me, that I was okay, and that I loved her. In retrospect, I might as well have just shouted I’m scared shitless!!!! into the phone, because I don’t think she was worried until that moment.
None of us knew that morning, of course, the extent of the changes in our lives. We simply sat, dazed, and watched as the inexorable moment washed over us.
The next morning, my cubicle mate and I sent e-mails to every ship in the Pacific Fleet: “Need a Tomahawk chief?” Several ships did.
On the 15th, my cube mate and I met separately with our department head to sign our annual fitness reports. He’d gone in first, and apparently spoken of our intent to find ships to go to so that we could do our part in the war, whenever we hit back.
Then it was my turn. Before I could say more than a few words, the department head slid my fitness report across the conference table in his office and said, “Chief, I just have one question: if you both go, who can do your job while you’re gone?”
“I don’t know, sir,” I answered.
“Neither do I, Chief. You’re staying right here.”
Shit.
That afternoon, I suggested that we double the number of training exercises we ran, and for the next eight months, I worked twelve hours a day preparing ships to go to war, an effort for which I received two medals, one as an active duty sailor and the other as a civilian.
Someday, I may travel to Shanksville, Pennsylvania and bury those medals in the field alongside the passengers of United 93.
* * *
As I waited for the film to begin, I wondered about my fellow moviegoers; how many of them had anguishing personal stories to tell about that day? How many could claim some connection to the events depicted in the film?
For me, there are two more connections.
One of them is fairly direct: a friend was a United flight attendant at the time who did a schedule swap that got her out of flying aboard Flight 93 that day. It was purest luck; 93 was one of her regular flights.
The other was a strong sense of personal responsibility for the events of 9/11. I cannot explain many of my reasons for feeling this way, but for years after the attacks, I believed them to be well-founded. The release of the 9/11 Commission Report has largely changed those feelings in ways I have yet to fully explore.
There has been a great deal of debate over whether enough time has passed for us to confront the events of 9/11 through the arts. I do not believe more time should pass; I’m sorry Leroy Neiman didn’t set up his easel and do one of his speedily rendered impressionist paintings while the towers were still standing.
It doesn’t take much observation to conclude that we Americans have become even more decadent, more complacent than we were when Osama bin Laden ordered the 9/11 attacks. Go stand at any major intersection for twenty minutes and count the number of people holding cellular phones to their faces while driving.
It’s long past time.
We should have been reciting the names of the United 93 passengers who fought back every day. (We’ve got time, after all, now that we can’t say the Pledge of Allegiance.) (LeRoy Homer, CeeCee Lyles, Sandra Bradshaw, Todd Beamer, Mark Bingham, Tom Burnett, Andrew Garcia, Jeremy Glick, and Richard Guadagno are believed to be the key players in the counterattack on the cockpit.)
It is definitely long past time for heartfelt remembrance.
I keep the flag presented to me at my retirement on the book shelf in my living room. It is in a triangular display case, the only formal display of career memorabilia I’ve allowed myself. The flag was flown on September 11th, 2002, over the ship which hosted my retirement ceremony, one of two such flags flown that day. The other was given to a shipmate who was so badly burned in the attack on the Pentagon that a year later he was still wearing artificial skin on much of his body.
Long past time, indeed.
* * *
Now, the movie does contain a few deviations from the official account.
First Officer LeRoy Homer is shown to be the first man killed by the terrorists, and the pilot is also shown being stabbed to death, both during the initial struggle for control of the cockpit. The transcript of the cockpit voice recorder shows that one of the terrorists had a problem in the cockpit and asked one of his comrades to bring the pilot back to the cockpit to help. Clearly, he’d have had no reason to do so if both pilots had been killed in his line of sight.
Second, and perhaps more importantly, the film shows the passengers gaining access to the cockpit and the crash as a result of their struggling for control of the plane. Again, the CVR transcript proves this was not the case. While the passengers were futilely bashing at the door with a service cart, the two terrorists in the cockpit considered turning off the oxygen to the passenger compartment, then argued about whether or not to fly the plane into the ground to prevent the passengers from regaining control of the flight. In the end, the two terrorists rolled the plane inverted and pulled as hard as they could for the ground.
Neither of these discrepancies detract from the essence of the film, which perfectly captures the sense of shock, confusion, and powerlessness we all felt that day.
Go see it.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Seeing Stars
It was a dark and stormless night. That part of the sky that was unblocked by the mountains among which our little valley nestled itself was, well, luminous. There was no moon; all the light by which I could see the shape of my car, the curve of the top of our tent, the lumpy shapes of the rocks, and the grasping branches of the scrubby tree I stood near came from the stars.
If you’ve never been where you can see by starlight, you haven’t lived.
For a moment, gazing up in awe at the early Sunday sky from our camp in the Blair Valley, I considered waking Sihaya…a gentle whisper beckoning her to join me in a few moments of the sublime.
In a minute, I thought. I’ll get us a bottle of water to share.
I cringed when I unlocked the car, the silent blinker-flash and the fading-in of the interior lights trod heavily on the stars. I pulled out two bottles of water and gently closed the trunk.
Twisting the top off one bottle, and tipping it up, I took in more of the sky. Yes, I thought. Sihaya will love this.
The breeze that had so whipped the camp fire during our earlier revelry had died; in its place was only silence. Even the coyotes seemed to be sleeping.
And. then. she. snored.
It’s a gentle sound, and one I find endearing, though I have not yet convinced her of this. Perhaps I will, someday.
Standing in the flawlessness of the predawn desert, holding one and a half bottles of water, I decide to let Sihaya sleep.
In that moment, I know that she would love to come see the sky with me. I am certain of it: next to the case of water in my car, there are two books on astronomy that she brought as an afterthought, in case we should have a moment to give to the sky together.
I love her for thinking of such things.
And I love the sound of her snoring.
If you’ve never been where you can see by starlight, you haven’t lived.
For a moment, gazing up in awe at the early Sunday sky from our camp in the Blair Valley, I considered waking Sihaya…a gentle whisper beckoning her to join me in a few moments of the sublime.
In a minute, I thought. I’ll get us a bottle of water to share.
I cringed when I unlocked the car, the silent blinker-flash and the fading-in of the interior lights trod heavily on the stars. I pulled out two bottles of water and gently closed the trunk.
Twisting the top off one bottle, and tipping it up, I took in more of the sky. Yes, I thought. Sihaya will love this.
The breeze that had so whipped the camp fire during our earlier revelry had died; in its place was only silence. Even the coyotes seemed to be sleeping.
And. then. she. snored.
It’s a gentle sound, and one I find endearing, though I have not yet convinced her of this. Perhaps I will, someday.
Standing in the flawlessness of the predawn desert, holding one and a half bottles of water, I decide to let Sihaya sleep.
In that moment, I know that she would love to come see the sky with me. I am certain of it: next to the case of water in my car, there are two books on astronomy that she brought as an afterthought, in case we should have a moment to give to the sky together.
I love her for thinking of such things.
And I love the sound of her snoring.
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Something To Talk About
There’s an e-mail going around the Internet that includes pictures of some California high school students protesting the Immigration Reform Bill by hauling down the Stars and Stripes at their school, turning it upside down and hoisting it below the Mexican flag. The e-mail suggests that recipients of the e-mail should help defend America’s sovereignty by forwarding the e-mail and the pictures to “every English speaking person” in their address book.
I submit that doing so only broadens the audience of the original “protesters”, and inflames emotions…something that we ought to avoid.
I've never found the practice of Free Speech disgusting or objectionable, even when I find the method or content of a message to be repugnant. Make no mistake, I think that displaying Old Glory upside down for any other reason than as a distress signal is disrespectful. Burning one that has not been soiled is repugnant. But I also think that such things are protected under the First Amendment, and that anyone who resorts to such means of protest is only reaffirming the true meaning and value of the flag.
Of course, that’s just my opinion, and I fully respect the right of every American to disagree.
I’ll get back to my point.
At my daughter's high school, students walked out of class to protest the Immigration Bill, prompting the school administration to put together a formal discussion of the issues at stake, and two teachers volunteered their time to facilitate the discussion. Very few students attended; as my daughter pointed out, it's more fun to practice civil disobedience with your friends than it is to learn the facts about the issue.
A wise young woman, she is. I agree. I’m continually amazed by the number of people who will argue someone else’s point as though it was their own, without taking the time or trouble to form their own opinion.
So, to help foster an educated debate, here’s the summary of the bill.
If you'd like to know more about the current policies of the US Government regarding citizenship and immigration, go here: http://uscis.gov/graphics/index.htm
Now, armed with some understanding, I'd like to ask these questions of those who oppose measures to reform our immigration law:
1) What do you suggest as an alternate method to prevent identity theft by undocumented immigrants? Or by those seeking to profit from undocumented immigrants?
2) If you're opposed to stiffer penalties for the smuggling of human beings, what do you suggest as an alternate method to curtail the exploitation of economically disadvantaged aliens seeking a better life here?
For those in favor of immigration reform, I have these questions:
1) Are you comfortable with being required to keep (and possibly carry) a machine-readable identity card that proves your citizenship?
2) Are you ready to be required to present proof of employment eligibility every time you apply for a new job?
3) Is it okay with you that this bill offers no restrictions against the use of any information gathered for the national employment eligibility verification system by anyone, including the government itself?
Free Speech is a good thing, and always has been. It's what we, as a nation, are all about.
Wouldn’t it be nice if we knew what we were talking about?
I submit that doing so only broadens the audience of the original “protesters”, and inflames emotions…something that we ought to avoid.
I've never found the practice of Free Speech disgusting or objectionable, even when I find the method or content of a message to be repugnant. Make no mistake, I think that displaying Old Glory upside down for any other reason than as a distress signal is disrespectful. Burning one that has not been soiled is repugnant. But I also think that such things are protected under the First Amendment, and that anyone who resorts to such means of protest is only reaffirming the true meaning and value of the flag.
Of course, that’s just my opinion, and I fully respect the right of every American to disagree.
I’ll get back to my point.
At my daughter's high school, students walked out of class to protest the Immigration Bill, prompting the school administration to put together a formal discussion of the issues at stake, and two teachers volunteered their time to facilitate the discussion. Very few students attended; as my daughter pointed out, it's more fun to practice civil disobedience with your friends than it is to learn the facts about the issue.
A wise young woman, she is. I agree. I’m continually amazed by the number of people who will argue someone else’s point as though it was their own, without taking the time or trouble to form their own opinion.
So, to help foster an educated debate, here’s the summary of the bill.
If you'd like to know more about the current policies of the US Government regarding citizenship and immigration, go here: http://uscis.gov/graphics/index.htm
Now, armed with some understanding, I'd like to ask these questions of those who oppose measures to reform our immigration law:
1) What do you suggest as an alternate method to prevent identity theft by undocumented immigrants? Or by those seeking to profit from undocumented immigrants?
2) If you're opposed to stiffer penalties for the smuggling of human beings, what do you suggest as an alternate method to curtail the exploitation of economically disadvantaged aliens seeking a better life here?
For those in favor of immigration reform, I have these questions:
1) Are you comfortable with being required to keep (and possibly carry) a machine-readable identity card that proves your citizenship?
2) Are you ready to be required to present proof of employment eligibility every time you apply for a new job?
3) Is it okay with you that this bill offers no restrictions against the use of any information gathered for the national employment eligibility verification system by anyone, including the government itself?
Free Speech is a good thing, and always has been. It's what we, as a nation, are all about.
Wouldn’t it be nice if we knew what we were talking about?
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Update
Clara is doing very well…not quite out of the woods, but her pacemaker is doing the job it was put there for.
If her progress continues as it has been for the last couple days, she’ll be coming home at the end of next week!
Thank you all for your continuing prayers!
If her progress continues as it has been for the last couple days, she’ll be coming home at the end of next week!
Thank you all for your continuing prayers!
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Decrazed
I made myself crazy one afternoon last week.
I could see it happening, and dagnabbit, I felt powerless to stop it.
I second-guessed myself into a snit.
I had suggested to Sihaya that we spend an evening in rather than out, and did so late in the day, by e-mail. When she didn’t respond right away, I began to wonder if I’d been too forward. What if she thinks I’m suggesting we have sex, and she’s not ready for that? I’m not suggesting that, but does she know me well enough yet to know that?
You get the idea.
So, I wrote another e-mail, apologizing and assuring her of my gentlemanly intent. Thankfully, she was patient with me.
Note to self: Sihaya isn’t going to do anything she doesn’t want to do, and she’ll suggest we do something else if she’s not comfortable.
Note to self (Part II): Stop being a bonehead.
All of this offers me an excellent opportunity to look at my feelings about relationships. I want one. (That’s a good thing, since it appears that I am in one.)
The truth is that for the first time in quite a while, I find myself in the presence of an attractive woman who not only finds me desirable on several levels, but also actively seeks out my company.
I’m scared shitless.
Not because I’m afraid of having Sihaya want me, but of having her not want me. And that fear can, if I let it, unman me, as Shakespeare would have put it.
Not an attractive quality.
I’m paying attention here: Sihaya knows who she is and what she wants. She’s thoughtful and kind and considerate and direct. She’s not at all afraid to speak her mind. I need to trust her.
She seems to trust me. And more than that, she trusts herself.
Note to self (Part III): I can trust her, too.
I could see it happening, and dagnabbit, I felt powerless to stop it.
I second-guessed myself into a snit.
I had suggested to Sihaya that we spend an evening in rather than out, and did so late in the day, by e-mail. When she didn’t respond right away, I began to wonder if I’d been too forward. What if she thinks I’m suggesting we have sex, and she’s not ready for that? I’m not suggesting that, but does she know me well enough yet to know that?
You get the idea.
So, I wrote another e-mail, apologizing and assuring her of my gentlemanly intent. Thankfully, she was patient with me.
Note to self: Sihaya isn’t going to do anything she doesn’t want to do, and she’ll suggest we do something else if she’s not comfortable.
Note to self (Part II): Stop being a bonehead.
All of this offers me an excellent opportunity to look at my feelings about relationships. I want one. (That’s a good thing, since it appears that I am in one.)
The truth is that for the first time in quite a while, I find myself in the presence of an attractive woman who not only finds me desirable on several levels, but also actively seeks out my company.
I’m scared shitless.
Not because I’m afraid of having Sihaya want me, but of having her not want me. And that fear can, if I let it, unman me, as Shakespeare would have put it.
Not an attractive quality.
I’m paying attention here: Sihaya knows who she is and what she wants. She’s thoughtful and kind and considerate and direct. She’s not at all afraid to speak her mind. I need to trust her.
She seems to trust me. And more than that, she trusts herself.
Note to self (Part III): I can trust her, too.
Wednesday, April 12, 2006
Prayers Again, Please
Clara is in surgery; the doctors are inserting a pacemaker.
Update: She's through the surgery, and the surgeons were pleased with how well she did. She's a little fighter.
The reason for the pacemaker is the ongoing arrythmia; the doctors had hoped that it would correct itself within a few days, but no such luck. The arrythmia may be caused by the allegedly benign tumors growing on Clara's heart (one manifestation of Tuberous Sclerosis Complex), but (and I'm speculating here) may also be caused by the allegedly benign tumors in her brain. Operating on an infant's heart must be a difficult proposition, since it's about the size of a walnut. The tumors must be truly tiny. And if the arrythmia is caused by the brain tumors, there's almost no point in removing the heart tumors...it'd be an extremely dangerous procedure with no payoff.
Of course, the presence of the pacemaker means that the MRI to look at the brain tumors won't happen, so whatever is happening in her head will be that much harder to diagnose.
Still in the woods.
Update: She's through the surgery, and the surgeons were pleased with how well she did. She's a little fighter.
The reason for the pacemaker is the ongoing arrythmia; the doctors had hoped that it would correct itself within a few days, but no such luck. The arrythmia may be caused by the allegedly benign tumors growing on Clara's heart (one manifestation of Tuberous Sclerosis Complex), but (and I'm speculating here) may also be caused by the allegedly benign tumors in her brain. Operating on an infant's heart must be a difficult proposition, since it's about the size of a walnut. The tumors must be truly tiny. And if the arrythmia is caused by the brain tumors, there's almost no point in removing the heart tumors...it'd be an extremely dangerous procedure with no payoff.
Of course, the presence of the pacemaker means that the MRI to look at the brain tumors won't happen, so whatever is happening in her head will be that much harder to diagnose.
Still in the woods.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Since You Asked...
What did I say? I thought I might borrow a few words from Mr. Darcy:
"Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
Trivia question: What was Mr. Darcy's first name?
Check out the link to the right...Clara Jane's pictures.
"Would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
Trivia question: What was Mr. Darcy's first name?
Check out the link to the right...Clara Jane's pictures.
Wednesday, April 05, 2006
So, I've Already Proposed
It began with a simple post on Craig’s List:
“So, Here's The Thing...I'm not looking for the classic "babelicious babe"...I really don't care about that. What I want most is creative, smart, funny (and let's face it....sane).
A little about me: I am divorced, with two kids, one of whom lives with me most of the time and the other with their mother. I'm creative, smart, and funny (and reasonably sane), and my friends tell me they appreciate my integrity. I'm respectful and emotionally generous. Most of the women I know tell me that I'm sweet. My kids will tell you I'm a good father, unless you catch them when I'm on their case about something, usually grades. Having served for 23 years in the Navy, I understand the nature of commitment, and somewhere around here, I have the remnants of some of the self-discipline I picked up during my time in the service.”
I got two responses.
The first was from a woman who admitted that she smokes. Thank you, no, even if you’re trying to quit.
The second got my attention for two reasons: She was writing from work at noon on a Sunday, but cautioned me not to expect a response until Monday if I wrote back, and she asked for a response whether I was interested or not. “I can handle rejection,” she wrote, “and would definitely want to know!”
We wrote for a few days, and by Wednesday I had her number. (“You like apples? I got her numbah. How you like THEM apples?”) Our first conversation consisted of a lot of laughter, plans for Saturday morning coffee, and ended with “good night,” instead of “bye”.
Coffee on Saturday lasted four and a half hours, and included lunch and an hour of playing in the toy store. It turns out that she is creative and funny and very, very smart. Inside an hour, I knew I wanted to kiss her. An hour or so after that, I was pretty sure she wouldn’t mind if I did. It turned out that I was right.
Part of the conversation was about Frank Herbert’s Dune, and partly for that reason, I’m calling her Sihaya.
I called her the next night. I hate the Three Day Rule. Usually, I follow it anyway, but not with this girl.
Last Saturday afternoon, I went to see her dance at the Renaissance Faire…she performs Middle Eastern dance with a troupe (the other reason she’ll be called Sihaya here, since the girl in Dune was a woman of the desert). Before her performance, we walked around to see the sights at the faire, and as we came out of one stall, we had to wait for the Queen and her royal entourage. As they passed, I bowed and Sihaya curtseyed.
The Queen stopped. “And who do we have here before us?” she asked, grandly and not unpleasantly.
I introduced Sihaya, and gave my own name.
The Queen asked who we are to each other. I looked at Sihaya, who grinned at me. “We are dating, Your Highness,” said I.
“And how long have you been thus?” asked the Queen.
Another grin from Sihaya, and I returned it. “About a week,” I replied.
“In that case,” said the Queen, “We have a game for the two of you.” She bade us stand in front of her, and face each other. “We wish you to imagine a time in the future. Perhaps it will be five years. Perhaps it will be two. But, Kurt, We would give you a glimpse into this future time, when on one knee, you ask this beautiful lady for her hand in marriage. So that is the game We have for you…to ask this wonderful lady to marry you, and to do so in a way that she cannot say aught but yes.”
And so, I did. And she did.
“So, Here's The Thing...I'm not looking for the classic "babelicious babe"...I really don't care about that. What I want most is creative, smart, funny (and let's face it....sane).
A little about me: I am divorced, with two kids, one of whom lives with me most of the time and the other with their mother. I'm creative, smart, and funny (and reasonably sane), and my friends tell me they appreciate my integrity. I'm respectful and emotionally generous. Most of the women I know tell me that I'm sweet. My kids will tell you I'm a good father, unless you catch them when I'm on their case about something, usually grades. Having served for 23 years in the Navy, I understand the nature of commitment, and somewhere around here, I have the remnants of some of the self-discipline I picked up during my time in the service.”
I got two responses.
The first was from a woman who admitted that she smokes. Thank you, no, even if you’re trying to quit.
The second got my attention for two reasons: She was writing from work at noon on a Sunday, but cautioned me not to expect a response until Monday if I wrote back, and she asked for a response whether I was interested or not. “I can handle rejection,” she wrote, “and would definitely want to know!”
We wrote for a few days, and by Wednesday I had her number. (“You like apples? I got her numbah. How you like THEM apples?”) Our first conversation consisted of a lot of laughter, plans for Saturday morning coffee, and ended with “good night,” instead of “bye”.
Coffee on Saturday lasted four and a half hours, and included lunch and an hour of playing in the toy store. It turns out that she is creative and funny and very, very smart. Inside an hour, I knew I wanted to kiss her. An hour or so after that, I was pretty sure she wouldn’t mind if I did. It turned out that I was right.
Part of the conversation was about Frank Herbert’s Dune, and partly for that reason, I’m calling her Sihaya.
I called her the next night. I hate the Three Day Rule. Usually, I follow it anyway, but not with this girl.
Last Saturday afternoon, I went to see her dance at the Renaissance Faire…she performs Middle Eastern dance with a troupe (the other reason she’ll be called Sihaya here, since the girl in Dune was a woman of the desert). Before her performance, we walked around to see the sights at the faire, and as we came out of one stall, we had to wait for the Queen and her royal entourage. As they passed, I bowed and Sihaya curtseyed.
The Queen stopped. “And who do we have here before us?” she asked, grandly and not unpleasantly.
I introduced Sihaya, and gave my own name.
The Queen asked who we are to each other. I looked at Sihaya, who grinned at me. “We are dating, Your Highness,” said I.
“And how long have you been thus?” asked the Queen.
Another grin from Sihaya, and I returned it. “About a week,” I replied.
“In that case,” said the Queen, “We have a game for the two of you.” She bade us stand in front of her, and face each other. “We wish you to imagine a time in the future. Perhaps it will be five years. Perhaps it will be two. But, Kurt, We would give you a glimpse into this future time, when on one knee, you ask this beautiful lady for her hand in marriage. So that is the game We have for you…to ask this wonderful lady to marry you, and to do so in a way that she cannot say aught but yes.”
And so, I did. And she did.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
She's Here!
Thank you all so much for your prayers!
Clara Jane was born last night at 7:42 pm, at 7 lbs 11 oz, and 19 ½ inches. She has long black hair, just like her mother did when she was born. The cardiac arrhythmia continued after she was born, so they whisked her off to the NICU right away, but when I saw her she was pink as pink can be, and working a pacifier as hard as she could. There was a brief incident during the night when her heart was beating more rapidly than the doctors would prefer, but when I talked to my brother-in-law this morning, Clara was stable and doing fine. She’s not out of the woods yet, but she’s doing about as well as can be expected.
When the doctor came in to take my sister up to surgery, he looked at the fetal monitor trace and said, “Hmmm…you’ve been having some pretty good contractions there. We’d have had a baby tonight, either way!”
So, I’m back at home…my parents got in last night and it was about to get crowded enough that I’d have just been in the way. I’ll go back up on the weekend and help with all the stuff they weren’t able to get done this week because the baby came early.
Thanks, again, so very very much, for all your prayers and thoughts. I know they made a difference.
Clara Jane was born last night at 7:42 pm, at 7 lbs 11 oz, and 19 ½ inches. She has long black hair, just like her mother did when she was born. The cardiac arrhythmia continued after she was born, so they whisked her off to the NICU right away, but when I saw her she was pink as pink can be, and working a pacifier as hard as she could. There was a brief incident during the night when her heart was beating more rapidly than the doctors would prefer, but when I talked to my brother-in-law this morning, Clara was stable and doing fine. She’s not out of the woods yet, but she’s doing about as well as can be expected.
When the doctor came in to take my sister up to surgery, he looked at the fetal monitor trace and said, “Hmmm…you’ve been having some pretty good contractions there. We’d have had a baby tonight, either way!”
So, I’m back at home…my parents got in last night and it was about to get crowded enough that I’d have just been in the way. I’ll go back up on the weekend and help with all the stuff they weren’t able to get done this week because the baby came early.
Thanks, again, so very very much, for all your prayers and thoughts. I know they made a difference.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Please Pray
I just got the call from my sister...the cardiac arrhythmia that the pediatricians were concerned about has happened, and she's scheduled for C-section this afternoon at 4 o'clock. We don't know much yet, and won't until Clara is born, but please, please pray.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Well Met
Got together with a friend this afternoon…a friend I’d never actually met. Ramblin’ Girl was in town for a friend’s wedding, so we met up for a drink in the airport lounge while she was waiting for her flight.
It turns out she’s even cooler in person than her blog would lead one to believe, which basically means she’s really cool: smart, funny, easy to talk to, and cute.
On my way to the airport, I cursed myself for not having a good digital camera, because these kinds of meetings deserve pictures. When we met up, I forgot to ask if she had one with her, and the conversation ranged for a while in several directions, so neither of us thought of it…thus, sadly, I must report that there are no pictures of this Truly Historic Event.
Spending part of an afternoon with RG made me think again about how lucky I am to have such friends, and the often convoluted paths that cross in unexpected ways. I am happier with my life than I’ve been in many years, and friendships such as this one are part of the key.
It turns out she’s even cooler in person than her blog would lead one to believe, which basically means she’s really cool: smart, funny, easy to talk to, and cute.
On my way to the airport, I cursed myself for not having a good digital camera, because these kinds of meetings deserve pictures. When we met up, I forgot to ask if she had one with her, and the conversation ranged for a while in several directions, so neither of us thought of it…thus, sadly, I must report that there are no pictures of this Truly Historic Event.
Spending part of an afternoon with RG made me think again about how lucky I am to have such friends, and the often convoluted paths that cross in unexpected ways. I am happier with my life than I’ve been in many years, and friendships such as this one are part of the key.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
It's In Our Nature
As I write this, Nature is literally tapping at my window, in the form of a starling who thinks that his reflection in the mirrored glass is another male encroaching on his territory. He flies up and pecks at the window tappy-tap-ta-ta-tappy-tap then rushes back to make sure his family and nest are safe before making another run on his equally aggressive reflection.
This has been going on all week, and I suspect that the eggs have hatched now, because today, there is a female starling joining him at the window from time to time.
The mating pair of hawks has also returned to our hillside, as they do most every year. This year, one of them is trailing a sort of string from one of its legs, and I wonder if it wasn't here last year because it was in captivity. Three years ago, the pair had two little ones, and year before last, the yearlings could be seen hunting with their parents in the afternoons.
Most often, the smaller birds harass the hawks without mercy, for this week, the starlings are entirely consumed by the perceived threat from non-existent members of their own species, and the hawks are enjoying the freedom to swoop down to the corner and pick up a fresh rabbit or squirrel without an entourage.
The reason the starlings haunt the hawks is because the bigger birds don't seem to have any scruples regarding the raiding of nests.
(I imagine that this is the sort of conversation they might have, if I can be permitted a small amount of anthropomorphization:
He Hawk: "Hmmm. I'm feeling a mite peckish, Portia. I could do with a snack, perhaps a little chickie-morsel? Do we have anything in the scrub-pine to munch on?"
She Hawk: "See for yourself.")
All of this makes me think about how sometimes our instincts can fail us. We get so focused on something inconsequential that we ignore the really important stuff close at hand.
Tap, tap.
This has been going on all week, and I suspect that the eggs have hatched now, because today, there is a female starling joining him at the window from time to time.
The mating pair of hawks has also returned to our hillside, as they do most every year. This year, one of them is trailing a sort of string from one of its legs, and I wonder if it wasn't here last year because it was in captivity. Three years ago, the pair had two little ones, and year before last, the yearlings could be seen hunting with their parents in the afternoons.
Most often, the smaller birds harass the hawks without mercy, for this week, the starlings are entirely consumed by the perceived threat from non-existent members of their own species, and the hawks are enjoying the freedom to swoop down to the corner and pick up a fresh rabbit or squirrel without an entourage.
The reason the starlings haunt the hawks is because the bigger birds don't seem to have any scruples regarding the raiding of nests.
(I imagine that this is the sort of conversation they might have, if I can be permitted a small amount of anthropomorphization:
He Hawk: "Hmmm. I'm feeling a mite peckish, Portia. I could do with a snack, perhaps a little chickie-morsel? Do we have anything in the scrub-pine to munch on?"
She Hawk: "See for yourself.")
All of this makes me think about how sometimes our instincts can fail us. We get so focused on something inconsequential that we ignore the really important stuff close at hand.
Tap, tap.
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