Author: kjbeadling

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About kjbeadling

mission-driven entrepreneur, dad, husband, little league coach, teacher, happy warrior, dukie, bay swimmer, composter/recycler, former lawyer, blogger-maybe not in that order.

Smells Like…Victory. 

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I love the smell of a Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals Order and Melissa McCarthy’s Sean Spicer heavy duty hair gel. Throw in the waft of a large Phil’s “Turkish” coffee, and call me Robert Duvall. Sitting here on this soggy, green Rec & Park bench, sporting a Civil War-era colonel’s hat and one of those mustard yellow ascots festooning my puffy jacket collar. No apocalypse now, at least not right at this moment. 

Instead, this morning I feel a little lighter. Some small measure of relief from a month of predictably unpredictable madness. The world feels a tiny bit less malignant for my 11 year-old. Maybe we’ve suddenly stumbled upon the antidote: Mix one measure Rule of Law with one measure of Hilarious Parody. Shake vigorously. Or maybe pound it and grind it with mortar and pestle. Cover and let it sit in the fridge overnight, chilling. Or maybe leave it wide open on the kitchen counter, open season for all the recently-hatched fruit flies. Let the flies get in on that action. 

I confess I am a little fuzzy on the exact proportion of ingredients in this potent paste. But I am reasonably certain that POTUS woke up this morning feeling as if he had downed a half dozen mason jars of Red State Moonshine last night. And the Press Secretary, I bet, is wondering if his own little hands are as little as Melissa McCarthy’s. Probably Trump is pondering the same question, truth be told. 

As for me, I love the smell of three branches of government and late night comedy sketches in the morning. Smells like…victory. 

Thanks for reading. 

I’ll Take the Muskrat

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My wife turned on the bedroom TV this morning. For the past month or so, such occasions are few and far between. We watch the pixels come to life peeking warily through the gaps between our fingers. Half-expecting an image of an overnight mushroom cloud. Holding our collective breath until no such cloud image appears during Matt Lauer’s first 30 seconds in our bedroom. 

Instead of End of Days, this morning we got the prognosticating rodent, Punxsutawney Phil. Phil’s weather forecasts once held some meaning for us when we suffered through unbearably long, East Coast winters. Desperate to leave the sidewalk snow banks and biting windchill behind, I’d cling to any hint of imminent relief. “What did he say?! What did he say?! He saw his shadow?! Oh thank God, Winter is almost over!” I don’t remember which is which regarding the causation between shadow-seeing and jet streams. I just remember being so grateful to our woodchuck savior. 

So I guess I had a little bit of this lingering around somewhere in the recesses of my subconscious when NBC streamed the beaver’s shenanigans live this morning. Probably not fair to accuse the hamster of “shenanigans.” I’m sure he is as nonplused and bewildered about this whole thing as I. Still, I found myself straining to hear Phil’s mumbled little answers to the existential questions being posed by a town official wearing a stove pipe hat. I think guinea pigs only appear to be speaking, when in fact they are actually instinctively grinding and sharpening their rodent teeth. I ignored this inconvenient fact, however, convinced that Phil was issuing predictions covering topics far broader than the change of seasons. Pretty sure I even loudly shushed my 5th grader, who had migrated by now to our room en route to the bus stop. He only saw on TV a chubby groundhog surrounded by mostly old people dressed in weird costumes. But I was looking for more. “What’d he just say?! Wait, what?! Shhhh! Damnit, daddy can’t hear what the beaver is saying! Shhhh!” 

So I don’t actually know what ancient wisdom Phil shared with the human race this morning. I suppose, too, that I will search in vain for a transcript of the proceedings. Whatever Phil said, though, I’m sure it was brilliantly prescient. Reassuring, hopefully. Salvation is just over the horizon, or words to that effect. 

Some folks will scour this morning’s papers for clues as to what the future holds. Me? I’ll take the muskrat. 

Thanks for reading. 

Half Centurions and a Devil Mask (Frank’s Trail)

college, Duke, friendship, halloween, san francisco Leave a comment
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I have written before about this cast of characters. Friends who count 30-something years of shared memories.  Beginning way back with fraternity hijinks committed and tolerated as 17 or 18 or 19 year-olds. Mostly run-of-the-mill stuff; but plenty not for public consumption.  Oddly, most of those involved public consumption, as I think back. Now, more or less, grown men.  With mortgages, high school-aged kids, lengthy professional careers of one sort or another. Family pets.  Wives to whom we’ve been serendipitously hitched for 20-something years. And a penchant for scaring the bejesus out of one another on occasion. 

This explains the mask.  I know you have been wondering about that. I am the guy in the red devil mask.  No, this photo is not evidence of some odd paganistic ritual.  Well, maybe that’s not entirely true.  No half-naked people circling midnight bonfires were injured in the making of this particular weekend, however.  So back to the mask, because it is a curious thing.  And I have been meaning to write this particular blog post for over a month.

You see, the 2nd gent from the left turned 50 back in December.  He shares my own mother’s birthdate, which I have always found intriguing.  He shared the altar with me on my wedding day 20 years ago.  I stood there shakily, sweating profusely — from the ambient air temperature, not from the gravity of the moment. Maybe it was both. In any event, fair to say I’m woozy.  Trying desperately to follow and repeat back the muffled words of the pastor before me. And while I’m mildly annoyed that my best man’s best efforts to stem my forehead faucet involve a fistful of fibrous hotel toilet paper, I’m grateful he’s there for me. My face is more or less covered with small, sweaty fragments of Charmin.  Basically “TP’d” in front of a couple hundred friends and family members. But I am overwhelmed with gratitude for this man standing by me. 

Now fast forward. On a similarly auspicious occasion in his own life some 20 years later — turning 50 years old — how do I repay him? Sure, I fly with another great friend from the west coast to the east coast, where Frank now lives.  To surprise him. For most right-thinking people, that should suffice. Gratitude shown.  The debt repaid. Leave it at that. But alas, right-thinking people rightly think that I am not one of them.  

Exhibit A: The Satan mask.  Most folks pack socks and undies in their overnighters. I stuff a terrifying rubber mask in mine — two of them actually — with every intention to deploy said mask during my trip. And not spontaneously, no.  I’ve planned this out.  Thought hard on it. I believe this is known as “malice aforethought.” Can’t you just see the group of right-thinking people shuffling slowly away from me, with sideways glances? 

Exhibit B: During my Uber ride to the unsuspecting birthday boy’s east coast location, I scour my co-conspirator’s neighborhood via Google Earth.  I push through mild car sickness in order to assess where a proper point of entry at my buddy’s Atlanta home might be so as to maximize the jumpscare factor. As I roll out of the car — my Uber driver Yolanda now giddy in cahoots — I confess that images of stealthy Seal Team 6 storming that Pakistani compound flit through my mind.  I tiptoe down the pitch black driveway, quietly unhitch a backyard gate, and crawl.  On my hands and knees. Peering through the devil mask’s eye slits.  Breathing heavily like Michael Myers, I realize.  As I secretly skitter across my buddy’s backyard deck and into his screened patio.  At least I hope this is his deck and patio.  I’ve never actually been here before, and am really really hoping I Google Earthed the right residence. I’m dressed all in black, with a blood red devil mask on, and shouldering what looks like a burglar’s kit.  Crawling across someone’s redwood-planked deck.  Late at night.  What could possibly go wrong?  The right-thinkers shuffle a little further away, now shielding their children’s eyes.

Exhibit C:  My newly-50 friend has had back surgery very recently.  His body is not as sturdy and unbreakable as it once seemed.  He is, I think, still convalescing. Probably having to chew heavy back pills on occasion.  So I don’t ignore this information.  I do the cost-benefit calculation.  Crunch the numbers.  Do the math.  I conclude that (a) this will be one of the all-time scare jobs, and (b) the odds of my causing Frank to wrench his back and pop his stitches and unfuse his fused vertebrae are astronomically low.   My co-conspirators deliver our unwitting victim to the darkened back porch.  A masked figure lurches out of the shadows.  Frank stiffens and shudders a bit — the best scares often look like this, I have come to appreciate. And as far as I can tell or anyone will admit, no drawers were soiled.  This is how I show my deep and genuine gratitude to one of my oldest and dearest friends? 

My saving grace (I hope) lies in the poem I wrote and read aloud through tear-blurred eyes and with halting voice the following night in a room full of people who are also grateful for Frank. At the risk of embarrassing him a little bit, I’ve taking the liberty of pasting that poem below.  Perhaps another ill-advised and ham-handed attempt to show him my gratitude. Admittedly not from the Right-Thinker’s Playbook.  But it’s the best I can do. And if nothing else, it is straight from the heart. Happy birthday, Frank.  I’m grateful. 

Thanks for reading.  

###

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Frank’s Trail

Dear Frank, it seems you’ve turned 50

And you know how these sorts of poems go

In your chair you should be shifting

‘Cause what I’ll say, you just never know…


You see, my man, we knew you when

You ran our dear Theta Chi

But before you ruled our wooden bench

You were only a BOG’er, guy


Later, you landed that sweet gig with Apple 

We all know this much to be true

But along the way, remember, you grappled

With the infamous dead-legged interview


Expertly fielding question after question

So grown up, so very mature

You rose at the end to shake hands — a true gentleman

And here is where fan meets manure


Your leg, now numb, sent you lurching 

Uncontrollably forward

Your boss’ adrenaline surging

Turns into a matador

You crumpled to the floor

Dear Frank, remind us, did that offer letter ever find your dorm room door?


Yes, Frank was a “Big Man on Campus” 

Filled with youthful pride

When he pitched Sergeant Paul Dumas

On the business deal of a lifetime


Frank offered a cut of 20 percent

But Dumas, unmoved, dismissed you 

With a furious face bright red, 

Saying “Don’t let the door hit you where the good lord has split you.” 


Our hero Frank was undeterred 

He wowed us with 94 Cup Daily

USA Today devoted nearly a third

Of a page to Frank’s exploits and savvy


A veritable titan of the industry

But let’s not forget our history…


As I recall, for example, there once was a necktie 

Accidentally dipped

In the toilet bowl of a grand high rise 

During a last minute bathroom trip 

Before a meeting with men old and wise

Whom Frank hoped to wow with quick wit

Undaunted, our Frankie, he improvised

From his neck, the “potty tie” ripped

Showed up in the boardroom as “Business Casual Guy”

I’ve no clue if they bought what he shipped


And on another occasion

About this there is no doubt

Frank was to serve as liaison

Introduce bigshots with a deal to work out

But the night before he’d gone out guns blazin’

Forgot to press the alarm clock button down

Woke up feeling fresh, amazin’!

But that meeting? It never went down. 

So Frank, he had some explainin’:


“I slipped in the shower, fell down!

I was knocked completely out!

I came to after 3 or 4 hours

When cold water came out of the spout.”


Ah, and those wonderful parties

Your Upper West Side garden flat

Disgruntled neighbors, those smarties

Threw down bags of urine, and splat!


In truth, it could have been much worse

Chalk it up to life in the City

If your neighbors were more perverse

Those bags would have been, well, shitty


And let’s not forget your “Rollerblade Years”

Frank, you were simply fantastic!

Those Aquafresh skates fueled by 2 or 3 beers

Threw sparks, though made only of plastic


And how ‘bout that challenging ski trail

Suggested by frat brother McMex?

Called “Our Father,” it was not for the frail 

Frank, what the hell’d you expect?


I’m told your yardsale was something to see

Your slide down the ice quite fun

Your Ironman watch sliced your wrist up the sleeve

A million-dollar lawsuit to be won!

Alas, a courtroom you never did see 

The statute of limitations had run


Well, how ‘bout Frank’s counterfeiting skills, then?

So many New Years Eve Balls — for free!

With just a few strokes of his fine pen

Oh and the Apple-issued laser printer was definitely key


Same goes for the Boston Marathon “race bibs”

Frank’s work gave Dave and I thrills

Though looking back now, this was one of those fibs

That led to the fetal position with chills.


I could go on forever, dear Frank

Salty tales like steaks of Delmonico

But the story of your Pre-Cana

Will stay between you, Noeleen, and Father Philatronico 


Alas, my poem has reached its end

Though I have so much more to say

Here’s to your next 50 years, my friend

With just one final thought, if I may

Your wounds from “Our Father” have mended

Your rollerblades long stowed away

But let’s have a few more adventures

‘Cause we’ll follow your trail all the way

Happy 50th, buddy!

 


 










 

Kiva Me A Break (Chores Too Boring)

kiva, Parenting Tips, san francisco View all 3 comments

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It’s that time of year again.  The glorious phase of 5th grade wherein my offspring get a healthy dose of mission-driven business ethos. I know this because my own, enterprising 5th grader — the second 5th grader I’ve had — has recently begun concocting a number of seemingly get-rich-quick schemes.  Most of them involve some element of illegality, though nothing that would likely trigger a long stretch of hard time in the clink.  More a matter of conducting some commercial activity without a required permit in a venue that probably does require a permit.  

Everett’s mom and I are fully onboard, however.  Because this particular scheme has nothing to do with getting rich quickly.  Nor getting rich at all.  Well, depends upon what your definition of “rich” is. 

It’s Kiva Time, you see. A courageous crowdfunding nonprofit founded over a decade ago, Kiva facilitates massive scale micro-lending to otherwise marginalized borrowers in 80 countries. People have lent nearly $1B through Kiva over the years, and the impact is pretty mind-blowingly fantastic. Think a $500 loan that allows a former Indian child bride to jumpstart her sari-weaving business and gain a foothold towards financial independence. Or a Bedouin mother raising five kids in a West Bank refugee camp smack in the middle of one of the oldest cities on the planet. She raises sheep and goats for meat and milk. Sixty nine souls lent her $2,000 via Kiva.  Six newly-acquired pregnant sheep gave birth to more sheep, and this means a growing business in an otherwise economically barren landscape.

I’m not making this stuff up.  And I’m barely scratching the surface. Particularly in our own current political climate, Kiva’s work moves anyone to tears. Feels like the antidote to the toxic nonsense being conjured up within 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.  (Quick peach box  (lemonade crate?) digression:  I suspect that Hilary and I will look more closely at Kiva borrowers tonight — a great way to cap off a weekend of re-upping our The New York Times subscription,  and making modest donations to the ACLU and Planned Parenthood. Every little bit helps.)   

OK, enough with the heavy stuff.  That’s not why you’re here, right?  You’re here because I am a bad father.  The kind who spies his 11 year-old’s earnest, handwritten notes re: Kiva planning.  And promptly turns said notes from a perfectly-timed, heartwarming oasis into  something about which blog readers may guiltily giggle.  A little.  (Ev, don’t worry, they’re not giggling at you.)

Everett and his classmates have been tasked with raising $30 in small groups, then applying those funds to a Kiva borrower. Ev and two chums held a “conference call” yesterday, during which they chewed through a few ideas as to how the three of them would raise the requisite $30.  At the risk of Everett running away from home tonight with a bulging sack of Legos slung over his shoulder, here are Ev’s meeting notes, scratched in pencil on a lined sheet of paper I found about an hour ago on our living room coffee table — 

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I’m really really hoping that #4 comes up big.  Because, first, Everett is totally spot-on about the critical importance of advertising when it comes to pulling off a successful yard sale. I’m going to limit my reservation to agreeing with his conclusion on that particular hurdle.  The “gathering” piece sends a little shiver up my spine. I don’t even want to think about what sort of treasured family belongings he and his buddies would splay out for the hocking on a wool blanket up on Chestnut Street. I’m guessing Ev would use the opportunity to exact some vengeance on his older brother.  And that Hilary or I would be consigned to an expensive trip to Sports Basement in order to replace Max’s prized gear. So no yard sale. 

Second, we clearly need to up the “wow factor” of Everett’s chores. First, I will need to apologize to him.  To this point, I have evidently failed to deliver up a Cirque du Soleil-level squeeze of the adrenals when it comes to his one chore of clearing four soiled plates from the dinner table each night. Perhaps I can borrow a chainsaw, a couple electric eels, and an oversized disco ball from neighbors. We are looking for some sizzle, people, on a go forward basis!

Last, yes, Everett and his pals could walk THEIR own dogs. If his project mates are anything like Everett, however, I suspect that none of them ever walks THEIR dogs.  A subtle prompt to the effect, “You know, Wailea is your dog too. Why don’t you take her for a walk around the block?” will elicit sudden dramatic complaints of deep thigh pain, overwhelming homework, or a bout of fake-napping. In this context, no, I don’t believe anyone will pay these lenders-to-be for walking THEIR own damned dogs.  Now, you want to talk about taking on Poop Bag Duty for a week? To whom do I make out MY check?

Thanks for reading. 

Apropos of Everything: A Mystery of Orwellian Proportions

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So early this morning, my mother delivered devastating news via text message: I may well be on the hook for 34 years-worth of overdue fees from my high school library. Here’s how this horrifying prospect revealed itself —

So how should we interpret this stunning discovery? Please allow me to summarize the key points:

1. There are not enough spaces on my iPhone calculator to quantify my epic late fee. I suspect it will, however, be sufficient to cover the expense of building Trump’s Wall. 

2. My step-father, Jim, is likely never to speak to my mother or me. We probably deserve that. 

3. Finally, and most importantly, I think I can answer the “How in the hell did we get here?” question of the hour: Only one plausible theory, really — Our country’s current predicament is all my fault. Had I returned 1984 on a timely basis, lo those many years ago, none of this would have happened. None of it. Mea culpa. I only hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me. 

Thanks for reading. 

Cockroaches In Nuclear Winter

climate, cockroaches, donald trump, nuclear winter, Parenting Tips View all 7 comments

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Happy Friday, good people.  And it is a happy Friday, indeed — if I were a cockroach. 

I say this because if I were a cockroach, I would wake up every morning giddy.  Giggling, probably.  Possibly even guffawing.  Why? Because I know that no matter what, I’m going to survive.  I’ll be just fine.  My cockroach wife? Fine.  My cockroach sons? Fine.  My cockroach dog? Fine.  My entire cockroach species? Fine. 

You see, cockroaches have skittered across the earth’s surface for roughly 300 million years.  They have survived cataclysmic global events like mass extinctions and rough election cycles.  No problem. They put mustard on mass extinctions and eat them like ballpark hotdogs.  They also purportedly bump ugly uglies and reproduce at a shocking rate. Thus helping to ensure their own survival by heeding my friend Dave Pell’s post-election call to, um, “reproduce.” 

Oh, and here’s a good one: Cockroaches can live for a week with their heads completely detached from their bodies. A week.  Heads.  Detached.  Bodies.  I assure you, this trait will not make the ongoing “Best Super Powers List” my 11 year-old and I have been compiling. Sure, I could smugly introduce it when the topic next presents itself. Could be tonight, in fact.  But I would prefer to postpone his inevitable psychotherapy sessions (and the associated bills) for as long as possible.  I also don’t want to give him a ready answer to the routine doctor’s question,”Have you ever been subjected to any kind of abuse?” I am fairly certain that this would check the box: “Well, there was that one time my dad told me he wished he had the super power to live for a week with his head detached from his body….” Everett’s doctor’s lower jaw and ballpoint pen drop.  I am (justifiably) pronounced unfit.  Supervised visitation at best. Perhaps a stint in an insane asylum of some sort. No, I think I’ll keep this particular superpower to myself.  (But I think you and I can both — secretly, if you will  — agree that being able to detach our heads for a week would come in pretty handy right about now.)

Along these same lines, a cockroach, I’m told, can survive for a month without food.  This would render unnecessary those Silicon Valley billionaires’ extravagantly-outfitted fallout shelters that NPR told me about a couple days back. Cockroach Silicon Valley executives don’t need no stinking food caches. And not to nitpick, by the way, but I think technically a roach can survive for 5 weeks without food, if you factor in that week-without-its-head thing. Any way you do the math here, these insects of the order Blattodea have a leg up on us humans.  Actually, six legs up.  I mean, four legs up, if you subtract our two legs from their six.  Geez, the math gets tricky with one’s head detached and having not eaten for a month. 

So you see,  my friends, we have so much to learn from cockroaches.  If only we were willing students. It is highly unlikely, however, that we will sit at a roach’s knee — any of the six of them — and ask for pointers  for surviving a nuclear winter.  This is true because cockroaches are pretty much universally-reviled.  Repugnant. Truly yucky.  I can imagine their little feet clickity-clacking across a linoleum floor — My God, it sounds just like my typing on this MacBook’s keyboard! — and I am instantly repulsed, chin shaking. Our only hope, it seems, is these enlightened people.  Living in harmony with thousands of cockroaches in their home.  I don’t think I’m quite ready for this just yet.  But soon.  Soon. 

Thanks for reading. 

Stop the World — I Want to Get Off (Just Keep Digging).

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Buried. I’m more than a little embarrassed to admit that I think I may have hit my breaking point.  Chagrined about it, really.  A nice little dollop of shame in there, too. Because I know damned well that many people have it way worse.  They have been wallowing in the vicinity of their own breaking point — feeling buried — for days, weeks, months, years, maybe even generations.  And only now I have the nerve to hop on the bus to Overwhelmed City? The bus is jammed already.  Standing room only.  So let’s say that I’m shoulder to shoulder with gaggles of fellow suffering travelers, being jostled about by one pothole after another. Fighting back nausea.  I am not at all prone to motion sickness, so this feeling is new.  

I want off.

There’s just too much going on.  All at once.  And it isn’t letting up. So my personal water table simply cannot return to some semblance of equilibrium. I’m full up.  Emotionally flooded.  This blog helps, though cataloguing my own parade of horribles seems both self-defeating and self-centered.  Still, I write.  

Let’s start with the macro — world affairs.  I’m getting pummeled by a nonstop barrage of the ridiculous and irrational words and actions of our new President.  It’s like a mad, insane sprint in tight circles spiraling around and down the toilet bowl.  I can’t handle the accelerating g-forces. I can’t stay on top of the latest nonsense, so that I might formulate intelligent opinions and competently explain things to my inquisitive kids. Try to help them makes sense of this new world order. I am reduced to cranky grunts and curse words, particularly if my morning coffee hasn’t yet taken root. I am at a loss.  

As for the micro: Our little neighborhood bubble of safety suddenly feels not so safe.  My outdoor Nest camera footage suggests that maybe the bubble never was safe:  Seemingly  upstanding citizens walking briskly down my block, then veering towards my flat’s stoop. Then rifling through my short stack of mail in the middle of the day. Presumably hoping for something good to steal. Post-midnight sketchy visitors, peering into my parked family car’s interior, aided in their search by the throw of my my so-called security spotlights.  And the hyperlocal criminal goings on reported to me daily by the NextDoor app — it feels like I’m suddenly raising my family in a war zone. 

My kids’ school situations are less-than-ideal.  Maybe that’s the new norm, and just the way it is.  But I only have the two sons, so “ideal” is what I’m shooting for.  Not in a helicopter parent way, mind you.  The opposite.  I want to trust that my kids are in safe, nurturing environments when out of my sight. Let the enlightened and ambitious educators and administrators do their thing. This is my default setting.  But alas, that is not always how things have worked out.  And it’s not always the schools’ fault.  I fear that mean or unkind kids are begotten of mean or unkind or long-ago-gave-up parents are begotten of a world that is moving too fast and rattling loose too many moral compasses. “True North” may actually be scattershot.  Imaginary.  Mythical. We’re all pointing in different directions.  I’d like to think I know where True North is, but with so many others’ fingers extended, jabbing all over the place, how can I be sure?

And then there’s the getting older thing.  I’m pushing towards 50, and honestly, way more serious about taking care of myself than my 21 year-old self would ever have anticipated.  I exercise a ton, eat right.  Sleep for 8 or 9 hours every night. I meditate.  I meditate about exercising, eating and sleeping.  I meditate about meditating. Yet now I find out that my LDL cholesterol is high enough to warrant artery scraping drugs.  Pills of Drano, more or less. Really? Maybe I should have been gorging on deep fried Twinkies all those years. Why not?

More broadly, all families, it seems, face the ugliness of things like cancer.  Our extended family is no different, though it feels like a singular experience.  And just recently, some of my oldest and dearest friends and their families have suddenly been forced to grapple with the fleeting nature of their own health and mortality. Given all this, who the hell am I to gripe about the prospect of taking a pill to lower my cholesterol? What the hell is wrong with me that I have been taking for granted my own family, as well as my friends and their families, for so long? How dare I obsess so much about my own situation in the face of others’ who are climbing mountains far steeper than mine?

So what’s the answer?  What to do?  What can I do in the face of all this?

I am uncertain.  I can’t seem to conjure up any of the usual guiding principles that can be counted on to lift my spirits as I typically approach this concluding section of my blog posts. Having a bit of a hard time finding the bright side, quite honestly.  

But I suspect there may be something to the iPhone photo at the top, captured quickly in Lake Tahoe a couple days back:  I think I’m just gonna pick up this here shovel and dig.  It feels like something I can control, though I recognize no actual progress may be made.  And hopefully I will be strong enough to push through the back aches and heart aches. (No guarantees with these awesome LDL numbers of mine, by the way.)  But I’m just gonna keep digging. 

Thanks for reading. 

ALL CAPS IS DEAD; LONG LIVE ALL CAPS

donald trump, writing View all 2 comments

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I remember when “all caps” meant something.  Somewhere high up in the pecking order of A Christmas Story‘s “triple dog dare.” High up. Something that was regrettable the instant a 1990s-era email was pecked out with the caps lock accidentally depressed.  Triggering an immediate “sorry for yelling” follow up email to the recipient dizzied by the digital decibels.

As a history major, I have a vague recollection that all caps was reserved, historically speaking, for really really important stuff.  Say, for example, when by some amazing feat of mathematical magic, we manage to put folks on the moon —

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Or when we achieve other historic firsts —

 

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To be sure, all caps is most assuredly not always celebratory in nature; equally appropriate when something horrible has happened —

 

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Or something horribly important happens —

 

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Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I miss those days. 

THOSE DAYS ARE GONE, APPARENTLY.  Instead, now we have stuff like this —

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All of which is hard on the eyes.  Rough on the ears.  Tough on the soul.

But every now and then, once in a blue moon, someone indulges my All Caps Nostalgia with a spot-on all caps deployment.  

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All caps, dead?  MAYBE NOT….

Thanks for reading.

Fight the Power (My Near-Pink Experience)

marriage, Parenting Tips, san francisco, women's march Leave a comment
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So unless you have been living under a rock or within a self-imposed bubble of alternative facts, you’re likely aware of the widespread Women’s March gatherings past Saturday.   Over a million people, apparently, marched all over the place.  Mostly women.  Sporting those way-too-much-awesome pink knit beanies with the kitty cat ears. If they were lucky enough to plan ahead and source said hats, or maybe make them at home, on an other than last-minute basis. But any kind of pink or near-pink accessory seemed to do the trick.  I saw with mine own eyes a woman walking casually with a group of presumably like-minded friends towards San Francisco’s City Hall, wearing a full length pink Brontosaurus costume. I guess it could have been a T. Rex.  At least it was more reminiscent of Godzilla than, say, Barney.  Way more Jurassic Park raptor than Fred and Wilma housebroken pet “Dino.”

My own contribution to the Women’s March festivities was pretty meager, at best.  I happily agreed to give my wife a lift to the march’s approximate beginning.  “Happily” might be a bit of a stretch, since I did bitch and moan a little when the traffic started to constrict.  The image of Hilary barrel-rolling out of my the passenger door at 20 MPH flickered through my mind.  But only momentarily. I quickly calculated that it would be impossible for Hil to spin out of our speedy car in such a way that she would have landed safely in Godzilla’s cushy arms. I just couldn’t get the math to cooperate; the angles weren’t right.  And this regrettable incident might just go viral, too, in light of all the TV news choppers overhead at the ready.  

So instead, I opted to deposit my pink-beanied partner as close to the starting point as my little Prius would allow, at a full stop. And with a full heart.  I had expected a transactional experience, numbed by traffic.  But now I was genuinely moved by the throngs of (mostly) women. Impressed that my wife would willingly throw herself headlong into the mix. And proud that I married her (or more accurately, that she married me).  Somewhere along the ride, I admit contemplating (to myself, not aloud) what the odds were that pepper spray and rubber bullets might come into play at some point. Those kinds of unsettling thoughts melted back, though, as I watched Hilary fade into the distant pink-accented masses. My concerns about menacing throngs of police in riot gear were now, suddenly and unexpectedly, conflated with choking back tears.  An odd mix of emotions, to be sure. 

As I drove away in this muddled mental state, I fancied myself a Mad Max character with a (pink!) mohawk and ass-less chaps (probably not pink!) and missing teeth and maybe with a head-scratchingly odd Australian accent. Careening through the streets in my battle-ready tank, tossing fiery Molotov cocktails and screaming like a banshee as I, too, pressed the case for certain rights.  But alas, in reality I was cautiously and two-handedly guiding our 38 MPG PC-Mobile back in the direction of our manicured neighborhood, and into the safe harbor of our Nest camera-protected garage. Home, where I would cry all over Facebook for the next several hours.  Vicariously savoring my Near-Pink Experience.

Thanks for reading.  

Gotta be a silver lining in there somewhere.

Parenting Tips One comment
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Gotta be a silver lining in there somewhere. But saturated as I am in this morning’s live coverage of Donald Trump’s inauguration, I’m having a great deal of trouble finding it.  I am squinting with great intensity at this image.  Not squinting of the fake variety, as if I were trying to manufacture a “this is my serious face” face.  Looks to me like someone was practicing his best Clint Eastwood grimace in a full length mirror at the Blair House last night.  Not me.  I gratuitously popped a NyQuil gelatinous pill.  What my wife and I euphemistically call “a vacation.” But I’m not sick, mind you.  I just wanted a little extra help sleeping through the night. 

This is a very hard day, there is just no way around it.  

This is a hard day to be a friend.  Today would feel a heavy one to me, even if someone’s hand other than Trump’s had found its way to holding that bible opposite Chief Justice Roberts’ hand. I learned last night that a dear college buddy of mine has recently been given a very challenging diagnosis.  He and is family will wake up this morning and find themselves in the midst of a genuine fight.  They are up for it. His wide circle of friends will be up to it, as well.  This development makes what I’m seeing on the U.S. Capitol’s West Lawn feel both far less important and far more important. 

This is a hard day to be a son. Lately, the first text message I see in the morning lets me know how many inches of snow fell during the night at a couple Tahoe ski resorts.  This morning’s first text reported precipitation of a different physical state and salinity.  My mom told me she found herself in tears dealing with the gravity of this morning’s proceedings. No doubt hundreds of thousands of gallons of tears will be shed this morning by millions of troubled souls. My mother’s tears, though, bring a particular sting.  They stung when I was 10 years old, sitting helplessly on our living room couch as she cried in pain for hours on the evening after a root canal operation.  And they sting now, as I sit in my own living room 3,000 miles away from her. I am that helpless 10 year-old once again. 

This is a hard day to be a husband. I vividly recall seeing my wife stumble into our living room on the morning of 9/11, the two of us making eye contact for the first time since the Twin Towers were struck.  Her grief was so raw, and my inability to say or do something in that moment to console her remains a painful memory.  I couldn’t protect my family from the hatred that led to 9/11; that is a gargantuan challenge.  But I couldn’t even assuage my wife’s acute feelings of loss standing in our pajamas all alone.  Helpless.  November 8 and 9 brought vaguely reminiscent emotions to the fore in our household.  And this morning’s inauguration came storming into our bedroom on our flatscreen TV.  Hilary’s face bore a thread of resemblance to her look on 9/11.  I found myself useless again, unable to make her pain go away in that moment. 

This is a hard day to be a dad.  If witnessing NBC News’ coverage standing by myself, in a vacuum, I would give George Carlin’s 7 dirty words some serious currency. Probably invent some new ones.  Switch up the order.  Get really into it, spittle flying, some wildly gesticulating arms that tested the integrity of my rotator cuffs.  But I’m not alone, of course.  Instead, I have to bite back that bile, and solemnly bear witness to the TV screen with my 5th grader, sending him off to school with, “well, buddy, this is going to be a tough day.” I think I told him I love him before he went off to the bus stop.  I hope I did. As for my 10th grader, I agreed to drive him to school today.  Beyond distracted while listening to NPR’s coverage on our local radio, I’m not sure I properly observed any traffic rules.  I do know that I managed somehow neither to betray my anger nor my angst.  I didn’t have that luxury.  Because attempting to fill the driver’s awkward silence, and stirred by the NPR commentary, Max announced, “He’s going to intern jews.” So I found myself suddenly and uncomfortably thrown in the position of being a Trump defender. And I tried to screw Max’s head on more tightly, before I dumped him into a sea of jelly-headed high schoolers. “The things Trump has said and done, and likely will say and do, are bad enough standing on their own.  Let’s not help him out by exaggerating things.  Try to keep it together today.” I probably should have added an “everything will be OK.” But I didn’t, on purpose, because I can’t control that particular outcome.  

I can, however, control my love.  How I dole it out.  To whom, and when.  And today I will make sure I leave no “I love you’s” unsaid or unwritten.  I love you, buddy, hang in there, I’m here for you.  I love you, mom, and I’m sorry this election didn’t turn out the way you hoped. I love you, Hilary,  I share and honor your emotions.  I love you, Max and Everett, and I hope you can find a way to rise above this nonsense as you make your way in this world.  

Gotta be a silver lining in there somewhere, good people.  There always is.  

Thanks for reading.