Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Decade Changes Without Fanfare


The passing of the “00s” into the “10s” leaves me somewhat less than captivated by the permanent numerical change in the calendar.

It seems to me that the changing of a decade used to mean more. I remember sitting with my mother in the family room wondering what the 1980s would bring. We were blissfully unaware of the coming Reagan years which would roll back social progress and make greed fashionable. We had no idea I was about to burst through the closet door, beginning adulthood as an out and proud gay man, surviving one of the most terrifying periods of gay history when thousands were felled by AIDS.

1990 brought a full set of fresh hopes and expectations: a new career, new home, a wide open future. I didn’t know yet that I would feel the full effects of homophobia, get married and divorced, change occupational paths multiple times, or buy a home all by myself.

The last change of decades, of course, also brought a new millennium. Perhaps that’s why this new decade seems less interesting. It will be another thousand years before we match the excitement of Y2K when I drove up to Nebraska and celebrated the four-digit calendar turnover with my brother’s family over fireworks and a giant cookie on which I mistakenly wrote in frosting a welcome to the year 200 (yes, two hundred).

Prior to this millennium, talk of the future always began with the phrase, “By the year 2000 …” Predictions were as much hope as fact. By the year 2000:
  • Our cars would fly.
  • Robots would serve us in our homes.
  • Colonies of humans would populate the moon and Mars.
  • We would no longer eat food because all nutrition would be consumed in pills. 
Ever since 2000 I have felt like I was living in the future. In some ways, actual change in this decade has been as amazing as we imagined in the 1970s.

By 2010:
  • Everyone carries their phone with them. Remember when the Star Trek communicator seemed so astounding? It didn’t do half that of our modern cell phones.
  • There are hundreds of channels on the TV. There are even multiple channels dedicated solely to golf – quality is another subject altogether.
  • The President of the United States has African ancestry.
  • Ordinary, everyday information can be sent around the world in less than seconds – from my sofa, no less (while I watch one of hundreds of TV channels).
  • Everyone can distribute their own writing or broadcast their own video with the technological potential to reach millions. If I wanted to, I could publish a text reporting to the entire world what I had for dinner or when I last went to the bathroom. Whether anyone cares is somewhat irrelevant.
  • In some states and many countries, including now Argentina and Mexico, men are marrying men and women are marrying women. I couldn’t have imagined. 
Perhaps we’re just too tired to celebrate the passing of a decade like we used to. In addition to coping with the many changes, and adapting to the new technology, the past 10 years have been tough.
  • A controversial President was put into power without a majority vote.
  • Evil forces we didn’t understand attacked our country and caught us unaware, unleashing our own irrational response in the form of two wars we cannot seem to end.
  • While the world is brought closer by technology, our country is increasingly divided and polarized, neither side willing or able to consider the others’ point of view. The world’s poor are left out of the conversation completely, but perhaps that is not so new.
The changing of a decade reminds us that time passes on a personal level as well. Some loved ones pass away while others are born. Marriages begin and end. Jobs and careers come and go. Friends drop out of our lives and sometimes drop back in.
 
The youthful hope of 1990 is calmer and more confident now, somewhat wizened, with a bit less stamina, and a little less arrogance. Certainly there is less hair on top and a few more wrinkles down below. Whatever this new decade brings, there will certainly be change, and there’s no telling what we’ll be remembering in 2020.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

The Truth Behind the Christmas Myth


“My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior… He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly.”
- Mary, mother of Jesus, in the Gospel of Luke, Chapter 1

Some expected the messiah to come in a huge, apocalyptic ball of fire swallowing up evil doers. Others expected a new King, dressed in a purple royal robe, riding in on a fine white horse with a huge righteous army to overthrow the corrupt government.

When John the Baptist started to publicly repeat the prophecies of Isaiah, it caught the attention of the religious power elite (perhaps the equivalents of our Pat Robertson or the Pope). The idea of a messiah coming to upset the status quo was distressing to them. Their power was threatened. But John was too elated to care what they thought. "I am the voice of one crying out in the wilderness, 'Make straight the way of the Lord'".

Mary's words in the Gospel of Luke (the Song of Mary, or Magnificat) are meant to be sung. She rejoices in being blessed with the chance to serve God. She magnifies the Lord.

Most mainline American Protestants are not good at expressing faith with outward joy. At best, we might utter a monotone litany of praise.

Rather than reflect quietly on the meaning of it all, we could be moved, inspired by John's and Mary's joy, to proclaim to the world that our Savior is coming to save us from the darkness of sin.

The “S” word.

Please don't cringe or roll your eyes at the mention of sin.

Sin is nothing more, and nothing less, than separating ourselves from God.

This estrangement is at the root of bad things like hate, discrimination, dishonesty, abuse, oppression, racism, all the "isms," - and things less dramatic, like just being so busy that we don't seem to have time to care for the people around us.

As human beings, we are always to some degree, separated from God.

But as Christians, we believe that while we don't always see God or feel God's presence or grace, and though we neglect to remember God through prayer and deed, God never forgets us - God never leaves us.

Of course, life doesn't turn into a fairyland of gum drops and lollipops the minute we remember that God loves us. We continue to live in a tough, churning world. But the knowledge that God hasn't turned a cold shoulder gives us the chance to hope and to have courage and to take steps to overcome the separation. This is grace.

This time of year, we remember the promise that God loves us so much that he sent a simple, human representative to share that grace with us.

Don’t get hung up on whether it literally happened. The truth behind the myth is valid. The story conveys God’s love in a way that we can understand.

Jesus was said to be a simple sandal wearing man, wandering through the country, like John the Baptist, peacefully challenging structures of oppression, upsetting the status quo, caring for the reviled sick and outcast, feeding the hungry, nurturing the poor in spirit with teaching and compassion – things that we should do ourselves, today.

This is more revolutionary than if Jesus were a King with a big army. This is revolutionary because it was and is done without the threat of hellfire. It is done without bombs or violence. In fact, power isn't taken from the authorities as much as it is given to those who never had it before. The power is rooted in the knowledge that nothing, nothing separates us from God.

This message of freedom and love is how Christ continues to live among us. No wonder we are excited.

And our excitement, our elation, like Mary's, moves us to throw up our arms and sing for joy.

We celebrate the birth of a savior who, because we Christians live in his name, because he lives in us, empowers us to share that freely given grace by fighting for justice, working for peace, and living as an example to others.

Our souls magnify the Lord this Christmas. And sincere Christians everywhere, despite our differences, proclaim the coming of a Savior, the triumph over sin, and the anticipation of joy.

Friday, December 18, 2009

Social Media and Technology: When Will the Madness Stop?


This week I joined LinkedIn, the networking site for professional people seeking connection with other professionals. I think it’s the 21st century version of the cocktail party where you used to drink martinis and hand out business cards. It’s like Facebook, only you don’t put personal stuff on it like what your cat threw up that morning. Instead, you record your professional news and accomplishments. Rather than collecting “friends,” you cast your network for as many “connections” as possible. The more connections you have, the more successful you must be. Or something.

I only linked in when a respected adviser basically told me I had to. She said that many corporate recruiters won’t consider anyone who is not part of this version of the social networking craze. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not looking for a job right now, but in this age of shifting corporate landscapes, layoffs, reorgs, and whacked-out bosses, one can’t be too prepared.

What troubles me is the growing necessity to either be a part of these social networks or be left out of society all together.

Facebook is fun, but I was shocked to discover a whole world of electronic communicating, even among people I see every day, that I didn’t know about. I’d evidently missed volumes of important electronic conversation. And pictures.

So far, LinkedIn is not fun. I have absolutely no idea what I’m supposed to do. I filled in some of the basics of my profile but other than connecting with people I already know, it’s a pretty sad compilation of dull information.

I’m starting to feel kind of whiney and oppositional about technology. I just don’t want to incorporate any more into my life.

I was the last person in the entire world to get a cell phone, and that was only because my mother insisted that I wouldn’t be safe without it. This is the same woman who let me and my sister drive across Nebraska to school in a car with no heater in the middle of winter, but that’s neither here nor there. That first cell phone didn’t work anywhere except in the 303 area code, and subsequent improved phones and plans didn’t work in such places as the inside of my condo, and anywhere I visited in Nebraska or Wyoming.

I was also the last person (in about 2002) to get cable TV, and at first I only got the old fashioned analog kind. I joked at the time that I was being dragged kicking and screaming into the 1980s.

I got a nice CD player only after everyone else started getting ipods, and I only got my first ipod this year when a coworker upgraded to a fancy new one, giving me his old one. Now I have all these CDs gathering dust where my vinyl LPs and cassette tapes used to be.

I have VHS tapes in my bookcase but nothing to play them on. I have these holes in my walls where my old landline phones used to be. I can’t figure out how to change the password on my wireless router. I only know how to utilize about 10 percent of the buttons on the four remote controls I use for watching television.

I haven’t even mentioned the many other virtual worlds I belong to. Netflix not only allows me to select the movies I want to view, it enables me to see what my friends and family are viewing. I’m not sure I want them to see everything I’m watching. And then there are the dating web sites. ‘Nuf said about that.

Is this all too much, too fast, or am I only getting old? No need to answer. Just let me shuffle through my dotage in peaceful ignorance.

Except I still have to figure out how to link to enough connections so I don’t look like a professional failure.



(If you want to leave a comment and are having trouble, try entering your name and leaving the URL portion blank. If that doesn’t work, I don’t know what to tell you. It’s technology, after all.)

Thursday, December 10, 2009

Holiday Newsletter Print Edition In Decline

Depending who you listen to, the demise of print media is either a tragedy leading to the downfall of civilization or an inevitable result of the democratization of information sharing via rapid advances in technoogy.

In any case, I'm not going to buck the trend. My annual holiday newsletter only went out to about 40 friends and family this year, mostly those who can't or don't use a computer. To save on postage and ink (I spent $80 on ink cartridges - that's more than the cost of the printer! What a racket!), I am posting my annual greetings and news online for my Facebook and blog friends to see.

I know it's a little less personal. I'm sorry if it makes you feel less special to me and I assure you that is not the case. I just believe in the democratization of information sharing via rapid advances in technology.

If you aren't mad at me, please read my Holiday Newsletter by clicking here.

And have a wonderful Holiday Season!

Saturday, December 5, 2009

A BillsWeek Guest Entry: How to Leave Hialeah


By Joey Halligan

When I first came across this title, I was browsing through new books on Amazon.com. I’ve never seen a book with my hometown on the cover - nor did I ever think I would. You probably have never heard of it, and I don’t blame you.

When it boils down to it, Hialeah is simply a heavily Cuban populated city in the greater Miami area. It may sound a little more interesting to the average passerby - just imagine... the culture, the arts, the music, the beauty! And the food is to die for! However, those that pass by just keep right on going. The people are rude, the traffic is insane, and the crime rate is sky high. So why is it so hard to leave Hialeah when Hialeah is your home?

Hialeah found its way on the map during The Roaring Twenties. It was during this time when sports and film began to carve the culture of this Southern Florida prairie, snuggled between the Atlantic Ocean and the great Everglades. Perhaps one of the most famous landmarks in Hialeah - the Hialeah Racetrack, was erected during this era. Its Mediterranean architecture and grandeur brought tourism and curiosity. In fact, to this day, brides-to-be flock to the racetrack for their wedding photo session. Just make sure to crop out the factories and smog.

Today, the city is over-populated, dirty and has lost its old world charm. All the signs are in Spanish, no one holds the door for you, and the moment the traffic light turns green, the car behind you honks their horn. Yet for some reason, each time I visit home, I feel like everything is right in the world - even though I know it couldn’t get any worse. And that’s basically what draws us back to our hometown - it’s where we’re from... whether we like it or not. We will always have a sense of pride for what is ours, and where we come from.

It’s been five years since I’ve lived in Denver and I wouldn’t dream of moving back to Hialeah. Once you get a taste of life outside the city, it’s pretty easy to feel satisfied with life somewhere new. So how did I leave Hialeah? I packed everything I could into my car and drove for two days. I started fresh without knowing what to expect. Now, every time I make my descent into the Miami International Airport, I always look out the window and spot the new construction sites and the heavy traffic on the main roads and highways. The best view, however, is the same one when I leave Hialeah on my way back home.



Joey Halligan enjoys frolicking in the snow, eating pho, and drinking Starbucks in Denver. He can be reached at joeyhalligan@me.com.

Friday, December 4, 2009

Secular Holiday Hijacked by Religious Radicals

Let me make one thing perfectly clear. I am a life-long practicing Christian. I have a degree from a theological school. I go to church every week. I participate in faith-based rituals around Advent and Christmas Eve. I love the beautiful sacred music this time of year.

And unlike the vocal zealots on the news, I have no desire to cram my faith down the throats of those who simply wish to gather with friends and family over some eggnog, exchange gifts, and enjoy some colored lights during this gloomy month.

I contemplated many titles for this entry of BillsWeek:

• Waging Peace in the War on Christmas
• Let’s Take the Christ Out of Christmas
• Jesus is NOT the Reason for the Season

The point is, I’m sick to death of hearing from right wing Christians about the “true” meaning of the holiday and how those who celebrate secularly are misconstruing “the reason for the season.”

Merriment this time of year goes way back before the time of Christ. At least 10,000 years ago in the northern hemisphere, people celebrated the returning of light after the darkest nights of the year.

Light was no trivial matter to these pre-common era people. In Europe, in particular, light meant warmth and the ability to grow food. Light meant survival.

Solstice traditions and festivals evolved into major celebrations. When the Christian church started taking over in the first millennium, these celebrations were seen as dangerously frivolous, probably the work of the devil himself. Universal popularity made it impossible to forbid the festivities, so the church cleverly usurped the time and turned it into a celebration of Christ’s birth.

The timing of Christmas has nothing to do with Jesus’ actual birth. If you are really a fundamentalist, you shouldn’t celebrate in December at all. Indications from the Christian scriptures point to a spring birth (were those shepherds watching over lambs?).

The church still couldn’t subdue the revelry, however. In England, as late as the 1600s, this time of year was marked by major carousing and hooliganism. Respectable people stayed off the streets for their own safety.

In some places, only the Roman Catholic Church celebrated Christmas. Protestants, including those Puritans who so faithfully established some of the original American colonies, distained Christmas. The only reason Protestants began to celebrate Christmas in church was because so many were sneaking over to experience the beautiful Catholic Christmas mass.

So I’d like to invite all those extremists who are offended by the modern celebration of Christmas to celebrate the season in whatever way is meaningful to them. But this is The United States of America. We have freedom of religion here. If we want to visit Santa at the mall, put a plastic snowman in our yard, play hockey with a fruitcake, light a menorah, or observe the solstice in the manner of Pagans and Wiccans, get off our backs.

I think most people are like me: enjoying a combination of religious tradition and secular celebration. But because I don’t want to assume that your beliefs match mine, I will simply wish you:

Happy Holidays!

Friday, November 27, 2009

Thanksgiving Chronicles


It seems strange that to cope with all the Thanksgiving work and stress, I kept taking Facebook breaks. How did I get through last year without the web’s most popular social networking site? Reviewing the posts reveals the drama of the holiday. Here’s a sampling from Facebook.
First, the cast of characters:
  • Bill – you all know me.
  • Neda – friend and former coworker
  • Linda – high school classmate in Nebraska, reconnected via Facebook
    Forrest – friend and former colleague in Georgia
  • Wendy – lives ten minutes away and never forgets anything I say
  • Katherine – next door neighbor who I could talk to through the wall, but FB is often the medium of choice
  • Thomas – world citizen, friend who delights in brutal honesty
  • Debra - high school classmate in Nevada, reconnected via Facebook
  • Susan – sister in Wyoming
  • Kim – irreverent Reverend
  • Jeff – national reporter based in Denver, visiting New Hampshire
  • Kris – nonprofit director in Oregon

Thursday, T-1 Week
Bill: Stuff I’m Thankful For – A BillsWeek List
Friday, T-6 Days
Bill: Kathy Griffin tonight. Feels like the beginning of the holidays!
Sunday, T-4 Days
Bill: … bought most of the Thanksgiving dinner stuff today. Charles is already playing in the foil roasting pan I bought for the turkey. Long day, but at least the shopping is mostly done. Now up to 14 guests at my place. Cooking and cleaning the next few days ...
Neda: Wow … Did you party grow?
Bill: (Certain family members) keep inviting additional people … it’s really ok, but a little overwhelming at the moment. It will be fun when the big day comes …
Tuesday, T-36 Hours
Linda: Share some kitty stories. Life would be so dull without kitties.
Bill: I would be so lost without them. Right now, Lily is annoyed that I’m typing and she keeps bumping my hand. My younger kitten Charles is so active, I’m going to have to assign someone to manage him while the house is full of people Thursday.
Bill: Cleaning is more or less done. Dining room table is extended. Tomorrow, cooking and counting chairs, plates, etc.
Forrest: Will the cats hide with all the company?
Wendy: Charles is going to hide in the turkey --- according to Bill!
Bill: That’s my fear – Lily will hide at first, but she’ll eventually come out and grace us with her presence. Only a few will be deemed worthy to pet her a little. Charles will be the life of the party, jumping from lap to lap, because he knows all humans love cats, and him in particular. He will be on the counter trying to get food, on the table trying to get food, and yes, I’m afraid I’ll turn around and find him with his head in the turkey. Usually he’s locked down in the bathroom when I can’t handle him, but with so much company, I don’t think that will work…
Forrest: Sounds like organized chaos is about to happen…
Wednesday, T-30
Bill: I got out my pretty red table runner with the tassels to hang it up and de-wrinkle. Guess who discovered the tassels not 15 seconds later. Yep, my little kitty boy. Now I have to figure out where to hang it where he can’t get to it.
Katherine: No, you have to find a place where Charles won’t create problems! Try putting it back out, and when he goes after it, point the water bottle. He will get the message …
Thomas: Good luck with that.
Bill: Ok-he found it. Tassels are history. It will be a pretty red runner without tassels. (Later) Needless to say, there will be no Christmas tree this year.
Thomas: Come on, be daring.
Wendy: Since there will not be tassels for the table, perhaps you could wear the tassels …
Thomas: Post pictures of that!
Debra: Cats and tassels – temptation is just too great … Try hanging it over the top of a door and hope he does not decide to high jump. (Editor’s note: I did exactly that and the jumping was fantastic, tassels wrestled to the floor and leapt upon with wild abandon.)
Susan: Who needs tassels? Have a wonderful day …
Wednesday, T-16
Bill: Turkey isn’t thawing. Is now in the shower where Sir Charles can’t get to it. SURELY it will be thawed by morning.
Kim: At least it will be clean!
Linda: Don’t let it spoil. My 18 lb. bird did … We threw it out. We followed the unthawing instructions so it must have been tainted from the beginning. We went turkey shopping late today… Bill, the cat will find it. Good luck!
Kris: hello, roasted Brassica oleracea and Cucurbita moschatta pie! (Editor: Huh? What ever happened to mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie?)
Thursday, T-8.5
Bill: I was conscious of the spoilage factor. It was cold the whole time and I put it back in the fridge after a couple hours. … All is well.
Bill: Up at 4:30. Finished thawing turkey under cool water in the sink and stuffed and seasoned it. Both Charles and Lily quite agitated. Poor kitties’ first bedroom lockdown of the day. Thanksgiving is difficult for poor starving kittens.
Linda: Did the cat get the turkey? Ours wants in the roaster as it was sitting out waiting to be cleaned.
Bill: No, Charles didn’t get the turkey, not for lack of trying. It’s safely in the oven now and he’ll be locked in the bedroom during carving and serving.
T-4 and Counting
Bill: Taking a coffee break now that as much food is prepared as can be until the last minute. So far, Charles has been in lockdown three times. Lily once. Made it to the health club to work off some of the stress of the day. I feel ready now. Except I’d better set the table.
Thursday Night, T+9
Debra: How did everything go? The turkey-cats saga must go on!
Bill: The dishes are clean. The leftovers are put away and sent home with the guests. Tablecloths laundered. There are two cats sacked out on the sofa and I can’t get them to move. We’re all three just pooped. It was a wonderful day. Of course, Charles spent much of it locked in the bedroom, but he got to socialize too. I hope all of you had a good T-day too!
Jeff: Thanksgiving is over. Merry Christmas.
Bill: Ugh
The Morning After
Bill: “Please dear. Auntie Mame is hung.” Charles and Lily are wide awake now and wanting breakfast. All I can muster from my bed is this quote from Rosalind Russell in the 1958 movie, Auntie Mame. For the record, I didn’t touch a drop of alcohol. I just feel hung over.
Katherine: Poor Bill. It must have been too much turkey or pie or something. Drink lots of water, watch Netflix, nap, and call me in the morning.
Kim: LOL! I hope you had a wonderful time in spite of the stress of it all.
And you know, I did. Let’s just try to recover for a while and not think about Christmas. How can millions of people go shopping so soon after all this?

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Stuff I’m Thankful For – A BillsWeek List



A couple weeks ago I published a rather negative blog entry called Stuff That Bugs Me. In order to ease the sting of that downbeat list, I made a promise that I would do a nice list soon. Well, it’s soon, and it’s less than a week to Thanksgiving, so here’s some stuff I’m thankful for. I hope it conveys a more positive vibe. Ok, here goes:

• Sunny winter days
• Hottubs
• Warm fuzzy cats
• Family and friends
• Those orange creamcicles from King Soopers
• Marie Calendars
• Pizza delivery
• Donuts
• 24 hour supermarkets
• Dinners at El Jardin
• Health care
• Liberals with a sense of humor
• Kathy Griffin's "relationship" with Levi Johnston
Engineers who like cats on YouTube - yes, "they should be but they aren't"
• Living in the city with all its conveniences (like walking to the store)
• First class performances at The Buell
• Diversity in restaurants - from greasy diners to pho
• 24 hour emergency rooms for animals (I've been there a couple of times)
• Independent movie theaters
• Denver Public Library
• The easy empty canister on my vacuum cleaner
• Scrubbing bubbles
• Clumping kitty litter
• Recessed lighting with dimmer switch
• Off buttons on phones
• State parks early in the morning
• Microwave ovens
• Timely traffic updates
• Michelle Obama
• Ocean Beach, San Diego
• Workout machines with televisions attached
• Late night BBC radio
• Digital Video Recording
• Enduring legacy of the Civilian Conservation Corps
• Lake Irene
• Dairy Queen
• Public transportation
• Quiet neighbors
• Jon Stewart
• A roomy freezer
• Leave-in conditioner
• Stove-Top Stuffing
• Time off around the holidays
• Readers of my blog

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!

Sunday, November 15, 2009

America Before and After

I’m spending a snowy Sunday inside, cuddled with the cats, eating tangerines I bought from King Soopers, and watching Netflix rentals. Today, it’s Sports Night, a comedy series from the late 90s which was fast-paced, witty, intelligent, and way ahead of its time. Critically acclaimed but not watched by a viewing majority, It barely squeaked out two seasons. I may do a blog about it someday, but the thing I keep thinking about is 1998.

In 1998, the economy was good. Dot coms boomed with no bust in sight. The biggest problem we seemed to have was whether the president was having sex with an intern. On Sports Night, the TVs are square and have large back ends. The characters don’t look too different from people today, but they carry around VHS cartridges and type on computers with huge monitors. On one episode, a character is going to see The Lion King on Broadway, but has no idea the show is sold out.

Amid the laughs and drama, I keep wanting to say to the people on screen, “You have no idea what’s coming, do you?”

Like many others, I see the modern world in two parts: before September 11, 2001, and after. Every movie I watch, every book I read is evaluated by whether the author or characters have yet gone through the experiences of that day.

On Sports Night, they talk about AIDS and the homeless as serious problems, but don’t seem much affected personally. Their individual lives are safe and insular. They can’t yet comprehend how the world could come crashing around them at any moment.

I was 2,000 miles away from the terrorist attacks, but I remember with vivid detail where I was and what I was doing when the World Trade Center fell and the Pentagon burned. I was working from home with the TV on when local TV anchor Kyle Dyer said that a plane had just crashed into one of the twin towers.

“Some drunk pilot,” I thought. “They’ll be talking about this for years.”

Later that day, I interviewed house cleaners and went to the computer store because I needed software. I was in a daze. Everyone was. But we had to go about our business or the terrorists would win.

After 9-11, we still have AIDS and the homeless. Thankfully, there is still also humor on TV. But there’s a difference. Fictional characters and we ourselves, go about our normal business but seem to be half looking over our shoulders, knowing something terrible and life-changing could happen again. The President has to manage two wars, whether justified or not. No thought of interns in the national conscience these days. There is extra security, ridiculous at times, at the airport. And we are reminded of terror every time we see the ubiquitous skyline of New York on TV show cutaways – on Sports Night, the twin towers achingly present, on newer shows, painfully absent.

A trial soon begins of the man who is said to be the mastermind of the 9-11 attacks. As is typical in the United States of America, there is discussion of justice and a desire to see this man punished for taking those thousands of lives. As appropriate and necessary in the USA, there is concern that we continue to follow the law: give this man a fair trial and not lose our heads to emotion and vengeance.

As to whether the trial should be held in civilian or military court, in New York or somewhere else, I don’t really care. I frankly, personally, don’t care what happens to the guy.

I want my 1998 back.

But this is America. Part of the Obama victory last year was a mandate to return to the reasonable, just, and democratic America which could be an example to the rest of the world. We have a constitution which rules over our hot heads. Every accused criminal gets a fair trial so that all of us can be free.

Now, back to Sports Night.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Peaceful End to Cold War Still Gives Me the Shivers

All the focus this week on the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall has me reliving those moments of 1989, and what effect the toppling of the Soviet empire had on me.

I’m sure to anyone younger than 20 or 30, the fall of the wall seems like ancient history – no more or less relevant to their lives than the Civil War or Great Depression.

But I remember the Cold War as a cold reality:
  • The very real danger of US/USSR Mutually Assured Destruction (MAD), particularly during the presidency of that war monger Ronald Reagan who, contrary to revisionist myth, is hardly responsible for the wall coming down
  • Posters in my church about how many schools could be built for the cost of one hydrogen bomb
  • Protesting with Nebraskans for Peace at a missile silo near Scottsbluff and seeing a plain-clothes official photographing all of the license plates of cars parked at the site (hopefully, my dad, who’s car I drove, wouldn’t get in trouble for my subversive activities)
  • The night in 1983 when the Religion in Life group at Nebraska Wesleyan University got together and watched the terrifying and controversial television show, The Day After, about how serious a nuclear war would be – by then we’d figured out that ducking and covering under our desks wouldn’t be much protection

Yep, the Cold War was real, and it was scary. September 11, 2001 was horrifying to be sure, but what we feared about the Cold War, the destruction of the entire world with only minutes of warning, was terror on a different scale.

I grew up thinking that the Cold War could only end with terrible violence and destruction. It was unthinkable that the Soviet Block would just implode of its own weight (no thanks to Ronnie) and the desire of its people to be free. As wide-eyed East Berliners walked through the Brandenburg gate to West Berlin, I held my breath, waiting for those tanks which had always crushed freedom movements in the past. Only a few months earlier, a huge, hopeful, peaceful protest for freedom had been brutally crushed at Tiananmen Square in Beijing, reinforcing my belief that communism wouldn’t, couldn’t, go away peacefully.

But with only a few arrests and smatterings of isolated violence, from Germany to Poland to Hungary to Russia itself, Communism evaporated without a war, without a nuclear attack. I still get the shivers when I think of it.

One of the lessons of 1989 is that governments and peoples can change peacefully. While China, North Korea, and Cuba are still not democratic, it is possible to imagine that some day they will be, and massacres at Tiananmen Square will not be automatically assumed.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Stuff that Bugs Me - A BillsWeek List

Ever have one of those days where everything, but EVERYTHING, got on your nerves? I was in a terrible mood yesterday when I banged these out. I'm better now. I promise to do a nice list soon.
  • How many years have we had those automated checkouts at the supermarket? And people STILL don't know how to use them? I hate being in line behind a bunch of shoppers who look at the thing like it's from outer space and have to ask the clerk for assistance every step of the way ...
  • Denver drivers. Denver has a mix of big city speeders and country bumpkins driving on the same freeway. The person going 20 mph is in the far left lane and the rest of us have to pass on the right, only to come up behind a pickup loaded with lawn equipment going 35, as if looking for a lawn! I enjoy my annual trips to southern California where the drivers are skilled and consistent - except when I have to suddenly slow down to think about whether to take that exit or wait til the next one. Geez people, I can hear that your horns are working.
  • Speaking of freeways, more often than not, the person driving slow in the middle lane is on the phone. HANG UP and frickin' drive! What's so important that you have to have that conversation now? Sometimes, they manage to balance coffee or a hairbrush while simultaneously driving and yapping.
  • Speaking of driving, when did stop signs lose their meaning? I go nuts when I'm at a corner, appropriately stopped, when the person approaching the intersection from the direction that doesn't have to stop, also stops, and waves at me to go ahead. JUST DRIVE LIKE YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO and everyone will get where they're going.
  • Glen Beck
  • People in my neighborhood who let their cats go outside where they are exposed to feline leukemia, FIV, foxes (yes, that's right), and now even coyotes, and worst of all, cars.
  • AM "News" radio which is really talk radio, actually "yell" radio, where ignorant people call in and pollute the airwaves with their stupidity. Why is their opinion worth broadcasting instead of the opinion of an expert on the subject?
  • Same for cable TV "news."
  • For that matter, why is just anyone allowed to have a blog so they can bitch and moan on the internet?
  • Why does Internet have to be capitalized? It's not a real place, nor a proper noun - it's the internet, for crying out loud.
  • Daylight savings time
  • Clergy persons who take credit for all the new people who've joined a church, but none of the responsibility for those who have left.
  • Special interest scare tactics that make people fear universal health insurance, which would actually be good for everyone.
  • Wal Mart
  • Proponents of "Family Values" who's definition of family is too narrow to include many of the people I know. It's too bad I can't say I have family values because people will think I'm a bigot, when in fact, I just happen to value my family.
  • Tofu disguised as meat. Come on, I mean really.
  • Reality TV. Reality my ass.
  • Donating to a political party or candidate only to be hit up endlessly and constantly with emails saying, "just a little more money will ensure ..." I know they need it, I just hate being bugged for it all the time.
  • Speaking of donations, my university calls me every night at 6:30 to ask me to increase my annual gift. While I fully intend to give, a reminder letter or one phone call should be enough. If I haven't answered their call (because I recognize the 402 area code number) 28 days in a row, why do they keep trying?
  • FOX News. Fair and balanced my ass.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

Taking All the Fun Out of Halloween


With the exception of The Simpsons’ Treehouse of Horrors specials, I really don’t get the appeal of Halloween. Why do people go out of their way to be terrified? What’s so fun about that?

Death seems closer this time of year. In colder climates, the leaves have fallen, giving the trees a more skeletal look. The crops are in so the fields are barren. It’s getting darker and darker. The world seems to be passing from the warm, vibrant life of summer into a cold death-like slumber.

Without looking it up or actually doing any research, I think Halloween must have originated in relation to traditions like Day of the Dead and All Saints Day. These customs, rooted in ancient cultures from around the world, are an opportunity to remember and in some cases, communicate with loved ones who have passed. In Mexico’s Day of the Dead, it’s often a happy, funny celebration where people cross that line between this life and the next. In the Episcopal church where I attend, All Saints Day is a somber occasion where those who have died are solemnly remembered.

People used to be closer to death. They would watch loved ones die at home and spend time with the body afterwards. Families did the washing and burying themselves instead of hiring a funeral home. Sometimes after a flood or landslide, because of more primitive burial practices, bodies reappeared revealing decaying flesh and skeletal remains.

We don’t often see that any more, but we recreate the visions of dead bodies and live ghosts every October 31. Why? To laugh at something we fear?

Haunted houses are big business. So are slasher movies. The louder some people scream, the more fun they are having.

Not me. I avoid going to a scary movie at all costs. I have enough fear in my regular life. And because I’ve faced the real prospect of death, my own and others’, I just don’t think styrofoam gravestones in the yard, or plastic skeleton hands sticking out of the ground are funny.

But don’t let me spoil your fun. This year I’ll be helping my sister hand out candy to trick-or-treaters up in Cheyenne. The scariest thing there will be her dogs happily barking every time the doorbell rings.

Friday, October 23, 2009

Fitness Newbie Surrounded by Experts


I am in pain.

My shoulder is killing me. The spasms in my arm are excruciating. My elbow is doing that funnybone thing.

No doubt this is a result of a recent lifestyle change. A month ago I joined a health club and I've been working out nearly every day, lifting, squatting, doing pull ups and push downs on a fancy machine (don't ask me what it's called), and working "cardio" on a treadmill. I also avail myself of the health club's whirlpool because it's, uh, therapeutic for sore muscles. I tried the steam room, but fainting from the heat draws too much unwanted attention from the other guys.

I wrote a few weeks ago about working with a personal trainer, Eric. Because he doesn't come cheap, I don't want to call him again until I've "mastered" my routine. Then he can move me on to something more advanced.

My goal is not to become a gymbot, but to improve my overall health, stamina, and perhaps, hopefully, lose a little weight.

So far, I've gained three pounds.

Free time at home is spent with a hot pad on my shoulder and an ice pack on my tingling elbow.

Yes, I've overdone it. Eric said to work out three or four times a week. So I figured seven would be better. I think I injured myself trying to overachieve in an area where I've never achieved at all. I am now struggling with a concept we in the fitness world call "moderation."

While Eric is expensive, I am fortunate to have many willing consultants eager to advise me on my workout. Many. Like, almost everyone I know.

The problem is, their advice is not always consistent. Some say to take it easy, others say to power through the pain. Some advise working a different muscle group every day while others advise doing cardio only every other day.

My boss is ordering me to start consuming protein shakes in order to make my muscles stronger. She's even scheduled a mandatory lunch (she is the boss, after all) for us to go to her favorite nutrition store and purchase some of that appetizing powder mix. She has coupons.

A good friend says, however, that protein shakes have too many calories and I'll end up gaining weight.

The expert I most trust is a coworker who used to play football for CSU. He knows muscles and he knows pain. He says what I'm going through is perfectly normal for someone using certain muscles for the first time. He says not to overdo the workouts and limit Eric's routine to every other day. He promises the pain will gradually subside.

I seek and take advice from a football player. Who knew?

In my condition, typing this blog is agony. I'm sure it doesn't help that I'm flat on my back with a cold pack to the side, a hot pad underneath, and a laptop angled over my stomach.

Wait - I just felt something I've never felt before. A kind of lump in my arm. Cancer? No, I think it might be a muscle!

Friday, October 16, 2009

The Little Girl in the Well Syndrome

So what is it about this kid who was supposedly trapped on a large balloon that got away and flew up to 9,000 feet that so got the world's attention? Not only did it get the Local TV News Chopper Live treatment here in Colorado, but was broadcast instantly all over the world. Even the BBC Radio World Service, which doesn't usually cover dramatic sensationalizm of questionable news value, did a story on it.

We daily hear about lives lost in Afghanistan, crushing poverty in the world's slums, convenience store shootings, and weepy breast cancer stories - all tragic, often involving frightening death, but none of which capture our attention like a six year old who may be trapped in an escaped home made flying saucer.

It's that little girl who fell down the well syndrome. You know the story. A little girl is playing near an abandoned well and falls into it. The next 48 hours, the hole in the ground is surrounded by frantic family members and emergency equipment. All television news networks park their satellite trucks nearby. Voyeuristic townspeople watch from behind police tape, waiting to see if she'll survive.

The phenomenon is so powerful that it is captured in fiction. In Woody Allen's 1987 movie, Radio Days, a World War II era family tensely sits by the radio for hours to see if a little girl they don't know survives the fall down a far away well. Atrocities in Europe which affect even this family's relatives don't merit such attention.

The Simpsons spoofs these types of events in an episode where Bart drops a walkie-talkie down a well and pretends to be a little boy who fell in. In addition to the media circus, law enforcement, and general mayhem, hucksters sell "I was there when Timmy fell down the well" T-shirts. Truly funny satire as only The Simpsons can do it. When it's discovered that it was only Bart's prank, the disgusted townspeople quickly leave the scene. When Bart really falls down the well, no one pays any attention.

I suppose nothing unites us like a helpless child caught in a perilous situation. Everyone wants the outcome to be happy, regardless of our separate religious and political views. One thing a businessman in India and a housewife in Canada can have in common is the fervent hope that the child will survive.

And, just like on The Simpsons, our concern turns rapidly to cynicism and disgust. When little Falcon turned out not to be on the balloon, but hiding in his Fort Collins attic, all that good will from around the world evaporated into accusations of publicity stunts.

Meanwhile, how many people died in Afghanistan yesterday? I don't know either.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Queer Activism Evolving – National Coming Out Day


A toddler shaking hands with a drag queen changed my whole perspective on activism, though it barely merited any attention except my own.

By contrast, President Obama’s speech last night to the Human Rights Campaign, the nation’s largest gay rights lobbying organization, received lots of attention. CNN, NPR, and others are joining some gay activists in asking, what happened to those campaign promises?

Today a massive National Equality March for LGBTQI rights will take place in Washington. Openly gay Congressman Barney Frank is critical of the march, saying it’s a waste of energy.

I disagree with Frank about the value of these marches which not only garner needed media attention and public awareness; but spur networking opportunities and generate energy which fuels lobbying and other involvement.

I attended the marches on Washington in 1987 and 1993. Times change. In 1987 it was all about AIDS. So many of us were dying and the federal government, led by the oblivious Ronald Reagan, was doing nothing. At that point, I don’t believe the president had ever acknowledged that HIV existed. I’ll never forget venting my anger as I marched by the White House shouting, “Hey Hey! Ho Ho! Ronald Reagan has got to go …”

The march in 1993 was different. Colorado had just passed the hateful Amendment 2, denying rights to gays, lesbians, and bisexuals. The fear that it could happen everywhere was palpable. When I visited the Holocaust museum later that year, I saw how easily a law here, a law there, with a little indifference, could lead to freight trains carrying whole communities to death camps. One notable proponent of Amendment 2 had been heard to say, off the record, that gays should be shipped off to concentration camps. Amendment 2 was eventually overturned by the Supreme Court.

We seem to have shifted from fighting for primary rights to insisting on things that in 1987 I never dreamed of, such as the right to get married. Obama is pressured now to lift the federal ban on same sex marriage as well as the ban on gays and lesbians in the military. The shift in times is notable in local Pride marches as well.

A couple summers ago, I stood along East Colfax in the heat, watching thousands of Gay Men, Lesbians, Bisexuals, Transgendered people, and their friends and families march, dance, ride (on cars, floats, motorcycles, horseback), waving and smiling their way down to Civic Center for the annual Pride celebration.

Next to me under the blinding sun, was a family of four: young father and mother, preschool-age son, and a toddler daughter who jumped in and out of her stroller depending on her interest in the passing action. In years past, no one watched the parade. The only people interested in the parade were in it. That is no longer true. Now it’s an event to bring the children to watch.

The youngsters next to me giggled as waving drag queens stopped to say hello or shake their hands. I worried that anyone six feet tall with giant hair, dressed in heels and sequins might frighten the little ones, but I supposed they looked something like clowns or cartoons - not quite real. Some of the more playful marchers squirted water guns as they passed. The kids ran into the street and begged to be drenched. The parents seemed to enjoy it as well.

In my own prejudice, I wondered what that "traditional" heterosexual family was doing watching "our" parade. Did they understand what they were seeing? Did they really want the kids exposed to all those queers? My logical self knew these must not be the stereotypical suburbanites who fear everything that they might see on East Colfax.

Many parade participants stepped out of line to say hello and hand out candy or stickers. It dawned on me that many GLBTQI folk, denied ordinary proximity by biology, prejudice, or circumstance, crave the opportunity to be near young people, even if for just a moment like this. I thought of how often I have avoided friendliness to a child for fear of being accused of something improper just because I'm gay. How unfair this is to us, and to the children who could benefit from our positive, loving attention. And here I was, vicariously enjoying the parade through these children I did not know.

Gay and lesbian parents marched in the parade as well: those who have made the decision and taken steps to rear their own children - dads holding hands with dads as they pushed a stroller, moms arm in arm with moms while supervising a tricycle. Little ones marched and waved and held balloons, excited to be the center of attention and walking in the middle of a big street.

Suddenly the two children I'd been watching leapt from the curb and ran shouting into the middle of Colfax. I glanced at their mom and dad to see if they realized what was happening. They were all smiles as their offspring greeted and hugged some marching children, jumping up and down, bringing that whole group of families temporarily to a stop. The youngsters obviously knew each other, perhaps as neighbors or from a play group. I understood why that family of four was at this parade. They were there to see their friends, who just happened to live in households headed by same-sex parents.

It was one of the most touching things I've ever seen. It reminded me that changing hearts and minds isn't done on television. It doesn't depend only on what the president says or what laws are passed. It isn't done just by the ranting of pundits like Dan Savage or the endorsement of religious leaders. It's done through children becoming friends and bringing their parents along. It's done one person, one family, one coworker, and one interaction at a time.

National Coming Out Day is October 11. It’s a day to remember that change happens between individuals. When our lives are real and visible to those we live and work with, including our joys and sorrows, the love we have for our children, and our day to day struggles of working and living, we are seen as fellow human beings, not just some group of strangers marching in far away Washington.

Saturday, October 3, 2009

Working Out an Unlikely Pastime

I recently asked my sister what she would least expect me to do.

"Join a gym," she said.

Well, guess what. That's exactly what I've done.

I've never been what you would call the athletic type. I can't throw anything except a tantrum, and I can't catch anything but a virus.

P.E. class was always miserable. I was picked last for every team. "Coach" would order us to climb the rope or do a pull-up without the least bit of instruction. I could never do it. As soon as I could, I got out of P.E. by joining the marching band.

No wonder I've never been interested in any type of organized physical activity (except square dancing - but I quit that when it got too competitive).

So what happened? Well, I'm staring down the barrel of my 47th birthday in a couple of months. I've reached my maximum acceptable (to me) weight of 200 pounds. And a coworker 15 years my junior made me climb four flights of stairs to the office with him one day instead of riding the elevator. I panted and wheezed for a half hour afterwards. Preparing to dial 9-1-1, he asked if I was ok. Breathing too hard to answer, I smiled and waved as if I were having a good laugh.

Clearly it's time to do something about my body.

So I started looking around. The first place I went to was a cheap and bare bones gym. The cheap I liked, but the strip-mall store front was too public for me. I couldn't work out among young muscle-heads when people could stand on the sidewalk outside and watch. Plus, there wasn't a shower. I was going to need a shower.

One of the advantages of middle age (if you're childless and employed like I am) is that you can afford to spend a little. I went from the strip mall directly to one of the most expensive gyms in town. Actually, it's not a gym, it's an "athletic club" where in addition to working out, you can swim in one of three pools, get a manicure, have a massage, take a steam, and grab a smoothie on the way out. That this club has "Cherry Creek" in its name is almost too much (if you don't know Denver, Cherry Creek is the premiere neighborhood for shopping, fashion, spas, restaurants, art galleries, and boutiques - in other words, it's wealthy and pretentious). This club is the kind of place where guys read the Wall Street Journal while using the treadmill. What kind of hybrid driving, Starbucks drinking, NPR listening, Landmark Theater going, overly educated white urban professional would I be if I spent my hard earned money on this expensive, luxurious, state-of-the-art athletic club? Answer: the kind who would get up at 5:00 a.m., drive with radio tuned to NPR, carry his work clothes in a bag as he crosses a dark parking lot into a large brick building with no windows, and whip his flabby body into shape.

I've been there almost every day for two weeks now. I've spent most of my time swimming, but finally met with a physical trainer (a chipper young lad named Eric) to start a workout routine. Eric is teaching me how to do pull-ups and other sweat-producing stuff.

In addition to techniques, Eric shares his passion and philosophy about working out. I am learning that it is better to work your whole body, not just your biceps or your chest in isolation. It's fun. I'm enjoying myself. And in the winter, when it's really cold, there will be a sauna I can use to warm up.

Freshly showered and shaved, sweaty workout clothes in the bag, I drive my hybrid away from the club. There's a very convenient Starbucks on the way to the office.

Monday, September 28, 2009

This is Not a Headache


Four days in a row. It started Friday. Saturday I drove some family members into the mountains. I ended up making them drive my car while I closed my eyes in the back seat. I rarely sit in the back seat of my own car.

Constant, but not predictable. It strikes without warning. It's a migraine.

This is not a headache. It's something else entirely. Perhaps if I try to describe it in writing, I'll feel like I have more of a handle on it.

Sometimes it starts with a throbbing at the top of my skull. Sometimes it begins as as nausea and hunger at the same time. I usually ignore it at this point. You think I'd learn.

It spreads to the base of my skull and grows into a blinding pain behind my eyes. Literally blinding. I get to a point where I can't see. Put your hand in front of your eyes and try to see through the fingers and you'll get an idea.

Then there's the lightning. Painful flashes of light which come out of nowhere and really don't exist. Accompanied by pain. Agony. Add florescent lights in the office or noisy shrieking children outside and I'd rather have someone shoot a staple gun into my temples.

I always think of Mary Todd Lincoln. She'd take to her bed and require total silence and darkness for days at a time. Poor Abe didn't know what to do with her. Everyone thought she was just being difficult and dramatic. Well, I guess she was, but she deserved more sympathy than she got.

I'm not sure what exactly triggers these events. I've had them most of my life. Most of my family members get them. I understand there is a hereditary characteristic to all this. Perhaps it tends to happen with extremely sensitive and creative people (ahem).

Generally Tylenol and Diet Coke are good treatments. Most of the migraine stuff you by at the drug store are just a mixture of analgesic and caffiene. If I can get to sleep, I usually wake up feeling ok. But the ghost of the pain is still there, kind of like sore muscles after heavy lifting. I'm always afraid it will come back. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn't.

My favorite treatment is to put ice packs all around my head. I think the cold constricts the bloodflow and slows the pounding.

Unfortunately, when it strikes at the office, I'm not equipped to wrap my head in ice and I certainly wouldn't be up to the inquiries it would draw. So I try to act normal. People think I'm grouchy. Well, sometimes I am, but that's another subject.

But really, no need to worry. As far as I know, people don't die from migraines. I'm just being difficult and dramatic.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

I'm Very Disappointed in President Carter



According to secret service agents interviewed by Ronald Kessler in his book, In the President's Secret Service, Jimmy Carter never had a friendly word for the men and women guarding his life. That famous smile disappeared as soon as the cameras were off. There’s more, but I feel personally betrayed and it’s too painful to go into.

Jimmy Carter has been my favorite ex-president. Unlike those who golf, sky-dive, and hang out at the ranch, Carter has spent his retirement traveling the world advocating peace. He stands up for Palestinians when no one else will. He monitors elections to make sure they are free and fair. A couple weeks ago, he risked his popularity and good graces with the Obama administration by pointing out that we still live in an extremely racist society.

So how do I handle the shattering news that someone I admire treats people like crap?

We must remember that just because it's in a hardcover book doesn't mean it's completely true. This is just Kessler's interpretation based on interviews with current and former secret service agents who probably have biases. Carter was probably not all that popular with law-enforcement types to begin with.

If even partially true, some observations in this book would be difficult to dismiss as simply biased. Al Gore told his son in the presence of several insulted agents that if the boy didn't keep his grades up he'd "end up like one of these guys (the agents)."

It's not hard to imagine secret service agents describing Hillary Clinton as demanding and unreasonable. I know a guy in the military, usually pretty liberal, who can barely say her name, he hates her so much.

You know what they say: when a man is demanding he's a great leader; when a woman is, she's a bitch.

That Nancy Reagan was a bitch seems to be agreed upon by everyone, including secret service agents.

More from this book:
  • Bill Clinton was always late - he couldn't follow a schedule to save his life.
  • Presidents Kennedy and Johnson kept stables of women on hand. When Jackie or Lady Bird appeared to be returning home, the secret service had to help usher the floosies out of there.
  • Nixon was crazy.

Except for tricky Dick, Republicans generally get good marks from the secret service.

  • Ronnie Reagan was always friendly.
  • George H.W. Bush ordered everyone at the White House to defer to the secret service because he figured they knew how to do their jobs. His wife, Barbara, offered to do laundry for agents at Kennebunkport - she was doing a load anyway.
  • George W. was reportedly smarter in person than he appeared on television (I don’t believe it). Laura Bush was just as pleasant and gracious as could be (that I believe).

Not Republican, but liked by the secret service, Barack and Michelle Obama are reportedly considerate and respectful of the men and women who take care of them. The worst that can be said of the current commander-in-chief is that he smokes more than he admits.

Oh yeah, the book also talks about guns, logistics, homeland security budgets, and other stuff. But the gossip is way more interesting.

Now I'm on to Kathy Griffin's new book. I’m less likely to be disturbed when I learn something disgusting about Paris Hilton.

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Fast Food and Sacred Rituals - a Follow-up to Ashes

After reading my last entry, Ashes - Excerpt from Fierce Love, a few friends asked whether Rickie's ashes were indeed scattered by the rock above the alpine lake.

Within days of the funeral, Mom's remains were returned in a black cardboard box. Her explicit instructions were that we not waste money on a beautiful urn which would sit on the mantel. Just put her in a plastic bag, she said.

So we ended up with a cardboard box.

It didn't sit on the mantel. My dad didn't want to see it so he told my sister to just put it somewhere. She chose a spot in a glass cabinet among some of my mother’s cherished knick knacks. Two years later, Dad phoned my sister and asked where it was. He was ready.

Unfortunately, Dad's health had declined to a point where he could no longer hike to the predetermined spot at the alpine lake. He told us to go ahead and do it without him. After some discussion, we decided that Mom wouldn't mind if we didn't carry out her wishes exactly. More meaningful to Dad, and much more accessible for this and future visits, was a larger lake at a lower altitude surrounded by a flat path. Mom had often hiked there. It reminded him of her, so it became our choice for the scattering.

Referring to towering Rocky Mountain peaks, my dad remarked that there couldn't be a more spectacular tombstone.

At the shore, a friendly female duck looking on, it became evident that he couldn't hold his cane, balance the box, and maneuver the ashes. We needed something smaller with which to move the contents from the box to the ground. Mom would have been prepared for this, probably producing an old measuring cup from her fanny pack.

Thinking quickly, I ran back to my car, going out of my way not to trip over the duck who was inching closer, perhaps thinking that our box contained breadcrumbs or something. I retrieved an Arby's cup from which I had just slogged down a diet coke. We could pour ash into the cup and Dad could spill it around as he pleased. As we poured the first batch into the fast food cup, he said sadly, "She hated Arbys."

I often wonder what happens after death. I believe in eternal life, but I don't know what it looks like or whether our deceased loved ones can see us. But I'm sure of one thing: the moment we used a paper cup from Arbys to carry out this solemn ritual, no one was laughing harder than my mother.

With that duck following us the whole time, we circled the lake, stopping every few yards so one of us could pour some ash into the cup which Dad would then pour on the shore, by a boulder, or at the base of a tree.

Next weekend, we'll drive Dad up to the lake and walk around it. I think he's comforted knowing that someday his ashes will join hers in that majestic setting.

We may want to stop at Wendy's on the way.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Ashes - Excerpt from Fierce Love


On September 21, 2005, my mother died after a long and debilitating illness. The following is an excerpt from the short story I wrote in her memory.

(The morning of her death, I went into) my mother's office. I turned on the light and saw it pretty much as she had left it, save for a few photo albums her granddaughter Hannah had leafed through. In the front of the file cabinet, exactly as Mom had described, was a folder labeled, "To be used at my memorial service, as you think appropriate." It was a hand-written essay, about two pages long, dated September 1981, about a hike my parents had taken in the Colorado mountains to see the changing of the aspen leaves. As they moved through a forest, they discussed how the old trees fell away and decayed, providing room and nourishment for the young. It was clear that Mom had viewed death as a natural and necessary part of life.

In later years, I often accompanied my parents to the mountains for the annual viewing of the colors. At a particularly scenic alpine lake right below timberline (during a year when my own health was uncertain), I casually expressed my desire to be cremated and scattered at that spot and needed them to know, just in case. Mom burst into tears, responding more dramatically than I had wished, and promised that they would do as I asked. Further, she cried that she wanted her ashes in the same spot so that I wouldn't be alone on top of those chilly Rocky Mountains. I cringed, first wishing she'd stop, and then wondering why I couldn't have my own special spot. She didn't stop. She poked my dad's arm and said, "Bob, don't you want to be scattered here too? Don't you?" He replied that because we would all be dead, it didn't much matter, but ok, fine, he'd consent to anything in order to bring this conversation to a close.

A year before Mom, one of my cats died. In my grief, I decided to take my little companion's ashes to that same alpine lake. I wanted to symbolize that we would be together after death. I asked Mom and Dad if they wanted to come. (My sister) Carol came along too. Although we took the kitty's death seriously, we also silently knew it was a rehearsal for the future. I hiked to a rock above the lake, off the beaten trail where so many others walked. Carol and Dad followed, leaving Mom by the car because the climb would probably be too much. As I opened the canister to release the ashes, Mom cobbled up from behind, navigating the steep incline and rough rooted trail with her cane. Before I could scatter the ashes, she asked to see them. She had never seen cremains before and was curious. We all looked, noting the coarse dust and white fragments of bone which made it different from the fine fireplace ashes we were used to. I then raised the container and let the contents go, most landing with the rain that began to fall, mixing it with the ground, while some blew away in the breeze. I read a poem and we went back to the car, but not before Mom pulled a camera out of her jacket and took several pictures of the rock, the lake, and the view.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

And the Wind Blows the Name: Chicago

Since recently asked if I would ever consider relocating to Chicago, I've racked my brain for data about "The Windy City." I'm too lazy to actually do research, but here are some facts I know from PBS documentaries, having been there a few times, and popular trivia I've either absorbed or made up:
  • Even though it's the third largest American City, Chicago is known as the Second City. I know this because of Second City Comedy I've seen on TV.
  • Chicago is the setting of the TBS sit-com, My Boys - also that of the original Bob Newhart Show.
  • I think there's a baseball team there.
  • While it is windy in Chicago, it is known as the Windy City not because of wind, but its penchant for long-winded politicians.
  • It's cold. So cold.
  • Chicago rated in a recent study as the most stressful city in the U.S. largely because of traffic, unemployment, and air quality - I might add weather - so cold.
  • Oprah lives there.
  • Of all the states, Illinois demographics compare most closely to the U.S. as a whole in terms of the balance between urban and rural, Democrat and Republican, etc. Ok, that's not about Chicago, but it's still interesting, I think.
  • Something about a Loop.
  • Chicago burned down back in the 1870s when everything was made of wood, leading to a revival featuring a tradition of creative and distinctive architecture which endures today.
  • Elevated trains - like subways, but above the ground, I guess.
  • When I lived in Omaha, I always had to fly through Chicago and spent many snowed in nights near O'Hare Airport.
  • Not just cold. Frickin' cold.
  • The Sears Tower is now something else but I can't remember what.
  • Lake Michigan.
  • The Michigan Mile - retail Heaven if you are into that sort of thing. Years ago I went into a computer store on Michigan Avenue and saw a movie being played on a laptop computer. "What will they think of next?" I said as I put on headphones and entered a private world which I could take with me anywhere, if I were a millionaire and could afford such luxury. Next thing you'll know, they'll come up with a way to put all of your records on one little device which you can carry around. Yeah, right.
  • Wacker Drive is a street the name of which always makes me laugh. Perhaps it's the images of old Chicago mobsters whacking people, or maybe it's something else.
  • Hub for Amtrak and United Airlines.
  • The smaller, "outlying" airport, Midway, is really just as much of a nightmare as O'Hare.
  • Chicago style pizza style is deep dish, thick, and crusty - mmmm - not thin and flimsy, like the unsatisfying pizza of another city to the east.
  • It is cold there. Frickin' cold.

Monday, September 7, 2009

The Daily Show IS Real News

This month marks a special anniversary. One year ago Labor Day, I discovered the Daily Show. While everyone else has been watching it for years, I had always sniffed into my New York Times that Comedy Central was a poor substitute for substantial journalism. I tut-tutted at the frightening statistic that people in their 20s get most of their news from Jon Stewart's satirical talk show. It's a sad commentary on our shallow society, I thought as I watched two extremists yell at each other on CNN, when more young people follow an election as presented by a comedian than even know who Brian Williams is.

The world is much too serious, I thought as I listened to another recipe on National Public Radio, to get your news from Comedy Central.

So last year, Labor Day Weekend at my sister's house, I was channel surfing on the satellite system. I've always been fascinated by satellite TV in rural Wyoming because you can get local news from the east coast and the west coast, but nothing from even the home time zone. If you need a local weather report, you are out of luck. Of course at my sister's you can just look out at the mountains to see what's coming, but I digress ...

So I was checking to see what was going on in either Burbank or Brooklyn when I came upon Comedy Central and a rerun of the Daily Show. I was hooked. Here's what I've discovered since:

  • This program is very funny.
  • It has an unabashedly liberal bias (which I consider a good thing).
  • The guests are legitimate politicians, authors, journalists, and other newsmakers.
  • The books being promoted are often so interesting that I want to read them.
  • Many of the stories are not only reported, but analyzed, fact checked, and refuted – more effectively than much "legitimate" TV news.
  • The Daily Show is quoted regularly in other outlets.
  • Jon Stewart is not only funny, but a sharp and incisive interviewer who should never be underestimated by guests. Take a look at this recent clip from YouTube: Jon Stewart Destroys Bill Kristol on Health Care

Labor Day 2009: I have just one complaint. Every time there's a national holiday, the show goes into reruns. I guess Jon and crew need a break. This time, they are taking three weeks off. How am I supposed to know what's going on that whole time? Oh sure – I can look at Brian Williams or, God forbid, a newspaper or CNN. No point in watching local news – it's pretty much nothing but weather. With Saturday Night Live also on summer hiatus, I've gone into serious comedy (slash) news withdrawal.

For the record, I also watch the Daily Show's spinoff, The Colbert Report. It's entertaining too, but a little on the silly side. For serious news, it's not quite up to my standards.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Dear Dan Savage: Health Care Takes Priority

See Dan Savage on CNN (YouTube).

Dear Dan Savage:

You are one of our most articulate spokespeople. I love to watch you stand up to wild-eyed right-wingers and your writing is some of the best out there. But I'd like to respond to what you are saying these days about President Obama.

I want to remind you how much our country has changed from a year ago. This African American president is young and smart. Intelligent utterances now come from the Oval Office. We can hold our heads a little higher in the global community.

Mr. Obama is unflappable. He reasons with opponents, advocating for mutual respect and civility. When so many, from town meetings to talk shows, believe that "whoever yells the loudest wins," I have yet to see this president lose his cool.

His challenges are undeniable. He inherited two untenable wars, a terrible economic crisis, and a seriously divided and increasingly polarized political landscape. While giving his all to handle these, he also manages to pursue issues unique to his tenure.

While campaigning, he spoke out more than any presidential candidate in history about the need for LGBTQI* equality. While falling short of endorsing gay marriage, he let it be known that DOMA (the Defense of Marriage Act) was bad policy. He promised to repeal Don't Ask Don't Tell, which effectively bans gays and lesbians from the military. As significant as anything, his speeches included consistent inclusion of the word "gay." To a minority group largely conditioned to hide in silence, hearing a prominent politician openly acknowledge our existence was exciting. It sent shivers up my spine.

But some of the citizens are getting restless. Gay activists like you are increasingly impatient with Obama. Seven months into office, the president seems to have edited us out of his speeches. DOMA and Don't Ask Don't Tell are, at best, on the back burner. You and others call on us to hold his feet to the fire and keep his promises.

I agree that Obama and all the Democrats in congress should be held accountable. They need to be reminded of the money we raised and the large number of votes we optimistically cast to get them elected. They cannot be allowed to take our support for granted while continuously pushing us to the side so "more important" issues can be dealt with first. It happened in the Clinton administration and it could be happening again. They need to hear you calling for the progress we were promised or they risk losing us.

At the same time, I must distance myself from your rhetoric. While LGBTQI issues are important to me and I'll be happy to defend our rights to anyone, anytime, I am not just a gay man with a single interest in what our country does.

As a voter living with multiple chronic medical conditions, I believe that health care reform takes priority, for the moment, over gay rights. Poverty and bankruptcy are only one hospital stay away for a huge number of Americans. For now, I want Mr. Obama to focus on that.

Dan, I'm sorry, but climate change resulting in melting ice caps and world-wide coastal flooding are also more urgent than gay rights. The potential social and environmental instability resulting from global warming render all other issues moot. I'd like the president to spend his capital on clean energy, alternative fuels, and high speed rail which are not only good for the environment, but for the economy as well.

Dan, I'm always happy to see you on TV or read you in the Advocate. Keep it up. But you don't speak for me. I am a loyal supporter of President Obama. If he can get health care reform accomplished now, I'll wait off to the side a while longer.


*Lesbian Gay Bisexual Transgender Queer Intersex (this acronym is a topic for another time)

Thursday, August 27, 2009

A Visit to the Breast Center

Like Christmas, the hoopla for Breast Cancer Awareness Month (which actually isn't until October) comes earlier each year. As we gear up for another season of pink t-shirts, teary-eyed testimonials on the news, endless "Race for the Cure" promotionals, and at least one Denver office building that puts a giant pink ribbon on its side, I would like to add some awareness of my own.

Though the rate is only 1 in 1000 (American Cancer Society ), men fall victim to breast cancer too. Survival is thought to be lower for us because of ignorance about the warning signs. Men also have less tissue in their breasts than women, usually, so once cancer spreads, it doesn't have far to go before reaching other parts of the body.

Naturally I was concerned when I noticed something growing in the right side of my chest. I asked my doctor to take a look during my bi-annual physical and he sent me to the Rose Hospital Breast Center for tests.

It just happened to be Breast Cancer Awareness Month (2007). The whole city was festooned in pink ribbons. Television and radio trumpeted the annual fundraising "Race" and reminded us constantly that this could affect our wives, sisters, mothers, and daughters. It felt like the there was yet another major holiday crowding the fall schedule.

I'm not hung up on my masculinity. But it was a challenge to walk into the Breast Center. Most people in the waiting room sat in pairs, two women or a woman and a man (presumably a husband). Every single one of them looked scared to death. As I reached for a magazine and sat down alone, I could feel their eyes upon me. "What is that guy doing? Where is his wife?"

Even I, a cynical consumer of medical services, was impressed by the compassion and reassurance of the place. The receptionist greeted regulars by name. The waiting area was comfortable and roomy enough to allow for some privacy as patients processed the implications of their predicament. A television unobtrusively played in one corner, something about a world series, distracting the husbands and minimizing the need to talk.

After a few long minutes, I was called to the more clinical back rooms. Shown into a cubicle, I was asked to take off my shirt and put on a gown. I waited several more minutes behind the ubiquitous hospital cloth partition before the technician came to get me.

All business, she led me to the big machine. Having never seen one, I nevertheless knew it was the device where women have their breasts squished in search of unusual growths. Seriously, I thought, you mean I'm supposed to put myself between those two flat, metal plates?

As I stepped up close and leaned in to have the delicate tissue of my chest region uncomfortably pressed into the cold mammogram apparatus, I made a lame comment about the challenge of having to squish a man between the metal surfaces.

"Oh," she remarked, "we get a lot of women in here who are smaller than you."

I didn't say a word for the rest of the exam.

Long story short (too late I know), I did have a growth. It required a couple of return visits and some painful biopsies which consisted of long needles being plunged deep into my apparently fleshy man-breast.

Everything finally turned out negative, much to my enormous relief. But every Breast Cancer Awareness Month, which started in mid-August this year, I feel just a little more aware than the average guy.

Which reminds me, I'd better start getting ready for HIV/AIDS Awareness Month. December will be here before you know it.

Saturday, August 22, 2009

The Ups and Downs of Hair

My father recently remarked about how pleased he was with length of my hair. I remember when the same length provoked a very different reaction.

Like most boys in the 1970s, I argued endlessly with my parents about hair length. Everyone who was cool had hair down to their collars and over their ears. Dad never seemed to understand that. He just didn't want his kid to look like a hippie. Short hair cuts were mandatory. They were also $2.50.

In the 1980s, short hair became cool again. Through college and graduate school I conformed to the popular clean-cut, conservative look with locks just touching the tops of my ears.

In 1986 after frolicking in the waves of Fire Island, New York, I became vividly aware, through a severe cranial sunburn, that I was losing hair on the back of my head. The awareness intensified when the middle school girls I worked with started to sneak up from behind and trace my bald spot with their fingers.

In the mid 90s, I de-emphasized my baldness by shaving my head really short, almost to nothing. My father was appalled. He begged me to grow it longer. I looked like a skinhead.

But I loved driving with the windows down and not worrying about messing it up. I didn't comb or brush for several years.

And now, this year, I'm letting it grow out. It's down to my collar and over my ears. It curls slightly. I had to find my comb and buy a brush. I'm using "product" to keep it under control. There are lots of complements. My dad loves it.

And I'm paying $20.00 for a haircut at one of those chains - "product" sold separately.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

That Bicycle Isn't Going to Ride Itself

In my living room, a cushy sofa folds out into a bed for company. A large pillow sits atop the wooden entertainment center, a throne for kitten Charles. Knick-knacks are few. Remotes on the coffee table are plentiful. And beneath a colorful painting of Ghost Ranch, New Mexico, a mountain bike leans against the wall.




The 10-speed Kona Lanai symbolizes the active Colorado lifestyle. One might assume I spend weekends on high-country trails, pedaling up steep inclines without regard to the mud on my stylish form fitting polyester outfit.

Perhaps after the ride, I climb a fourteener (a mountain over 14,000 feet) before settling down to a healthy dinner of brown rice, tofu, and fresh vegetables for which I jogged over to the farmer's market early that morning.

It's not for nothing that Colorado boasts the slimmest of state populations. People here are acutely active. I have an elderly neighbor that hikes up mountains several times weekly and then walks her dog to the park – not the park across the street, but the bigger one several neighborhoods away.

In contrast, my helmet hangs from the handlebars enveloped in dust. The tires sag slightly. I'm not sure I even have the key to the lock.

I parked the bike after an old lady roared out of the Baptist church parking lot and nearly killed me as I bounced over the curb to avoid a face to face encounter with the grill of her Buick. She never did see me, nor did she hear my very un-Baptist verbalizing as I picked myself up and brushed the rocks off.

I started walking instead – good exercise, but not "EXTREME" in the Colorado tradition. I trudge through the neighborhood, appreciating flowerbeds and trees and trying to peak inside houses while crickets and birds cheer me on; less hurried, more to see.

Perhaps I'll sell the bike. It isn't going ride itself, and I really have no interest.

A couple of my friends are preparing for a triathlon. They both look terrific and very, well, EXTREME. Many Saturdays after they complete their jogging, biking, and swimming, I peal myself off the sofa and join them for a serious, carbo-loading breakfast. It's my way of showing support for their regimen.

Does anyone want a used mountain bike?