17 October 2007

Save the Boobies...


I feel kind of weird writing about breasts.

Perhaps its because I don't have them, exactly.

In my parents house, they weren't a topic of conversation.

I don't think there was actually a taboo ... we didn't have many of those.

As a subject, breasts just never came up, except in the occasional conversation about the care and feeding of infants.

They weren't objects, or factors. My mom had them, her friends had them, but the conversation never centered around them.

I can't remember them ever actually being mentioned, and the comment being followed up.

I remember my first Playboy magazine, and Penthouse, and Oui. It wasn't lost on me that my fellow fellows were passionate about them. How they looked, how they felt; later, if they were flesh or silicone.

Over time, breasts have certainly earned their place in the conscious part of my life. I've been privileged to have lots of them enter my world, and add a bit of comfort.

As different women have entered and left my life, I've appreciated breasts here and there, but in context, I don't think I have ever really given them their due.

I've always intrinsically understood that from an economic standpoint, the breasts of America are a market unto themselves.

Put a naked set in a movie--even a crappy one, and the men of the world will put a million dollars in your bank account.

Build a better bra, and the women of the world will bring a billion dollars to your doorstep.

Design a better implant, and in THIS generation ... the xx's AND the xy's will literally shower you with cold, hard cash.

Breast is this awesome word that silently conjures up a thousand happy memories.

There aren't many words in the English language that can create a response without a sentence around them.

Breast can.

As can cancer.

I don't understand cancer, don't know what it is, or where it comes from, or why it sometimes appears without warning, leaving almost instantaneous death in its wake.

Other times it seems to appear on a whisper, and hangs on for years ripping a human's insides apart thread by thread until there is nothing left but an essence of life, with no smiles or happiness to grab onto for stability.

I can't ... "see" it, like I can see so many other things. I have no concept of what it smells like, or sounds like, or how it feels, at least not outside the human body without a context or a platform.

Put those two powerful words TOGETHER on a piece of paper, or a blank part of a computer screen, and something almost tangibly ... evil(?) seems to stare back at you.

Breast cancer.

Even now, as I type it, it looks oxymoronic, like angry clown or stupid President.

And I guess its the ribbon thing that ties them together.

I'm not a ribbon guy.

I don't think there are enough colors to contain our crises, and I'd hate to find myself in the Obamaesque position of having to explain "why" I've gone a day or year without a particular one.

I remember yellow. It meant bring my husband home from Iraq (the first time).

Red's huge. That's for the aquired immuno-deficiency syndrome.

I've seen green for the earth, and white for ... pet rescue, I think. The rainbow one intrigued me, and some guy downtown tried to get me to buy a black one for the Jena six.

I donated, but didn't take the piece of cloth.

The first time I saw a pink one, I think it ... well, startled me a little bit. I honestly thought it was a lesbian thing, maybe? I like lesbians, and while I haven't been offered a roster spot on their team, there wasn't anything threatening about the little pink ribbons that started popping up.

Then we hit the part of history (thankfully) where the breast cancer survivors found their megaphone, and started to speak up.

And I discovered that some of the women I admired most for their ... spunk, earned it through the trials of fighting the oxymoron.

Everyone has a cross to bear. Some people achieve the most commendable parts of their character through the specific trial they've spent a lifetime fighting.

But you know what?

I'd love to see women lose this particular avenue to strength. Motherhood, and wifedom, and keeping the world connected and functional is a big enough superhighway to confidence.

From the male point of view, rising breast cancer rates mean that eventually, more and more of us are going to have to stand next to a woman that we know, love, and can't imagine living without, and squeeze her hand while we beat back fear tears and wait and hope that the source of most of OUR strength can summon her internal fortitude to rally her own.

I'd like to see that end.

I'm not a "joiner" of things, anymore. I don't speak on behalf of any organization, or movement, or particular approach to a cause. I just speak as a guy, who loves breasts.

And tits and boobies and melons and tatas and jugs and any other nickname we've given the literal source of nutrition, comfort, and aesthetic joy we, as men, take for granted until the biopsy comes back positive.

Some will raise money; others will spend thankless hours in a lab, separating evil cells and trying potion after potion to find the one that makes them scream out in pain before curling up and dying.

A few will fight the good fight, and trailblaze blueprints of inspiration behind to make the fight easier for the next generation of fighters.

Wouldn't it be awesome if we could save the boobies, so the next generation never had to learn that fight?

If you have boobies, please check them for lumps, and get your mammograms, and do everything the little pamplet tells you to do.

If you've already lost one or both to this horrible entity--guess what? You're even more beautiful and necessary than you were on your most perfect bikini day. Smile for me. You made it!

And if you're just a guy like me, still in awe of a set that makes you look twice--get in here and help do something.

I'm just a writer. I type words on a screen, and make donations to this cause because I've finally matured enough to scream to the world...

SAVE THE BOOBIES!!!!!!

Peace,

--Stew.

10 October 2007

Swim Lessons


Swim Lessons:

When people ask me what I do, I tell them I’m a journalist.

It’s technically true, what I was trained to do, and the job I was hired for in my present career.

The truth is, at some point my bosses realized that they needed “an idea guy,” more than they needed an anchor/reporter on staff, and apparently my journalistic training … (namely the courage/stupidity to say pretty much what’s on my mind, tactfully enough to not be thrown out of the room, no matter who’s sitting at the head of the table) makes me just the man for that job.

The truth is, just about ALL of the people I have the privilege of working with could put “brilliantly flexible” at the head of their job qualifications.

But in spite of changing daily job requirements, if you ask most of us what we do, our answer will reflect whatever we were initially hired for.

Except Alex.

That’s his real name, and if you ask him what he does, or who he is … he never wavers.

“I make movies.”

I'd probably known him for a couple of years before I found out that in addition to the work I'd seen from him, he was editing a movie in his basement for which he was planning a public release.

I don’t concede that anyone in the universe writes a better news script than I do. After watching the trailer for Alex’s most recent documentary, I hope he doesn’t concede that anyone is a better movie-maker.

He asked me to blog about it, now that it’s hit Youtube.

I’m honored to do so.

I don’t know how to ask you to see this film yet, because I’m not sure the release details have been finalized.

But if you ever have the opportunity to see Swim Lessons, I ask you to take advantage of that opportunity. Alex has told me about the inspiration behind it. It’s a beautiful story, and I know his work enough to know that he's undoubtedly done a magnificent job of telling it.

I’m a big recommender of things. If you tried them all, you’d probably love about half of them. I can have weird tastes, sometimes.

YOU can see the trailer by clicking on the title of this blog. Please do.

I get to see the final draft of the movie next week ... I'll keep you posted.

Peace,

--Stew.

Photo:
http://www.wisdomoftheelders.org/prog205/images/tis_missouri_river_flows_past_yankton_riverside_park_south_dakota_nps_1.jpg

The Long Road Home


I haven't blogged much, of late. Too many other more important things are going on.

I miss it.

But a recent experience has seared itself on both parts of my mind; the conscious, obvious part where a memory sticks like a scab, and the deeper subconscious where the brain analyzes events to find metaphors and meaning.

I drove from my apartment in Northern Virginia to my home in Omaha, Nebraska and back several weeks ago.

In many ways, it was probably the most important drive of my life.

Most of you know that I've had some medical issues that in retrospect were life-threatening, even though they seemed more annoying and frightening in real time. I'm doing much better, and while I'm still not 100% yet, I feel capable and comfortable in my normal patterns.

DannyB, my father ... who I've blogged about before, flew out to accompany me on the drive home. At some point along the 1200 miles, we realized it’s the first time we've ever taken a road trip together since I was old enough to drive.

We expected to take it over the course of three days. We were prepared for hotel stays and overnights with old family friends I haven't seen for ages. I was worried that I'd have a nicotine fit at some point that would agitate my lungs, and freak Pop out.

(I still haven't made it a practice to rub my smoking in his face, he didn't "raise me that way.")

I think he was worried that I'd have some sort of relapse along the way, and it'd end up being all dramatic and weird.

Neither of our fears played any role on the trip. It was simply ... fantastic.

After a month of surgical recovery with crutches and a cast, two weeks writhing in pain, and a week in the hospital, hitting the road felt wonderful. I've blogged before about how gorgeous I think this America place is. It’s even prettier with good company and an empty schedule.

I insisted on a southern route that took us through Virginia, West Virginia, Kentucky, Southern Indiana, Southern Illinois, and into St. Louis. We left a bit after noon, and the conversation never stopped.

We talked about our lives, how they’re going, his business, my job, Mercer, the Iraq War, God, my agnosticism, his religious convictions, our family, and dying.

I realized for the first time that it’s not just the people from home that I still think of as children, even though most of them now have children of their own who are getting older.

My Pop is getting older too. He’s aware of it, and for the first time, so am I.

I’ve been too distant for too long.

He’s much better company than I remember.

I had a couple of nicotine fits. We stopped at rest stops, I smoked, we continued. We laughed and ate, and realized that we’re not terribly fond of the little towns in West Virginia.

The hours flew by, and our turns behind the wheel didn’t seem to tire us out at all. We stayed awake talking even when we weren’t driving, and before I knew it … we’d driven all night, and were approaching St. Louis.

The Gateway City is one of a number of places that are “home” to us. From StL to Kansas City is about three hours. Omaha is only a couple of hours from K.C., so getting to St. Louis, is sort of like being just around the corner.

At some point, we decided to keep driving.

It wasn’t like one of the marathon trips I remember from my childhood. The one that always comes to mind is the time I had to “hold it” all the way through Ohio, making it STILL the longest state in the Union to me, even 30+ years later.

This was … comfortable, and relaxed. No rush, no hurry, no pressure. Just a nice drive with my old man.

The sun came up when we were 50 miles east of Kansas City.

We crossed the Nebraska state line just before 10 AM – 21 hours after leaving the D.C. area.

This entry is getting long, so I’ll save the visit and the return trip home for my next entry. And probably later still, the whole metaphor the trip has become for me.

For now, I’m still digging America the beautiful, and looking for new places to drive.

I’ve lost touch with many of you.

I genuinely hope that things in your universe are better than fine. I hope you’re finding peace, and surrounded by love, and feeling vibrant every morning when the sun starts shining into your window.

I hope you’re laughing, and getting along with the people you have to see every day.

I hope you’re enjoying the road home.

Peace,

--Stew.



Photo:
http://www.vanderhawk.net/Images_main/longroad.jpg

04 August 2007

DISABLED




So this stupid Achilles rupture has allowed me a different perspective on the world, for a few weeks. And, as you might expect … I’ve taken as much advantage of it as I could. The point of view is that of a mildly disabled (as in needs crutches to get around) person. In no way do I think I can fully appreciate what its like to be like this ALL the time, or to have my world-view BE from this angle, but some of what I’ve observed and learned has been instructive to me.

1. The world is gigantic! Not in some geopolitical, or philosophical way. I mean practically. The distance from the front door of a supermarket, to the let’s say … meats, is a considerable hike, when you’re hobbled. Modern American society has created two conveniences that make this distance manageable.

A. The disabled parking space.
B. The electric scooter.

Hail to the kindness of bureaucrats who pushed through the legislation making wheelchair access mandatory. After this experience, I will NEVER swoop into one of these again, even for “just a second.” When you NEED one, few things can add as much time/effort/exhaustion/inconvenience to your day, as not having one available because some able bodied person has usurped it “just because.”

I don’t believe I’ve ever even NOTICED how many stores, and public places provide electric scooters. They are literally a LIFE saver. And now, I actually plan my shopping by determining which store has the most accessible and functional scooters.

This has actually caused a habit change that I will continue after this little lifespan, because the store closest to my home has an old beat-up scooter, that’s never fully charged. I had no idea, but now that I know … a slightly more expensive store that I’ve avoided in the past will get ALL of my impulse money, even after my recovery period is over, because they have a late model, always well charged, conveniently placed scooter RIGHT BY THE DOOR, with the key in it already.

I promise to remember that, once I toss my crutches in the trash for good.

2. People are incredibly nice, but woefully annoying to me.

I really appreciate that people hold doors open for me. I really do. BUT, holding the door open for a person on crutches, requires a different protocol than opening the door for a lady. Namely, GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY, SO I CAN GET THROUGH IT.

OK, I just had to get that off my chest.

It’s a really kind gesture, and I appreciate it, but have I mentioned how FAR I’m going to have to propel myself to get to the milk aisle? You’re KILLING all the motivation and physical strength I had to muster up to go through the 100-step process of leaving my apartment, driving my manual transmission with an aircast on my left leg, and just … making it this far by essentially BLOCKING the door you are trying to hold open for me.

I’m NOW in the catch-22 of having to muster up the polite words to tell you to move, while not seeming like an ingrateyou’re your chivalry.


3. The disabled give each other dap, and ALWAYS acknowledge each other, sorta the way men do at the lingerie store, brothas do on the street, or Asians do, in the ghetto. It’s kinda cool to be in a different club, for a change.

And when I was still in a wheelchair, I realized that “short” people do it too. That was also kinda cool.

My recovery is going well, and I hope to be over this little episode in as few months as possible, but in the interim … there it is.

Peace,

--Stew.

30 July 2007

YouTube Goes Political


Last week, the Cable News Network tried to forcefully create an historic event … or at least newsworthy moment by teaming up with Youtube in sponsoring and producing a televised conversation between the dirty dozen Democratic Presidential candidates, and the nation.

Me being the political junkie that I am, I obviously loved it loved it loved it loved it.

But why … and where did it fall short, go long, hit on all cylinders, and just plain miss the boat?

Well, the staples are finally out of my leg, my cast is off—and even though I can’t walk on my own power quite yet, I’ve got time to ask and answer some of those questions, AND get YOUR replies.

Here goes.

First—the good:

1. As we have all known for ages now, the American people ask MUCH better questions than pundits. Turns out, if you let them self-edit on webcams in their living rooms, rather than standing them up at a town hall meeting, that wit/intellect/savvy shines through. Also turns out that if you bring them in the studio live to ask a follow-up, they’re bumbling idiots again.

Even if nothing else survives this little experiment, I really hope the idea of pre-producing questions blazes into the future. I’m a political JUNKIE, I watch and listen to C-Span’s Washington Journal EVERY morning, BUT … the “does that hurt ya’ll’s feelings guys, heavy metallic distortion vaguely shouting out a concern with “no child left behind,” and two dykes that I’m glad found each other were MUCH more entertaining and prescient questioners than any of the modern day news anchor/centerfolds would’ve been. They were less obtuse, less likely to ass kiss, and much more precise and specific than the usual suspects/journalists who typically get to ask the questions would’ve been. This is the first time I can honestly say I noticed it, but one of the reasons Politicians always parrot the same answers every time they open their mouths, is because the journalists always ask them the same questions, posed the exact same way. It’s an incestuous little play, and it was good to see the public stripping and grinding for a change.

2. Another high point in this particular debate was the press—represented in the moment by pretty boy and Vanderbilt heir Anderson Cooper. This debate actually reminded me of WHY the press is important and what we should be doing. That role isn’t to ASK the question, its to make sure it gets ANSWERED. Off camera, they also did a good job, I thought, of selecting and organizing the questions. I don’t mind that part of their involvement.

I don’t want to see the press completely shut out of the debate. I think it’s wise to have some sort of buffer between the potential next Leader of the Free World and the unwashed masses. I’m only somewhat joking. Can you imagine Mr. “Are you gonna protect my baby” actually standing on stage? I thought not.

3. This format actually made all of the candidates look human.

No, really. The world is made up of the superhuman, the normal, and the peculiar. Every group has all three, so it stands to reason that if you stand 10 or 11 millionaire President wannabes on a stage somewhere, all three categories are going to be represented. One thing the more traditional “debate” formats don’t do well, is help us figure out which is which. This one did a MUCH better job. Its not that we don’t already sorta know the answers, BUT … knowing is only half the battle. Seeing how a candidate responds to both the bright lights, AND the unadulterated American people simultaneously gets to be pretty close to the whole enchilada.

THE BAD:

1. Is there some REASON all the candidates can’t answer all the questions?

This one started to bug me as I was watching the debate live, now that I’ve had a week or so to think it over, it REALLY bugs me. OK, it would take a long time. There were forty or so questions, and a bunch of candidates. SO WHAT??? CNN is a 24-hour news network. The ONLY thing coming on after the debate … was a 14 hour stretch of analysis and recap about … THE DEBATE. Does this strike anyone else as weird? CNN, as a rule, doesn’t get very high ratings. Of course, very FEW cable channels get great ratings. Do you believe that Nancy Grace or another episode of Larry King live would actually generate MORE interest than an extra hour or two of the candidates answering questions from the American people? I’d rather see them

2. If they’re not ALL going to answer every question, one thing the press SHOULDN’T do is decide which ONE is going to answer the inquiry on the table.

If I had a complaint about Anderson as the host … actually, let me take a moment to say I think Mr. Cooper did a VERY good job. I realize I haven’t said that yet, and it deserves to be said. He’s not my favorite journalist, but I respect the path he’s followed to get to where he is. He’s a rich kid I actually admire. And in THIS event, he was the right mix of hip and serious to make it a worthwhile venture. But getting back to my complaint … he did what I think journalists should stop doing—following the political script. When a question came up that wasn’t directed at a specific candidate, he always seemed to default to the obvious answer. Hell, I KNOW Kucinich is the one who’s going to say he’s going to raise revenues by canceling President Bush’s tax cuts … I’d rather know if HE would meet with Castro et al. I know Hillary’s position on health care, I’d rather hear about her thoughts on whether a cheater should get to stay in office. You get the idea…

The last thing is just a suggestion, actually. It was neither good nor bad … but it could’ve been better—the actual set.

If you’re going to watch youtube … you should be sitting on a couch, or in this case couches. A living room set with a giant plasma tv that all the candidates could watch would’ve seemed a lot more natural. It also would’ve allowed room for another sponsor, since Apple could’ve finally shown off its TV application … since NOBODY seems to have any idea what you’re actually supposed to use it for, except stuff like this. It also would’ve sparked more give and take, although that might’ve been against what CNN was shooting for, in retrospect.

My favorite question was when the minister tied Mr. Edwards in knots about religion and same-sex marriage. Being a guy who appreciates a bit of nuance with my answers and my coffee, his response makes a LOT of sense to me, although I’m pretty sure that all by itself it could knock him out of contention in at least two or three states.

The questioner who asked the question about meeting the wacko foreign leaders is a genius. As a professional journalist and questioner, his question all by itself was positioned perfectly enough to kick off the first real war between Hill and Barack. Priceless.

Anyhow, there ya go, Sneaky. My thoughts on the debate. I’ve been kinda laid up with this stupid Achilles surgery, so my blogging has been a bit … erratic at best. I’m still alive, still appreciate the notes and e-mails.

Can’t wait until the Republicans do the Youtube thing. THAT should be even better.

Peace,

--Stew.

16 July 2007

Strange Fruit




Some months ago, I blogged about the Michael Richards "nigger" incident. And then a couple of days ago, I read a fascinating blog by one of my Yahoo 360 friends (well, sorta. she dumped me but I still adore her and her writing...) Nita.

You can click on the link to THIS blog to read her insightful thoughts and provoking question.

The topic was the appropriateness of offensive humor, and what the rules are and should be for a performer on stage.

I contended in comments to her blog that funny is the most important thing for a comic.

Those comments and this topic have stayed with me for a few days now, and they deserve more context.

I'd like to try to talk a bit about it here.

First, a moment of historical relevance. I invite you to watch the following youtube clip in its entirety.




The singer is Billie Holiday. The song is her (in)famous Strange Fruit.

Here are the lyrics, as written by Abel Meeropol (a.k.a. Lewis Allan)

"


Southern trees bear strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.

Pastoral scene of the gallant south,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolias, sweet and fresh,
Then the sudden smell of burning flesh.

Here is fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

"



The question on my buddy Nita's table at the time was:

Should we support racist comments from a comedian, JUST because they are doing comedy? Isn't racism racism, no matter where it shows up?

Being the radical, race-conscious man that I am, it could easily surprise you to hear me say that in some cases ... Yes, we should.

I didn't see the particular clip she was referring to at the time, but I've watched enough comedy to know that it absolutely DRIPS with content that would be considered inappropriate at any other time or place.

I won't defend the comedian SHE was watching, because I don't know if, among other things, the bit was even funny or thought-provoking.

But there's an important distinction between a conversation involving two random people on the street, and a person performing on a stage.

Namely, audience.

In society, art is always the vanguard of social change. Artists use their various crafts to say things that society isn't ready to say or hear yet. It's true of comedians, painters, playwrights, comics, dancers, filmmakers, authors, cartoonists, preachers ... and singers.

And it is their access to an audience that makes the difference.

Which brings us back to Billie Holiday, 1939.

She was 24 when she stood on stage at New York's Cafe Society; the Big Apple's only integrated club outside Harlem. She was afraid, and rightly so, because America was still in the part of our shared history where lynching was as American as football is today.

Afraid, she sang the song anyway.

And over time, the song changed the conversation years before the Congress was ready to put legislative pen to paper.

And it WAS a real problem.

Between 1882 and 1968, there were 4,742 reports of lynchings in the United States. More were undocumented.

Billie wasn't just "whistling Dixie."

It is literally impossible today to tell an honest history of the practice without mentioning the impact of the song "Strange Fruit."

The song was both protest, and ART ... at its very finest.

Lenny Bruce, Richard Pryor, DaVinci, Michaelangelo, Billie Holiday, Alvin Hailey ... there is an IMPRESSIVE list of artists whose controversial works changed the game.

Which ISN'T to say that every political piece of art is worth the time you spend experiencing it. Some, perhaps even most ... is absolute garbage.

But the first amendment is unique not for the obviously useful and agreeable "speech" it protects. It is special for the tightrope walking, offensive, questionable, maddening, over-the-line, pornographic, religion-bashing, homophobic, racist, sexist, outright STUPID ideas it allows the moron to SLAM down on the table to be confronted by the group as a whole.

America at its best, ridicules these ideas off the front page and banishes their Creators to the corner of obscurity.

This is the beauty of free-market capitalism. If there's no market for your ideas, or our higher passions win the day, you AND your dumb-assed idea will disappear from thought, view, and consciousness.

We need to hear Richard Pryor say "nigger," and put it in a place where the power of the word can be challenged, and debated, and properly addressed.

And if we have to put up with dumbass Michael Richards saying it too, so be it.

We need the Boondocks, and South Park, and if having comedians who don't "get" it" is the price ... we should pay it.

We need The March on Washington, and if protecting the Klan's rally to keep it gives us indigestion, we should swallow our Pepto, turn our backs, and do our very best to protect those idiots, too.

In my humble opinion, OUR obligation when confronted with material we find useless or not worth discussion ... is to BOO!! HISS!!! HECKLE!!! RIDICULE!!! DEMAND OUR MONEY BACK!!!

Artists don't like that.

But it allows them to space WE need to protect the occasional genius who has a message and a megaphone we need to hear.

I am grateful that the first person applauded "Strange Fruit."

Peace,

--Stew.

References used for this blog:

http://obama.senate.gov/news/050614-us_senate_apologizes_for_not_e/
http://www.ladyday.net/stuf/vfsept98.html


Photo:
http://memory.loc.gov/ammem/aap/photo06.jpg

11 July 2007

Little Black Boys


Having been a little black boy, I somehow always thought it'd be second nature to understand one entrusted to my care.

I was wrong.

The little black boy in the picture is Mercer, my son.

Until now, I've made a point of keeping him out of the spotlight. Welcome to life as the son of a journalist/blogger, son.

Let's start with a few obvious truths that need to be on the table.

I am absolutely in love with my little boy. I adore many things about him; the way he thinks and forces me to join him, the way he learns new things and tries immediately to apply them, the way he reminds me of myself in his actions and idiosyncrasies, and the way I can comprehend some of what's happening in his mind without him having to say a word--a byproduct of his having my DNA swimming through his every molecule.

But there is a part of him that hearkens Mr. Gibran's words to my frontal lobe:

"Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you."


There are aspects of this particular little black boy that completely and utterly confound me. Primarily they are related to his startling ability and willingness to sniff out uncertainty, fear, or indecisiveness.

He views these as flaws to be ruthlessly and mercilessly punished with an explosive rage that catches most people completely off guard, and causes him to be endlessly punished in return. At five years old, he's been suspended, expelled, grounded, time-outed to to futility, and even spanked.

The trouble is that I've never witnessed the bad behavior.

With Dad, he's a polite, curious, energetic, completely likable four-year old.

Which isn't to say that I disbelieve the growing cadre of teachers, counselors, and relatives who've found themselves on his bad side.

It's hard to doubt the 19 year old day camp counselor who lasted less than a morning before making the frantic call to have my little black boy picked up. Harder still when confronted with her armful of scratches and bruises that my four-year old admits causing.

Its hard to question the veteran Kindergarten teacher who insists that his disruptive behavior makes it impossible to teach the rest of a class, and wants to make notes on his "permanent record." As if anything that a four-year old does should be considered eternal.

And it would be hardest to question his mother--who is at wits end with coming up on the short stick of his blowups.

In keeping with my tradition of not pretending to be the good guy, I admit to a host of mistakes and imperfections with respect to how I've handled the situation.

I've been far from perfect.

I'm part of that 75% crowd in my generation. We who have children out of wedlock to varying degrees of disaster.

While I'm not as convinced as some that marriage is the ideal solution to every (or even most) problems ... I don't have a better idea ready to put on the table.

I'm also not willing to get married just for its own (or HIS) sake.

I AM willing to apply my best fatherhood efforts to the problem. I'm not absent, I pay my ridiculous child support payments on time, and throw as much money at the ever-present unexpecteds as I can afford.

But that's not even the tip of the iceberg.

It shows up when I start to wonder about the outcome of my little black boy's rage.

While Merc is no statistic, there are enough of those to make me concerned.

I am aware that by the numbers, the odds are significant that my little black boy is VERY likely to be arrested, indicted, prosecuted, convicted, and incarcerated at some point during the course of his life.

His numbers go UP when I throw other kids in the mix.

If the numbers can be believed, he is likely to be surrounded by poverty, a share of illiteracy, crime, drug abuse, and more likely to die at the hands of violence than natural causes.

And that's WITH my guidance and help.

My career, interests, and experiences have sent me to many of the places where little black boys statistically end up. When I find myself talking to these men, I'm usually left with more questions than answers.

As little black boys, did their daddies ever answer their questions about car engines?

Were there any daddies around to even hear the questions?

Did they have library cards? Make trips to the local fire station to pepper the volunteers with questions about the job? Have a conversation with a police officer where THEY got to ask the questions?

Inevitably, I'm left with more questions than answers. In a newspaper column, or sitcom, I'd have my answer in half an hour.

But this is my life.

And if I can't find the source of the rage, or a solution that allows me some modicum of comfort when I leave my little black boy in a room without me, my answer may take a bit longer to find.

Peace,

--Stew.

12 June 2007

Why Barack Is Losing Me


OK, so over the months I’ve said that I’m for Barack, but hedged a bit by admitting that my support wasn’t unconditional and that I was willing to jump ship at the first sign of short-coming, or very uncomfortable moment. I haven’t actually jumped yet, but it’s safe to say that I have my life vest on, and I’m standing on the rail.

My support has been hinged on two primary factors. First and foremost, Senator Obama is black. Secondly, I applaud his philosophy.

Elsewhere, I realize writers are going through all sorts of gymnastics to make race “NOT” the primary issue of the Obama campaign. I have neither mat nor high bar here. I am what I am, and it is what it is. I’d LOVE to see a black President.

I got the same lecture as every other middle class black adolescent about being able to become anything I wanted to – a lesson that inevitably ended with some allusion to the White House.

I admit it, I was a skeptic about it then, and I’m even moreso now.

I believe I could’ve made the NBA, NFL, or played major league baseball.

I believe I could’ve become an actor, and based on my skills perhaps even earned the title of movie star. I have no doubt that I could, and can become a musician of some renown.

I have no doubt that millionaire status is within my grasp.

I even believe that if I’m willing to skip a few additional nights of sleep and work more hours, I could turn the “M” into a “B,” and join the rare air of Gates, Oprah, and Buffett.

I am positive I could run for, and win a Sheriff seat somewhere.

I am certain I could sit on any city’s council, county’s school board, or State’s legislature.

I could be the mayor, hell, Marion Barry has convinced me that I could do THAT … and not have to necessarily rule out a moonlighting career as a crackhead.

I am skeptical, but fall on the side of believing that I could be a governor … there’s been one.

If I did one of the previous things first, I could even find my way to the U.S. Senate—a pretty exclusive club.

I could make it to the US House of Representatives with relative ease, and on merit and local popularity alone.

I have the training and talent to be a network news anchor today. Unfortunately, I’m over that dream.

But President?

Hmmm …

I’m afraid you’re gonna have to show me one before I believe that anything other than a white, old, Protestant-leaning, homo-sapien with a penis, who’s relatively detached from normalcy, can worm his way to that Residence.

And this isn’t a passive belief. I’ve wasted my vote on chics you’ve never heard of (Lenora Fulani) who made it to the ballot, and squandered it by writing in black men who I knew had no chance at even making it past the primary.

But those were all in elections that I thought didn’t matter. At times I was a one-issue voter, and my issue was … “please, not another white guy.”

The truth is, up until probably … last year, I might’ve even voted for Condoleeza Rice, had she chosen to run, just for the chance to be part of the tri-fecta victory (Black, female, Southerner).

But this cycle, stakes is high. Being black isn’t enough for me.

For certain, there are black men I WOULD vote for—which brings us to Senator Obama’s philosophy.

Periodically, the nation requires some person whose primary contribution is to change the debate. Throughout the cycle of U.S. history, there has occasionally been room for a man who has a different idea about “how” America could change its focus and capitalize on our strengths in a new way.

Lincoln, Theodore Roosevelt, Franklin Roosevelt, Harry Truman, even Ronald Reagan fit that particular mold. They were men who saw the world, sometimes very slightly, in a different way. Sometimes that vision was spawned from a crisis; war, or Depression, or poor international relations.

Barack Obama may very well be one of “those guys.”

Unfortunately, as much as we need bipartisan leadership, and a “uniter not a divider” right now, that’s not MY number one requirement.

As a political junkie, I’ve watched all … six (?) of the debates so far. And what worries me is the Illinois Senator’s inability to articulate how his philosophy would translate to policy that would make my life better.

For my money, we’ve already done the “he’s inexperienced but has good ideas” experiment. It’s a fucking disaster.

No, really.

We’ve lost an American city, a significant piece of our largest financial district, destroyed more than 50,000 lives in concentric circles of post-traumatic stress, many of the linchpins of our civil rights, whatever remaining confidence “we the people” have in our actual government (as opposed to the theory of our FORM of government), and our standing in the world.

Our economy is prepped for disaster, our language is being destroyed at the highest level of government, and we’ve been forced to learn the skill of being hoodwinked, and pretending to like it.

So now, I’m insisting on experience. NO MORE DUMMIES. No more sketchy resumes. No more "C" students (not that Barack is one of those...), No more daddy's boys, or "vote for this one cause you like some relative of theirs. No more inarticulate people who can't say what the fuck they mean without torturing the language I love.

If you can't deliver the line ... don't step up to the microphone. This is your chance to prove to me that you won't choke under pressure.

If you stutter and stumble your way through a yes or no question from Wolf Blitzer ... what's a press conference going to be like with you standing next to some extremely witty and articulate world leader who's speaking perfect English as a fourth or fifth language and crafting extemporaneous sentences next to you ... the bumbling, stumbling guy we sent out to be our champion? I'm tired of being embarrassed every time "my guy" opens his mouth to publicly speak. NO MORE.

POTUS is NOT an on-the-job training position. I don’t really give a shit if the moron handing me fries can’t count change, or requires pictographs on the cash register. It blows, and makes me afraid of the public school education system I'm financing, but it's hardly a moment-by-moment crisis. 16-year old high school sophomores are a dime a dozen, so are illegal immigrants, and you can find another one to read the number five off the cash register pictures, and make sure I get two quarters and a nickel, not the other way around.

But Chief Executive Officer of the free world?

Nah … THAT person is gonna have to actually pass the stupid tests. There is NO question in my mind that Barack is smart, maybe even brilliant.

There is no question that his service is of GREAT benefit to the country.

If he wins, it will STILL accomplish the validation of my mom’s bullshit story to me about how I could be President; I’m just not sure it would be helpful to the chaos that is my country.

From here on the rail, life vest strapped and inflated, there are two things he could do that would talk me down.

1. Announce that either Colin Powell, or Mark Warner is his Vice Presidential partner. NOW.

2. Blow me away in the next debate.


What’s that I see in the distance? USS Ron Paul? Hmmmm….maybe I should just jump.

Peace,

--Stew.




Photo:
http://msnbcmedia2.msn.com/i/msnbc/Sections/Newsweek/Components/Photos/
060919_060925/060922_BarackObama_Xtrawide.jpg

03 June 2007

The Price of Pussy


Timeframe, 2007. The Bush administration is coming to a close, and if there is a tear being shed ANYWHERE for that, its happening either in a Corporate boardroom, or in a basement somewhere that hasn't been touched by the arrogance, incompetence, and blindly moronic path we've been led down.

Those basements are hard to find.

The nation is struggling with a combination of vitriolic dislike for a President too detached to be believed, and apparently too arrogant to just admit that "yeah, I fucked this one up, too," AND the broken promise of some symbolic return to a distant morality that no one can actually remember, but everyone wants to believe in, because the last five years have turned our collective conscience into a sucking chest wound.

And the new wannabes and Junior do-gooders have already lined up and stated their positioning statements, but wait ... wait, what's that on the horizon?

It's the rebirth of the pussy move.

Al Gore's no moron. He knows people (like me) regret not voting for the stiff (even though I didn't vote for the moron, either) and he wants to suck at the teat of sympathy while we beg and plead for a real leader.

His method? A movie, a series of lectures, and his second book in as many years.

Sir, if you're not going to help out--please stay the fuck off the stage. We're actually having a crisis right now, and if you're not here to roll up your sleeves and fight, I speak for at least three or four of us when I say with all the respect I can muster up ...

"I get it, the planet is heating up/cooling down, and to YOU that's the biggest crisis we have going, a four-alarm fire, I think you called it. Well, truth be told, unless the planet's going to EXPLODE between now and 2008, I'd rather focus on getting all of my friends out of Iraq, because I'd rather be watching ESPN with them when the planet DOES in fact explode, than still inexplicably jumping a little bit every time the phone rings late at night because I'm afraid its going to be somebody calling to tell me that ______ just got hit by an IED."

Besides, if you KNOW that you have the most experience this side of Gov. Bill Richardson, and you know he CAN'T win the race (because he can't figure out if he's a fing Red Sox or Yankees fan, for crissake), but you STILL won't play ball ... you're potentially something WORSE than a demogogue.

I've lost close games before, and I admit that it hurts ... BAD.

I cannot imagine how embarrassing and painful it must be to lose a multi-million dollar Presidential campaign on a technicality. I support a man's need to nurse his wounds, AND his ego. But humor me, and do that shit in private.

Don't show up to critique the current administration--I actually don't need your insight to figure out they're running my country into the ground. I don't need to hear your thoughts on the panel of people who opine on "what we should have done."

I don't really care about your ego. I'm just a bit thirsty for that feeling I get when the geeksquad shows up to fix my computer. They bring me a calming confidence that the smart guys are here to rub some brainpower on the problem. When their beetle shows up, I know my problem is being addressed by experts who aren't going to sleep very well until everything is restored to normal.

Nationally, I just want some smart, honest people to hash it out in a back office somewhere over finger food and Dasani, or Perrier, or whatever smart honest, people are drinking these days. And then, I want one of them to come out in front of the microphones connected to all seven of my 24/7 "news" channels and explain the solution with complicated sentences, using words I have to look up--because that's when I know the speaker is smarter than me.

My current President hasn't sent me scrambling for a dictionary for a definition even ONCE ... (although there WAS my usage question about "decider" ... and I digress.)

Mr. Gore, if you're not up to this, it's cool. I understand. Just exit stage right, and show up again AFTER campaign season. You're making my head hurt, AND ... you're making me think you're a pussy.

And what I've learned is that I can't afford anymore.

Peace,

--Stew.

22 May 2007

Death of Democracy


Hi, I’ve been away for awhile, and will be away again soon, but I’m here for the moment.

Unfortunately, I missed my chance to rant about Imus, and how ridiculous that whole thing was, didn’t talk about Scooter, or “the Surge,” illegal immigration, or any of about 15 other topics I’ve written about …mostly on paper … while I was gone.

But I do want to talk for a minute, while I have it, about a trend that disturbs me.

I’ve heard about five national politicians publicly say that they understand that the public feels a particular way, but they “don’t agree,’ and as a result, are going to proceed with some cockamamie plan of their own choosing that goes against what they KNOW is the will of the people.

This, friends and citizens, is the death of a democracy.

There's some basic shit in play here, and I encourage you to listen for it, and think about what you're hearing.

When the ruler of a group of people can do whatever he wants to do, he is a monarch. You can call him the king, or the pope, “dear Leader,” a dictator or any other title you choose … but he is a monarch.

Never mind POTUS G.W., this trend has started to pop up in a NUMBER of different places; McCain on 60 Minutes talking about the war, the various Senators discussing immigration, and how to protect the borders, etc. The point is, all of a sudden, these “leaders” are positioning their own opinions as being more important than the consensus thoughts of the country.

There is no way a person can “represent” a larger group of people by ONLY catering to his or her own opinion.

I thoroughly “get” that America isn’t a Democracy, it’s a Democratic Republic, which is to say that the masses select a smaller gaggle of individuals to represent them. The important word in that previous sentence is represent. And whenever those representatives, at any level feel obliged to literally ignore the consensus of the citizens they represent, they place themselves ABOVE our form of government.

This one isn’t just the jackasses, or the pachyderms … this seems to be a new thing with elected officials. And it seems a bit disingenuous to tout America’s greatness in the same breath that you use your position to ignore them.

So who’s YOUR king?

Missed you. Chat with you later.

Peace,

--Stew.

09 April 2007

A Necessary Review


( photo: http://www.dusa.dundee.ac.uk/udasa/presidential_seal.gif )



OK, let’s review what we learned last time. Today’s subject … as usual, is politics. And after our last two abysmal performances as an electoral class, CLEARLY some homework is in order.

We’re about to embark on another campaign season. I know, I know … it already feels like this one has been going on forever, and the election is STILL almost two years away, but based on our recent history, apparently somebody needs to start banging the gong early to get our test scores up.

This isn’t about Democrats or Republicans. I’m already intentionally on record as hating both political parties, and supporting Barack Obama this campaign season. This is about America, so please remove your partisan hats for the rest of the lecture.

I COULDN’T CARE LESS WHO YOU VOTE FOR.

I know who I’m going to vote for as of this moment, and I tell you here and now that it could change any number of times between now and when I enter the voting booth at the elementary school up the street next November to play my little computer game.

Those things said, I am strongly FOR the America I’ve always read about and still believe might exist if we quit fucking up this particular test. I volunteered to serve in the military because I was an idealist, among other things, and believed then, as I do now, that the concept of America is worth defending.

But that defense doesn’t ONLY happen by picking up a rifle, aiming it, and putting a bullet center mass in some poor schmuck who was unlucky enough to meet us on the battlefield, in defense of some OTHER idea of what’s right and what’s wrong.

Sometimes, it happens by picking up a pen, or opening up a word processor, and saying some shit that needs to be said. So here we go.

We, all of us, the masses, HAVE to believe what we see this campaign cycle.

Unfortunately, the job of President doesn’t get advertised in the newspaper classifieds. There’s no formal list of requirements and qualifications. We don’t get to individually interview the prospects, there’s not much sensible recruiting happening, and we don’t have the luxury of leaving the position open until the ideal Joe comes along.

What we have is a grueling, and unfair process that lasts a looooong time to give us a chance to see how a candidate deals with adversity.

But that process actually works. For as long as I have been watching politics, which is about 25 years now, thanks to Danny B, we have ALWAYS gotten exactly what we thought we were getting.

How a man or woman deals with that process has ALWAYS given us enough information to know how they will deal with the job. The process is grueling and unfair because the JOB is grueling and unfair.

But, to its credit, the process has always given us enough information about the people in contention, for us to KNOW what we’re getting for our lever-pull.

We’re knowingly elected adulters, morons, liars, cheaters, and the corrupt. And never, not ONCE, can we honestly say we didn’t know what we were getting.

So here’s what we should be looking for this time.

1. Integrity. We’ve more than filled our quota of lies from the Oval Office. It’s time for a man or woman who does the right thing when nobody’s looking, and will be honest about what they’ve done when the situation starts to unravel. Nobody expects a full-term to pass without any mistakes being made. We are a forgiving people, but enough of the lies.

2. Moral Standing. Character matters, and we can afford to count it in the considerations. Webster brought a word to our language specifically for this sentence. UNIMPEACHABLE. We require that word to apply to your word, your honor, and your character. If you have a habit of deferring to either your genitals or your personal pocketbook when its time to make a decision that will affect a large group of people, you’re not right for the job.

3. Intellect. I’m not sold on education as the highest measure of intellect, particularly since there has been at least one idiot in every class I’ve ever taken, and that idiot usually got a decent grade, BUT … if you don’t have a working knowledge of how the world works, AND who works it, you’re not right for the job.

4. Compassion. The candidate is running for controlling interest behind the wheel of a nation of PEOPLE. If you don’t care about people, even the least of them, you’re not right for the job.

5. Balance. In addition to those people, we are a nation of Corporations. Those entities are the method we’ve chosen to provide for ourselves. We expect you to create an EXCELLENT climate for them to succeed. But never forget WHY the corporation must succeed, it is the means to an end, namely provision for “we the people.” ALL OF US. We are both a spritual and religious nation. But we serve a wide variety of higher powers, and for the most part, we have good hearts. We need you to keep it safe for ALL of us, whether we’ve chosen to believe in Jesus, Allah, Yahweh, Mother Earth, the Almighty Dollar, the Virgin Mary, Buddha, Hare Crishna, Lucifer, all or none of the above. Our nation is not just our religion, or our military, our companies, our disagreements, or our money. Our nation is all of these things. If you can’t hear the words that are coming out of my mouth because you don’t agree with me, you’re not right for the job.

6. Competence. We’ve lost thousands of citizens of late, due to simple-ass incompetence. We’ll work with you, we’ll support you, we’ll fund you, we’ll cheer for you, we’ll pray for you, we’ll defend you, we’ll fight for you, we’ll die for you, we’ll kill for you. Make us regret it, and we’ll turn on you. If you’re not capable of actually doing the work that’s required to earn that sort of love, you’re not right for the job.

7. COURAGE. We’re tired of people whose courage only applies to the opinion they already had. We’re looking for someone who has not only the courage of his or her OWN convictions, we’re interested in a leader who has the courage of OUR convictions. Because polls be damned, there ARE things we believe in. And if you’re not courageous enough to meet us to talk, and then act on what we believe, you’re not right for the job.

Being the President IS NOT about that moment standing in one of America's great arenas with the red, white, and blue confetti falling from the rafters. It's about being the people's gladiator in the arenas of policy, and international diplomacy, and during national disasters, and moments of sorrow.

This isn’t a “pick three” list. We need ALL of these things, and a few more. As this campaign season kicks off, WATCH these candidates. BELIEVE what you see. As the ineffably wise De La Soul have told us, “Stakes is high.”

Peace,
--Stew.

Extra Credit: What would you add to the list?

08 April 2007

The People Are Coming


photo: (http://www.americanidol.com/contestants/season6/sanjaya_malakar/)


I truly believe that more people in America wonder why Sanjaya is still on American Idol, than worry about post-war health care at Walter Reed Army hospital. I’m ok with that, because life is an important thing to be observed, and in our democracy you’re allowed to pursue just about anything you suspect might make you happy—even a nationwide karaoke/beauty contest.

There’s been a lot written about how a perfectly good show is being ruined by miscreants, who’ve apparently decided in places like http://www.votefortheworst.com and http://www.howardstern.com that a vote for Sanjaya is a funny thing to do, as it capitalizes on the idea of “voting” as a method of screwing up a process.

I’m a huge fan of AI. I’ve been watching since season one with Tamyra Gray, Christina Christian (my all-time favorite crush), and Justin Guarini got broke off by young, big-bootied Texan Kelly Clarkson. I was watching the night Fantasia knelt and belted out “Summertime” from Porgy and Bess, in what I still consider the best AI performance of all time. And I was as shocked Chris appeared to be, the night the Daughtry machine stopped revolving.

I very rarely vote on contestants, although I have called twice to keep on performers that I thought deserved to move past a single bad performance. I liked Clay better than Reuben in their final showdown, even though I thought Frenchie would’ve been better than either of them, had she not had the misfortunate combination of being a big woman, AND not being opposed to participating in a bit of soft porn (even though the porn thing didn’t seem to hurt Antonella at all).

But the Sanjaya thing, in that way that some court cases or phrases in some political speeches catch my interest, intrigues me. In a lot of ways it’s a watershed moment, like Barack raising $25,000,000 in three months. Specifically, it’s the SAME moment, viewed from opposite sides of a tunnel.

(For those of you who have no idea who Sanjaya is, he’s a young man from Washington state who was just talented and beautiful enough to get through the fairly rigorous American Idol elimination process before anyone discovered that he wasn’t a ‘great’ singer. Now that he’s on the actual show, he has ‘somehow’ managed to not just avoid elimination, but actually garner a LOT of votes. His obvious lack of head-to-head singing ability has turned this season into a bit of a joke, to the purists. Now you’re caught up.)

I’m starting to realize that I watch my America through different spectacles than a lot of other people. And those spectacles suggest to me, that THIS is the evidence of the REAL birth of the digital age.

An age isn’t born when a technology is invented. It ACTUALLY comes into existence when the masses:
a) get access
b) learn to use the new capability.

Every new age is a puzzle, with the pieces being created as the assembly is happening. When the puzzle is complete, there is a new cycle to how life is lived.

The invention of the car meant nothing until there were roads that went everywhere a driver might want to go, gas stations to make the trip possible, and assembly lines to make the new machine affordable to every driver who wanted one. Once all those pieces were in place, the age of the automobile exploded. Today, everybody has a car, or at least enough access to get behind a steering wheel when the need arises.

The dot-com boom of the early 90s was supposed to signal the birth of a new era. New generations of billionaires were birthed in the creation of cool computer ideas, while investing in those creations destroyed part of an old generation of millionaires.

Nobody ever talks about the fact that the entire dot-com bubble burst before anyone even HAD high-speed internet, which in many ways is integral to the online system being useful in any tangible way.

The technology had been invented, but very few people had either the access, or the know-how to make it part of their lives.

News still came from the big five networks, and three publishing companies. Music came on compact discs and from the radio, and HBO was arguably the only real edge in mass entertainment in the 90s.

But in the interim, the “masses” have become increasingly comfortable with the new technology at our disposal. The internet started to become a real alternate universe of information.

Online shopping took over mall revenues at Christmastime, and people got used to providing that sacred collection of digits … the credit card number … to an anonymous screen. The definition of privacy changed, as the young started to live two simultaneous lives; one in person, the other online—complete with diaries, friends, and photos just risqué enough to keep them from getting their first high-profile job.

The ipod was born, the blog and podcast became Webster words, and today virtually anyone can create and broadcast their ramblings on every topic under the sun – and we can all participate. The telephone went cellular, then replaced the camcorder as the most convenient way to record our lives for posterity. Combined with youtube compression/sharing technology the video cell-phone has placed very real electronic newsgathering possible for absolutely anyone.

The digital universe is slowly strangling ALL of the old communication norms; radio, the old music distribution and sales models, network news, and the morning/evening editions of the newspaper.

And Howard Dean appeared from nowhere to make a credible run for President by raising money *gasp … on the internet.

Like every other new life cycle, the cyberworld is BOUND to eventually make its presence known in our political processes. There was time before television, and candidates had to raise money then, too. But that age is virtually antediluvian to us today, because a candidate’s money now goes to buying advertising time.

But people, at least American people, don’t just start fucking with the electoral system on a whim. We practice first.

Even after the 1960 election fiasco, and the 2000 election fiasco, we’ll test the new system with a toe first.

Which brings us back to a pretty little boy who’s in over his head on a television show that 30,000,000 Americans watch every week. Sanjaya’s got spunk, and even though I hope he doesn’t win, he’s a much more important cultural and political figure than most of us are going to realize immediately.

Sanjaya is the first real test BY THE PEOPLE of our ability to genuinely affect an honest voting system.

For the record, I’ve said privately for years that the smartest way to vote would be a national election using ATM cards and the existent financial network infrastructure. But that’s a different discussion for a different day. Today, hear this …

The people are coming.

Peace,
--Stew.

29 March 2007

Hating Republican


(Photo: http://www.allhatnocattle.net)



I cherish MANY of the lessons I’ve learned from Danny B. Over the years, he has intentionally, and on occasion perhaps accidentally, taught me the basics of virtually everything I know.

Among my favorite lessons is his somewhat idiomatic insistence that it is perfectly acceptable to “know” something. You are well within your rights to BE right about a thing, particularly a thing about which there is dispute. As a human, your opinion is absolutely as viable as any other – even when the opposition comes from an “expert.”

The trick, my old man explained, is to never form an opinion on the fly. Never be afraid to think long and hard about what you think, to consider what’s already been said and written about a topic before you make up your mind. And most importantly—read a book when you have a question. The answers to every theoretical question are already locked in your mind, but the keys to those answers have already been written down somewhere by another person pondering the same dilemma you are facing.

I have since learned on my own that once you settle on that answer, you must accept its rightness as an article of faith. Should legitimate proof arrive that disproves it, you must weigh that evidence as thoroughly as you did the original information that led to YOUR conclusion, and adjust your own opinion to reflect the new knowledge. To ignore new truth is immoral, and silly.

In one of my many college restarts, I found myself sitting in a Humanities class in a Central Florida community college.

The instructor was an older woman; smart, well traveled, and very set in her ways. At her age, she’d earned it. She had more life experience in the smallest section of her little finger than I did at the time, but she was still wrong.

The topic was the origin of the ankh (♀), and I still remember most of that particular lecture as if it were yesterday.

Her discussion was on ancient religions, and she spent more than a few minutes extolling the virtues of this Celtic symbol and its ties to certain theories about Stonehenge, and some of the early Pagan and Pan-Pagan traditions.

I raised my hand. “Excuse me ma’am, but isn’t the ankh Egyptian in origin?”

She actually got a bit angry.

(In her defense, part of that anger might have been a residual of reading my previous paper, which went to great lengths to pillage the very IDEA of ‘missionaries’ as one of the most culturally destructive movements of history. I got a “C” on it, although I believe she would’ve given me an “F” if she thought she could’ve. I stand by the accuracy of both that idea, and the context I presented it in at the time. But she was the professor, and I was the student.)

Her: “No, Mr. Stewart. The Celts were the first to use the ankh, blahblahblah …”

Me: “But, wasn’t the ankh a … hieroglyphic symbol of infinity, symbolizing a marriage of life and death, or something like that?”

Her: “No, Mr. Stewart. I think you have your histories confused. In fact, I’ve been to Egypt, and can assure you that while there may be some ankhs in more modern Egyptian lore, it was the Celts who first brought this particular symbol to civilization. ”

Me: “Oops. My bad. Sorry.”

It bugged me, because I wasn’t guessing. I was right. It wasn’t a question of “knowing” I was right, or needing to “prove” I was right. I was just right. There wasn’t even a debate to be had. This isn’t even a controversial position. It is quite simply, a fact.

I learned a lot from her in that course. She was a very good professor in many ways. She was always well prepared, and did a fantastic job of bringing in objects from her travels to illustrate various parts of history and the advance of civilization from various parts of the world (South America and Asia excluded, of course).

Which brought us some months later to one of the last class activities. As a treat, she was bringing a full-fledged slide show of photos from her trips to Paris, Egypt, and the Holy Land. I like slide shows.

And holy shit if slide 195 wasn’t a close up from an antiquities museum of some sort in Cairo of an artifact from shortly after the reunion of Upper and Lower Egypt. And dammit if she didn’t have a CLOSE UP of an ankh carved out of sandstone or something, which was 6000 years old, if it was a day.

Because I’m a jackass, I didn’t just let it slide.

Me: “Ummm….ma’am?”

(Months had gone by, we’d made our peace, sort of … and I’m sure she’d forgotten all about her dismissive comments earlier in the semester)

Her: “Mr. Stewart. Do you have a question?”

Me: “Of course, ma’am … (engage best attempt at charming, disarming smile…) how’d the Celts sneak one of their ankhs into that Egyptian hieroglyph?”

She actually turned red on me.

Her: “That’s all the time we have. Class dismissed.”

Important notes:
--It was HER slideshow
--It was HER opinion that the Celts originated use of the symbol
--She was in charge

THIS … is why I hate the Republicans.

23 March 2007

Real People


Sometimes I forget that “we” are very real people.

I met her at a restaurant near my house. We’d chatted back and forth on yahoo for a few months. She was from the South, and fun to chat with. Online, our conversations traveled that familiar path just about every online friendship I’ve developed has meandered.

They start with a comment somewhere. Her saying “I like the way you write,” or me leaving a “wow, you’re sexy,” and her asking “what’s fun to do in D.C?”

It progressed to us comparing notes about online communities we remembered, or had participated in--blackplanet, old-school yahoo back in the chat room days, hi5, AFF, the same ones YOU still have profiles languishing in.

We traded pics and smiles, and thousands and thousands of words. I’m sure I still have her telephone number on a scrap of paper somewhere. We may have spoken there a few times, but our preference was to talk here, in little yellow boxes

We talked about those parts of marriage that suck, how mine crumbled, and the challenges hers seemed to be facing. From what I gathered it was in one of those weird stages somewhere between unhappiness, separation and divorce.

I never really prodded, and we eventually moved away from that particular serious topic.

She worked with, and loved kids. I was struggling to find the most effective way to incorporate my son into my life. She gave me some very good advice that I’ve used, and had great success with.

And we chatted.

And then one day she was sitting in a restaurant near my house. And she called.

I was working a big project that day, so I was late.

That’s not unusual, I work on a completely different method of time than the rest of the world. I rarely focus on what time something “is…” just where it fits into my priorities at a given moment. There is a moment when that thing is the most important thing I am aware of that requires my presence, and at THAT moment … I do it.

So, I was late.

But I called, and explained the situation, and she waited.

I eventually arrived. She was there with a couple. One was her friend, the other a chat buddy her friend was meeting for the first time.

I had a beer, she had a fruity drink, and we talked.

Here’s what I’ve learned about meeting good chat buddies in real life. When it works, those first conversations are sheer joy. You already “know” the person on a much different level, and there’s a LOT less bullshit to go around. This was one of those conversations.

The other couple was in their own little world.

And we talked.

We laughed a bit, cleared up a couple of misunderstandings.

And we talked.

There were discussions about future meetings, nothing concrete, nothing that I would’ve been ashamed of, or regretted on any level. Nothing my mother couldn’t have listened to, minus a couple of details.

Just conversation about us creating another chance to talk.

The visit ended.

There was a hug, a smile, and a moment where we both silently considered saying the words that would make the visit longer. Neither did.

I went home.

She went home.

The chats continued. Good ones.

And then one day, her light didn’t come on. Then it was a week, and a month.

I just didn’t see her around anymore.

That’s not unusual, maybe her relationship healed, maybe she’d moved on to other things, maybe I’d said something to offend her.

When you live your life as Stew, all of those things are possibilities.

I occasionally thought of her when the boy Prince and I were doing something together, encouraged at least in part by her words of wisdom.

I saw her … in the online sense, once again. Surfing through 360, I ran across a page titled with the name she always used. Same hometown, same age, and a line that could have only come from her.

I left a comment.

And heard nothing.

Until last night.

Returning home from a week away on business, I had a few messages to go through. One was from a woman I didn’t recognize … at first.

I opened it, and she reintroduced herself as the friend who’d been at the restaurant, and asked if I remembered her.

I most certainly do.

The purpose of her message was to tell me that my chat buddy died in a car accident some time ago.

What a strange place for the sadness to creep in.

Peaceful journey

… my friend.

Sometimes I forget that “we” are very real people.


Peace,

--Stew.

14 March 2007

Hating Democrat


So your football team drafts a new linebacker. Son of a famous ex-player in your city, he graduated from his father’s alma mater. It’s a small school in an out of the way conference, so no one’s actually seen him play very much.

Dad played in the league for years, and earned a reputation as a solid lineman who could be counted on in the trenches. He didn’t go to the hall, but the city loves him still, even though he moved away after his career, and nobody’s really talked about him since he lost his battle with cancer back in the 80s.

The good news is that on paper at least, his progeny’s a BEAST! At 6’5, he’s a lean, muscular 245. Runs the 40-yard dash like flames drinking gasoline fumes.

At the combine, a nagging injury supposedly prevents him from fully strutting his stuff. But he stands in front of the microphones one afternoon, and in articulate and humorous language speaks of his love for his dad, the history of the game, and his excitement to be following in his father’s footsteps and is honored to be even considered for the draft.

And your team eats it up. Bites it hook, line, and sinker. “We” take him midway through the first round, ahead of one or two more prominent players with no pedigree, but proven skills at non-bowl contending teams. The future is NOW.

He signs a deal that makes him an overnight multi-millionaire, gets a couple of out-of-the-box endorsements, and starts showing up on local TV commercials, peddling products and services you’ve never heard of, but might be willing to try … he’s likable.

Fan appreciation day, he kisses every baby, shakes every hand, and stays late to sign every kid’s football. He’s in every picture. He’s a winner, this one.

Schedule gets announced, YOUR team has the first televised preseason game. It’ll be all eyes on YOUR city.

The sports writers are aflutter with the season’s possibilities for the squad. News teams have ravaged the archives, digging up old footage of the rookie’s dad; making hits, blocking passes on the line, and even one incredibly lucky play where he chases the quarterback, gets knocked down, gets up and starts chasing the quarterback again. In the highlight of that week, he eventually catches the unlucky bastard, hits him like he stole something, and forces a fumble, which he recovers, and waddles into the end zone for the only touchdown of his career.

The unspoken fantasy for the city is that baby boy is cut from the same cloth.

The team opens training camp up to the public. For a small fee, you can come watch the start of the new season. You take the afternoon off work for the event, pony up an hour’s salary to park your car in an empty field, purchase a ticket, splurge on an overpriced, off-season hot dog and a plastic cup of stale beer, and climb into the stands to watch what you HOPE will be history. You’re a real fan!

You’re wearing the home jersey,

He’s on the field. He looks even MORE impressive standing on the sideline in shorts and shoulder pads, helmet in hand. Has a ferocious game face, and EVERYTHING! He’s been working out to rehab the “injury,” and if muscles alone signal football ability, it’s going to be a GOOD year for the home team.

The coaches know where their bread is buttered, so after warm-ups and a few offensive drills, they whistle the defense on the field. Our rookie hits the tackling dummy like a locomotive, knocking veteran coaches flat on their backs with impeccable technique and world-class power.

It appears he’s been studying his playbook, too. He’s EVERYWHERE—knocking down passes, reading plays, and showing up in the right place at the right time to tap offensive jerseys with both hands, the way you do in practice with limited pads.

Don’t want to get too excited too soon, you think … but this young man looks like THE TRUTH!

You phone, e-mail, and IM your buddies about how good the rook looked in day one drills. They’re as excited as you are.

A few weeks go by, and you don’t go back to watch him again. You’ve seen what you needed to see. But after a week or so, you notice that the coaches aren’t saying much about him. He’s not getting as many headlines, and the sportswriters aren’t putting him in as many columns.

You’re a bit concerned, as a fan … but not really worried, because you’ve seen him with your OWN EYES.

Game day comes, and it’s party time! You’ve got a rec room full of football friends. Everybody’s jerseyed up, there’s plenty of pizza and beer, and that beautiful anticipation of watching the games where EVERY team is still a Superbowl contender.

The game gets underway, and the rookie is nowhere to be found on the field. You catch a couple of glimpses of him standing on the sidelines, still muscular and game-faced, but not getting any playing time.

That seems odd.

And apparently, the overseas crowd is wondering the same thing you are. His commercials have been playing in THEIR markets too. WHY ISN’T HE ON THE FING FIELD?

Third quarter starts … and ends.

Fourth quarter starts, and the natives are getting restless. Somebody starts chanting his name in one of the upper decks … and it catches on with speed … HIS kind of speed, like flames licking gasoline fumes, and pretty soon the entire stadium is screaming his name!

The camera pans to a close-up of the head coach, who’s obviously a bit flustered. One of his assistants is talking to him, and they’re face to face. You can’t quite read his lips, but his vigorous head-shaking suggests that he doesn’t give a shit what the crowd thinks, he’s not in favor of putting the rookie in.

Or he could just be saying no to a particular scheme, or play. But there’s something … unusual about his expression. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he didn’t … for some reason … LIKE the rookie.

The conversation ends with coach throwing his hands in the air in exasperation. The assistant motions to another assistant, and the shot switches to a view of the rook putting on his helmet and trotting onto the field.

And the crowd goes wild! They’re FINALLY getting what they paid for—a LOOK at the ROOK.

He trots into the huddle, and the crowd goes deathly silent. You can clearly hear 11 men handclap a defensive play, and watch them take their positions.

Pre-snap, he looks like a natural. He’s waving his arms, and calling out observations to his teammates. He shifts a little to the left, and forward to cover what might develop into a crease between the tackle and guard. The offensive set looks like a run from YOUR vantage point, and he appears to be thinking the same thing.

A good sign.

The QB calls our his pre-snap sequence, making what sound like a couple of adjustments to the play, and the center snaps the pigskin …

Yep, it’s a run … off tackle right. The crease shows up right where its supposed to by YOUR reckoning, AND the rook’s. The lineman is effectively screened out of the play, and the tailback is preparing to hit the hole … and face the rook.

The rook is right where he’s supposed to be.

Let’s pause.



The rook has theoretically prepared his entire life for this moment.

He is a specimen of health. He has the genetic makeup to be positioned for a career as a hitter of men. He has been drafted into the most exclusive club in the world for men who excel at the sport of football.

He has been paid, transported, lodged, massaged, taped, padded, dressed, and put in the game.

Once on the field, he is part of yet ANOTHER exclusive group … the men who have seen the playbook. He knows where all ten of his teammates are SUPPOSED to be, and reason to assume they are, in fact, there.

They have had a luxury that exists in very few other occupations … the luxury of practicing THIS moment over and over and over and over again, until it has had every opportunity to become second nature.

His entire life has come down to this rehearsed moment, where his intellect, physical attributes, and position put him at the center of the universe, in some ways.


Unpause.



The tailback hits the hole square, and jukes a bit to the left. Two steps, and he’s in the space being occupied by the rook … who reaches out …

... to tap the tailback’s jersey with both hands, the way you do in practice with limited pads.

The runner bounces off, spins left and accelerates for another 11 yards before getting hauled down by an out-of-position cornerback.

The coach is FURIOUS! He KNEW this was the most likely outcome. And WHY did he know this?

Because he’s discovered that the rook doesn’t LIKE the actual GAME of football. He’s a bit of a pacifist. He doesn’t actually like to hit PEOPLE! He likes the money, and the prestige, and the drills, and the uniforms, and the locker rooms, and even the history of the sport. But he doesn’t have the love of the game. He doesn’t want to play the game, he just wants to PREPARE to play the game.

And it’s too late to stop him from being on the team, or representing the city, or spending this years bonus because he’s ON the team. He has a contract. And after the coach finishes his post-game tirade on tape, you realize that you are headed for a big disappointment.

Some of you will realize that we just went all the way around the barn to get to the point. That’s basically because I like to write, not because the metaphor NEEDED this much description.

Others will think this is a pro-war piece, and that I’m suggesting that someone is afraid to fight the war. It isn’t. The GAME is full-contact politics, NOT the war.

Some of you will just shake your head in bewilderment, thinking that there IS no point.

But some of you, maybe even most of you … will read between the lines, and realize that I said precisely what I intended to say, namely …

THIS IS WHY I HATE THE DEMOCRATS. Every fing season, they suck me in with big promise of hard-hitting play. And they let me down just about EVERY time. I hate Republicans too, but I admit this much ... Republicans LOVE the GAME of politics. They’re just WRONG about stuff. The DEMS think the tackle is automatic, because they’re “right.” And that’s just not how the game is played.

Thanks for reading this far, lol.

Peace,
--Stew.

26 February 2007

Troy Day


I need a break from my book, but I feel like writing, so I’m stopping here for a minute. Hope everybody’s good.

* * * * *

I’ve written a lot about holidays I don’t like, seemed like a good day to tell you about my FAVORITE non-traditional holiday. It’s Troy Day, and unless you were in a VERY specific place, at a VERY specific time, you’ve never heard of it, but you’re welcome to celebrate it with me. It comes in handy from time to time.

Troy Day started in one of my earlier lives, the one where I was an Air Force radio/television broadcaster in the Pacific.

At the time, I was half of a morning drive-time radio show in Tokyo (whaddup Jakey!!!!!!!). Over the weeks/months/years that the show existed, we’d built up a fair amount of popularity and a VERY sizable audience across the Kanto Plain; mostly because we’d dumped the rule book pretty early on, and just had the most fun we could without going to jail.

(That’s a pretty ironic sentence if you know the whole story. I’ll have to remember that sentence later. Sorry readers, that’s an inside joke. I’ll try to keep those to a minimum)

Anywayanyway … shortly after 6am every morning, we used to get the first wave of music requests. Two groups of people called at this time, most mornings. Group A, was the school kids at different bases who were getting ready to go to class, and wanted a shout out, or to hear their favorite top 40 song first thing in the morning. The Jake&Stew show was all about playing whatever somebody specific wanted to hear because … well, it sucks enough to be away from home, and this was the pre-Ipod period of history, and a radio request seemed like a simple enough thing to give somebody when you are sitting in a roomful of music with a gigantic transmitter outside.

Group B was the Japanese chics who liked our voices, and wanted us to come party with them. Also a very fun group, but they have nothing to do with Troy Day.

One morning, during this early time, Troy called.

Most live radio jocks that actually get to TALK to listeners will tell you that they have their favorites. No matter how big your audience is there are ALWAYS people who listen faithfully, and call frequently, that you come to think of as “regulars.” Some “get it,” and only call periodically for something specific. You talk to them, and over time get to know them because … well, you talk to them on the phone all the time. Those are the “good” regulars.

Others call too often, request the same thing over and over, and basically annoy the shit out of you. You’ll usually take their calls, but after awhile they get to be somewhat like stalkers, very scary people who you can feel in the room before you even pick up the phone. You hate those people, because they’re unnerving first thing in the morning.

Troy was my all-time favorite caller. He only called twice ... two days in a row. He was an elementary school kid who wanted to hear a particular song. Nothing wrong with that, BUT … he stood out because he was incredibly polite, very articulate, and obviously bothered by something.

I wrote down his request, and asked him a couple of questions; generic stuff like how old he was, what base he was calling from, and what grade he was in. He politely answered, but called for his mom when I asked what school he went to.

I heard her pause, then yell the name of his school from another room, which seemed a bit strange. I teased him a little bit about being in the sixth grade and not knowing his school name.

He took my teasing good-naturedly, and then explained that this was his first week. His family had just moved to Japan from a base in Europe, and he was still the “new kid.” Something about how he seemed to take it all in stride really stayed with me. He’d been the new kid before, as most military kids have, and he understood his place in the world. He knew that he’d be the new kid for a while, and then somebody else would take the baton and he’d eventually make new friends, and figure out where he’d fit in.

He then explained that his dad was deployed with “the Ship,” and his mom hadn’t finished unpacking all the boxes and stuff, so he was going to come home and help her out after class that day. Really sweet kid.

Things in MY life sucked at that moment. I was in the middle of listening to my marriage break up a little more every evening, I was drinking too much, working too hard at my other job, and pretty much wasting oxygen that some more worthy human could have done more effective things with. I asked him how much time he had before he needed to leave to catch his bus. He said awhile; so I asked him to hold on, while the on-air song ended, so Jakey and I could talk to him live on the air. He seemed pretty excited about that, so he held.

Jakey was just potting our mics up to talk awhile before we started the next song, so I cut him off to tell him about the caller on-hold. I slid the note with Troy’s request to an intern to go pull the song, while I told Tokyo about this very cool young man who’d called in with the request for our next song. Jakey put the call through, and for the next ten minutes, one of the world’s largest cities was introduced to my new friend Troy.

We asked him about his class, his teacher, his favorite subjects, and if there were any cute girls he liked.

The kid was born to talk on the radio.

He was witty, and charming, and a lot of fun. Jakey and I both shared anecdotes about being the new guy, and he asked us questions back … GOOD ones.

We laughed and talked for a bit, and then I asked him to introduce the song he’d asked for. He was flawless. We wished him good luck at school, and told him that if he ever needed anything, he’d made two VERY powerful friends on the radio, and he could call back anytime. I declared it Troy Day, and said that anyone who met Troy at school had to ask him something about himself, and do whatever they could to make him feel at home. We started his song, thanked him for his request, and disconnected the call.

AND EVERY PHONE LINE LIT UP.

The first call came from one of our dear friends, a public affairs officer at Troy’s base, asking if there was anything SHE could do to make Troy day a success …

One of the teachers called from the school, she’d been listening in the lounge, and was now late for class because she didn’t want to leave before the segment was over, and suddenly the day’s show was about being the new guy. Everybody had a story, and they were in a sharing mood.

Geralyn, the PA officer, took on the challenge of getting some special stuff for Troy’s class that day. The teacher arranged for Troy’s teacher to call us, and Troy Day started taking shape.

On air, we talked about Troy Day, and being the new guy with caller after caller after caller. Suddenly, people were greeting us with “Happy Troy Day,” and sharing their stories. After about an hour, Geralyn called to tell us that the bakery had donated cake with a Troy-themed message, and ice cream for all the sixth grade classes. The fire department was chipping in a ride on their new fire truck, and the entire base … everyone not deployed with “the Ship,” was getting into the mood of an unplanned holiday.

Near the end of the show, we got a live call from Troy’s classroom. A full-fledged Troy Day party was underway, which I’m not sure, but I think replaced a spelling test of some sort, and Troy had almost instantly gone from “the new guy” to being “big man on campus!”

That night, at the NCO club, I was starting my traditional binge for the evening, and heard a group at a table nearby toast “to Troy day, and being the new guy.” I felt good.

Troy called the next day.

“Hey guys, I don’t want a request or anything, I just wanted to say thank you for yesterday.”

I’m a Scrooge at Christmas, and pass on most of the other tinsel and drivel-filled forced fun days. But every now and then, when shit just … WON’T go right, and I’m fucking up everything I should be navigating ever so smoothly (like writing this book) … I grab a handy beverage, hold it up for just a second, and silently give a toast …

… to Troy Day.

Peace,
--Stew.

Stew's Number