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.

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