Letter of Reprimand

Resolved:

When two grown-ased, allegedly intelligent men find themselves in a fairly typical societal encounter, and cannot avoid escalation of said encounter to the highest possible denominator, it is a communications FAIL.

There is no right. There is no winner.

Professor Henry Louis "Skip" Gates: As a community elder, your behavior as described by you is unacceptable. We demand that as a highly regarded civic leader and respected intellectual, you hold yourself to a higher standard than your behavior on the afternoon of July 16, 2009. We expect you to embody proper decorum in ALL public interactions. Over the course of your life, you have earned the acceptance of our society on many levels. You stand as a living witness to the potential and accomplishment of black people everywhere. We accept you as a representative of your family, education, Harvard University, the cultural elite of Cambridge, Massachusetts -- one of America's most cultured townships, an international envoy from the descendants of American slavery to the globe, an authority on black literature and history, and bearer of the proud tradition of black men holding their heads high as they make their way through a system that is flawed, but trying to make itself more perfect. Your choices during this event were stupid and potentially dangerous. You KNOW better than to make reference to other men's maternal guardians--PARTICULARLY when you have cause to KNOW they are armed and angry.

From this day forward, "we're gonna need you to use your big boy words." You are hereby reprimanded.

Sergeant James Crowley: As a 17 year veteran of the Cambridge Police Department, you have accepted an active role in keeping the community safe from hurt, harm, and danger. Your understanding of the reality, perception, and potential dangers inherent in the long-standing relationship between law enforcement and various minority communities is well-documented and demonstrated. As a former instructor of the Police Department's policies on dealing with racial issues, we are dismayed that an Officer of your experience and street-smarts would fall for this particular version of the "okie-doke." Your role in escalating this from a routine 911 response call to a public relations debacle is duly noted, and not with a tone of appreciation by us. We can only assume that in this age of the omnipresent camera, and 24-hour media machine, the possible negative images of our fine Department cuffing a cane-carrying Professor for the "disorderly conduct" of impolite invectives hurled from his home, is not lost on you. We further condemn your unneccessary public refusals to apologize as adding fuel to the fire. If you aren't going to apologize, then don't. No further comment is necessary from you on that particular topic.

Form this day forward, we're gonna need you to take the latter portion of "protect and serve" a bit more seriously. You are hereby reprimanded.

It is our recommendation that you gentlemen take the President's invitation to have a beer in the White House as a gesture of racial harmony seriously. As a nation, and collective communities, we have more important issues to address, and we need the intelligence and contributions you BOTH possess as fuel for our continuing journey.

Professor Gates; there are ignorant freshman ready to be molded into informed citizens. Go play your position.

Sergeant Crowley; there is still plenty of crime to fight, go put your training and experience to good use.

Due to the joint demonstration of your combined ability to turn simple-assed conversations into potential racial flash points, drivers will be provided for you, as we don't need this ridiculous waste of our time to end in DUI's or foolish comments in front of our insatiable media.

One beer each. Budweiser, none of that fancy stuff. We're not trying to turn you into drinking buddies, its an effing gesture.

That is all.

Saints with Stones.

Had I been raised Catholic, I'm pretty sure my mother would eventually be eligible for Sainthood. I speak with no sarcasm; I sincerely believe she'd survive the canonization process, and after a century or so be declared a Saint, and honored with patronage (or is it matronage?) of either elderly women, or felons. These are her causes.

I don't think she stands alone. Many of the mothers she has surrounded herself with over the years have been women made of the stuff that goes miles beyond basic high moral fiber. These are those who time and again have sacrificed literally everything they have for things only important in spiritual realms, tended the sick and poor when no one else would, and put up with all manner of bullshit people with a smile and a heartfelt promise to 'pray for them.'

Those of you who know me understand that I am agnostic. I have no idea whether there is a G-d, in the sense the Christians who surround me describe. But I do believe that the Universe answers when my mother prays. I have seen her stop storms, and avoid accidents, and rain healing on sickness, and once even pray me up from a C+ to an A- that can ONLY be described as miraculous--based on a test score that amazed even me.

These are serious credentials, and they form the image that comes to mind when I think of women who are walking ever more slowly through their last years of middle age.

Years spent watching the world through the lens of a Betacam have given me a 'different' perspective on video. I don't see things just "happening" when I watch real-life motion pictures, I see people. I smell things, and I imagine the emotions of the person holding the camera.

These senses add a dimension to the sounds and sights of video for me. I automatically default to the question of what has caused the operator to focus on this image, given 360 degrees of possibility. I try to envision what motives determine the instant they start and stop recording. I ponder the nearest stable surface potentially available to steady the shot. I sometimes question if they have the fortitude ... beyond the bravery required to stand still and push record ... to keep their eyes open as the image they are capturing spins into permanent imprisonment on the tape or disk inside the device.

The news junkie in me has been glued to twitter, and youtube, and http://www.huffingtonpost.com for more than two weeks now, as Tehran, Iran has been engulfed in a National protest of epic proportions.

I watched Neda die.

And even though that is the image that will most likely live forever as the touchstone of this moment in history, it is not the one that has seared me most deeply.

That image came Saturday, June 20th, at 4:04 ET.

I've been following the liveblog of a journalist--and if you know me, you know that's a title I don't give every person with a pen and tablet, particularly in the blogosphere--named Nico Pitney, who has been gathering and chronicling the sacred, sublime, and surprising moments of this event from the beginning.

At that moment, Niko posted the video that crystalized my opinion on events in Iran. Here's how he (and Chas, the reader) described it:

Here is another longer video with some graphic content near the end. Reader Chas sums it up: "Its a roaming shot of protesters walking toward a street corner where people are already clashing with the militia, Women hand them rocks on the way, and when they get there shots are fired and the crowd carries back a man who has been hit, and then the crowd retreats away from the scene, showing the blood of the man who has apparently been killed."

What followed was a video that is almost benign compared to some of the more graphic images oozing out of this newly christened war zone. It is precisely as Chas articulates.

I watched it. And women in burqas handed the protestors rocks as they walked toward an inevitable clash with the militia.

And I thought of my Saint Mom.

And I tried to picture the scenario where that gentle, kind, praying, weeping, helpful, honest, hard-working woman would hand me a rock to throw at the soldiers coming down the street.

And it hit me.

If that moment ever came, it would be right. I would take that rock, and walk toward whoever was coming; with their batons, and their guns, and their shields, and their tear gas, and their
fear, and their rage, and their orders, and their intent.

I would hurl that rock as hard as I could and pray the prayer of David to guide my stone and make it an instrument of death.

It was in that moment, as I watched this relatively benign little dispute on a tiny screen, happening in a country 6500 miles from me, that their mini-war became something more than a news event to me. The truth is, I don't care who won their election. I don't understand their politics, and have no vested interest in Mousavi, or Ahmedinijad, or Khameni, or Rafsanjani. I would not know the difference in a Mullah and an Ayatollah if that knowledge could ensure me eternal life with 40 virgins.

But among that group of rock-givers, I believe are some good women. One or more of those women would probably survive the canonization process, and after a century or so be declared a Saint, and honored with patronage (or is it matronage) of elderly women, or felons, or the downtrodden--because these are her causes.

And I would hope that in spite of my agnosticism; in a fight like this one, you would count me as accepting the potentially fatal gift from a Saint handing out stones.

Peace,
--Stew.

Photo:
http://www.iranian.com/History/2000/March/Women/Images/demo17.jpg

Legacy.

With his team trailing by two and :01 left on the clock of game two of the 2009 NBA Eastern Conference finals, Lebron James exits the time out with his nerves bunched into tight little knots you can almost see in his eyes. 

The 25,000 people who've paid a couple of days middle class salary to witness the moment unfiltered are stunned into an apprehensive silence. This is not Chicago, or Boston, or Los Angeles; those are cities forged and shaped into a persistent expectation that time is always on their side, and the coming miracle will arrive and twist fate to their favor. 

This is Cleveland, Ohio, USA; a world-class sports town known for an unconditional love of its professional teams. In the arena tonight sits a naive crowd; far more familiar with heart-breaking defeat than heart-stopping victory--and it shows.

Their team has done it again. "It" being blowing a huge lead to snatch apparent defeat from the jaws of certain victory. Now, their King must earn his prematurely awarded crown.

By now you have certainly seen the outcome. Number 23 plays possum at the free-throw line momentarily as the ball is handed to the inbound passer, then briefly feints toward the basket before breaking to 3-point territory at the top of the key as the ball is released in his direction. He throws a half-hearted right forearm shiver Hedo's way before catching the pass. 

The timekeeper pushes the button, reanimating time and restarting the countdown clock at ONE. 

The crowd catches its collective breath as Lebron spins, leaps, and releases the ball in a familiar and practiced motion, sending the sphere of rubber awkwardly toward the iron ring. 

The basketball catches on the inner far side of the metal cylinder at about the time the buzzer sounds, rattles around the rim, and drops through the net for a game-winning score.

The Cleveland crowd collectively exhales and erupts.  Mr. James spins on his heels and leaps into the arms of a teammate, and before the celebration can get a good head of steam, the pundits have already started their comparisons to His three-letter Highness, Air.

There is no minimizing this moment.  It is Hall-of-Fame worthy. This is the stuff from which legends are made. In time, Lebron James will earn his spot in the pantheon, and school-children will sing his praises and mark the milestones of their lives by his exploits.

But ... Jordan?

How quickly we forget. Let's rewind history for a moment for a quick recap of what made James and Deloris' offspring ... well, Michael Jordan.

Kobe, you might want to bring your trio of rings into the circle as well for this brief reminder:

The Jordan era begins in 1982, at the end of March Madness, when ... after Dean Smith led his Tarheel team past 62 OTHER teams, the college freshman Jordan dropped a game-winning buzzer-beater over Patrick Ewing.  

Now THAT'S how you create a lifelong rival! Rob the country's most heralded center of the first of what will be many, many opportunities to be a champion.

Lebron (and Kobe) entered the league with no rivals.  Nobody's out to avenge a college grudge, nobody has any deeply held bitterness. A win for Lebron is just a win; not the continuation of a decades long ass-whipping. Every year, Mr. Ewing had to not only face His Airness, he had to remember that this Jordan kid stole his college ring! You can pump yourself up to come back next year in the NBA, but where do you go mentally to recapture your Senior year at Georgetown?

Jordan finishes three years at North Carolina with great numbers, another accomplishment that counts in his legacy.  I have no knock on players that skip college for the pros. 

(C.R.E.A.M. "Get the money; dolla, dolla bills ya'll.")

But to compare skills between players is to look at ALL their accomplishments.  Without a NCAA ring in the trophy case, James starts off at a disadvantage against Jordan.

Air is drafted by the Chicago Bulls, who perennially sit somewhere between the middle and bottom of the NBA's Eastern Conference.  His first year in the league, they were below .500, made the playoffs, and got swept by the Bucks.

Kobe, there was also the spat during MJ's rookie season All-Star game that you can check-off on your "be like Mike" worksheet.  

All the vets (*cough* Isiaiah Thomas *cough*) were pissed that Jordan was getting so much hype, so they froze him out.  Sound familiar?

Anyway.  Season two was the broken foot, 38 - 52 record.  The Bulls make the playoffs again, and Jordan introduces himself to the casual fans by returning from the injury to drop 63 points against one of the top three NBA lineups in the history of the game; the 85 - 86 Boston Celtics. Everybody recounts that record-breaking performance.  Bulls lose the game. 

Nobody talks about the fact that the Bulls not only got beat, but the Leprechauns SWEPT them in that series. I've never asked Mike about this personally, but somehow I think he learned something important about teamwork that Sunday afternoon.

We're talking 20 year old history here, so my fellow old-heads will have to back me up as we recall what an fing juggernaut the East was back then.

During this era, an Eastern conference season meant you were playing against superstars in virtually every NBA city. Boston still had Bird/Parish/McHale, New York was NEW YORK, Philly still had Dr. J (though briefly) then Charles Barkley, Indiana had Reggie and the Dutchman, the Human Highlight reel was contorting himself to new replays every night in Atlanta, and you could buy t-shirts at any mall in America that said Detroit Pistons on the front, and BAD BOYS on the back. Cleveland wasn't a pushover, eventually Charlotte came to play, and Milwaukee sucked, but they could still make you earn a W.

Becoming "Air," meant developing a style that was flexible enough to take a pounding from Detroit one night, and out-hustling Boston the next.  This was no small feat. 

And that was just the East!

Travel west and you had to face Hakeem in Houston, the Admiral in San Antonio, a run-and-gun Portland, a competent Seattle, and the best pick-and-roll combo in the history of the game in Salt Lake City.  This was all just to earn the right to sell TICKETS to Showtime at the Forum; where the curtain raised every night on the most exciting brand of basketball ever offered at the professional, competitive level. 

Magic was likely on any given play to toss a patented, never-before-seen, no-look pass to James Worthy, who might drive to the hole ... OR ... dish to Michael Cooper who might drop one from two feet behind the 3-point line ... OR ... whiz a bullet pass up high to Kareem, who'd probably finish off a seven pass sequence with an undefendable sky hook from nine feet in the air.

No disrespect to the league OR Lebron, but the NBA just isn't that "kind" of good, or competitive anymore. 

Who, exactly is putting Lebron to the test these days?  The hapless Knicks?? Feisty Chicago? umm... the Wizards???  

Exactly.

As good as Jordan was, it took three tries to get past the Pistons.  That's how steep the competition was. 

Pundits: Lebron sweeps two teams in a row to get to the Conference Finals, and you want to compare him to WHO???  

Are you fing kidding me?

By 90 - 91, Jordan has literally transformed himself physically, just to prepare for the brutality of the inevitable series against Motown's Bad Boys. Every sports page in America had an article about the Jordan rules; a style of basketball specifically and unashamedly designed by Chuck Daly for his CHAMPIONSHIP team to beat one man.  Michael Jordan.

Where do I look in today's paper(s) for the Lebron rules? Just the other night, I heard Dwight Howard say "we just try to keep him out of the paint." 

Seriously?

That 90 - 91 season is the start of the first Bulls threepeat. 

Yeah, roll that around on your tongue a couple of times.  

First.  Threepeat.

Knocked off the Lakers, the Blazers, and the Suns. That's what the record books say.  But we who witnessed it, remember the all out WARS against the Knicks, and the Pacers, and the Cavaliers.

Oh yeah, and won an Olympic gold medal.

Then he retired to play baseball, which he kinda sucked at, but seemed to enjoy.

We're not even talking about the fashion impact, or celebrity status.  We're sticking to hoops here, but its worth noting that Lebron wears his shorts the way he does because MJ thought crotch-cutters looked stupid, and insisted on more manly attire.  And Air Jordan sneakers simply revolutionized high school footwear. 

I'm sure Lebron has a shoe contract, but I wouldn't know a Lebron basketball shoe if it walked up and put itself on my foot.  

I'm just sayin'

After RETIREMENT, Jordan came back to the game for his second threepeat.

Yeah, tongue roll time again.

SECOND. THREEPEAT.

Hit a triple double in the All-Star game, won 70 games, knocked off the Sonics, won 69 games, knocked off the Jazz, went to the absolute wall against Reggie Miller to get to the finals again ... immortalized the image of Bryon Russell as he knocked off the Jazz.  Again.

Six rings.  Two threepeats against the strongest, most competitive NBA to date. And just for giggles, let's consider the class of indisputable NBA Hall of Famers who cannot flash their championship rings at class reunions because of a little "Air,"

The late '80s Knickerbockers.  All of them; Ewing, Jackson, Starks, the whole gang of extremely talented ballers.

Drexler. Barkley. KJ. Thunder Dan Majerle. Wilkins ... both of 'em, although putting Gerald in this list is a bit of a compliment. Ehlo. Miller. Kemp. Stockton, Malone the Mailman who "almost" always delivered. Hornacek.

There are more, but this is a blog, not a book.

My beef is not with Lebron, but with those who would crown him the greatest prematurely.  By ALL accounts, young Cavalier #23 is among the premiere players in the league.  He is fun to watch, has an incredible sense of community and responsibility, and (with Kobe) is rising to the challenge of trying to put "air" back into the vacuum that is the modern NBA. He is incredibly talented, and will undoubtedly one day belong in the pantheon of basketball greats!

But legacy is not decided by talent alone.  It is not a purely statistical exercise.  The numbers count, but legacy is decided in direct competition against a field of worthy opponents. The league could improve, and Lebron may one day get to the level of "Air," but at the moment ... he is merely a talented, yet unproven superstar who had an amazing game-winning shot. 

Good Luck, Lebron.

Peace,

--Stew.

Photo:

http://hoopedia.nba.com/images/3/35/Mj-slam_dunk_comp.jpg

 

Tools

Suppose there was a huge brawl at the bar down the street from your house, and the President called in the Marines. I know, I know, that would never happen--but humor me for a moment. There's a larger point I'm aiming for. 

Let's say the Devil Dogs came in a couple of armor and infantry squads, killed a few of brawlers, and 'captured' more. Because they are now in the custody of the Corps, imagine with me that rather than turning these thugs over to the Police for lockup in your local jail, the Leathernecks followed 'their' regulations and tossed 'em in the brig. 

In addition to a tremendous legal mess, what you would have on your hands is an example of using the wrong tool for the job. 

You would have your very own Guantanamo -- a scenario which never should a been a military problem in the first place.

The military exists to represent our nation in war against other nations with whom we have disputes that cannot be resolved by diplomatic or economic means. It is not the most effective tool in America's arsenal for rounding up thugs--even really, really bad ones.

That's what law enforcement is for.

I was watching that Tuesday morning when a group of incredibly inventive thugs pulled off the crime of the century. With a death toll of thousands, these were criminals of the highest order. They belonged to one of the most aggressive international gangs of our lifetime.  

But they had the distinction of not belonging to another nation.  They were and are freelancers--not soldiers.

America loves a good war.  It brings us closer together, and helps us get rid of bad people.  It increases the level of patriotism, and energizes the economy.

That might be why we declare so many of them.  We've had wars on drugs, and poverty, the deficit, and now a war on terror. How have those turned out?

Declaring war on random things is ... wait, let me think of an appropriate word ... ok, got it. 

Stupid.

A war on terror or terrorism is a bad idea from the start.  It engages the wrong tool for a vapor mission. 

America has built the most powerful military in the history of the planet. We can show force at any spot on the globe in mere minutes when we set our mind to it.  And woe be to the focus of our fury. 

But even Spider Man realized that with great power comes great responsibility, and hopefully the lesson we'll walk away from this chapter of history will be to not declare "wars" so frivolously.

Responding to the horrific attacks of 9/11 was a job for crime-fighters, not warriors. Spending the same amount of money on INTERPOL, the FBI, the CIA, and small groups of Special Operations forces under their control would've avoided a lot of this mess.

Why?

Because without an actual country to fight, the military starts off at a horrible disadvantage. They're not equipped for nation-building. They're equipped for nation destroying--which is a very necessary function to have at your disposal.

The military operates under a completely different set of rules, regulations, and laws than the rest of us.  It is a code shared by all the militaries of the world.  At REAL war, you know exactly what to do with the guy pointing a gun at you, because he has on a uniform and when you capture him, there's a step-by-step guide specifying how he is to be treated.

You don't have to make up a name for him, or invent a status.  And you damn sure don't have to create a new prison or judicial system for him. 

There's another bonus.  You know when the job is finished.

Anybody got any idea when we should "end" the Global War on Terror?  Hell, anybody got any idea who the flesh and blood enemy is in the Global War on Terror?  The word "global" should give you a hint.

We have literally chosen to fight everybody who has a thought or idea that could be "terroristic." That should turn out well.

Can you imagine a Global War on Murder?

I mean, seriously.  Can you??

There are hundreds of people waking up in America right now with absolutely no idea that tomorrow they're going to kill someone.  There are a few hundred more who know exactly who they'd like to kill and how, but for one reason or another it won't happen.  Not tomorrow, not ever. There are literally thousands who'd like to kill someone but don't have the guts, or the means, or the opportunity.

How many dollars of your money are you willing to commit right now to go out and find all of those people? 

The GWOT is approaching $1,000,000,000 in cash expended.  That's the actual bullets and bombs and boats.  There are estimates that double and triple that amount in actual costs.

Good investment?  Perhaps so.  There HAVE been many lives saved.

But on the morning we declare the war finished, what will we have put in place to stop a terrorist from committing a heinous act that afternoon?

The answer is simple.  Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

An American life in combat is never wasted. Those brave men and women fight for the idea of America.  Not the flag, not the Constitution, not even the President ... the idea.  They kill and are killed to defend our National interests.

Seems like we owe it to them to be "interested" in putting the right tool to work on the right job.

Peace,

--Stew.

Photo: 

http://www.historycommons.org/events-images/a623_guantanamo_prison_flight_2050081722-18996.jpg

1000 Words

As a writer, I am annoyed by the truth that a picture is 'worth a thousand words.' 

But I get it.

When Danish cartoonist Kurt Westergaard sat down to capture the essence of Western thought about the current wars between the West and "Islamic Fundamentalist Terrorism," he was following a tradition that has been a hallmark of Democracy for centuries. It is unlikely that he was actively trying to inflame ... well, anything.

But he created a visual image.  In retrospect, it is an image that apparently offended many Muslims.

It is only fair to point out that Islam does not specifically prohibit drawing pictures of the Prophet Muhammed ... peace be upon him. More broadly, the idea is that you shouldn't create images of ANY person or animal, unless you can animate them.  The whole "no photos or images" thing is a response to the possibility of idolatry in the same way that full-length burkas are a nod to modesty and a persuasive hurdle to unwelcome lust.

There's a certain logic to it, but to the non-Muslim it comes across as closed-minded and a bit overkill-ish.  But that's a discussion for another day.

The point is that the cartoon led directly to 100 deaths.

Some 70,000 people rioted in Pakistan alone; embassies in Lebanon, Syria, and Iran were set on fire, and Hamas--apparently not wanting to disappoint,  issued death threats.

Here in the United States, we tend to reserve such responses for sports championships, civil right protests, and court decisions we disagree with.

  

But hey, to each his own.

The U.S. government is holding 44 unreleased photos that portend to show American mistreatment of captives from Iraq and Afghanistan. The left wing apparently demands their release under a long-standing philosophy of transparency. The right wing points out that releasing the snapshots is likely to rekindle flames of violence should they ever show up in the Muslim world.

Theses pictures are like naked pictures of your wife. Even though YOU might want to look at them, how do you minimize their impact on YOUR life once they hit the wider world?

The question to my esteemed assembly gathered here is:

"How do we properly position the American legal and cultural philosophy that it is wrong to shout FIRE in a crowded theater with the release of photos that we KNOW are likely to spark violence in nations where our friends and family are currently serving in combat capacities?"

I cannot count on my fingers and toes the number of people I love who are presently at war. 

I have biological relatives in Iraq, brothers in arms whose children's birthdays I celebrate in Afghanistan, and drinking buddies in both. After 11 years in the Air Force, I count hundreds of active-duty servicemen and women among my closest friends and associates. 

They serve in all four of the service branches, plus the Coast Guard. Last week, when the Air Force Master Sergeant list came out, I sent no fewer than 15 congratulatory e-mails, and made no fewer than 10 "maybe you won't celebrate Passover next year" telephone calls.

These are MY people.

And I don't want ANYBODY fucking with them. I want them ALL to retire whole; mentally and physically, from the often dangerous career they have chosen. I want them to leave the military on their own terms; and gracefully move into the next stages of their lives.

And yet, I oppose torture--in all its "enhanced interrogative technique-al" glory.

I'm one of those nerds who reads many of the documents that my government releases to the public (and by virtue of my vocation, many that remain classified) -- including the so-called torture memos. And as a veteran; trained, retrained, perhaps even overtrained in the Law of Armed Conflict--they sicken me.

Luckily--they are words.

I say luckily, because if they were photos, or Heaven forbid, VIDEO ... they would rekindle the flames that would put many of my friends at even more risk.

The conundrum exists because as an American, I value the release of information. I think it is the lifeblood of a healthy democracy.  I think transparency is good, and that if more Americans could see into the bowels of government, they would be ... at best, disappointed.

Having conceded that I believe American troops have committed war crimes in the ongoing conflict, I am torn between the greater good of putting every gory detail into the public domain, and releasing just enough to make the point.

I am unsettled by the thought of either option.

I've also struggled to see how this is a partisan issue. I see the conflict, or else I wouldn't write about this topic.  But how has it managed to break down into a GOP vs. Democratic or conservative vs. liberal question?

I return to my original thought.  I'm a writer. In this case, wouldn't 44,000 words just be ... better?

Peace,

--Stew.

Defending 'Dubya'

Ethics.

Toss that word into a business circle, or the presence of medical personnel, and you are bound to find yourself challenged and intrigued by the scenarios and questions that pop up. It hearkens images of money, and tough calls, and occasionally life and death. It calls for the sort of fundamental thinking where reasonable people are truly separated by perspective and experience and opinion. Living exclusively in the gray, ethics challenge one to ask not just "what do I think," but "what would I DO?"

No cabal has dived deeper into its darkest depths than the military.

Military ethics provoke quests for responses to queries unthinkable in any context. They pose questions that have no answers; require conclusions no human can live with, and propose solutions that ripple not just through choices of life and death, but through the very essence of history.

A commander in combat faces the fact that war IS hell and s/he may find him or herself in the untenable position of choosing between wrong and wrong. And many are aware that sometimes the only answer is the bad one.

Which brings us ... to the Presidency. It is a job marked by pomp and circumstance, ruffles and flourishes. It promises no easy questions, and no unanimous answers. It christens one COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF and sits heavy on the shoulders of one mortal who is given infinite power, virtually unlimited resources, and stripped of all friendships. Its only tool is wisdom, and its only judge is legacy. There are counselors and policies, but their agendas are hidden in plain sight and history holds only one man accountable. And on many days he is left to singularly condone or condemn the lonely commander's bad answer.

Into this space walks a proud Texan. His most generous friends call him aloof and disinterested. Born on third base, he steals home and is rewarded with this--the most powerful position on the planet. He is not the first; there have been many oval office dwellers cursed by legacy, and thought in hindsight to be fools.

He is rapidly confronted by the most challenging confluence of hard questions to ever face a sitting President. It is a Rubik's cube of international law, war policy, economic theory, and public safety. It presents the new King-of-the-mountain with the most dastardly combinations of bad, illegal, and evil, set to the silent count of an hourglass racing toward empty, and a terrified nation demanding protection.

It is military ethics at its most naked and raw.

And without a looking glass into the future, He makes His call.

It is illegal, and evil.  It contradicts the very soul of the Constitution he has sworn to protect. But he has made his choice(s) and he believes.

He throws himself to the mercy of legacy and history--and the empathy of his successor...

...Who walks out of a brilliant campaign and face first into the resulting mess to confront his first Presidential ethics question: "Should I be the one to set the precedent for going after an ex-President."

At his disposal are the pardon, the ignore-ance button, the condemnation card, and a razor-sharp legal mind. He is a man of compromise, who values the the brilliance of the universally unsatisfactory solution. Like a commander in combat, this combat Commander-in-Chief discerns that the only answers are bad ones.  

Without a looking glass into the future, He makes his call.

The people howl, the pundits pontificate, and his allies scream for blood.

But He is--ethically at least--correct; tho perhaps not "right"

...in defending 'Dubya.'

Peace,

--Stew.

Photo Credit:

http://minutillo.com/steve/weblog/images/bush-god.jpg

Finnishe

So my six-year old brings home his first grade homework; bit of vocabulary, some reading, a little writing, a spelling list, and some 'color the right answer' problems. My job is to make sure he completes it, go over the answers, and sign the sheet saying it was done. Easy, no problem. It's 6pm, he's bright, the work is straight forward, we'll have this knocked out by bedtime.

Dad and mom aren't together, so this is a nontraditional week for both of us. His mom is out of town and he has to spend the week with the mean parent.
We start with the vocabulary: Use each of the following words in a written sentence; Shouted, drowned, bridge, about, frog.

His entries: I shouted at my mom!!!!!(sic) I drowned in the pool. We walked under the bridge. She asked about him. The frog said ribbit.

I pause for a minute. Not a fan of the first two, but its early ... and even as a relative amateur I know you have to pick your battles, and 6:09 isn't the time to start a battle. There's lots of work left, and these are all legitimate uses of the words in sentences.

Now to the written words: Expand the following contractions three times; shouldn't, couldn't, dose'nt.

I ask him about contractions. I want to know what he's been taught in school so I can reinforce it. He doesn't actually get them, but its okay, I understand contractions fairly well. I explain them the way my dad explained them to me. Then I look more closely. DOSE'NT? Hmmm...not familiar with that one. I draw a line through it, thinking its a typo, write it correctly and have him copy my version rather than the mistaken one. He struggles a bit with the concept, but we get through it.

Now its time for spelling. Full disclosure--spelling used to be my thing. I'm a trophy-earning ex-champion. Love the stuff, even though I make far more mistakes now than I would've in my early teen years. I look over the list, and stop cold. There at number four, in my six-year old's spelling list, is the following gem:

"finnishe."

Finnishe?

I ask him to read it to me. "Finish," he says. I tell him to use it in a sentence. "I will finish the race." Hmmm...he knows the word. He can properly use it in a sentence.

Its one of TWO misspelled words in a list of eight.

The principal says--yeah, let's just skip ahead to that part of the story--"I'm so sorry. I walked into his classroom and saw that on the board, and IMMEDIATELY erased it."

Exsqueeze me?

You ... saw that on the board ... and ... erASED IT?
"This is how it was ... TAUGHT? IT's nOT A TyPO? YOu KNEw THis?"

Frustration ... no, ANGER rising.

"Ma'am; I understand typos, I get mistakes. I make both all the time. But ... this is a SPELLING list. Actually, this is a FIRST GRADE SPELLING LIST." F-I-N-N-I-S-H-E?

Okay, Finnish I might've even given a pass; perhaps you're referring to the fine people of Finland. But the extra "E" means you're

a: just being a dick, or

b: REFUSE to grab a dictionary before you send home bad spelling to a class half-filled with FIRST GRADERS whose parents don't even speak English as their primary language. You ERASED it?

Well ...
what did you say to the teacher? what did you do next? did you think this was a problem? what planet am I on?

Once upon a time, the news was something I watched or covered.

Since moving to the Washington area, it has increasingly become something that I live ... up close and personal.

Over the past eight years there I've had a series of first person run-ins with the health care system, the impact of immigration on a community, subprime loans, and the like.

And now, I've had my first contact with the DC public school system.

It is as bad as they say, and needs to be fixed. Or maybe I should say fixt.

I'm the son of a teacher. I believe it is among the MOST honorable professions, I understand how important it is, I am aware of how much off the clock work goes into doing it well, and I personally comprehend the impact that ONE teacher--good or bad--can have on a person's life.

A closer examination of Mercer's past homework turns up error after error after error.

And I'm telling my son he can grow up to be President? With THIS sort of education?

Unless we find a better system, I'm pretty sure that idea may be finnishied. There's more ...

Peace,
--Stew.
photo:
http://img.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2007/09_01/misspelledAP0609_468x311.jpg

2009

There are two things I look forward to every New Year’s. They’re not big, and they’re not necessarily important. But they’ve become my little ritual, and I have no intention of skipping them this year.

Number One: I like to write a New Year’s blog; a short piece of prose where I pass along good wishes to my friends and foes.

Number Two: I like to do the google search for the appropriate picture of Father Time to accompany that blog.

I may or may not drink.

I may or may not have too much.

I may or may not spend the midnight moment awake, or asleep … alone, or with friends … at home, or in some strange place where nobody knows my name.

There have been years I spent this midnight on a well-lit concert stage in a tuxedo, singing Auld Lang Syne into a microphone for large sums of money.

There have been years I sat alone in my pajamas, and let the words pass from an old thought into a new one, just barely moving my lips.

Some years I get a New Year’s kiss. Some years I don’t.

This blogging tradition is only a few years old, and I plan to keep it. But this year it is special to me.

2008 absolutely kicked my ass.

I have to grudgingly admire its strength.

2007 brought its share of rain; but ’08 was all about the thunder and lightning and flood.

I have life, and liberty, and strength. My religious friends frequently tell me that’s enough. And it IS true that without those things shit is considerably harder.

But don’t sleep on how much hell can exist even with those elements firmly in place.

There HAVE been bright spots.

I reconnected with a friend; actually three, that I never expected to share time or space with again. Friends have always been my most valuable possession. I am grateful to have each of them back in my universe.

That was the high point in between 2008 punching, kicking, scratching, and biting back.

But I’m a fighter too; bloody but unbowed.

Hey 2009, are you a lover or a fighter? Let’s get it on!

I have chosen for this year’s artwork a piece done by Vouet in 1627.

Relax, you could put everything I know about art in a micro thimble and still have room for a coffee stirrer to jangle around all the edges. This isn’t going to get technical.

The work is called Father Time Overcome by Love, Hope and Beauty.
It the interwebs can be believed, it hangs in Madrid’s Museo del Prado.

(Hey Denise, how about doing some reconnaissance work for a brotha?)

I picked it because this year, I’d like to see this sort of ass-whipping take place.

Okay, so time for the blessing – given equally to my friends and foes.

2009

I have wishes for you this year, just like always.

First and foremost, I wish you perspective on 2008.

If things were good for you in ‘08, I wish for you perfect vision to see through the pessimism that might surround you as the economy takes its hit and the nation tries to reset.

If things could’ve been better for you in ‘08, I wish you the courage to look around and realize that lots of people are doing fine, and you can be one of them just as easily as not.

But luck plays a role, and I wish you bushel baskets of the good kind this year.

I always wish you good health, but in 2009 I wish you a bit more; I wish for you awareness of how good your health is, and enough compassion on yourself to take an active role in moving it even closer to perfection.

There is room in the political world for each individual to have infinite agreements, and infinite disagreements with each other individual. In this moment of history, I wish for you the ability to grasp how radically the nation has changed in some people’s perspective, even if you think they’re nuts.

And if you are basking in the glow of this political moment, I wish for you the compassion to realize that change when you are content can be a frightening concept.

Satisfaction. I wish it for you in dumpster sized portions.

Family. I wish for you the opportunity to simply bask in its glow this year. I wish you the opportunities to reach out and touch the distant, and to hug and be hugged by those close.

I wish enough new technology for your universe to make it an even more efficient place.

I wish enough sunshine and nature around you that it is worthwhile for you to still look up from the keyboard on occasion to catch a beautiful sunset, or to look your children in the eyes when they tell you their latest story or joke.

I wish new laughter for you--mirth born in today’s movement, not mired in yesterday’s memory.
I wish new stories for you. I generously bless you with the space and time to do new things worth talking about.

I wish for you one problem that carries over from 2008. I wish for it to be gigantic! So big you cannot see how it will ever be resolved, but so dated that your 2009 superpowers melt it without burning even one calorie of your reserve.
I wish you a moveable moment of clarity. You will know when to use it, and why.

Once again, I wish you peace. Peace in life, peace in love, peace in mind, and peace in your daily decisions.

Finally, I wish you survival. I wish you a life long enough to find something in these wishes that resonates and forces you to remember; and a force that brings both of us here again in one year, maybe battered, perhaps bruised, but able to share the blessings from another year.

You to read, and me to bless you, and find a picture worth sharing.

Happy New Year!

Peace,
--Stew.
Photo: http://www.wga.hu/art/v/vouet/2/01timelo.jpg

unConventional

It's broke.

Grammar teachers, please give me a pass, because 'broken' doesn't properly reflect its state.

It's broke.

By "it," I refer to our government--in both form AND function.

Because I'm a political junkie and news nerd, this is something that I've actually thought and talked about for a very long time with a wide variety of people. Over time, I've culled a collection of ideas; some are completely mine, others I've gotten from friends, pundits, and random people at bars. But I think they're good ideas, and I'm finally ready to put them down on paper for public ridicule.

1. The U.S. House of Representatives should be selected at random.

The current process is entirely too long for such a short term. Since a Congress(wo)man only serves a two-year term, and a Congressional campaign takes about a year to execute, it stands to reason that you start raising money for the next campaign literally moments after being sworn in.

Solution? Have each legislative district put the names of all its registered voters into a hopper, and pull out one out. The 'lucky' new Congress(wo)man gets a letter informing them that they are to report to Washington in six months to perform their civic duty.

How would it actually work?
Well, we'd have to set up some sort of legislative boot camp that the newbies would have to go through. I imagine it'd take about two months of training and familiarization with the details of the legislative process, but all of that would be cheaper and smarter than what we do now. You'd tack time for that training on to the beginning of the term, so the new class would actually report to Washington a couple of months before the new session starts, and be sworn in and assume their offices after boot camp was finished. An actual 'term' would end up being 26 months, rather than 24. But even THAT would allow for more legislative time than the existing model where Reps are out on the campaign trail for the last half of their term. Leadership positions would be picked the same way they are now, by vote--or if you really wanted to reward competence, by highest scores in boot camp. If 12 strangers can pick a foreman to lead them, I can't fathom why 495 couldn't pick a Speaker.

What are the pros?
To me, there are too many to name, BUT here are some that sit at the top of the list.

• We'd have a MUCH more diverse Congress. There would be MANY more women, considerably more ethnic minorities, a wider range of careers and expertises (the current House is primarily lawyers), a wider range of social backgrounds, a wider socio-economic representation across the board, a wider age range, a wider group of political points of view, in short Congress would look a lot more like America.

• We'd have a full-time Congress. The existing Congressional schedule would barely qualify as a part-time job. This isn't to say your Representative isn't "busy," only that the majority of their time is reserved for travel, meetings with lobbyists, and fund-raising. In this system, since the entire group KNOWS it's done in two years, they can spend all 24 months of their legislative term actually legislating. PLUS, I suspect that dynamic would cause them to literally work up until 11:59:59 of their last day, because they KNOW they're not coming back, which means they have nothing to lose.

• Lobbying would have less long-term effect. Senator Obama talks a lot about the role that lobbyists play in our government. It's true, but in a sense it's to be expected. The lobbyist-politician relationship is allowed to form and mature over decades.

And in an environment where the politician needs a bottomless pit of cash to stay in office, and the lobbyist has access to a bottomless pit of cash--you don't need a Harvard Law degree to figure out the most likely form that relationship will morph toward over time.

In this plan, there would still BE lobbyists, but the relationships wouldn't have time to turn so incestuous. They would have to actually lobby, instead of bribe--which, in my opinion, would be a turn for the better.

• Interesting and shifting caucuses. One of the very interesting things about group dynamics is that people thrown into an unexpected situation form odd pairings and groups. I think we'd see some very unique alliances emerge in a randomly selected Congress. Over time, many of them might even hold over in consecutive terms.

• A randomly selected Congress(wo)man would probably be more responsive to opinions from home. In the current system, by the second or third term, a Representative’s life tive’s life has essentially shifted to Washington.

They have much more in common with their colleagues than they do with their Constituents. The ‘Party’ position often holds a LOT more sway over their votes than what’s popular at home. A person whose family, friends, and culture are still based in their home district would be more likely be sensitive to THOSE interests than any other.

• It’d definitely be cheaper.

Clearly, we’d get some duds. But hell, we get those anyhow. Statistically, we’d also find some hidden gems and discover some real leaders as well.

Next, an idea that my friend Terry first presented to me at work. I’ve modified it some from his original proposal but the core idea is his.

2. The President shouldn’t select Supreme Court Justices, Federal Judges should sorta like the way Cardinals pick the next Pope. If you think about it, this is a totally underused brain trust.

Federal Judges are highly educated and experienced, probably more in touch with what’s really going on in America than any other single group of people, and paid to be fair.

Sure, they’re partisans, but they seem to be a lot more realistic in their partisanship than their Capitol Hill or White House compatriots.

Who knows better which judges are good, which judges are great, and which judges are losing a step than other Federal judges? How likely is it that a wildly partisan judge could get a majority vote from the wider collective of judges?

Sure, the President could still “nominate” their choice, and the Senate could still “confirm” the nomination—but wouldn’t we have a better nomination; based on a recommendation from THEM, than on the simple question of whether a judge is pro-life or pro-choice, as determined by the sitting President?

IN THE ALTERNATIVE, how about populating the Supreme Court with a wider grouping of people than just judges?

What if that body was turned into a council of elders instead; and a retired businessman, or college professor, or philosopher, or respected member of the clergy could help serve the country as a Supreme Court Justice?

Wouldn’t it be kinda cool to have some views other than those of “just” lifelong lawyers? America has, and has always had hundreds of thousands of really smart people. I wonder how it would change the game if a perspective from academia, or elsewhere determined these sorts of outcomes.

I’d love to see a Warren Buffett, or Bill Gates, or Michael Bloomberg, or Cornell West, or Colin Powell, or other respected national figure on the bench.

How would T. Boone Pickens have decided Roe v. Wade? How would Billy Graham have resolved Gore v. Bush?

Sidenote: If I had to pick the next Supreme Court Justice, I’d nominate Judge Judy. Seriously. Like her or not, is there anybody who thinks she’s not fair? Is there anyone who hasn’t watched her judge in action? Is there anyone who gives a rat’s ass if she’s pro-life or choice? Is there anyone who thinks she’s not smart enough, or competent enough? That’s kinda what I want in a Justice.

I’ve got more ideas, but this is enough for a start.

Fellow news nerds, and polijunkies … thoughts?

Peace,

--Stew.

Photo:
https://blog.id.iit.edu/wpmu/newidiom/files/2008/03/uncle_sam_pointing_finger.jpg

The Robbery.

"Somehow, I just know they're going to fold." --Stew.

* * *

I've wanted to finish the games series, but haven't been in a writing mood until now.

I don't remember where I first heard it, but one of my beliefs is that the smartest way to rob a bank isn't at the teller.

If you want to rob a bank, you back a Brinks Truck up to the back door, and just fill it up.

Sure, you’re going to need a cover story, and a plan—but having chosen to rob a bank, you’re going to need those two things anyway.

The Brinks Truck method is just simple. It cuts out a bunch of middle men, and leaves you with enough trunk space to take what you actually want ... which is all the money.

Enter “the bailout” to my little screed.

I know, you've been hearing about it all day--but THIS ... really is a robbery. They're distracting us with arguments about necessity and the collapse of the economy, but this has very little to do with that. This is a flat out, back the brinks truck up to the safe, snatch the money and run, theft.

Oh Stew, you're being hyperbolic again.

Riiiiiiight. It's ALL me.

Let's review shall we?

Hyperbole: extravagant exaggeration (as "mile high ice cream cones") -- Merriam Webster Collegiate Dictionary, TENTH EDITION.

Flashback:
Date - February 8, 2007.
Location – US House of Representatives
Event – Govt Oversight and Reform Committee Hearing
Speaking – Paul Bremer, former Iraq Occupation Chief

Details – The “Honorable” Mister Bremer has been called to testify about the whereabouts of …

wait for it …

363 TONS of newly printed, shrink-wrapped $100 bills.

NOT HYPERBOLE; not VISA debits, an actual military cargo plane FULL of Benjamin Franklin-faced currency.

For those of you who DIDN’T spend your youth counting crack money or in banking, I’ll spare you the math. That is 12-Billion, with a Big-ole B for “butt,” American dollars.

And let’s talk about a billion dollars really quick, since math isn’t the American strong suit. A billion is a thousand millions. A five-bedroom, four-bath, three-car garage, McMansion on a quarter acre in the nicer D.C. suburbs would run you about a million dollars, even now.

Buy 1000 of those, and you are the proud owner of a billion dollars worth of real estate. That’s enough houses for all of your myspace friends, your facebook colleagues, your drinking buddies who can’t use a computer, your family—even the ones you don’t like, and all the hangers on who’ve figured out you have some extra houses lying around. And THAT’S just ONE billion.

These fuckers DISAPPEARED TWELVE BILLION DOLLARS into thin air. (The conservatives Agree)
Not spent it—there are no receipts. Not loaned it, or burned it, not flushed it down the toilet. It just … DISAPPEARED. We don’t know what happened to it EVEN NOW.

That, my friends, is called robbery. If you’re rich enough they might call it embezzlement, but “we” just chalked it up to collateral damage from the war and sent The Honorable Mister Bremer on his way.

Fine. What’s 12-billion dollars among friends?

If you answered “it’s casing the joint,” YOU my friends have won the grand prize, which we’ll award you as soon as we get our 12-Billion bucks back.

Why, Stew? What on earth would make you say that??

Ahem.

Today, they’re back with a plan to turn over $700,000,000,000.00 ... that’s seven hundred billion dollars, to ONE MAN.

And Congress is actually CONSIDERING it.

Wait, WTF?

Okay, lemme breathe for a minute.

It’s time for more perspective.

The US Government’s FY 2008 budget was about three trillion dollars (2.931 Trillion to be precise). Of that, roughly 410 billion was deficit spending, which is to say we were going to put it on a credit card, drawn from the bank of … I dunno, China. That was the PLAN … at the BEGINNING … of the fiscal year.

(That number doesn’t include the Global War on Terror, which isn’t part of the budget or deficit numbers because the Pentagon insists that since they don’t know how much it’s going to cost, they can’t project anything … but again, bigger fish, stew. Bigger fish.)

Fine. Deficit, schmeficit.

That three trillion covers 22 departments, all of which have a Secretary or Director who reports to a committee in Congress responsible for oversight.

But not for this heist.

The Secretary of the Treasury will get to singlehandedly oversee a fund that is almost 25% of last year’s total budget … BY HIMSELF.

I draw your attention in the proposal to Section 8 of the draft:

Sec. 8. Review.

Decisions by the Secretary pursuant to the authority of this Act are non-reviewable and committed to agency discretion, and may not be reviewed by any court of law or any administrative agency. (italics mine)

Some things just don’t require elaboration. But read some of the rest of the draft plan. It would be funny without a laugh track, if they weren't serious.

For the record, I support the notion of bailing out the economy when and if it’s in trouble. I just think the Congress should have to oversee it.

In spite of my rebellious and conspiratorial nature, I consider myself an American and a Patriot. I believe in the Constitution, and I take it seriously. Once upon a time, I took an oath to defend it … and I just don’t believe the founding fathers would look kindly on Congress handing one guy a check worth at least 25% of the total outlays for the country last year, with no day-to-day oversight.

That doesn’t sound like government to me.

It sounds like a robbery.

Peace,

--Stew.

Photo:
http://members.aol.com/musiletter/car/images/boss-in.jpg

Rules of the Game Part I

I think it starts at recess. Five or six little boys decided between freeze tag and hide and seek.

Pretty quickly, it becomes kickball or dodge ball. There's that first time teams are chosen, and somebody is, and has to be, picked last. The boys don't do it to be mean, the game requires that a captain pick the best of his options every time its his turn to draft for his team.

Over time, the trend is set--changeable only by moving to a new neighborhood, or sudden popularity of a new game. The athletic are ranked and rated, and the clumsy are relegated to the end of the line--the undesirables.

These 'unpicked' boys subsequently join one of two camps; the quitters or the plucky.

Quitters find some other way to spend recess. They swing or teeter, while the plucky stand there every day, waiting their turn while the athletic and popular get their first-round status for the day.

These strong-willed little boys have discovered that there is social value to the game itself. And on some level, they reason that 'last picked' is a social step above not playing the game at all, and disappearing from view.

As an adult, I've met some of the people scarred by this process. I admit the damage can appear to be severe. In some cases, it seems to literally shape certain people's self-esteem across decades and in spite of later accomplishments.

But these are the rules of the game. Well-coordinated, fast, strong kids who understand the game of the day get picked first. New kids move to the end of the line until they have demonstrated thier ability to play. There is no referee, no appeal, and no relief.

Over time this becomes the law of the playground, in the same way that gravity became the law of the planet.

And every little boy knows the rules. Even the outcasts know better than to try to game the system; opting instead to either not play the game, or gamble on pluck.

Some will try to make their mark elsewhere; in the classroom, or with their parents, or with comedy, music, or art. But they all know that once they step on the field, the rules apply.

A few years pass, and the more evolved team sport concept is passed down from fathers, older brothers, the big kids, or television. Team sports introduce new concepts--fair play, playing by the rules of the game, learning how to win--and just as importantly--honorably lose.

By this stage, the outcasts have typically started declaring that they don't "like" sports, as if the game is something that requires an individual's affection. It doesn't matter, they are still aware of the rules. And the society in which a little boy lives doesn't care that he 'likes' the game. His is a culture ruled by the concepts the game teaches.

And the little boy finds himself semi-permanently assigned to one of the myriad social strata-jock, participant, player, referee, cheater, coach, substitute, or cheerleader. And the outsiders avoid the game but not the concepts, because these are the rules by which boyhood is lived.

And the plucky get pluckier because you get better when you play more.

In time if you're plucky, you discover through 'hard work' and persistence that you don't have to be great to be valuable. All the game requires is that you learn to do one thing well enough.

Maybe you're a natural at defense, a great goalie, have a knack for rebounding, or the skills to be a punter. Everyone isn't born to be a pitcher, or wide receiver, or point guard. These are the superstars. They are rare. Many, if not most boys are born to be role players. And the game has evolved plenty of roles for the plucky.

And whether you play the game or not, the game is all around you. And every boy needs other boys, and where tow or more boys find themselves together, the rules exist and are followed with religious fervor.

And then grownups get involved. Little League standardizes the equiment, and introduces practice--which is a new concept to a little boy. And in the early days, "everybody plays," and there "are no winners or losers." But every little boy knows this isn't the natural order of things. He sees the gited pulled aside after practice for extra reps, and sees the grownups encourage the mortals to just drink their juice before the ride home.

And once he's home, and the boys gather to play, he takes his place in the natural order of things. The place where the best play first, there are winners and losers, and the game has a beginning and an end.

And in many ways, this is what it MEANS to be a little boy. It is to learn to navigate this wonderfully simple and complicated landscape.

And by the time you reach high school, you understand.

The purpose of the games is to teach you the rules. It doesn't even matter whether you are good at sport or not. Very few truly are. What matters is that you have absorbed the rules, because they are not the rules to sport, they are the rules to manhood.

And men rule the world.

And if you are going to survive and eventually thrive in this wolrd ruled by men, you MUST know and understand the rules.

High school is where you ultimately learn the importance of the uniform. This is where teams first represent larger groups of people. Here, if you are lucky enough to make the team, you proudly wear the colors of your school in neighborhoods you've never visited before, on a field of battle you first encounter moments before the game is to begin.

You may letter. You may be recruited to a higher level of competition. You may get your name in the paper.

Or you may be one of the plucky ones who just play the game, on whose shoulders every high school dynasty is built.

Watch for them, every team has them. They're the ones who sit on the bench during varsity competition. They know all the plays by heart, but they aren't fast enough or quick enough or nimble enough to be the first option. Some of them have never actually ever played in a game that counted.

They will never become famous for their contribution; but they practice every day. They get knocked to the ground over and over again by linemen learning the fine art of the proper tackle. They do wind sprints and suicide lines until they puke. They spend hours in the weight room. They field hundred of bunts, swim thousands of laps, and shoot millions of free throws, because to be unprepared is against the rules.

Even though they know they will never get into the games that count, they wake before dawn because that's what it means to be on the team. Everyone on the team respects them. this is their individual trophy.

Here are the rules they learn:

1. Every game has rules. These are inviolate.
2. You play to win the game.
3. You must compete for the honor of being on the team. The best players play.
The rest are backups, who must be ready should injury strike.
4. Try-outs are about your mental ability. Everybody here knows how to play
the sport. But it doesn't matter how theoretically good you are; if you don't
do well at tryouts, you aren't going to make the team.
5. There is no shame in not making varsity.
6. There is great glory in making varsity.
7. Practice is MUCH harder than the actual game.
8. Respect your opponent.
9. Shake hands before and after the game. Go for his throat between the whistles.
10. Protect yourself at all times.
11. There is a winner and a loser of every game.
12. Your record of wins and losses matters in determining the champion(s).
13. Sometimes you win the game, sometimes you lose the game. When you lose, don't whine. Congratulate the winner and vow to kick his ass next time. Do it.
14. Communism is the enemy. Everyone else is just an opponent.
15. Don't blame the ref. It's never the ref's fault.
16. If you're hurt; rub some dirt on it, walk it off, and keep playing. Never pretend to be injured.
17. If you're injured, don't pretend like you're just hurt. We can't afford to lose you for the entire season.
17a. If you're not sure, you're not injured.
18. If you lose to the same opponent repeatedly, he's better than you. This is called a worthy opponent; you can measure your progress by narrowing his margin of victory over time. If you work hard, you WILL eventually beat him.
18a. If you beat an opponent repeatedly, you are better than him. it is time for a new opponent. Either way, the wins and losses count.
19. Cheating is part of every game. Assume your opponent will cheat.
Cheat back if you must, but never get caught. Nobody likes cheaters who get caught.
20. Always play as hard as you can. There are no bonus points for potential.

There IS a point to this rant. It is political in nature, and hopefully you'll get there without me having to guide the way. Either way, I will tie of the loose ends, next blog.

Peace,

--Stew.

photo:
http://cache.daylife.com/imageserve/07oV6VH3Xpcs1/610x.jpg

The Tightrope

A baby is born to a teenaged, interracial couple in college. Dad, an African graduate student, leaves before the baby can form complete sentences. Mom gets her degrees and eventually moves home --to lily-whitest Kansas, where her parents can help her raise her family. There, the little boy gets a solid Midwestern upbringing; ten commandments, good neighbor, pull your weight, earn/save/spend, study hard/work hard. The tightrope is fully formed; but it is a faraway feature, the furthest tree in a distant forest. The boy has the luxury of being “just” an observer.

To his benefit, the boy probably misses the “You’ve gotta be twice as good to get half as far” lecture that would’ve been the staple in Big Mama’s house. There are other lectures that a white grandfather gives the golden-hued progeny of his freethinking little girl. It is probably for the best, considering this boy, because he has been born with twice as much potential anyway. The tightrope is closer, but the love that surrounds him, properly shields him from its danger.

The adolescent awakens to the wider world, and steps out in it. By appearance, he is black, and by many accounts beautiful. Part of a sizable community of men who statistically underachieve, he accomplishes an impressive young adulthood; post-graduating with honors from the Ivy League, simultaneously trying to discover the nuance of navigating a polarized culture from inside his mulatto skin. He is beginning to understand the tightrope, but wisely finds other ways to negotiate the chasm.

He chooses to embrace his appearance; to own the darkest side of his birthright, rather than fighting the unwinnable war of persuading those who see him--that he is not what he appears. He selects the most bittersweet piece of a chocolate city in which to make his mark. These … ghettos … always have a battle in progress, and a battle or two lying in wait. He engages. He finds a strong black woman with an intellect to match his own. He marries her. He fathers and she bears two beautiful little girls. He has now acquired the balancing pole that will be his most useful tool, should he ever have to walk across the tightrope.

He joins a church tended by a cleric old enough to be his black father. A masculine man with a manly past who stands in the pulpit each week facing a congregation culled from a community where fathers are like tooth fairies; everyone has seen what they leave behind, but only a small percentage have ever caught them in the act. Recognizing this vacuum, the pastor has an obligation. Tradition requires that the black Shepard must risk ridicule. The black preacher says from the pulpit the things that black fathers have always said to their black children. But the aging Reverend is forced to say them in the light of day, and into a microphone without the protection of beer, or bedtime stories, or barbeque.

He doesn’t know it now, but he will one day have to sacrifice the manhood of this black father on the altar of public outcry. Yet, these are the words that every black child who has a black father recognizes as “what my daddy told me we believe. " They are the legacy of black--in America. The man hears the words, and through them is formally introduced to the net that will catch him should he ever fall off the tightrope.

Years pass, and this mulatto man’s quest for identity is as resolved in his own mind, as it is unsettled in the streets on which he walks. The perfect storm of educational pedigree, politics, good looks, and eloquence find him on the biggest stage of the world; the General Election for President of the United States of America. He is a pioneer in every sense of the word.

And he awakens in this moment for which he has dreamed, calculated, and planned--standing on the tightrope. He is too far from his humble beginning to turn around, and too far from his destination to believe he can simply sprint to the finish line. He will have to walk—stabilizing pole in hand—cautiously, carefully, and deliberately to the other side.

From one side, the billowing wind of white America; intrigued by his intellect, captured by his eloquence, and hungry for his potential. The same white America wary of his hue, shackled by the tint of a shared history, and terrified by the legacy he can rightfully claim. They know part of him is white, but they wonder which part—and if that part is enough for him to feel their pains.

From the other side, the steady pitter-patter of black America; choired in chords from a community in chaos, straining at the seams for signs that THEIR long national nightmare will soon be over.

They comprehend, while they would NEVER say so into a microphone, that he cannot fully be one of them. They do not consider this an insult, this is their perception of reality. They welcome him, they admire him, they applaud him, they support him. But they KNOW that many men wear black skin but lack black souls.

Theirs is an experience from birth. It lives in barbershops and beauty salons, but it isn’t born there. It shows up at family reunions and around the water cooler, but that isn’t its home.
Being black is not a shirt to be selected and worn. It is a skin that is assigned once. It is to heralded on good days, and endured when things go wrong. It is an identity that walks with you through trial, but precedes you in every other moment. These people know that part of him is black, but they wonder which part—and if that part is enough for him to feel their pains.

And his tightrope walk continues.

A wiser man with the benefit of history will have to tell you if he makes it to the other side. I can only tell you that he has all the external tools he needs. This journey is treacherous even without the tightrope. Many great men have failed to successfully traverse it from much more solid ground. Like everyone else at the circus, I’m here for the show. I want to see a good performance, and I want my money’s worth. He has my support, and my admiration. But he’s got to walk the tightrope … alone.

Peace,
--Stew

photo:
http://blogs.itworldcanada.com/security/files/2007/07/j03863031.jpg

Thoughts from a Silent Keyboard

...I think it's been too long.

I used to sit at this keyboard every coupla days and force my thoughts through the tunnel. From this side of the wall they'd start out as an undisciplined mob of memories, impressions, and opinions.

Out there they'd show up as metaphors and missives; allegories and allusions.

I think it's been too long.

I'm pretty sure they weren't ever the most important words in the datastream that is the information age.

But they were mine.

They were my mark on an everchanging universe of opinions and shared ... no, I mean Shared!, experiences.

They were a proof that I existed. An erasable touchstone that no one would ever have the energy or impetus to completely erase.

And then I almost died.

And they were suddenly unimportant to me.

Now with no excuses, I'm not sure I need them anymore.

Oh sure, I want them -- those ... words that connect me with you; that find you even when I don't know where to look, or how to make you know we should be connected.

But the need ... after months of a different fight, doesn't punch the inside of my gut the same.

And in that way "my" life enjoys its irony -- the hunger is fleeting in an era where I've so much to say.

You know I'm aching to talk Barack, and Hill, and Russert, and that goddam R. Kelly.

I have ... questions.

Like:

What the hell was Kevin Garnett talking about?

and

Why do I dislike Michelle so much, but get so fing pissed off when other people talk badly about her?

Oh ... and I haven't told you about my trip to the DNC Rules Committee meeting in Washington where the determination was made about delegates from the Disneyland and Motown.

That was some rich shit.

Oh, and the Supreme Court. I've got ... thoughts.

Yeah ... and the media's pornification of my hero Mr. Russert.

Awwww fuckit.

I may as well write.

Stand by...

Peace,

--Stew.

Photo:

http://www.crunchgear.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/11/macbook_keyboard.jpg

Good Habits

One of the three media experiences I had over the weekend was a play hosted by St. Mary's, a local Catholic College for women.

The title was "Doubt: A Parable." I went because a friend of mine invited me; neither of us had any idea what the play was about, only that one of her friends had a role in the production.

I have ranted here about the scourge of Priests molesting little boys, most recently in October of 2006, in a blog called "Priests." I've been VERY critical about the way "religion," and the religious have addressed, or more accurately failed to address the issue.

This play didn't so much challenge that idea, as much as point out one perspective that I'd never considered.

The plot was simple. Sister Aloyusius, principal/head nun of an elementary school in the Bronx, 1964, believes that the local priest is molesting the first young black boy to attend. Absent the sort of evidence any "fair" investigation would require, she acts. Armed with only her conviction, compassion for the students in her charge, and a bullheaded determination born from decades of experience, she puts ALL of what little she has to risk at stake to do the right thing. She ultimately makes a series of very savvy political moves to force him to resign ... which sadly means he is transferred to another parish, with another elementary school.

On another day, perhaps I'll talk about how fantastically acted and produced it was. Or about how completely I fell in love with the character of the old stodgy, icy nun almost from her first words.

But today, a different focus.

I have come to believe that the secret to processing events in this confusing life is to find and articulate the poignant moment, that instant in the past that most vividly paints the face of good or evil on your conscience so that you can overcome apathy to respond in the proper manner.

It is easy to despise a murderer when you are confronted with a corpse. You are sorry for the family, sad for the victim, and afraid for society.

But to me, the poignant moment you require to fully ... comprehend the energy of homicide is the instant in which the murderer stood over his victim; knife in hand, armed with the collective sum of an entire life's experience and knowledge, plunging cold steel through skin, past muscle, around bone and fat, and into soft vital organs, fully knowing that he is stealing the life force of another human being. It is the splattering of blood, and whether he dabs it with a cloth, or smears it in ... before washing it off.

Facing the blunt, gruesome imagining of THIS moment, allows you to see past the man on the witness stand who wears a stylish suit and has a savvy lawyer. You can zip right past the well-groomed hair and fresh shave to the essence of the man minus his purchased advice designed to sway you.

You can snap and develop a mental picture of him in a moment less ... evolved. You can witness his heart-pounding, adrenaline pumping, anger seething, common sense on pause, excuses irrelevant, enraged moment, and envision him ... guilty.

And with THAT vision, it becomes easier to grasp the hand of justice and choke the living shit out of him with it.

It is the same for me with pedophile priests. I don't see men of the cloth, tortured souls struggling with pitch black temptations.

I see unworthy judges--men hearing the sinful and immoral confessions of others while fresh memories play in their mind's eye of recently exposed penises, anuses, and mouths; daring to counsel their peers, and assess the appropriate number of hail Marys and Our Fathers required for absolution from far lesser crimes than their own.

Your honor, I'd like permission to borrow the hand of justice to strangle this worthless bastard.

There is a moment in virtually ALL of these priestly stories that makes my blood run more frozen than cold. It is the sentence in every story that describes how MANY different environments this particular deviant has been allowed to stalk and hunt in.

It wasn't until this play that I allowed myself to wonder if perhaps all that moving around was the hand of honest but helpless people, too powerless to STOP the activity, but too concerned to sit apathetic. Engaged enough to get the demon spawn out of their purview while hoping that someone more powerful would be better positioned and inclined to cut if off at the root.

I still have nothing but a hearty FUCK YOU to pedophile priests, but I can only hope that the people lower on the totem pole from Rome to home aren't as complicit as the sky-dwellers.

For the sake of the thousands of little boys that will one day be my doctors and lawyers and congressmen and teachers of my grandchildren, I hope there are some "good habits" developing ... somewhere.

Photo:
http://www.creightonmagazine.org/files/Winter_2005/42-15198116-nun.jpg

Two Thousand Eight

2007 was an ass-kicker. I genuinely hope that when I'm an old man I have its force, and width, and breadth for my endeavors. When it dealt with me; it was never shy, or somehow unresolved. It came with a power that I will probably never forget.

I am still standing.

It has always been my tradition to offer New Year wishes to my friends. It is a tradition I don't plan to break this year.

Whether you are a person who stops by now and again to read a random blog, or someone whose presence allows me to continue to breathe in peace--these words apply equally to you. In short, I wish you well--not between me and you, I tend to wish the very best for me, given the choice between us. But between you and the universe; you and God, or Karma, or fate, or choice. In THAT battle, I want you to be victorious. And in that context, here is my 2008 blessing on you:

"

I wish for you an understanding of life ... and your place in it; to see clearly the distinctions between the events you encounter because you exist, and the events that know you personally, and seek you out with the intent of destroying you. I wish for you the power to stand steady, and beat back their fiercest attack

I wish for you the desire to not merely survive today, but to thrive in it;and be resolved to have the evening sun set on a wiser, braver, and stronger you than the one who was warmed by the first rays of the morning.

I wish for you a constant awareness of the value of each breath. I bless you with the ability to measure each word you spend that precious breath on with a scale to measure its value should it be your last.

I wish for you a bubbling health; an inner spring that defies you to say anything other than "I feel wonderful."

I wish for you inner vision, so you can understand the motivations of the people you encounter; and where it is beneficial, I bless you with the will to help them when it counts.

I wish for you a circle of fellow travellers who will walk before you to check things out, beside you to keep you company, behind you to watch your back, above you to keep things from falling on your head, around you to warn of attack, and beneath you just to help keep you up.

I wish for you the fulfillment of all your necessary needs; to have air available when you inhale, freshcleancold water at your beckon, a meal available when you open the cupboard, someone to talk to and hold when you are scared or just lonely.

I wish for you great sex. I still don't care what anybody says--a bad year with great sex doesn't feel like such a bad year.

I wish for you peace; as I do every year. And while that peace is still en route; I bless your quiet place to be a refuge for you, when you must escape the ongoing battle for just a moment, everyone needs a cave.

I wish for you laughter; and that the fun runs out long before the money.

Most importantly, I wish for you the successful completion of the year--even if it beats you up a bit, and I bless you to be here next year, to read the 2009 blessing, even if you find yourself outside what I wish for you.

"

Happy New Year.

Peace,
--Stew.

Photo: http://www.geocities.com/seanyspics2/Fathertime.jpg