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

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

DISABLED

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Peace,

--Stew.

YouTube Goes Political

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

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

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

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

Here goes.

First—the good:

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE BAD:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace,

--Stew.

Strange Fruit

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




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

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

"

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

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

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

"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Namely, audience.

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

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

Which brings us back to Billie Holiday, 1939.

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

Afraid, she sang the song anyway.

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

And it WAS a real problem.

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

Billie wasn't just "whistling Dixie."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Artists don't like that.

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

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

Peace,

--Stew.

References used for this blog:

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


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

Little Black Boys

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

I was wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

"Your children are not your children.

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

They come through you but not from you,

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

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I've been far from perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that's WITH my guidance and help.

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

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

Were there any daddies around to even hear the questions?

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

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

But this is my life.

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

Peace,

--Stew.

Why Barack Is Losing Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But President?

Hmmm …

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Chief Executive Officer of the free world?

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

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

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

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

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

2. Blow me away in the next debate.


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

Peace,

--Stew.




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

The Price of Pussy

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

Those basements are hard to find.

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

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

It's the rebirth of the pussy move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace,

--Stew.

Death of Democracy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So who’s YOUR king?

Missed you. Chat with you later.

Peace,

--Stew.

A Necessary Review

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



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

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

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

I COULDN’T CARE LESS WHO YOU VOTE FOR.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace,
--Stew.

Extra Credit: What would you add to the list?

The People Are Coming

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The people are coming.

Peace,
--Stew.