Submit Your Concerns In Writing

Normally I don't talk about politics in public. I find it mostly just serves to bring out the foolish side of folks. A reasonable, intelligent person suddenly erupts into a frothing beast of fury and zealotry at the slightest mention of the issues or the candidates. I'll tell you what--I just don't have the stomach to watch as they whip themselves up into a self-righteous fit with little regard for handy things like facts or evidence. Those nuisances would just serve to get in the way of their inflated tirade. And that goes for voters on both sides of the fence. Smuggery is an ugly bitch in both red and blue.

Conversely, I don't really keep my leanings a secret either, and will engage in debates if they're handled respectfully and keep to the issues, but I don't wear pins or wave flags. I vote. I make sure my ballot gets to me on time, that all of my information is correct, that I've researched, read and understand the measures and positions at stake, and then I vote.

This nonsensical argument about "real Americans" and "serious patriots" just pisses me right the fuck off. You want to know who Real Americans are? They're the folks who vote in Oregon and Ohio and Texas and California and Michigan and Maine and Nevada and Florida and Georgia and Alaska and any of the other states and territories where they're legally counted. They vote when it's raining or snowing or 100 degrees. They vote when they didn't get enough sleep the night before and when they have a pile of work waiting on their desk when they get in. They vote by mail, or early, or after hours of waiting. They pay babysitters to watch their children, or they take their kids with them to watch and learn. Real Americans vote when they know their ballot might not be counted, but also know they have to at least try. Real Americans know that the only way their voice will be heard is if they raise it above the din of corruption in a sturdy yawp by casting their ballot.

I'm tired of being angry. I'm exhausted by waiting for the accountability that will most likely never come to Washington D.C., to my satisfaction anyway. I'm ready for logic and compassion to stop being side items on the political buffet. As serious as this election is, the humor has gotten me through it. I hope the following bits will bring a smile to your face as well-- right before (or after) we join together as Real Americans, and vote.



Lisa Nova as Sarah Palin (beats the timing out of Tina Fey, though also a good imitation):






Larry David on the Huffington Post (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/larry-david/waiting-for-nov-4th_b_137029.html):

"I can't take much more of this. Two weeks to go, and I'm at the end of my rope. I can't work. I can eat, but mostly standing up. I'm anxious all the time and taking it out on my ex-wife, which, ironically, I'm finding enjoyable. This is like waiting for the results of a biopsy. Actually, it's worse. Biopsies only take a few days, maybe a week at the most, and if the biopsy comes back positive, there's still a potential cure. With this, there's no cure. The result is final. Like death.

Five times a day I'll still say to someone, "I don't know what I'm going to do if McCain wins." Of course, the reality is I'm probably not going to do anything. What can I do? I'm not going to kill myself. If I didn't kill myself when I became impotent for two months in 1979, I'm certainly not going to do it if McCain and Palin are elected, even if it's by nefarious means. If Obama loses, it would be easier to live with it if it's due to racism rather than if it's stolen. If it's racism, I can say, "Okay, we lost, but at least it's a democracy. Sure, it's a democracy inhabited by a majority of disgusting, reprehensible turds, but at least it's a democracy." If he loses because it's stolen, that will be much worse. Call me crazy, but I'd rather live in a democratic racist country than a non-democratic non-racist one. (It's not exactly a Hobson's choice, but it's close, and I think Hobson would compliment me on how close I've actually come to giving him no choice. He'd love that!)

The one concession I've made to maintain some form of sanity is that I've taken to censoring my news, just like the old Soviet Union. The citizenry (me) only gets to read and listen to what I deem appropriate for its health and well-being. Sure, there are times when the system breaks down. Michele Bachmann got through my radar this week, right before bedtime. That's not supposed to happen. That was a lapse in security, and I've had to make some adjustments. The debates were particularly challenging for me to monitor. First I tried running in and out of the room so I would only hear my guy. This worked until I knocked over a tray of hors d'oeuvres. "Sit down or get out!" my host demanded. "Okay," I said, and took a seat, but I was more fidgety than a ten-year-old at temple. I just couldn't watch without saying anything, and my running commentary, which mostly consisted of "Shut up, you prick!" or "You're a fucking liar!!!" or "Go to hell, you cocksucker!" was way too distracting for the attendees, and finally I was asked to leave.

Assuming November 4th ever comes, my big decision won't be where I'll be watching the returns, but if I'll be watching. I believe I have big jinx potential and may have actually cost the Dems the last two elections. I know I've jinxed sporting events. When my teams are losing and I want them to make a comeback, all I have to do is leave the room. Works every time. So if I do watch, I'll do it alone. I can't subject other people to me in my current condition. I just don't like what I've turned into -- and frankly I wasn't that crazy about me even before the turn. This election is having the same effect on me as marijuana. All of my worst qualities have been exacerbated. I'm paranoid, obsessive, nervous, and totally mental. It's one long, intense, bad trip. I need to come down. Soon."

Birthday, Observed

Dad was born on October 26, 1926. Let me tell you a few things I learned about and from my dad.

He loved mincemeat pies and rutabaga. Both "foods" make me sad. Mincemeat is the kind of mixture you would conjure up at the middle school lunchroom table and then dare your weakest willed friend to eat it for a dollar--but they have to finish the whole thing. Rutabaga, on the other hand, tasted alright if you could get beyond the stench of cooking it. The wreak of that vegetable breaking down to baby food consistency used to wake us up on Thanksgiving with all the pleasure of the Harvest Clown sitting on our chests and stealing our breath.

Dad could draw Popeye in less than a minute. And not some crappy stick figure holding a cylinder shape with "spinach" written across it. No way. His Popeyes were publishable quality.

He was like the Pied Piper of Hartland without all the death. I'm pretty sure he liked little kids, but holy God did they love him. If there was a kid under 5 in a two mile radius of him, their little kid radar went off and they honed in on him. Some broke into a flat out run to get to him. Once they got to him, their reactions ranged from standing in silent awe to doing a Kerry Strugg vault straight up into his arms. However they reacted to him, he always had the same reaction. He'd look at them over his glasses and make his forehead wrinkle until they were giggggggling little balls of adoring jell-o.

He wore a black ambassador hat with a red and gold feather pin for dressing up, steppin' out occasions like church or weddings.

I saw him visibly mad once in my whole life.

He taught Driver's Education as a little extra income. I don't know how he taught the students he hadn't help make, but I can tell you that our first and only ride together before I earned my license ended with this direction: "brake. Brake. Brake! BRAKE! USE THE GODDAMN BRAKES!" My siblings tell similar stories.

He served in WWII. When "Saving Private Ryan" came out, I kept offering to take him, but he continually declined. He went to see it by himself and told me about it a couple months after the fact.

He had a belly laugh that started in his toes until he would roar with it. Tears would stream from his eyes and he'd almost stop breathing he was laughing so hard. Certain comedians could get him going, but usually it would be our neighbors who stopped in with tales about their kids or grandkids' shenanigans that would set him off the most.

He hated raspberries. We used to have raspberry bushes in the big garden. I'd spend hours in the summer out there gathering them. He could barely stand the sight of them, but tolerated it for us. To a point. The summer after I went to college, he plowed them under with the tractor. He claimed it was an "accident" and didn't see them, but for 18 years, he'd managed to avoid a bush calamity, so I was skeptical. Entertained, but skeptical.

He was raised on a farm in the middle of the Depression in rural Tennessee. His attachment to farm animals was that of caring for them so that they were comfortable until they were edible. He took the same approach to our pets, minus the eating them part. Feed them, pet them if they happened to come near your open palm, never hurt them, and be merciful. His mercy wasn't necessarily my mercy. We had a cat named Hennessy (after the cognac) who was an outside kitty. She developed a horrid infection on her head that we cleaned and treated to no avail. One morning, Dad told me to tell Hennessy that I loved her. I did and then went to school. I came home and went looking for her out by the barn. No Hennessy. I went to change her water and the bowls were gone.

Dad was sitting outside reading the paper and I asked him, "Dad, have you seen Hennessy?"

"Yes."

"Where was she?"

"Out behind the barn."

"I just looked there. When was that?"

"This morning. When I shot her. She's buried back there if you want to go see."

Like he was telling me what he had for breakfast. I don't even think he looked up from the paper. But that's the way he approached animal death. He'd rather take care of them himself, someone who loved them, than some stranger, as he perceived it. He respected our vet while the pets were alive (his brother and son were both vets), but when it came to the end, that was his job.

Dad loved peppermints. Brachs peppermints, not the horrid imitations restaurants hand out when they run out of fortune cookies. He believed they could cure everything from tummy aches to hurt feelings. For the most part, I think he was right, though I know my brother disagrees with me. He thinks they're unsatisfying stand-ins for dessert, but what does he know? He's just a nationally honored chef. Hack.

Today would have been Dad's 82nd birthday, so don your ambassador, pop a Brachs, and join me in a toast to the Pied Piper himself.

Moving Shadows

For as many movies as J and I watch (and research ad nauseam), we really don't own that many. Rent? Sure. I've rented enough movies to make Ebert blush, but rarely do I buy them. I make exceptions for Life Changers. You know, the movies that help shape your life or make you think until your ears ooze thinking juice, or forge a bond between you and a loved one. My film library contains moving snapshots from my personal history, and serves as physical illustrations of why I cherish movies and everything that surrounds them. Everything I relate to in life either has some basis from film, or I just haven't found that particular piece of celluloid yet. But I will.

When I moved to Oregon from Ohio, I brought what I could shove in my Buick and a whole lot of baggage that no suitcase could contain. An interested observer might be prompted to ask me if I've actually sought treatment for my neurotic disorder from my odd movie collection (which made the trip at the expense of most of my clothes). Looking at it objectively, yeah, I guess it's a little unusual to find "Unforgiven" propped up next to "Sleepless in Seattle", or to find "Fairy Tale: A True Story" mingling with "The Exorcist", but if I told you that Dad took me to see "Unforgiven" in the theater and that Mom took me to see "Sleepless in Seattle" at the same theater, it might start to make sense. My movies aren't arranged alphabetically. They're ordered autobiographically.

I took my beautiful, incredibly pregnant dear friend to see the re-issue of "The Exorcist" eight years ago so that we could enjoy the extra 11 minutes of footage together, and hopefully smoke the baby out of her well overdue burrow. It made perfect sense. She and I were roommates for three years in college and watched the original movie enough that we could absolutely pinpoint the extra footage when it came up. Especially the emotionally scarring backward spider walk down the family stairs. The bowel-loosening memory maker did the trick. Her sweet daughter was born the next day. That little girl and I spent lots of Aunt Sheila/Miss Lady time together and one of our favorite movies was "Fairy Tale: A True Story". Ahhhhhh, now it's coming together.

Just as I keep family photos together, I keep family movies together. I can glance over and see "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" and remember my brothers helping me rent it from Cromaine Library. The cover of "To Kill A Mockingbird" reminds me of staying with my sister and brother-in-law in their first house on McCormack Street where the basement could have easily served as the stand-in set for the storage unit in the "Silence of the Lambs". Speaking of which, holding my "Silence of the Lambs" tape brings me back to the night when my brother taught me how to take a shot like a badass and then hid his face under a pillow until the bad guy was taken care of at the end of the movie.

It would be a crime to finish this post without talking about my personal story of "E.T". This is the first movie I can remember seeing with our family's best friend, Bill Carr. Every ounce of my cinephilia is rooted with Bill. Never in my life have I known anyone who culled as much genuine enjoyment from the theatrical experience as he did. He truly believed and imparted that movies are meant to be powerful and magical. They are salves for tattered souls that can neatly stitch broken hearts as good as new. He didn't have any patience for movies that didn't take that responsibility seriously and were spattered with gore or profane language. If the movie wasn't suitable for an innocent, imaginative child, Bill didn't want any part of it either. The night we lost Bill, I watched "The Muppet Christmas Carol", the first movie released under the Henson name after Jim Henson died in 1990. Bill had taken me and my brother to this movie in December of that year to help celebrate that while Jim Henson's time had come to an end, he can still live on through the wonder of the movies.

Contrary to my standard system, "E.T" isn't next to "The Muppet Christmas Carol" on my movie shelf. Instead, "E.T" is the first movie on the top shelf, and "The Muppet Christmas Carol" is the last movie on the bottom shelf, as movies always begin and end with my gratitude to Bill.

Oh, Brother

And so it came to pass in the house of David on the 22nd of October, a second son was born.




His fashion sense was second to only his style icon brother.




The Force was strong with this one.




As a reward for his majesty, his parents brought him a pet to love.



He groomed it.




And read to it.




And took it for walks.




But the boy could not stay in the house of David forever, and took a lovely wife.




Matthew and Janel begat Emma. The Force has an heir.





Matthew and Janel begat Lily. The fashion empire lives on.




And so it is with great joy we link hands and dance the Birthday dance of the ages for the second son come every 22nd of October.

"A Thrill of Hope, The Weary World Rejoices"

Rarely are there minutes in the day when I don't feel incredibly awkward or out of place, determined to say the wrong thing or step a little to the left when I should have been leaping to the right. This especially can be said of when I'm around my family. It's nothing they do or say or don't do or say, but when you're the youngest sibling of three wunderkinds, well, it can be a shite recipe for self doubt and loathing. Fortunately, they're all really cool and hardly ever project an air of condescension, or cast a pall of disappointment over our interactions.

Disjointed social impulses aside, I feel most at ease when I'm working. I've risen up through the ranks of what I do with the uncanny ability to soothe ravaged souls and calm down the inner demons, both the patients' and my own. I may not be able to get a sentence out at Thanksgiving without stuttering, but I can Steve McQueen my way around lost and forgotten souls who've rejected their meds for the last week and saved up their rage and resentment in big throbbing angry baskets of bullshit for lucky little me. They're walking, talking Rubik's cubes. The last thing they want is pity. The first thing they want is for someone to listen to them without judgment. They get that enough in the outside world. Regardless of what they're saying, they just want to be heard--to know that someone understands their words and while no reasonable solution may exist, they're sharing the incredible weight with someone with the tools to help them carry it. By the time we're finished, they've put all the yellows back with the yellows and the reds in line with the other reds, with maybe one or two oranges mixed in for humor's sake. I can't take credit for that. I just listen while the pieces fall into place and help them tweak the lines.

In this sea of strange and often daunting daily activity, there are glimmers of true joy. Today, I was granted the opportunity to lead the staff holiday project. We adopt a nursing home and all of its residents who either don't have family and visitors at all, or who don't have loved ones with the ability to provide holiday cheer in the form of presents and cards. This will be our third year working with this same facility. I called to ask if they needed us this year and the social services director started giggling like a gleeful child. They had just this morning started wondering how they were going to cover the holidays for the 40+ folks on the giving list, and were at a loss. She said they just looked at each other and then looked away. And then I called on behalf of our staff. Funny how things work out.

I work with unbelievably kind people. As soon as I put out the word about the project, I received at least ten offers to help, whether with the planning, or actually distributing the presents, they were all willing and excited to participate. One of our managers brings her friend's therapy-certified dog to the facility Christmas Party (all of the residents identify as Christian, so the facility feels free to call it a Christmas Party). The residents absolutely love the opportunity to pet the wee gal. She dresses as Santa. The dog, not our manager.

Last year, I was privileged to help deliver the presents to the home. We unloaded two cars and a truck full of presents for every single resident. No one was left out. Our staff was able to personally sign three Christmas cards for each patient in addition to four presents tailored to their likes and hobbies, as provided by their caregivers. After we unloaded, they offered us a tour of the place. Three separate folks held my hand and showed me cards from the year before signed by our staff, meant just for them. They still hung by their beds. For some of the residents, those cards were the only things on their boards. What took maybe two minutes to write and address may endure as a joy for the rest of that patient's life.

I'm a sucker for the worthy causes of helping orphans, foster children, abandoned animals, and struggling families, but I think it's because of pretty much growing up in a nursing home with my grandparents that I have a special drive to help this particularly under-served population in our community. Their smiles don't mean any more than a child's or a rescued animal's tail wagging, but I do think those smiles are harder to come by. Most of the time, they just want to know someone out there cares that they like bears, or the color blue, or that they were once the bowling champion of Multnomah County in 1948. Most of the time, they just want to be heard.

Ninjawesome

I asked J what he wanted me to write about tonight. Gentleman's pick. So, what did the gentleman pick? Childhood heroes. Hmmm. His childhood hero is Conan the Barbarian, so we're not too far apart, I guess, as my childhood hero was a ninja. He was a stealthy sort, and no one knew he was a ninja (thank God for stealth). I shouldn't even be talking about it now, but I think it'll be alright. He's in ninja heaven where rooftops never creak and aim is always true. You can't tell anyone else, though, okay?

His power was mighty, but quiet. He kept to himself mostly, for fear of discovery. He masqueraded as a high school counselor by day, but I knew better. On weekends, he would go out to the back field to "chop wood for the fire", but his Saturdays were chock full of knife play and blow gun practice. Oh sure, he'd come back with a trailer full of wood. Likely story.

When an ordinary citizen would talk to him, they would look into his eyes and only see a kindly southern teacher, but those who shared his secret knew those eyes were gauging his potential opponent's fall trajectory in the event he would have to pull a one-inch hit.

I used to hold his weathered, calloused hand that I thought was marked by years of farming and chores. How could I have known I was holding the deadly weapons of a genius assassin full of punches and fury? It wasn't until my oldest brother's high school graduation party when I was 7-years-old did I find out the family secret.

My brothers and I were in the garage with the snack table spread with the standard fare of dips, chips, ham rolls, and sweets when they decided it was time. They sat me down and told me that I needed to understand something very important. They asked me to picture John Peter McAllister, which wasn't hard because he was only the coolest badass on television at the time, played by Lee Van Cleef on "The Master". So there I was with the picture of this beacon of righteousness in my mind and then they told me...Dad was a ninja. No way! I was only seven, but I knew a good load of hooey when it was launched at my head. There was no way that my dad was a ninja. Or so I thought.

"Go ask him," they taunted. Whatever. Fine. I figured I'd go ask him, get it over with, and get back to my dip score. Off I went. I found him in the kitchen stirring a 7/7 for my mom.

"Daaaaad?"

"Eh?"

"Matt and Russ told me to come ask you if you're a ninja like The Master. So?"

"So what?"

"Are you a ninja?"

"Why do you wanna know?"

"I just wanna know so that I can tell them what you said. Are you a ninja?"

He kept stirring and looked at me out the side of his eye, one eyebrow raised. Then he said it:

"Yes. Don't tell your mother."

So, yeah. It turns out my childhood hero was a ninja.

And this, my fellow Americans, is a true story.

A. True. Fucking. Story.

They call him... Tim

In one month, my nephew is going to turn 18-years-old. He won't be 18 in time to vote in this election, but he'll turn 18 in time to pay the price if the wrong man is elected.

I remember very well when he was born. I was in Mrs. Bullard's homeroom when I was called down to the office where they let me know that he was here. Not at the school, just in the philosophical sense of the word. That was pretty neat. I remember it so well because that was the first time I ever felt that whoosh of pure happiness and excitement for a new little person in the world. My sister had a tough go of it and they ended up having to take him by C-section. It was so rushed they nicked his teeny little eyebrow. You can see the mark in his hospital baby photo. You know, the photo where they poke and prod this little human who's still a bit damp from his trip into a pained half "smile" for the sake of posterity. And for the giggle of it. He looks like Vanilla Ice from "Ice Ice Baby"-era. We took him home anyway.

I'm proud of my sister and brother-in-law for keeping him fed and warm all this time. It took some doing, but they persevered. And he's worth it. So far. He was my first niece/nephew type (of countless many) and he's held his own in the pack enough to stand out mightily. I like his style and who he's turning out to be. I have great hopes for him. He's got the shinin', that one.

Promise Me This, Promise Me That

J and I are writing our own vows. Not exactly an original concept, so I want to make sure they're spot on and reflect what's been important to us. One of the reasons I haven't been married yet is that I can't stand the idea of breaking a promise and seeing that look in his eye. With that in mind, I need to make sure the vows are keep-able so that I don't totally romance the pooch. These declarations may not be made of champagne and roses, but they need to be real and mine. Here are a few for practice:

I promise to put on the emergency break in your car every time I drive it.
I vow to clean the kitty box and do the dishes when you're sick, even if it's your turn.
I promise to unclot the shower drain when the mystery gunk monster tries to nest in our pipes.
I promise to rewind the VHS tapes when I'm done with them.
I vow that I will never compare you to past loves, because they didn't work out so well, did they?
I promise to listen to what you don't say.
I vow to keep an open mind when Adam and Jamie challenge my beliefs.
I promise to be your buffer when we're in a situation where you might have to talk to someone new.
I vow to live one day longer than you so that you don't have to do what you're most afraid of.


When it comes time to actually write and say the real ones, I'm excited to see what I'll say. Because right now, it's anyone's bet.

Real Love

I try to be a good citizen and keep up on current events that actually matter. Ask me about the election, and I feel comfortable giving you my views. Ask me about the latest scientific and technological advancements, and while I may not know all of the details, I'll be happy to look them up and get back to you. Ask me about the education records in my town, who our current leaders are, the latest legislation on the table, or the crime rates, and I'll tear it up. I keep up on these facts so that I can stem the guilt that comes from what I really want to study: horrible, toxic "reality" television shows.

Shows like "Flavor of Love", "Rock of Love", "The Hills", "Super Sweet Sixteen", "Snapped", and (God help me) "Rock of Love: Charm School Edition" are like sucking on a giant sugar cube while smoking down a carton of Winston Lights--not good for you by anyone's imagination, but daaaaaammnnnit they go down so easily.

I've quit smoking, stopped drinking pop, rarely consume alcohol, cut back on sodium, and started taking vitamins, but it will be one brave bastard who tries to pry the remote from my death grip on Saturday night or Sunday afternoon. These shows actively work to make me a smidge dumber after every viewing. And it feels soooo good. I can't help it. When these idiots go at it in a down and dirty cat fight over a person who can only be described as a repulsive carnival mannequin, I just sit back with my glass of iced tea, put my feet up on a stack of newspapers and reference books and let the dirty, gritty, disgusting pleasure baptize me in all its repellent glory.