Why I shave my head for charity

It’s a chaotic world we live in today. So many things compete for our time and attention. Most of us have jobs we have to get to everyday. If you are one of the lucky ones, you enjoy your job, so your time there isn’t a burden. Or as much of one. But there are those jobs that are difficult and, given a choice, we wouldn’t do whether it’s because of a difficult boss or a heightened sense of importance or responsibility. And then there are the things that we have to juggle with those jobs. Relationships, whether they be with significant others, children, or family, can suffer from a lack of attention. There all the news sources out there – a ton more than I had as a kid – telling us lies and truth and sometimes a little of both. We can get news on our phones, on our TVs, and on our computers. It seems there isn’t a corner of the world we can’t go to where we won’t see the news story of the day. And what a story of the day it is: a natural disaster, a disgraced leader, a war that’s been going on for what seems like decades. There doesn’t seem to a continent we can turn to that something isn’t happening that affects this ever-shrinking world. Then, in between all those news stories, we have advertisements that tell us what to do to look just that much better. Darkening our skin, make it more supple, brightening those teeth, lightening the hair, darkening the hair, covering the grey, lose a few pounds, lose a lot of pounds, get better cheekbones, get fuller lips, smooth out those wrinkles, wear the right clothes, wear the clothes everyone else is wearing, wear the clothes that confirm your individuality, buy the right car, buy a faster car, buy a bigger car, buy a house, buy a better house, buy a bigger house, take vitamins, take the right vitamins, take a supplement, boost your libido, boost your workout, grow hair, get hair. We face an onslaught of advertising that tries to convince of one thing: whatever you have now, you can get something better. We move through our lives, driving our cars, planning our careers, managing our relationships, looking towards the future. And that’s when it happens: the unthinkable. It can and will be different for everyone: a car accident, getting fired, a loved one getting sick. It’s the one thing that happens that casts a light over everything else we do. And in those shadows we see how much effort and energy we gave things that, in an instant, mean almost nothing. They mean nothing in the context of what we now have to deal with. I shave my head to remind myself of that. To remind myself every day that there are things out there under my control – how I treat people, how I drive, the hundred small decisions I make every day – and there are those things I do not control. It can be overwhelming, this world of ours, with its 24-hour news cycle, games on phones and on-demand entertainment. It can be distracting, with cars that park themselves, heat the seats and protect us like tanks. It can be exhausting, having kids and a spouse and a job. I shave my head to remind me to every once-in-awhile stop, look around, and just breathe.

Boys need to become men

I was at breakfast on Sunday when a crime occurred. Ok, not a crime in terms of laws or ordinances, but a crime of courtesy. I was sitting near the exit, so people were parading passed me the entire time. A table near me got up to leave, but I didn’t take notice at first. I’m not sure if there were more than the two people I saw. I looked up to see a woman leave the table. At the same moment, the exit door in front of me closed. I looked out the window to see a man look back at the door. Then the woman, an air cast on one foot, hobbled to the door and exited. She joined the man on the street and they presumably walked home or to a car. The idea one human wouldn’t hold a door for another is the worse crime here. But the idea a man wouldn’t hold a door for a woman, regardless of the relationship between them is, well, deplorable. I have lost count of the number of times I’ve been in restaurants, seen a couple approach a table or the bar, and the man – referred to as the ‘boy’ from now on – sits down first. Some like to add a particularly nasty touch and sit as she is in the process of taking off her coat. The urge to thwap the boy on the forehead has been nearly irresistible at times. I have even considered going up to her and telling her he’s not worth it. So far, I’ve been able to just bite my tongue. But Sunday was too much. There seems to be an almost complete lack of courtesy (and chivalry or valor) in boys thirty and younger. Not just how they treat women but common acts of courtesy as well. Now, I don’t want to sound like an old fogey talking about ‘in my day,’ because this stuff has been around a long time. And I’m sure I, when I was a boy, had my fair share of missed opportunities to show the quality of my character. I have given myself a day or two to think about this and I think there are two sides to this. First, boys need to learn (and their parents need to teach them) how to treat your fellow humans with respect. Parents need to instill in their boys the need, the desire, to be a gentleman. It takes a miniscule amount of effort; usually less than it takes to pointedly be an ass. You would be amazed the power of ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ Second, girls need to learn (and their parents need to teach them) what to expect from a boy. Ask yourself (if you are female; males, chill for a sec): if he’s not willing to make sure you’ve sat down without incident, that you’ve made it through the door, what else will he eventually take for granted? A corollary to this is how to dress (i.e. if she’s in a dress = no t-shirt) but we’ll cover that at another time.

Why I’ll be voting for Obama – again.

Here are the top five reasons (out of many) 5) He looks ‘presidential.’ I fear that may seem weird in some parts of the country (those shall not be named; you know who you are). More to the point I believe Obama looks like America looks. Or at least, the America I want to live in. As if he is not part of one race or another. (Side note here – use “ethnic background” instead of “race” – we are all of one race, human.) Wasn’t America founded on an idea that anyone could come here and make a life? Part of that is marrying and having children that look like a combination of parents. Obama is the living embodiment, among many I am sure, of that American ideal. 4) Other countries like him. It’s about time we had a leader that didn’t come across in other countries as a power hungry isolationist. It’s not, like the other side would have you believe, a weakness to show deference to other countries’ customs. It is called respect and since we seem to demand it, we should show some of it ourselves. I mean, we only have one Earth; if we don’t trade with these people, we have no idea what kind of electronics the Transfalmagorians might have. 3) Its the economy stupid. Sure it isn’t bouncing back like we would like (more on that in a bit), but if you recall this recession was of historic proportions (remember all those comparisons to the Great Depression?). Correspondingly, the recovery – if we want it to stick and be lasting – has to be much more thought out and steady. (To remind y’all, I lost my last job in ’09 and found a new one after a devastating seven months that saw my house foreclosed on and a bankruptcy filing; I know of what I’m talking about.) The problem with getting an economy back faster is that what is really at the heart of it is a desire to return to what we had before. And what we had before was an economy and society that was built on excess. (Thanks GWB for suggesting we go out and shop when you declared war on terrorists. And Iraq and Afghanistan.) It seems we’ve become a nation that marks the seasons by which games come out not which plays are being produced in town. 2) Women. Pure and simple. Obama has or had a grandmother, a mother, a mother-in-law, a wife and two daughters that have shaped him. Romney has six sons and a wife that never had to make the choice between cough medicine or clothes, between three meals a day and how to get her sons to public school. As a man that was raised by my mother, the idea that I should have any say in how women run their lives is inconceivable at best and offensive at worst. 1) Hope. It is not just a slogan. President Obama makes me want to believe again in what I think of as America’s greatest gift to the modern world: wholesale democracy. That we are all better when we lift each other up and help each other succeed. Last time I checked that was a Christian ideal. But the conservative right seems more interested in ‘what can I get for me? And how do I keep it?’ It seems a significant portion of American companies and people see the acquisition of wealth as the goal, not the reinvestment of that wealth in the very same machinations that achieved that wealth in the first place.

When three becomes fifteen

When three equals fifteen It’s an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see a President. It is for me. I work for the government (sort of) but not in the capacity that ever brings me in contact with those that make the decisions. You can imagine then when I got the opportunity, I took it. (Spoiler alert: I lean to the left in my politics; that will become evident but I just thought you should know that up front.) Granted it was a campaign stop, and I’d be with several thousand others, but I had to take it. The last time I got within visual distance of a President, I was 7, it was in Vail, and the President was Gerald Ford. (Anyone under 25 should consult Google on that one.) That was purely by accident. It was my mother who recognized him, pointed him out. To this day he’s just a smudge in my head, the day a fuzzy memory for me now. To make things better, the appearance was going to be on the campus of my alma mater CU. I seem to rarely make it back to where I did my most learning. It’s been taken over by other generations doing the same thing I did: trying to figure out who we are, as a person, as a group, as a people. I’m guessing that most of the people coming to the rally were those that either live close to campus or in town, because we saw very little traffic on the way up. We found ourselves behind three emergency vehicles on the highway. It was a Jefferson County bomb squad, checking the route to the campus for explosives. This was at nine o’clock in the morning, hours before he would leave his hotel and make his way toward the Flatirons and Boulder. We found a choice parking place thanks to the friend that got me the tickets, several hundred yards from the planned rally spot. First, of course, we would need to line up, all 13,000 of us it turned out, so that we could be searched (minimally, uninvasively), to ensure the safety for all at the event. We ended up right next to a cop car and a porta-potty. I don’t think they were deliberately near each other. This nattering woman behind us started to complain about the exhaust coming from the cruiser, decrying the waste of fuel. Much to her surprise, the officer inside the vehicle got out and asked if she, the woman in line, had spoken to her, the Boulder Police officer. Her bluster was severely diminished as she made her point. The officer tried told the woman that the engine ran the air conditioning, keeping the electronic equipment in the car running smoothly. She, the woman in line, wasn’t convinced. Near that time the line began to move. It turned out to be one of several lines that funneled the people to the security checkpoint. That turned out to be several temporary tents set up just to the north of Hellums (isn’t that where the Mary Rippon Theatre is?). The line moved steadily, leaving us sometimes in shade, others not. The late summer heat built slowly throughout the morning. There were pamphlets handed out that discussed the idea of the loss of ethics being the core problem with today’s society. Sounds like a good idea, but since the booklet was so poorly written, their ideas were lost in a miasma of convoluted logic. It was interesting to see how many people around us took the pamphlet, read the first page, then handed it back. Contrary ideas that challenge our own view of the world can be so difficult to hear or read. The civility of the crowd, despite the twin challenges of heat and time, was nice to see. Periodic chants rose up, only to die quickly. A prodigious amount of liquids were consumed, with some bringing their own bottles as well as several aid stations set up along the route. There was an emphasis on voter registration all along the route to the rally. From the perspective of reminding people they needed to check their status to those scattered about with clipboards to assist those that needed it. After about an hour, we arrived at the security tent. We were told to take everything out of our pockets and have all electronics turned on. It took less than a minute to pass through the white tent, then we were able to join the throng spread out on Norlin Quad. The sun ducked in an out of clouds (mostly out) and the real baking began. What they forget to tell you about is the variety of odors one has to endure in an event like this. Thousands of people coming together, regardless of the intent of the gathering, means a fair amount of sweaty pits and flatulence. The kind of flatulence one wouldn’t want to take credit for. Thankfully, there were no attending sounds to the periodic gas releases. This was when the real waiting began. There were speakers blaring music (Al Green; Wilco; Keane, I think, at one point) but little else to occupy one’s attention. Several people brought reading material and one family spread out a blanket and played card games. Conversations, most likely surrounding the topic of when he was going to arrive, were just about the only distractions. There was a surge forward at one point – they took down a temporary barrier – and we nearly halved our distance to the stage, not really that impressive as we were still quite a ways away. Tall people, and those with children on shoulders, were the recipients of silent, buy probably not heart-felt, curses. No incline or slope helped those height-challenged. An acapella group, In the Buff, performed at one point; several earnest young men, whose chutzpah clearly out striped their talent. Spend a little more time around the piano, boys. Eventually, the speakers began: an invocation (much too political for my tastes), a Congressman, a Senator, a governor, a campus organizer, another student. The introduction of each new speaker sent a ripple of disappointment through the crowd. I was becoming afraid it would become audible to those on the stage. Then a young man came to the podium (to introduce the President!) to explain his reasons for working for the campaign. The healthcare legislation, he told us, would have helped his family weather several health scares, had it been enacted just a few years earlier. Then the President came out. Thunderous applause, a requisite peppy tune on the speakers and lots of sign waving. There were lots of interrupting cheers at the appropriate moments. He was done in about fifteen minutes. Three hours of waiting followed by fifteen minutes of stump speech, most of which has been heard on the nightly news. And yet the elation of spirit, the focus of intent, these were his gifts. They have been his gifts in the past and continue to be so. When you believe in someone, when you believe their vision of the way forward augments your own, you are willing to support them. You are willing to set aside petty concerns like how your feet feel or how hot you are just to hear a few words that lift your spirit. The security measures become unimportant, the livestock-like funneling of people into the appropriate areas become unimportant. When someone makes you believe in something bigger than yourself, challenges you to face your own foibles and misconceptions, that’s a person I have no problem giving my support.

What's wrong with the Rockies

Stay with me on this: Imagine you have a relationship with a company; doesn't matter what kind, just that there is the usual capitalistic exchange. This company has a very specific item, or service, that they provide. They are not the only company that provides a service similar to this, but it is unique enough that this is "the only game in town." Imagine further that the performance of this company is nearly a complete transparent component to the business it is in: everyone who has any inclination can find out how well the company is doing. This company has a specific window of opportunity that comes around the same time each year and lasts for the same amount of time. Like all companies, it is results oriented; if it is doing well, both sides are happy. It has had success in the past. They almost reached the pinnacle of their industry. But the journey to do so energized it's entire market base and even converted a great many that wouldn't be interested otherwise. It has been some time since that success. In the intervening time, many of the middle management has been replaced on what could be described as an alarmingly frequent basis. No one really takes the time to study the smaller businesses that operate in other towns, so that's not really a factor. The middle management is changed with a certain amount of fanfare; when new middle managers are brought in, they are touted as the next big thing. Only success doesn't follow. This continues on for an amount of time that begins to become uncomfortable. It is that way because you begin to notice with the revolving door for the common worker, the upper management has changed little at the same time. The same roster of upper managers stays the same, says the same things about all the different middle managers that come and go from the company. The company’s results continue to demonstrate that its place in this industry places it in the middle of performers. Consistently. And because they are provider of this service, options for the consumer are limited. The only real choice the consumers have is to not, under any circumstances, utilize the service the company provides. But they are the only choice in the market; it’s a difficult choice for the consumer. End point: if there were a company whose results never deviated from under-whelming, had a rotating roster of workers, but had the same managers, wouldn’t you expect the management to change in order for the company to perform better or, in worse case, differently? This is the problem with the Rockies. We’ve had a ridiculous number of players go through our system, they can’t all be blamed for the performance of the franchise. The management “team,” however, is the same. And we are expecting different results. It is time to shake up the “team” that makes the decisions. Otherwise, the franchise is going to find that its assumed fan base will erode to unsalvageable levels.

Goodbye to 2011

It was a year that started out with the knowledge that my mom was going to die. Not that I wanted to start this thing that morose, but hey, that’s reality. She had been struck with cancer (ovarian) three times in the span of one year. She had surgery twice to remove tumors and chemo for several months. And still that stuff kept coming back.

I got to eulogize her twice. I got to see two very different groups of people gathered together to say goodbye, to talk about her, reminisce about her life and her impact.

I spent most of the next few months pining over a woman that eventually decided, without communicating it in any way, that she wasn’t interested. I would have thought crap like this would have ended in high school.

Work was tough. Challenging and rewarding, cause for learning and patience. I work with some of the best people I could hope for. For two years I’ve pestered them with, quite simply, the dumbest question they will probably ever have to field. And yet still they answer them, still they take the time to make sure I have the info I need.

Right now there is a big hole in the ground with pockets of cement and rebar strewn all about. But I know that in two years this project will revolutionize the area; not just Denver and Colorado, but potentially the surrounding states as well. And I’m a teeny little part of that.

Certainly the year ended on a high note with finishing the first draft of my novel. It’s not very good at this time, what writers would call the SFD – a sh**** first draft. But the idea is solid, and there’s some research to do (what did farmers in Easter Colorado wear near the turn of the century?) but it’s there. It exists.

What’s up for 2012?

Provided my knees hold up, some 10Ks; a second draft of the novel; some finished (and submitted!) short stories; maybe I’ll start on that play.

Regardless, let’s see people, if we can make this year our bitch, and not the other way around.

One Last Gift

I was lucky in this life to have two chances to eulogize my mother. The first, just after her death, in Colorado; and in April, in Maryland, where my mother grew up and spent a great deal of her time after the chicks had left the nest. When my cousins told me of their intention to have a second service for those on the East Coast that couldn’t make it out to Colorado, I expected that I would read the words I prepared for my mom’s funeral.
But as a writer, I’ve come to listen to the niggling little voice I hear sometimes. That voice that makes me pay attention when I hear something interesting on the radio or see something unusual on the street – the voice that lets me know I may find the kernel of a story.
When my cousins told me of their plans, I kept having this word run through my head: gift. As it got closer to the time to fly out to Maryland, the word had morphed into a phrase: one last gift. Paying attention, I tried to figure out what my subconscious was trying to tell me.
During her last days, my mom doled out quite a few of her possessions to her children. I was on the receiving end of quite a few things – her TV, a Bose stereo. It got to the point that my siblings were getting a little green at the things she had singled out to give me.
But none of these items seemed to fit the bill as one last gift, mainly because her giving of these items bore a certain amount of morbidity to them. Sure, I’d love a TV, but the price seemed a bit high.
When she did pass and we had to start thinking about arrangements and plans, we were a bit stuck. None of my siblings, nor I, had ever been in a position to plan a funeral, to plan the end of a life. What does one do? What comes first? Which plans take precedence?
Luckily, we had quite a bit of help along the way. The first thing we had to think about was a venue for the service my mom wanted us to have for her. (Talk about an ultimate strange conversation: making plans with your mom for her service. Whoo boy.) But none of us children had voluntarily stepped into a church that wasn’t holding a wedding or a funeral in decades. And if not a church, where would we hold such an event?
Someone had the bright idea to contact my nephew and have him inquire about the church he was married in just a few short years before. It was a great place, austere and comfortable at the same time, with unique architecture and wood pews. Austin had become a member of the church since his wedding and was able to contact the pastor and secure the hall for us.
The relief I – and I’m sure my siblings – felt when that obstacle was navigated felt like cresting a hill in a long road race, almost euphoric. But we were still a ways away. Another part of the “whoo boy” conversation was what music she wanted played. And because it was my mother, it was a mix of classical, traditional hymns and Irish ballads that we had to find.
Itunes can be a wonderful place. Where else can you search for an obscure hymn and get thirty versions to choose from? So I set about getting the music straight, listening to 30-second snippets of songs to find the right versions, or at least the versions with the least bombastic.
I managed to download the songs and burn them onto disc, one that we would be used with the a/v equipment at the church. We also managed to find a friend who could scan a group of photographs from my mom’s collection (yes, real photos; heck, she still had slides) so that we could project them onto a screen with the same equipment at the church. At one point, my sister’s laptop wouldn’t read the disc, but another that we tried did.
Things began to come together, to work out, but I still didn’t feel that anything fit the ‘one last gift’ ideal.
Then the morning of the service, with seemingly half the family at my oldest brother’s place, we managed to shower nearly a dozen people, and clothe them, and get them on the road it plenty of time. With the disc, and the laptop, still at the house.
Of course, I only noticed this when we had less than a half an hour to go, and my brother’s house was forty minutes away, round trip. I mentioned this to my nephew – who promptly whipped out his iPhone and, faster than it took me on my laptop, downloaded all the songs and got them to his father-in-law, who agreed to run the a/v system.
Crisis averted. Again. So all we had to do was greet the guests. Certainly after the week we had, this had to be the easiest part. We were all there for the same reason, there was a ton of great food for afterwards – easy-peasy.
Fairly early, only moments after the ‘music debacle,’ a family member (not sure I can use her name) arrived and I was the first to greet her. The usual things were said – I’m assuming, this was only the fourth funeral I had been to – when she reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. It was a very nice envelope I seem to remember, high quality paper and surrounded by a ribbon. But it was what she said handing it to me. Something like, “We’ve planned a date in March; I hope you all can make it.”
She’d handed me a wedding invitation. I could just imagine my mom, standing just over my shoulder, nearly shouting, “Be nice. Be nice.” I remember looking at the envelope for a second, then putting it in a pocket and saying something like, “Thanks for letting me know.” Even that, the seemingly direct intervention by my mom, didn’t seem to be the last gift.
The service was fine. Tears were shed, there was lots of laughter. But like all eulogists, I’m sure, I was unsure of how I would do. Would I stumble? Would I have to stop? Would I be the first to have to walk away from the pulpit, unable to continue?
Of course not. Tears were shed, there was lots of laughter, the music started and ended on cue, each of us that spoke were, I dare say, ridiculously good, and the photographs displayed just as we needed them. So what about this gift?
I’ve come to realize that the last gift, one she’d been preparing us for her entire life, was the ability to pull this thing off. And pull it off well. My last gift was being able to say goodbye to my best friend, in the best way I knew how, with people who had come to realize just how irreplaceable she was.
And if I can do that – I can do anything.