Something Stinks, I Think

Many bags of litter promise to reduce and/or eliminate odor, but the plain truth is that anything sufficiently neglected or merely glossed will eventually lead to toxic buildup and unbearable reek. I'm talking about more than the kitty litter, of course. Promises are easy to make when others are in control, but delivering is a different matter. Robert Redford's movie The Candidate remains as applicable today as it was when it was made. There's a new leadership in national politics coming into power, but that doesn't guarantee that the reek of the recent past will be properly cleaned out. Detritus accumulates and evades housecleaning. That's just the nature of things, whether in literal or figurative housekeeping. Sometimes the old litter just needs to be completely discarded, including the old litterbox. Sometimes, revolution is the only way to really clean house. I say, sometimes - not always. The bigger the pile of manure, the less likely throwing the entire container out will serve to eliminate the inherent stench.

What am I talking about?

Odd Comment?

Odd Comment
14 November 2006

Walking around one of the increasingly ubiquitous box stores today led to another increasingly ubiquitous sight: a Christmas decorations display depicting an ostensible slice of Americana – a small town square. There was a hardware store (significantly smaller and less comprehensive than the one I was in), a diner (filled with teens who evidently don’t have afterschool activities like sports or part-time jobs), a railroad station (without accompanying tracks nearby), a ferris wheel, (doesn’t your town have a ferris wheel erected near the town square?), a gas station (sans posted prices because, after all, who knows what those will be from day to day?), children skating on an ice pond, villagers chatting idly, and a couple holding hands.

Now here’s the thing: the female partner looked perfectly normal (aside from the fact that she was attired as a typical bobby soxer), but her male companion (I have to assume he was male,) was clean-shaven from the shoulders upwards, to the point of being literally headless. Why, you ask, was he headless? This question opens the door wide to all sorts of speculation… (see the gleam in my eye?)

Did some careless clerk or customer accidentally drop the paired figure and accidentally knock off this guy’s block or is this some more insidious social commentary being made in an otherwise innocuous public setting?

Did some irate worker take out her frustration on the defenseless figurine? (I saw two women workers clearing and setting up wooden fences forming pens for incoming Christmas trees; they didn’t look happy about their task, though they did look resigned to it.)

Did the fellow finally say something to cause his female companion literally to bite his head off?

Is this a set composed by an ardent feminist commenting on the figurative male condition? Is he lucky he was allowed to keep his pants on?

Was this, perhaps, vandalism perpetrated by someone whose significant other needs to be very very cautious tonight upon returning home, perhaps because he was laggard in unpacking his “stuff” recently? (Should the local constabulary be informed?)

With any luck, the answer will never be known, never make the local or national headlines. Still, it does leave the idle passerby wondering…

Toy Store

Wandering through a smalltown toy store is always interesting, particularly because there tends to be a collector's interest in toys of bygone days as well as the more common offerings one might find at places like Toys-R-Us, K-Mart, Wal-Mart, or Target. Wandering through such a facility is almost inevitable when it is located within easy walking distance of a like-minded comic collector's store.

What was particularly striking today, however, was the realization that the toy market has become so aggressive in its early imprinting of children as potential future consumers. There is not just one style of dollhouse any more, but a plethora of real estate opportunities from which to select an idealized domicile these days, just like those through which young couples intent on nesting must wade. It's easy to see how parents or children might be tempted to invest in the assembling of a year-round town or private suburb. Think of it as a great learning tool for that budding civil engineer. There are all sorts of accessories available for the barebones structures as well, so that the townhouse, loft, condominium, ranch-style single family dwelling, classic Victorian, or banal apartment complex need not stand empty for long. There are contemporary kitchens, dens with plasma tv screens, wrap-around sofas, bunk beds, etc. Playing house has, indeed, come a long way.

It's nice to see that yesterday's children have been stretching their imaginations, but seeing such toys does make me wonder what room has been left for the imaginations of the next generation. Will they be too busy processing input to develop their own output? Or will they simply take both play and productivity to yet another level? Optimistically, I'm still young enough that I expect to see the answer to this question in just a few years.

No Mystery Here

The World Poker Tour is on television this evening, somehow far more engaging than early election results. One fellow backed into a straight flush, always a cool thing to see, though more interesting in one's own hand than in someone else's, to be sure. Watching the final hand, however, completely lacks drama if one is a clock watcher, as I am. How can one possibly get excited about that last river card when the hour is about to strike, indicating the end of the broadcast? Likewise, someone who goes all in in the middle of an hour is surely doomed. Where, then, is the suspense?

Startlement, however, is abundant. There has just been a breaking news story that a college football player has been shot and killed this evening, details still pending. One might reasonably expect stories of shootings to be confined to nightly news reports on network television and dedicated news channels, but these days ballplayers at all levels seem as vulnerable as the rest of the population. Why is a mystery to me. So there goes the title to this piece, as the "real world" dares to intrude on what should be a safe haven from all but manufactured violence. That's sad.

Yeah, yeah, that's a weak thing to say, but it's a pretty pathetic truth to face as well.

Relapse

Relapse
5 November 2006

Woke up this morning feeling fine
Had absolutely nothing on my mind
Now that fluff is turning to gel
My head is starting once again to swell
My nose is running for all it’s worth
My Kidz are giving me a seriously wide berth
I’m literally snotty and redeyed today
Guess I just started too early to play
Now the Piper is here with a vengeance
I’ll not be stirring soon hence

Oh no! The pathetic rhyming has begun again
It must be a consequence of sitting in my den
Trying to cobble together a few thoughts
While avoiding all those encircling “oughts”
Personally I think all the cooking and cleaning
Is the real reason I’m feeling like I need my own reaming

Tag and Other Childhood Activities

Tag and Other Childhood Activities
http://sportsillustrated.cnn.com/2006/writers/frank_deford/10/25/tag/
25 October 2006

Neanderthal or not, I have to agree with Frank Deford that there is something seriously foolhardy about banning some of the most basic childhood activities, especially those that encourage physical development while simultaneously helping individuals to develop a lifelong sense of self. What is childhood if not an ideal time to identify one’s boundaries as well as potential horizons?

Now, don’t get me wrong – I think Deford makes far too sweeping a generalization in lumping all educators in with the fanatics determined to eliminate all aspects of their own childhood experiences. Such folk belong with the critics who deem Roadrunner cartoons too violent for viewing by youngsters, for people who think that Little Red Riding Hood is worthy of censorship; (though, to be fair, Grimms Brothers tales and Aesop’s Fables in their original forms did tend to have a political bent to them, aimed as they were at adult target audiences.)

As much as I cherish the ideal of universal equality, I don’t think that it is possible to eliminate all elements of social interaction that indicate hierarchy, nor do I think it healthy.

Brief Break in Silence

27 September 2006
Honolulu

What can I say? When Dad didn't answer his nightly call, nor his morning doublecheck, I summoned the troops, who rallied oh, so beautifully. They forged on in, despite the lack of answer or any sighting of Dad... till a hand was spotted, Carrie-like, protruding from beneath a pile of tumbled rubble. A quick 911 call later, the short street was choked with emergency vehicles, all for a frail little Yoda-like figure who would not appreciate such a fuss being made over him.

Twelve hours later, miracle of miracles, I was by his side, having caught a light flight across the Pacific. The friend who had gone so bravely (fearfully?) in and sat by Dad's side all day, took the time to pick me up from the airport as well, before returning home to family, grading papers, and an all too short night's sleep before facing students once again. It is fortunate that God metes out mercy as well as justice.

So Dad was on the cardiac ward for three days, hooked up to a glucose solution instead of a saline solution because it's easier to counteract excess sugar than excess salt in a system genetically vulnerable to diabetes. So they say. In any event, his recovery has been in his customarily speedy style, despite his overall general slowness. The final verdict is that he has suffered extensive muscle damage from extreme dehydration, including a minor heart attack and evidently some damage to his memory, which was already under attack from age...

Two more days of charming nurses on a general population ward were followed by ten days at the highly touted, extremely aggressive Rehabilitation Center of the Pacific. Once again he seemed to charm the nurses and aides, much to my amusement and chagrin.

Finally came the day of the Great Breakout. Told to use a walker, he's been insisting on relying on his cane, for the comfort of familiarity, I think. He's currently undergoing a month of outpatient therapy, only agreed to after I promised to stay while he was being so treated. Like the proverbial horse led to water, he promptly blanks out all lessons, so his primary benefit seems to be from his physical therapist, who actually manipulates his muscles and makes him work, as opposed to the others, who just talk at him, and with me. I wonder if I shouldn't absent myself so that they have to deal with him directly. In a recent session wherein I could see him blocking out the white noise, I asked the therapist to have him articulare what he had gotten from the day's session - that was an eye-opener for her! Ah well... hopefully our next visit will be more productive.

On a personal note, I think I'm going quietly crazy. My greatest fear is that I could settle for this life, only to find that I had run out of time for life in the end. Ah, bite me.

Not One But Two

Not One But Two
25 August 2006

So there I was, angling for a parking in a clearly overflowing lot outside one of my favorite breakfast feed joints on the outskirts of Oakland. An old lady was fussing with one of the back doors of a car, so that was a real nonstarter, in so many ways… Then there was the work truck that pulled in just ahead of me with a real “Outta my way!” with no please or thank you to it. Most intriguing of all, however, was the fact that not one but two, count ‘em, two news vans were ensconced in primo parking spots. Well, all right then. At least there was hope of a free show inside.

A trip around the block, just so I could say, “I’ve been around the block, you know,” and then I caved and took (an admittedly free; the beauty of breakfast, of course, is that if you go early enough, street parking is still free,) street slot. My favorite waitress, a couple of cups of coffee, and a generously cholesterol-laden breakfast later, however, I still didn’t know what those darned news crews were up to.

Time flits, and so need I, so up I got, and paid, and left… and still those darned vans sat. Even when I’m on top of a story, evidently, I just don’t get it. Ah well… My guess is that this was a post-story feeding, just from the leisurely pace of things. My guess is that I’ll never know.

Seriously, not one but two, and their rival’s headquarters a scant mile up the street – what was that all about anyway?

Whole lotta head scratching going on today…

Lost Track

Lost Track
24 August 2006

Summer’s slipping away. Somehow I’d lost track of time amidst the ease of warm days and lazy nights. Now it’s the end of August, Hawaii’s celebrated its Statehood Day, and public schools are preparing to resume. Where has the season gone?

I was cleaning out a bag in search of some half-remembered documents when I came across “The Plan,” laid out in mid-March of this year, still awaiting instigation. Clearly I’ll never be old; it’s taking forever to grow up. Ah well…

Liquids and Gels

Liquids and Gels
11 August 2006

Time Stamp: Yesterday was the first day of a new era in U.S. air flight. Henceforth domestic passengers must choose between buying sundries at their destination in order to circumvent the interminable processes of checking and collecting luggage, or packing personal items in order to save money at the price of valuable time. This choice is necessitated by failed actions overseas that set off a chain reaction of fear locally. Spin doctors and politicians declare that a terrorist plot of major proportions has been thwarted. Personally, I think this is just another ploy on the part of manufacturers about to launch a new line of products in a new medium. What quicker way to boost sales than to cause politicians to outlaw current media, to wit, liquids and gels? Ah, the deviousness of entrepreneurs determined to create and profit from a global market…

I need a more productive life…