I’ve decided to write about my coots.

Anyone not interested in birds should probably just go and play Wordle or Call of Duty, because this might be lengthy and detailed.

 

Coots are a type of water bird. My coots are not really coots. They are cousins to coots. Actually, they are gallinules, also called moorhens. But the word “gallinule” doesn't flow easily over the tongue, and “moorhen” makes them sound too folksy. So I call them “coots.”  Coots actually have a yellow beak, while my gallinules have bright red beaks with a yellow tip.  Both coots and gallinules have a black body with thin, white streaks along the side and white streaks along the tail feathers. They are about the size of ducks, but are a very different species. The feet of coots/moorhens are interesting, not webbed and duck-like, but with long thin toes that allow them to balance easily on matted marsh grass and other debris lying along the banks of small bodies of water.

 

Gallinules are shy birds. They seem to think humans are out to get them, and will quickly skitter away if you wander into their feeding ground. They are not hostile, however. They will occupy the same lake area with a group of ducks, ibis or a heron or two, without much conflict. I know this because I have been observing the habits and reproductive cycle of a number of gallinules over the past five years.

 

I live on a small lake, and I feed the local birds. It started with a hanging bird feeder, but then I noticed the ducks and other water birds would gather around the bottom of the feeder that is set near the water’s edge. They were there to catch the drop-off of seed that other birds scattered when feeding. This led to my scattering a bit of extra seed on the grass for them. Now, the water birds are waiting for me on the lawn at the same time each day when I come home from work. A black crow has joined them in the waiting game. And a number of mourning doves. Other birds fly in periodically to the feeder, but the water birds have made it a real communal dinner event.

 

Coots (gallinules) will take a mate and build a nest in a clump of reeds at the water’s edge. There, the female will lay eggs and disappear for a while. The mate will continue to feed along the banks of the lake. If any bird or human approaches the site of the nest, the male will come swooping in, low over the water from wherever he was, making a total racket with his disturbed birdcalls. Some week after noticing the male in his lone feeding forays, the babies arrive.

 

Gallinules are very good parents.  They will zealously guard the nest for some time after the babies arrive. Eventually, the babies are brought out of the nest by the mother, who will feed with them on the seed I scattered over the lawn. These babies are identical to their parents, even down to the red beak with yellow tip--a perfect miniature. However, as they grow larger, the distinct coloring fades to a mottled brown/gray with blackish beaks. This is their adolescent phase, I guess. It takes quite a while before they develop the black body with white streaking the adults sport. And it takes even longer for their red beaks with white tips to appear.

 

Generally, there are about 6 babies in a brood. As time passes, fewer show up with the mom. Occasionally, when I’m sitting indoors, I hear a loud, extremely distressed call, which I assume is the mother mourning the loss of one of her brood. As a human mom, this is extremely upsetting to hear. But the momma coot carries on, teaching her remaining babies what to eat, where to find it and what to be careful of. Usually, only one or two babies remain at the end of the infancy period to become adolescents. These adolescents often help tend the babies of the following brood, which I assume gives them a better chance at survival.

 

One of the dangers, my tiny coot babies face is predation from hawks. These hawks will sit in trees near the lake or on rooftops, surveying what’s available for prey below. I do not tolerate hawks on or near my property—because of the coot babies--and they are quickly chased away. But I suspect the hawks take quite a few of the coot babies when I’m not on duty, though I have never actually seen this occur.

 

Currently, I have three coots remaining in my yard, which appear to be the grown babies and one of the parents. A new coot/gallinule showed up, out of the blue, and attached itself to this core group. It is quite large and has a rather aggressive attitude compared to the other birds, always pecking them out of the way he wants to feed.  I assume he is male because of his size and attitude. His personality is different enough from the other coots that I am sure he is a newcomer. His ensures some fresh coot genetic material coming online, which I am happy about. I as yet have no sign of new babies in the works. But I’m looking forward to enjoying the cycle all over again, even though it has its joys and sorrows.

 

Nature is red in tooth and claw, so if you’re the squeamish type, you have no business being up close to it. Still, I'm grateful I have this opportunity to observe the Life of Coots, generation after generation, right here in my backyard--though they aren’t actually coots, they are gallinules.

 

And they are spectacular.

Rome


So I took a trip to Rome this year, actually one of those package group tours of three cities--Venice, Florence and Rome.  Husband wanted to see the Coliseum, and I wanted to see Florence, the birthplace of Renaissance art, and a medieval city known for its architecture and history. And the "Floating City" of Venice, well, we couldn't quite even imagine it properly, despite all the videos we watched. I really didn’t know what to expect from Rome, a big city--and I'm not particularly fond of big cities, preferring quieter, more intimate communities and natural settings.


But Rome did not disappoint.


You may have heard Rome is a sprawling city, with mad traffic, constant noise and exuberant residents. All of this is true. But Rome is also a clean, well-organized and worldly city. It is no stranger to—well--strangers. Probably from its earliest days as the center of the Roman Empire, the city has absorbed captured slaves from faraway lands, traders, clerics, pilgrims, mercenaries and diplomatic emissaries. Everyone came to Rome, and everyone still comes to Rome. The city’s residents are not unnerved by unfamiliar clothing, faces and habits. You will barely get a blink. Maybe it is this history that makes every individual feel so comfortable in Rome. Rome is also a bustling place. There’s plenty of commercial and financial activity going on in Rome, and people are engaged in going about their business. It’s a prosperous place and can afford to cast an amiable eye on anyone who comes to visit.


Rome knows what it is. The city has a fundamental confidence in itself--as someplace with a long history, and with ruins sitting right in plain sight, mixed in with all the conveniences of a modern society, would be expected to have. It views the millions of visitors that come to the city with the same calm assurance, “Yes, we are, in fact, that old…we’re old hands at this whole civilization thing…you're certainly welcome to learn from all we’re experienced.”


Rome is dazzling. From the illuminated Trevi Fountain to the imposing ruin of the Colosseum. From the cobbled streets and the bone-jarring cab rides to the wine sipping at the sidewalk cafes. From the shops and restaurants and museums. You cannot have a bad time in Rome—it just doesn’t fit. You must be doing something very wrong. You will be met with throngs of people from all over the world, but you will also mix with the stylish young Romans, the multi-generational families, the distracted businesspeople, the everyday workers, clearly willing to do all they can to make your visit a pleasant one. This is Rome—and you will enjoy every layer of it.


We got what we came for—and more—because Italy never disappoints and always adds more than you expect. I’m not on their tourism payroll, but I should be, because I go on for hours about the experiences people can enjoy there. If you haven’t been, go. If you have been, go again. This is a destination that welcomes you with open arms and a wealth of experiences.

Three Days in a Hurricane Shelter

I live in Florida, but hail from Chicago, so the contrast between living in the two areas of the country is very stark to me. The experience of having to periodically run for my life from hurricanes has become a reality. As I scurried about, preparing for Hurricane Irma, it struck me that friends and relatives who were calling with their concerns, never participated in this tradition that is a regular feature of life in southern, coastal areas. Here, we begin our seasonal preparations every June as naturally as breathing--stockpiling batteries, canned goods and water, testing radios, bringing in outdoor furniture, checking shutters. We spent Hurricane Charley huddled in our walk-in closet back in 2004, so I felt we have some experience under our belts and had a certain confidence about the year’s series of storms as they rolled across the Atlantic. However, this year’s hurricane season brought Irma and a new experience—the stay in a local hurricane shelter—and, given the series of hurricanes in the news, I thought I should relate what it’s like for people who deal with hurricanes on a regular basis.

Hurricane shelters are local buildings that have been deemed appropriate for housing large numbers of members of the community during times of severe weather. It’s hard to describe the kind of damage 130 mph winds can do to homes, businesses, roads and utilities in a community. You’ve seen the pictures— in your imagination, just put your whole life and all you cherish in the middle of those images. Hurricane Harvey had hit the Houston area a few weeks before, and the images were very fresh for us. When Hurricane Irma suddenly changed course and headed toward my home city (we joked news stations may as well have mentioned our home address on weather reports), we got scared. We considered hitting the road for a safer area, but Irma covered the entire state, and hotels well into Georgia and Atlanta were already booked with evacuees from the coming storm. So, we headed to our local hurricane shelter.

Day One:  Our shelter, one that took pets to accommodate our little Chihuahua mix, Bella, was a huge and relatively new high school. We stood in line for some time to “check in,” to have our names and our dog registered and to receive our identifying wristbands. Police personnel were there to check IDs against their database. We had our blankets, pillows, food and water, as recommended. We set up our little encampment in a well-lighted hallway on the second floor. And we waited, safe and secure, for the hurricane to roll in.

Day Two: The high school was built to serve about 2,000 students. It was expected to hold about 3,000 evacuees. Scared, last-minute stragglers ballooned this figure to 4,000. About 500 pets were sheltered in a separate part of the building. By the time the hurricane actually hit on Sunday afternoon, there were people lined along the hallways and filling the auditorium, with carefully cleared “walkways” between blanketed homesteads. All types of people were there, older white people, young black families, Hispanic extended family groups—everyone was there, from the tiniest newborns to most fragile elders. There was not a ripple of discord, because we were all sheltered against the storm—an exterior danger that made us all more tolerant of more adjacent irritations. There were volunteer helpers to answer questions and fire department medical personnel for health emergencies. Babies napped, older gentlemen followed the hurricane track on their phones, children connected to others and played companionably. Shelter authorities provided basic meals three times each day and gave weather updates over the public address system. People slept fitfully during the night, but they slept, stumbling at various hours in the morning to the school bathrooms to brush their teeth and make themselves presentable in this unusual situation.

Day Three: Evacuees read, did puzzles, talked of past hurricanes, listened to music on their phones or watched streamed weather reports. People collected at the glass-enclosed entryway and at windows to watch the storm pass over. Trees bent, and the rain pounded. It came and went uneventfully for us. At no time did any of us feel threatened. The lights stayed on, and the air-conditioning continued to run. A curfew was in effect, so no one could leave even after the worst of the storm was over. We settled in for our last night as a refugee community, with a sense of relief and some anxiety about what we would find when we returned to our homes.

All in all, our time as shelterers from the storm was enlightening. If you ever wonder if our public educational facilities are truly necessary, a time like this helps you understand they are more than just buildings for education—they are centers of the community. They provide a location—and an organizational structure—for many important services. Secondly, you learn that people really are all alike. They love their families, they have certain basic physical requirements, they respond emotionally in a uniform manner. Thirdly, you understand how much we all need each other. The concept of “self reliance” is an illusion—and always has been—in the face of nature’s power. And finally, we should all remember we all live on the edge of a knife. Our technology can disappear abruptly, the flow of fresh water can stop in an instant, our homes can evaporate, medical care can be entirely absent. Those who live in hurricane-prone areas understand this on a visceral level.

I hope I don’t have to do this too many times in the future, but I would not have missed this experience for the world. It brought us back to a primal level of human connection.

                                             *                    *                   *

Thoughts On Buying A New Car

I had to buy a new car. I don’t know how it is for everyone else, but the entire process of changing vehicles is a huge and difficult passage for me. I am madly attached to my vehicle, regardless of how much trouble it gives to me in its later years. My car is like my favorite pair of comfortable shoes—it has carried me through many an experience. It sat with me in cheesy motel parking lots on road trips. It helped carry my loved ones to hospital emergency rooms. It ushered me to concerts, summer festivals, family reunions, wedding receptions and school events. It also joined in a number of somber funeral processions. My car is like a witness to my life. And letting go of it is like saying goodbye to an old friend—fraught with sadness, anxiety and uncertainty about what comes next.

Another anxiety-producing event was removing all my personal effects from my old car. And since I had the car for such a long time, it turned out to be a time capsule of all the intervening years. Repair receipts, old parking slips, theater stubs, reward cards from stores, favorite CDs, small cologne containers, half-rolls of Tums, a pepper spray, spare tissues. The things we keep in our cars to make us comfortable are very telling. Some people keep guns in their glove compartments. Some people keep emergency snacks. You probably keep something in your glove box you’d rather people not know about. The collection makes one think of George Carlin’s old comedy routine about “stuff,” whittling down your personal “stuff” into smaller and smaller bits to carry along with you as you go about your life. Your car carries a micro-supply of “stuff” you feel you need as you travel down the road. 

Then, there’s the issue of choosing a new car. I don’t need to tell you that buying a new car is a major expense. Payment for a car has to be carefully structured into your household budget or disaster ensues. The price of a new car is often at great odds with what you would like. Your final choice is often a significantly scaled-down version of what you first hoped to have. On top of that, so many of the car models look remarkably similar—it almost doesn’t matter what make of car you like. You may as well go for the cost and whatever consumer rating companies recommend—unless you are willing to spend the amounts needed for a truly remarkable vehicle. I’m not. My car will always be a method of getting me from here to there. It is not an expression or gratification of my ego. I’d rather spend the money on clothes. Or a vacation. Or new carpeting for my home, which my dogs always destroy in one way or another.

The current trend toward loading the car with all sorts of electronics is disturbing for some of us purist car drivers. I don’t know how many electronic views I’m going to need for backing up—one seems sufficient. And having everything “syncing up” with my phone seems unnecessary, or even reckless. I’m certain I will not be using about 50 percent of the features on the car. I’m not sure if these features are adding to the cost of vehicles. Maybe they are so cheap to produce, they just throw them in. But I don’t really think people find them necessary—or even helpful. But hey—thanks for including them, I guess. And another thing, all these features make reading the owner’s manual a laborious task that takes up too much of my free time.

The process of negotiating the price of the car seems to have been cleaned up a bit from previous eras. You no longer feel like you’re going into hand-to-hand combat with the dealership salesperson. Salespeople are much nicer now, overtly straightforward, even solicitous—so much so, that you come out feeling, “Oh, I don’t feel beat up—I must have been screwed over in some clever, underhanded way.” But I do appreciate their effort to make the process more painless.

So, now, I have a new car. Like all relationships, we have started out on tenuous terms. We don’t know each other’s little habits, and we don’t entirely trust each other yet. That will take time. It will take the experiencing of good times and bad, sickness and health, laughter and tears. I’m sure we will have words, vented in momentary anger. There will probably be some close calls where my car comes through for me. There always are. I will probably spend anxious moments in a repair shop, praying for its recovery. Car owners always do. Right now, it’s all new car smell and fears about that first scratch. I eagerly await the time when we can relax and be comfortable together.

I may be too emotionally wrapped up in my vehicles. Well—you know how it is.

I can’t be the only writer who sees the creative possibilities of the Trump habitation of the White House. The entire situation is set up perfectly for a sit-com, with an arrogant, blustering, slightly out-of-it father as president, a gorgeous but completely unaware 3^rd trophy wife, a bevy of ex-wives constantly stopping in on the White House making demands, three bumbling adult kids doing all they can to profit off their father’s fame and position, a self-serving son-in-law, and a little boy, the latest child and pampered offspring of the president, who is so privileged he cannot even begin to fathom the importance of his father’s decision on the people of the country. The mix is rich in comic possibilities.

I can see it providing week after week of comic situations as the outside world gradually spirals down into an abyss of chaos and destruction (mentioned as side info in ordinary conversation). Kind of a dark comedy. Here’s just a sampling of the possible episodes:

Episode 1

Trump has trouble finding his way through the White House. His wife can’t find her way either and limits herself to two adjacent rooms. Trump’s adult kids have to talk him through, room-by-room, to get him from one meeting to another. Trump mishears the instructions and finds himself in closet after closet. Merriment ensues.

Episode 2

Melania tries to settle into her role as 1^st Lady. However, she keeps gets phone calls, emails and texts from old boyfriends blackmailing her with sex tapes & porn videos. She sells White House decorations to buy them off. Trump comes into rooms, wondering what happened to that portrait of Lincoln that used to be on the wall, etc. Son-in-law keeps shoving executive orders that profit only him in front of Trump to sign.

Episode 3

The three adult Trump kids tear through the White House, looking through closets, desks and cupboards looking for objects that can be sold for profit. The oldest boy is constantly on his phone, doing deals with foreign leaders and corporate heads that profit himself. He is constantly interrupted by his father’s calls for help finding his way around the White House. In between conversations between the adult kids and hunting for saleable items, the daughter takes continuous calls from her children’s nanny.

Episode 4

The Trump ex-wives descend on the White House, demanding access to state events and access to perks of the executive office. They make themselves at home in the White House, to Trump’s consternation and the visible fury of Melania, whom the ex-wives treat with complete contempt. Trump’s adult kids try to help him get the ex-wives out but are put in their place by the matrons. The lesser-known adult child of one of his exes makes an appearance, but Trump has no idea who she is.

Episode 5

Trump’s young son tries to get comfortable with life in the White House. The Secret Service agents become his closest friends. He bumbles into important meetings, where his father asks him for his help and advice on crucial world issues. The child occasionally finds his father wandering around and has to lead him back to the private quarters of the White House. The boy takes a few calls from world leaders while waiting for his father to find his way to the Oval Office.

These are just the bare bones of the most obvious story lines. Surely, you yourself could think of story lines that would make plausible episode in the sit-com that is Trump Goes to the White House. 

Maybe someone with artistic talent can set up a graphic novel on the subject, with weekly installments based ongoing, real life events. I’m sure we will all be needing the comic relief as long as Trump holds the White House.

Channeling Ursula LeGuin Part 2 - The Adaptors (cont'd)

Not sure where I'm going with this. Any suggestions?

....
 

Marcus had inherited a sufficient amount of his line’s ‘desire to please’ to feel sad at his father’s disappointment.  Every time he touched the traditional guitar, every time he touched paint to canvasere, every time he put words together on the composer, he was aware of the waywardness of his brain and emotions. He was in a chronic state of reining himself in and endured a constant state of tension. He feared he would eventually succumb to suicide like others of his kind. He was clearly a poor design. A misfire. What would happen to him when he was fully grown? Would he be able to take on the duties and privileges of his rank? What kind of women would accept someone like him into a pair-bond?

Jonathan was the only one of his peers who understood, Jonathan who had mastered the art of deception. Jonathan suspected he came from a line of old actors, who could take on the characteristics of their environment without difficulty and without compromising their inner selves. Their behavior was just a cloak they donned for the occasion, and the assimilation was seamless. This ability came so easily to Jonathan that he tried to impart the skill to Marcus, without success. Marcus always knew he was playing a part, donning a falsity.

“It’s not that hard, Jonathan would say. “Look—see that guy over there? You’re him. Get into his skin. Feel the simplicity. It’s just a surface layer. You don’t need to know anything else. Just stay at that level. Feel on that level. Talk on that level. Play with it a little.  Before you know it, you don’t even have to think about it.”

“I can’t do it for more than a few minutes. It exhausts me.”

“Just keep practicing. Try it with different people. You’ll get the hang”

But even Jonathan fell victim to an ‘accident’ provoked by his reckless behavior at a gathering one night. His constant antics revealed his real self. And Marcus found himself alone with his own rebellion. That was perhaps the turning point. That was when he knew that deception would never be enough.

Ever notice how the best speculative fiction always has an element of sociological or psychological reality to it?  Here's something I'm working on, tentatively titled The Adaptors:


When the tribunal came to power it was only natural that they seek the best way to consolidate that power among the populace. They looked for those personality types who were most inclined to crave a “favored” position in the hierarchy. This tendency was not difficult to test for, the questions plumbed the applicants views on ‘traditional values,’ acquisitiveness, imagination and ambition. It was easy to sort out who would march along with the tribunal to continue to receive their advantages.

Problems occurred with the children. This singular adaptiveness could not be relied upon to pass on to continuing generations. In fact, a disturbing number of the offspring tended to be otherwise, which caused loss of status and its attendant material advantage—which made the parents unhappy. So they stated selecting for adaptability at conception, which made the whole system work much more smoothly. Over time, however, even that became a delusion, as if the genetic adaptability itself changed into unusual behaviors over a period of time. Fewer and fewer truly adaptive children were born. No matter how hard the geneticists worked on it, they couldn’t reach reliable compliance. The jello-like matter of the code kept morphing into different combinations.

David felt this failure deeply as he looked at his son. The boy had passed all the tests, pre-birth, or he wouldn’t be here, but something was still out of sync. He was well trained in all aspects of culture, as his family’s position dictated, but he still seemed to wander outside the bounds.

Though the young people were given a certain amount of leeway in their adolescent developmental years, it was all kept within pre-defined limits. Anyone who scouted too far from the norm they were taken out, though no one was allowed to know it as such. They just became victims of their own recklessness—a less to the others—albeit they were helped in their demise. Of course, these individual were never allowed to reach the age were they were allowed to reproduce.

                             *                        *                       *

Corporate Mind

Lately, I’ve spent time in the company of what I can only call ‘corporate types.’ I call them that because they displayed so many of the characteristics of corporate life, and in fact, they all work in corporate environments. But it has so infected their behavior and way of life that their personalities are inseparable from it. I don’t know how this happens. I have worked in corporations but probably not at high enough levels, and at no time did I feel it necessary to subsume my personality to the corporate mindset. Which is probably why I am a writer right now. And yet, that is what essentially happened to these people. They traded their individuality for the corporate good—which somehow, became entangled with their own good. ‘One Mind—One Purpose.’

Isn’t that what happens to those who choose to climb the corporate ladder?

I feel I have to describe some of these behaviors and characteristics. First of all, there is the dedication to materialistic acquisition. There is no other way to demonstrate one’s success in the corporate environment. One has to wear the same outfits, yes-man one’s betters to the same degree, push the same papers, live by the same reports. In fact, one’s day is filled with conformity in corporate life, and looking out-of-place, saying something out-of-line, being a loose cannon in any way, is highly discouraged—daily—hourly—moment by moment. Those who cannot stomach this constant pounding into conformity usually leave and start their own businesses. Or they become artists or craftsmen. Or they become teachers or social workers or musicians or nurses. Something with some life to it, some creativity to it. This is the antidote to corporate mind.

Which brings me to my point—how this corporate mindset has infected our politics.

Think about it. The elevation of the corporate good as the ultimate goal. The diminishment of science, social programs, the arts. These are all antithetical to corporate mindset. These things produce too much independence, too much thought—and far too much innovation and even competition—which is a threat to the corporation. The maintenance of the old school corporate world is the ultimate goal, and everything else must give way to its pre-eminence. And so we get to one of my favorite subjects—manipulation. This is at the heart of corporate mindset. The corporate world is—is it not?—a civilized society where overt hostility is not allowed. Instead, a great deal of subtle manipulation is employed, along with a certain amount of withholding of approval, a large portion of insincerity and a fair dollop of backbiting is used to get one’s way and force people to do –or not do—what you want.

Do you see the parallels to the Republican political practices?

They have manipulated the public skillfully, using all these methods, from backbiting opponents relentlessly to an appalling amount of dishonestly about their true goals. All this stems from the corporate mindset—the corporations that must be protected—at the expense of everyone else.

Of course, they will not tell you this. They will never admit it, and that too, is part of the corporate mindset of manipulating people to do what you want them to do while convincing them it is good for them. Unfortunately, when the people discover they’ve been ‘gamed’ all along, the anger grows—and grows—and eventually the anger turns to a demand for redress.

Let’s see how long the gaming of the public goes on—and what form the demand for redress will take.

Mad Men, or White Guys Gone Wild

I’ve tried—I’ve really tried—to watch Mad Men and see what the buzz was about, if only to understand why the show has won so many awards and seems to be considered such great drama--

To coin a phrase—I don’t get it.

Yes, the setting is remarkably correct for the timeframe, and yes, the characters all seem the right degree of caricature to make the viewing entertaining.

That’s about it.

The chronic sexual hunting is slightly nauseating, the historical shuffling-aside of the women is horrifying and the closeting of the gay character is depressing. The “glacial” pace—yes, that is how it is described—“glacial”--makes me watch the clock. The lack of action makes me find other chores to fill the time.

In a word, I don’t like it.

I particularly don’t like the focus on the men—white men—who are self-indulgent and believe they can, and should, get away with anything. I dislike the grasping ambition. I dislike the cultural references to oppression of minorities, and the chronic boozing looks like a celebration of dysfunction. And the status-worshipping--that has never been a field of any interest to me, so that’s lost on me, too.

In a word, there’s no there there for me.

The demographic of Mad Men viewers is said to be white, under 50, and affluent. Poor people don’t get it. A lot of women don’t get it. It’s mainly a man’s show. A white man’s show, really. And a women-attached-to-successful-man show. It’s also a show for those who wish to look back at the early 60’s with rose-colored glasses. A time when white guys were king. A time when affluence was the perfect way to divert from inequity. A time where when something was good for the some, it was assumed to be good for everyone.

Perhaps too much cultural fantasy for me.

The show must inexorably march toward a more enlightened view of both the culture and humanity, in general. By that time, the writers will have been forced to add in more diverse and interesting characters. Till then, the show is like a diorama—frozen in time. The show’s fans like it that way, but like real life, the show must change because everything changes. Until that time, I will continue watch the show off-and-on, without much engagement, with one eye, and the plot just visible on the edge of my consciousness.
Wake me when something interesting happens.

A Bad Brand - or 'What are Republicans Thinking?'

As if the misinformation that drove into a protracted war in Iraq wasn’t enough, the Republicans—and their doppleganger reflection, the Tea Partiers (Teabaggers)—have continued to misrepresent and often overtly lie about the health reform bill, the financial reform bill, and almost everything else President Obama does—or is.

It’s quite astounding to watch, for a party that once carefully groomed its image as the Family Values Party (that went to hell), the Fiscal Conservative Party (also, to hell), and the reasonable, restrained arbiters of American liberty (way, way gone to Hades). This appears to be a party thrashing around in the throes of some kind of madness, trussed up as they are by their own failure, incompetence, and inability to divert from their own ideology when it’s needed. They are a bad brand now, one that, in commercial venues, would have been thrown out and started over.

Instead, we watch the Republicans compound their public mistakes, doubling-down on the bad behavior in a childish tantrum, hoping to make all those who resist their policies give up indulgently—or perhaps, it’s that they hope to make it look so bizarre and powerful others can’t help but join in.

We’ve seen them follow patently unqualified candidates, accept the incendiary rhetoric of their talk show propagandists, and silently assent to the most politically improper language and behavior that can be imagined. But their worst sin—the thing that makes their brand toxic from here on in---is their lying to the public about facts that affect them profoundly. This is unforgiveable, un-American, and makes them unworthy of leadership in any capacity. Yet they seem to be unaware of people think of them—a sure sign of unhealthy thought processes. The worst of it is that the more moderate among them allow them to carry on anyway.

So, as we wave a fond farewell to the sane and sensible cloth-coat Republicans of the past, we get the feeling we should call in professionals to counsel current Republicans in their madness. Surely, something can be done. Some medication. Some talk sessions. Some peace and quiet on some well-landscaped estate.
Or, only if absolutely necessary, electroshock therapy.

When People Had Paychecks

Outside of the obvious dichotomy of some people having jobs and other people NOT having them, lies another issue that is changing the mindset of Americans across the country. We are no longer able to count on paychecks coming in, and even dividends from investments may be reduced or completely removed from the annual income. Add to that a generation whose has seen their dreams of retirement go up in smoke. What does that do to the American psyche?

Retailers are noticing a bump in sales for the past 4 months over the course of the current recession, but this is mainly for “necessary” items—kids needing clothes they have outgrown, or people needing to look recent at work, or people buying clothes in hopes of finding new jobs. This is not the “discretionary spending” we’ve seen in the past. It may be the our consumer economy will be re-calibrated permanently, with more money going to personal debt reduction—or saving for retirement—or for cash outlays for things we previously put on credit. It will not be for that riotous spending we have done in the past—if we were lucky enough to engage in riotous spending.

So far, this has not resulted in widespread lower pricing, and certainly gas prices are not helping matters, with more money going to energy so that less can be spent on everything else. As a result, restaurants, entertainment, and tourism may be depressed for many years to come.

So where is the American economy going? Right now, it seems at a standstill, with movement apparently going in a retrograde motion to undo past mistakes. That is going to be a difficult prospect for many Americans. No more will there be automatic reliance on that next paycheck coming in as sure as the night follows the day. It is likely jobs will continue to be shaky as long as that retrograde action continues. And it may be true that America seems a kind of Lost Decade that Japan experienced a short time ago.

Until the corrections within the American economy are completed, we will all endure a kind of consumer “suspended animation.” Pent-up demand might take on a different character. Maybe it will make consumption more thoughtful in the future.
Maybe we’ll even become less materialistic—as we so often speak of, but so seldom actually do.

People Who Love Chicago

I live in Florida, and have for the past ten years. It can be said I have not adapted well to the heat. This winter, like in many places around the country, my town has seen record cold temperatures.

Something happened one day—a Saturday, when I had time to notice—when the temperatures dipped into the thirties and forties. I ran out to the Target to pick up a few things. On the way back to my car, I noticed that a light, chilly rain was falling. I looked up into the sky. It was a low, overcast, pale-gray. The wind had a bite, and a cold rain began to chill me in a familiar way. I had bundled up in heavy socks and shoes and a toasty-warm fleece jacket--because that’s what Floridians do when the temperature dips down from its normal 80 degrees--so I was thoroughly prepared for the cold. Something about the feel of it all made my heart leap up in joy.

It was Chicago. Just like Chicago. In early November.

I recognized it immediately and instinctively. It was as if I were transported back to my old neighborhood on the near-South Side. In my mind, I was trekking down State Street, looking in the store windows. I was strolling down Lake Shore Drive gazing at the deep, cold, forbidding waters of Lake Michigan. I was waiting for a bus on a windy corner on Halstead Street.

I was there.

This cold, and chill, and rain made me feel incredibly alive. I had to get out and walk around in it. So I drove home, and leashed up my little Papillon, Markie, and started walking. We walked all around the neighborhood, even though there was a light, icy rain falling. No one else was walking, and in fact, I saw people in cars that went by, looking at me like I must be a little mad. “Yes, I’m a little mad—but I’m from Chicago,” I replied in my mind. As if that were an excuse they would understand perfectly. As if that explained everything about me. And in many ways, it does.

That’s the thing about Chicagoans, they are a strangely sentimental group. All that bad weather that scares other people off, horrifies them, in fact—that is the stuff we are made of. The grayness, and the biting, go-right-through-you, wind, and the icy rain, and the snow and the sleet and black ice—it’s all a backdrop to all our experiences, both good and bad. We have kissed lovers in the icy rain. We have slid across black ice on the way to holiday gatherings. We have stood at gravesites in drifting snow and below zero temperatures. It’s a part of us. We can’t separate it from us. It makes us passionately love the city and all that happens there.

As the cold temperature frosted my hips and thighs, it seemed to conform that I was not built for the heat of Florida, but I was perfectly adapted to the inhospitable chill of Chicago. I recognized that I could stay out in this weather for hours. I was almost tempted to find out how many hours, but I had my dog with me, and though he is well covered in fluffy, black-and-white fur, I’m not sure how his footpads will hold up on the cold cement. He was raised in Florida, and I’m not sure to what degree he’s adapted. So, I took him home.

My hips and thighs stayed cold for hours and hours afterward—yet I didn’t mind it at all. I have the insulation of Chicago, it seems, reinforced by generations of Chicago ancestors, and even before that, people who were adapted to the cold Warsaw winters.

I realized one thing. Even though I now live in comfy place like Florida, I will return to the frozen North many times. I will have to—it’s in my blood.
Even in the dead of winter.

On Belly Dancing

I came to belly dancing through my satellite service. Seriously. There’s a show on the fitness channel that teaches belly dancing. Coming from cable, I was first intrigued by the show and the moves it taught, then tried following along. Now, I’m hooked.

Let me tell you, this is a little late in life to become a belly dancer. However--it’s great exercise, uses a lot of the muscles that need using at this age, and makes you feel sensuous and flexible—which is great at any age.

What is the greatest thing about belly dancing is its mysterious history. Sure, the very name conjures up exotic lands and mysterious rituals, but the fact is, no one knows exactly where belly dancing came from. It’s connected with the Middle East and Northern Africa and, in truth, there are Egyptian styles and Turkish styles—each with their own signature moves and dress—and in one’s mind you seem to travel to these exotic s with their strange cultures when you are involved in the dance. It’s a great escape as well as a great exercise.

Even the name ‘belly dancing’ is not its true name. It’s really ethnic dancing (in Arabic, raqs sharqi or raqs baladi) from that area of the world, and that came to the western world via the Chicago World’s Fair of 1893, where it caused a great sensation. And of course, it features the belly with great emphasis—scandalous at that time in history—hence, the ‘belly’ nomenclature. Since then, this native dance has been adopted by many western nations—America, Canada, Australia—and these countries have added moves with their own cultural interpretation.

The spouse was curiously eager to tell people I’ve been learning to belly dance. I don’t know what this is about, as I don’t go about dancing FOR him, so much as he catches me in the middle of televised class—or I break in a move spontaneously to practice a hip-isolation move or master a tricky step. I would have to say he likes the whole idea.

The down side of learning to belly dance is that you can’t properly do it anywhere outside a classroom. You would certainly get some odd looks—and possibly some interesting propositions—if you were to start belly dancing in the middle of a bar or club. Nonetheless, the urge to belly dance strikes at odd moments. You can hear a suitable beat in the overhead music of a supermarket and find yourself longing to break into a hip pop in the checkout line. You don’t, of course—but the urge is strong and unremitting.

All in all, belly dancing has added many fun dimensions to life—which is probably why it became so popular in the first place.

On Tiger

This was one that got under my skin, for some reason. Maybe it’s because I’ve been married for a long time, and have invested a great deal of time and attention to this relationship. Maybe it’s because my little grandson admired Tiger Woods since he was old enough to watch TV and hold a golf club at the miniature golf course. But I found myself deeply disappointed in Tiger’s behavior. Also, disappointed in having been duped by his PR people into thinking Tiger was all things good and hard-working and focused and disciplined—when the very opposite was the case.

The uproar about Tiger is now reaching almost operatic proportions. Internet games are turning up, in which Elin Woods chases Tiger in his car. Youtube has enactments of the Tiger Woods family drama. And I expect soon someone will put the whole thing to music, in a kind of rock-opera form, with maybe a few hip-hop elements.

Mostly, I’m upset at Tiger—and at all cheating men, really—because of what they bring home. And I’m talking about STD’s, though that’s a possibility that can’t be overlooked, as well. What they bring home is utter disruption. They bring home suspicion—and distrust—and a complete lack of faith in the marriage/family institution. They bring home destruction and despair, and for that, they can’t be forgiven. These breaches leave wounds that children in that home will carry with them for the rest of their lives, regardless of whether the marriage is patched or not. Regardless of whether the children are consciously aware of what has occurred. That’s how large the transgression is—that’s how huge the repercussions.

I hope men remember that when they carry on in very adolescent ways outside of their marriage vows. It’s not just about YOU anymore. It’s not even just about your wife. It’s about the concepts and feelings you bring home for your children to experience and carry with them all their lives. They have no choice in this.
Nothing ever happens in a vacuum. Not if there are children nearby to bear the cost.

Family Relations

I recently attended a family funeral of someone in my family who was dear to me, and as I gazed over this mass of cousins, children of cousins, relations through marriage, and old family friends, I was amazed again at how complex the human animal is.

I’ve tried to figure out family relationships since I was a tiny girl, and still don’t understand them. This is a personal failing, I know, because some people seem to know and understand these relationships without even giving them a bit of thought. It’s as if their tribal instinct is much stronger than mine, as it if they have a part of their brain that automatically makes and stores these calculations, and the very fact that these people are ‘blood’ or connected by marriage makes it crystal clear to them what degree of intimacy or social interaction is required. The process eludes me.

Me, I thrash around trying to remember names and connections, and if anyone asks me what relationship I am to anyone else, I need a chart, birth documents, marriage certificates, and still photographs. I really am not good at this. I suspect everyone in my family knows this and treats me with the kind of gentle tolerance you would give someone who is a bit slow. They are very kind, very nice and respectable people and I am humbled and gratified to be a part of their group. I still don’t understand their connection to me, however.

The person whose passing called together this renewal of tribal ties was my aunt. People tell me I resemble her. She was also my godmother, so there were a lot of solid, tangible ‘connections’ I could hang on to when interacting with her. She also made a point a of staying in contact with me throughout the years, and that often endeared her to me, because I’m a slippery character often wandering off into the horizon without looking backward. She passed and I’m poorer for her passing, and that much I understand. What I do not understand is that my connection with her, and even her passing, has brought me closer to this pack of relations and family friends that collected around her and because of her.

This is the mystery of tribal ties. This is the magic of human relationships. I shall have to ponder it more because it is forever beyond my natural understanding. But what a wonder it is to me.
Thanks, Aunt Midge. Love you much. Carry on. See you soon.

Why Americans Hate Recessions

I’ve lived through a number of recessions now. This current one is a little worse because it seems to have effects that may stretch out into the future, and that influences our feelings of Hope for the Future. And that is very bad for Americans. \Americans are very into the Future and all the promise that it implies.

Things may be bad now, but there’s always the future. The future can bring unforeseen ‘opportunities’ that can change our lives radically and beneficially. Hence, the ‘future’ is something that is inherently Americans’ friend. Regardless of what has come before, the future beckons.

Mostly, I think, Americans hate the limitations that recessions bring. Spending must be curtailed, and that always makes Americans antsy. Shopping is a hobby for many in America, and many a middle class family spends their Sunday at the mall picking up a few things to make their week sunny and bright. Recessions slow this activity down. Life looks duller and grayer during recessions—and you’ve pretty much seen the clothes your co-worker or school chum has worn before. How depressing.

Americans also hate recessions because it cuts down on travel, and we are a big country with lots to see, and relatives who have landed at various points around the nation that need to be visited to renew old tribal ties. Recessions make this travel more burdensome, either by making it too expensive, or by slowing it down by car instead of by plane. I’m a travel junkie so, believe me, I take the inconveniences created by the recession very personally and I hold George W. Bush and the Republican Party wholly responsible for my staying home more this summer and spending waaay more hours on the internet looking for good travel deals.

The Recession also changed a lot of educational plans for Americans. Many college-bound kids had to ratchet back to community colleges in order to afford tuition. Many adults who lost jobs had to retrain for other ones, or they had to put off classes they might have taken for personal improvement in order to do more job-oriented training. Americans love to learn new things, from Thai cooking to belly-dancing.

All in all, this recession put the U.S. on hold, and America really hates to feel itself spinning its wheels in place. This is a country with places to go to and things to do. Its entire psyche is wrapped up in forward movement, from its history of wagontraining across mountains, to its invention of an entire auto industry, to its flights to the Moon, to its communication around the planet with the internet. This country is all about movement—and it will not rest easy until the money starts flowing again, and with it, the movement of goods and ideas and energy.
Till then, let’s hope Americans get their act together. So we can all move forward to reap the benefits this nation so generously provides. All of us—together.

Dinner With Dieters - Redux

Okay, I can’t seem to leave this subject alone. Again, I spent a weekend with some friends, and it was very clear that the female side of this couple was constantly making food choices of a dietary nature. There was a concentration and calculation evident that was unnerving to me. Every morsel had to be mentally weighed and evaluated for substantive nutritional value and caloric consequence.

It was both fascinating and horrifying to me, as hostess to this person. I had the feeling that whatever I had chosen to serve these people was wrong—even though I clearly chose foods that were high in nutrition and had made healthy ‘choices’ possible, I felt I hadn’t done enough. Worse, I felt that even serving food at all had sabotaged this person’s efforts.

Woe is me.

It reinforced my sense that we are fast losing our ability to enjoy food. The food that we all centered our family and societal rituals around was now the enemy—not to be trusted, and never to be given into. It really made me feel uncomfortable to be around. I longed for a nice smiling, chubby dinner guest who complimented my efforts effusively.

I wonder how many other people are out there making preparations for dinner guests and weekend guest and are absolutely agonizing over what to serve and how much of it should be available. Too little looks skimpy and cheap—too much looks reckless and even hostile. It becomes a hostess’s nightmare, and there is no winning situation here. If you serve great food, a certain number of your guests will be inclined to turn their nose up at it, even BECAUSE it is so good and tempting. And no one wants to serve bad food, or food that doesn’t please both visually and gastronomically.

So I will entertain my guests as usual, and I’ll watch them turn away. I’ll watch the fevered calculation and the fear and self-loathing they experience when placing something delicious on their plate. I’ll watch their doubt and their regret.
These people sure have taken the pleasure out of entertaining. Much of life is no fun anymore.

Shania Twain's "You're Still the One."

It’s fairly often that a song makes me drift into a whole train of philosophical thought, and maybe that’s the true genius of good song-writing. It can lead into a complete thought pattern, so you can even draw a conclusion about life in general.

I was on a bit of a road-trip recently and Shania Twain’s ‘You’re Still the One’ was playing on the radio. For those who don’t know, it’s a song about a couple who is still together after a number of years, even though people didn’t think it would never last. And the love is still very strong. A classic circumstance. Who in their own lives has ever heard of a couple getting married, or have even attended the wedding itself, thinking ‘Good God, this will NEVER last’?

(‘but let’s keep dancing—let’s bring out the booze—and have—a ball—if that’s all—there is.’)

Pardon me, I digress into an old Peggy Lee song. A very good one, by the way.

But it strikes me that this tendency to pre-assess the success of any relationship is a waste of time and bald expression of ego, because we can never fully know the people involved, nor what makes the relationship tick, nor the circumstances that will conspire in the future to keep them together or break them apart. Essentially, it’s an exercise in futility—a blowing of hot air—a frittering of thought-energy. We can never possibly know the future, we are only playing likely odds, and even then odds that we know so little about. What I’m saying is, there’s not enough data. So why are we compelled to do it?

We do it because we like to feel we can control things. So much of human existence turns on random events. And this, the most intimate of relationships—one that touches us so near our hearts every single day of our lives--by rights should be both knowable and controllable. Throughout the history of mankind, humans have struggled to control these relationships, even to the point of making the basis of them economic. Now, economics and finances, we know something about. It has a beginning point and an end point, and we’re pretty clear on what finances and economics do in-between. And though this has worked to some extent throughout history, there have always been outliers—relationships that don’t follow the imposed rules. History is replete with examples. Songs are written about it, artistic works memorialize it. We struggle to make sense of relationships, but they have mysterious unwritten rules of their own.

To get back to my point:

I am one of those couples of which Shania Twain sings. People in fact did say it wouldn’t last—it lasted anyway. The people who said it now feel silly. And we feel strangely vindicated, though we do still occasionally feel like sending out raspberries to some people.It just shows the drawbacks of prejudging people. We’re so often on the losing side.

Things I Like About Men

Okay, I decided to do this article because, believe it or not, some people have accused me of not appreciating men. I know, I know—whodda thunk it? They don’t know me at all, do they? Actually I have a man in my life, I have been surrounded by men in my work environment most of my life, I even have a couple tiny little men-in-the-making as grandkids. I know something about men. After all my years of observing men, these are the things that astound me most about them:

That thing that makes men work at something until they almost drop to the ground. What is that? That is amazing. Men very seldom say, “Gee, you know, I think I’m going to let this go for awhile and go do something brainless, then I’ll come back to it fresh.” No, they just keep at it and keep at it. Sometimes, there’s a lot of swearing involved. But they keep going until they master (conquer) it. I like that. It’s a little unhinged, but I like it.

That thing where men all jump in to pull together to help do some heavy lifting guy-thing together. I love that. I’ve seen it happen over and over. Men will drop what they are doing to come to pitch in on something that has to be lifted onto a truck, rolled over to another position, or crawled inside of to get something out. What is that about? And they’ll do it to help any other man regardless of who he is, whether they like the guy or not, or who else is involved in the task. I love that quality. Keep that one. It’s beautiful to watch.

The thing where men are compelled to jump into dangerous situations and rescue people. This is the quality that gives us firemen, and police, and EMT technicians. But I’ve seen this one in lots of places—even on roads where someone has overturned their vehicle and the police and ambulance haven’t arrived yet. Ordinary guys will just jump in to see if they can help someone. This quality just makes me weep. This one should be kept in the gene pool no matter what else we decide to keep. This is the one that keeps people alive, keeps little kids safe, and makes women want to live with men no matter how much trouble they are. Keep this one. Definitely.

That thing where men think every problem has a solution. This sometimes drives women mad, but it really is a terrific quality. When you tell your husband or boyfriend or father about a problem you have and they automatically come up with some focused, practical solution that will turn the problem around. Often it has little to do with the problem, and doesn’t have a chance in hell of working. But I like that mental state of thinking that just about anything is manageable. I like that optimism. It’s somehow comforting—even if not at all true.
That’s it. I’m sure I’ll think of more things later, but these are the ones I can stand behind right now. If anybody has more to add, just jump in. I’m open to suggestion.

Lady With A Gun

I was at the post office the other day, a couple of people behind an older woman who evidently wanted to pick up her mail. The man at the counter politely told her how she had to do it now and gave her a card that would help her get it done by phone. She took the card and turned to leave, but before she got far , she stopped in front of me and complained to the effect that she traveled a lot and it used to be easy to pick up her mail, but now it was very difficult but and different now—and maybe it was because of the illegals. She waited for my input on the matter.

Now, I don’t quite understand how she connected the illegals to this process, but it was clear she felt that ‘her country’ was no longer the same, and that everything was worse now, because of something—she wasn’t exactly sure what—but illegals seemed to definitely be a part of it somewhere.

I was left standing there, trying to be agreeable and indulgent—rather as everyone does when faced with older peoples’ misconceptions and fears about modern life. I tried to say something vague and sympathetic. At which point, she informed me forthrightly that she was considering getting a gun.

Now, I’m not sure how the gun helps with the mail delivery and the illegals in America either, but it seemed that she thought this would help her significantly in her daily living in these unsettling times. And I thought: How many other older or otherwise slightly dispossessed people of this society are considering buying a gun as the solution to their confusion, fear, and general alienation?

I don’t know why she felt that way. I suspect it has something to do with right wing talk radio whipping fears about everything that Republicans no longer have control over, and didn’t do a good job controlling when they DID have control. Maybe someone out there can add a bit of clarity to the situation. It seemed more likely that this little old woman would fire on the UPS man trying to deliver a package than anything else—especially if he were the wrong color or otherwise threatened her in some irrational manner that day. But she had her right to own a gun, and by God, she was going to use it.

She looked at me squarely in the eye as she told me this about buying the gun, as if I could automatically be counted on to back her up and encourage her to do so. I did not, however. In fact, I told her I thought it probably wasn’t a good idea. “Why not?” she demanded. So I told her: “Because more guns floating around only make it more dangerous for good people.” She did not take this well. And I added with a shiver, “I don’t like guns—I don’t want any in my house.” The gentleman behind me in line, a young man in his thirties piped up at that very moment. “I don’t like them either. They scare me. My dad used to teach me to handle them, but I don’t want any around.”

The little old woman seemed nonplussed by this lack of support. It was my turn to step up to the counter, and I missed her departure. But I don’t think she got the satisfaction she hoped for. Maybe, however, the young man and I were able to dissuade her from reaching for gun ownership as an automatic solution to every problem, the standard balm for every emotional wound.

I don’t know, it was just a very scary encounter. It just did not bode well for our society that she should feel this way. Old or not.