Lawyers, Guns and Money

First off, a quick shout out to the late Warren Zevon, one of my favorite songwriters, for the blog title.

Now, to the main topic. The gun debate. First, a question: What percentage of homicides in America are via assault weapons? (Answer at bottom of blog)

Wondering out loud: Why are so many people framing this argument in terms of "assault weapons ban OR mental health being addressed?" Don't both sides need to be looked at? 


The goal of this particular blog is to encourage anyone reading it to get involved in the debate. It's very easy to go to www.senate.gov or www.house.gov and email your representatives. Below is a sample letter I sent to one of our senators. (By the way, our other senator, Chris Murphy, as of last week, didn't have an email address. I called his office, asked about why there was no way to contact him and was given a bunch of double talk by an aide about how long it takes for a freshman senator, blah blah blah. Yet, hee's the only senator in the US without an email address.) So I left a message, which I'm sure either won't get to him or if it does, it'll be garbled.
Even more importantly, contact your state reps and tell them how you feel. Very easy to do. Just google their name, go to the site, click on contact and type away. I happen to believe democracy DOES work, but only if we tell our legislators how we feel.  (Feel free to use this letter as a template if you like)

Dear Senator Blumenthal: I'm sure you're inundated with emails about this topic, so I'll try to make my points brief:

1: I like to think of myself as moderate to liberal on most issues. In the subject area, I'm, hopefully, liberal and thoughtful. Which is to say that I don't reject the NRA out of hand. And that I also recognize their power, as well as that of their rank and file. And that it has to be factored in. 

2: Therefore, regarding your proposed assault weapons ban, I do not know the specifics. But my first consideration is how realistic such a ban would be. If it has "teeth", then I'd be in favor of it. But if not, such as was the case in its previous incarnation, then I'd be opposed to it as the proverbial "feel good" legislation that does more harm than good.

3: Regardless of the content, we need to reassure gun owners that their rights are not being threatened. There are few political techniques more effective than the NRA acting threatened that the rank and file are about to lose their rights. This is an area where liberals have been on the losing end time and again. (What I'd really love to see is a wedge between the NRA management and the rank and file. With such a wedge, passing a realistic ban would be much easier)

4: The mental health component, I think we can all agree, has to be addressed. That said, I wouldn't even know where to begin. I'm actually going back to school to become a mental health therapist (LCSW) and even I don't know where to start. I'm against a national database of people with mental health issues (ironic that the NRA, who cries regularly about government intervention, is in favor of such a proposal). Such a database would include me, as I deal with chronic depression. What we need is better communication within and between states and government.

5: What is also true is that people like Adam Lanza would have been missed, as he had no history. Therefore, an assault weapons ban that would effectively keep guns away from such individuals would be something I would support.

I realize this is an enormously complex problem. I also realize that the overwhelming majority of gun owners are responsible people and that their rights need to be respected.

The fine art of politics is drawing that line down the middle that takes the urgency of the situation into account while assuaging those who are alarmed about losing their rights, so that they can be on board.

I hope you can be both courageous and thoughtful. You did get my vote and I hope to repeat that vote if you can help lead us forward so that there'll never be such a tragedy again.

Sincerely,

Gerald Pollak

North Haven, CT

(Answer to question: According to FBI stats, 5% of homicides via assault weapons. 320 or so out of 6200)

Zamboni blues

As I've blogged before, I don't have a TV. By choice. (OK, OK, I'm too cheap to pay the cable bill). But I honestly don't miss most of it. GWSC,FRIDU,TRA (as previous readers now know, this is "girlfriend who chooses to remain anonymous." Now expanded to "Girlfriend who still chooses, for reasons I don't understand, to remain anonymous".
Anyway, she has a TV. Which I really like. (No, that's not the only reason I'm with her. I honestly would be just as much in love even if she didn't have a TV). But it's nice to watch sports again. Even with the interminable litany of ads. Even if the NFL games are fixed. (that's for a future blog). I also still like the Weather Channel, although it's become a total sellout to weather freaks. And the occasional really good TV drama or comedy.
But what I really miss is a good hockey game. I'm out of the hockey loop. My closest experience to the NHL is what my hockey-addicted brother tells me. He lives in California and was in 7th heaven when his LA Kings won the Stanley Cup last year.
This blog, however, is not just about the great game of Canada. It's actually about what happens between periods. And that, of course, is the Zamboni. True, if a game is on TV, the cameras don't show the Zamboni going around the ice. The fools think this would actually detract from the ratings. Anyone who's seen a Zamboni in action knows better. I am not alone in this view. There is a band called the Zambonis. And there have been innumerable references to the Zamboni in our culture. Airing the Zamboni between periods might actually be an upgrade from the 30 second interviews with the players.

Interviewer: "That was some goal you scored."
Player: "Yeah, ay."
Interviewer: "Was the goalie screened? Looks like he missed it completely."
Player: "Dunno, ay."

Anyway, back to the Zamboni. But first, a brief primer. The Zamboni was invented by Frank Zamboni, in that mecca of hockey, San Pedro, CA. He invented it in 1949, got the patent 4 years later, and had his first prototype going the following year. The Zamboni, as any hockey fan knows, is an ice resurfacer. It cleans the ice, gets out all the scrapes and divots, and, when done, returns to the viewer a beautifully pristine surface, ready for the skaters to use for the next period. It is to hockey what any Apple product is to technology today, except that the Zamboni actually makes sense to me.
To watch it in action is a mesmerizing experience. I watch it dutifully, making sure the driver doesn't miss a crescent of ice. If he/she does, and the next period resumes, it takes me 5 minutes to focus away from the missed crescent and back to the game. This is because the ice surface is now rough enough where the missed area isn't noticeable.
Everyone remembers their first Zamboni moment. Mine was in 1967 at the old Madison Square Garden at, I believe, 50th Street. Its last year before the present site at Penn Station. My mom took me and my brother Jeff to see the Rangers play the Chicago Black Hawks. The Hawks had Bobby Hull, he of the fastest slap shot in NHL history (at the time). They had some other great players and were in general better than the Rangers. And they in fact did win that game, 1-0 on a goal by Kenny Wharram with 5:50 to go. Wharram was the right wing on a line with Stan Mikita at center and Bobby Hull on left wing. The last two were perhaps the most potent due in the NHL at the time. Both are in the Hall of Fame.
Anyway, with all that history and majesty, but without any scoring, a non-fan would think that this would be a boring game. Ah, anything but. You must remember that the game of hockey has so much action that, even without scoring, it's still a beautiful game to watch. However, even more, hockey has the aforementioned Zamboni. And THAT was the bonus I didn't expect. Here I was, a wide-eyed 12 year old, seeing my first NHL game. And then out comes the Zamboni between periods. My mom asked me if I needed to go to the bathroom, or if I wanted popcorn, or, well, I have no idea what she was asking me. She could have told me the entire Garden was burning down and I wouldn't have heard a thing. I was transfixed. Mesmerized. Stupefied. Where did this machine come from? How does it work? Will the driver accurately smooth over the next lane of ice? Even more importantly, will I ever drive one? I found my purpose in life. To drive a Zamboni. Does life get any better?
7 years later, while a junior in college, I was watching my local hockey team, the Plattsburgh State Cardinals, in a game which, I think, they were winning after two periods, possibly 6-0. It was a blowout. I was, to be honest, the most maniacal P'burgh hockey fan on campus. Everything was great. Until the Zamboni broke down between periods. It was stuck. I mean, immovable. Result: The game ended and we had to forfeit. My week was ruined. My GPA dropped half a point. I still think the opposition sabotaged the machine. I've been spending 38 years trying to make my case but no attorney has been willing to work with me. The fools.  (Hey, my brother is also an attorney. Maybe I'll try to recruit him)
Fast forward to 2004. My wife at the time, through a series of mechanisms, has a surprise for my birthday. She has conspired with the Zamboni driver at a local rink to let me drive the Zamboni! Not during a game, but just during a period of regular maintenance. Meaning that no one except the three of us will know. Which was fine with me.
Somewhat to my surprise, it was not easy. You have to steer it just right. And it does not steer easily. I was missing ice all over the place. You also have to maintain just the right speed, which is roughly 5 MPH. Too fast and you risk crashing it into the boards. Too slow and, well, you can't go much slower than 5 MPH. But it does give off a lot of fumes, so the sooner you get through it, the better. You do NOT want to be standing behind a Zamboni. 
But I did it. I even managed to drive it out of the rink and activate the setting that dumps the used ice on the ground.
The irony of all this is that I now have access to watch hockey games. But there are NO hockey games due to the owner lockout. Supposedly settled as of this writing. But it's past halfway into the season, so the games are, to me, almost meaningless. And without taking my suggestion, the NHL network, or whoever broadcasts these games, will probably NOT be airing the Zamboni in process. I mean, if I'm a network honcho and I know I've got a season that everyone is disillusioned with, and I've got mindless chatter between periods, why would I NOT make this brave decision?

I don't like it, ay.

Long live the Zamboni. Long may you run.

Thanks for reading, y'all...gp

Follow these easy directions...

Hey all: Before I begin, I want to open with something I normally wouldn't put into this generally family friendly blog. And that is, a sex tip for men.
It's not some product you buy online, nor is it some ancient Tantric wisdom. Best of all, it's something you, I'm almost sure, will not find anywhere else. It is...a song.
Specifically, this one:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MDY42pFwq7c

This is the song Bad Things, which is the theme song for the show True Blood. I've never seen it, although I hear it's great. Jace Everett is the singer.
 
The posted comments below the clip bear out its effect. 

All you need, guys, is a baritone or bass voice and the ability to sing on key. You don't have to be Johnny Cash, or Barry White. (Good thing, as they're both deceased)
People who sound like Mike Tyson need not apply. In fact, even Luciano Pavarotti shouldn't attempt this. If you have a beautiful tenor voice, you're just flat out of luck. This song is meant for men with deep voices.
In fact, you don't even need to sing the entire song, although it's less than 3 minutes. All you need to sing is the hook line, which will be evident once you play it. Practice it and let me know how it works.

OK. On to the main event. And that is a confession... I cannot, for the life of me, follow written instructions unless they're plainly and painfully obvious. This problem gets exponentially worse if there's a cryptic diagram to accompany it. I remember my 10th grade biology teacher, Mr. Kasner, showing diagrams of paramecia, amoebas, trees, flowers, and God knows what else. Every one of them was the dreaded "cross-section." To this day, that term freezes me into a stupor. (A word that presumably has the same etymology as stupid) I think I got a C+ in bio and to this day, I don't know how I got that high a grade.
Verbal instructions are even worse. When I was 11 years old, I played in a neighborhood football league. Shoulder pads, jerseys, cleats, helmets, the works. Being the rather fat kid that I was, I was plopped on the offensive line, which means I had to memorize Hitler's, oops, I mean, the COACH's plays. He'd verbally rattle off something like "54 trap right, on 2". I gave myself great credit for knowing what the "2" meant (2nd "hup hup"). As for the 54, again, I was clueless. Compounding the problem was that everyone else on the team had no problem understanding the language, and that the coach would call me names and chew me out in front of the team.
The point is, I cannot follow directions unless they're written in the simplest terms. And if it's verbal, there's almost zero chance of me doing the task correctly.

Which leads me to the events of last week. GWCTRA (Girlfriend who chooses to remain anonymous) entrusted me with a simple task. To set some mousetraps in her basement. Her decision to do this was in question, as she based it on some substance she saw in her basement. I assumed it to be caviar, although I don't know why anyone would leave little pellets of caviar around. She assumed the substance to be something else, and shopped accordingly. She purchased a set of 3 pieces of wood, each about the size of a large wafer, with a metal spring above it, and a couple of clips. Looked pretty simple. I read the (ahem) "directions" which were something like this:
1: Open package. (I was off to a good start)
2: Put trap substance here. ("Here" could have been on the trap. Or it could have been on the other end of the trap. Or it could have been in Trap Falls, Wisconsin. I have no idea where "here" was, although I must say that it's a good existential question)
3: Lift up spring and insert clip through hole in bottom of spring in center below tab facing out. (Or something like that). I don't remember it verbatim. But whatever it was, I didn't have a clue what it meant.
I then figured if I could just look at the diagram, and use a little common sense, I'd get it. I looked at the diagram, which would have been perfect in a Kandinsky exhibit. But useless for any practical value. All I saw was something that looked like a stick figure of a kindergartener's first attempt at drawing. Even now, I don't know what it was supposed to be.
So I lifted the trap part of it up with one hand. My grip slipped. I had the wherewithal to move my other hand away ASAP for fear of losing a finger. Sure enough, SNAP, down went the spring. Fortunately, no damage done.
So now, I got careful. Get a good grip on the thing and insert the wire, or clip, or whatever the thing is, into something that will prop it up and then slam down on the mouse, should he/she be foolhardy enough to go for the peanut butter.
Unfortunately, nothing worked. And I mean NOTHING. I played with it for 30 minutes. I know I broke one of the traps trying to insert something into something else.
I considered going online and googling "Mouse calls", then going down to the basement which some peanut butter. Trying out a mouse call, having the little critter show up, go for the peanut butter, and then slamming it with a 2 x 4. But I'm not that cruel, nor do I have that much time on my hands.
So I reluctantly gave up.  
I was comforted, however, by 2 things:
1: My reflexes, which were always very good, are still in peak form.
2: GWCTRA said she had the same problem. So hopefully I didn't lose any macho points. (A little more on that below)

All I DO know is that the diagram was a cross section of something.

Speaking of macho points, GWCTRA was out of town over the holidays. It snowed here in CT. Naturally, I offered to shovel her driveway. The problem is that a week earlier, I had a "levator scapulae" muscle, which is located between the neck and shoulder, go into spasm. My chiropractor, Jason, diagnosed it, did his usual magic and gave me some exercises. Which were working beautifully until that fateful day when I picked up the shovel and got to work. Bad idea. REALLY bad idea. What's worse is that your body doesn't tell you it's a bad idea until the next morning. At which time, I woke up with a shooting pain down my left arm and a throbbing in my upper arm that exceeded that of a disco bass guitar. Back to Jason I went. New diagnosis. Strained triceps. I'm currently learning that if I so much as pet a dog with my left hand, the pain returns. On the other hand (no pun intended), if I baby the left arm and avoid any kind of contact, it actually gets better.

I'm just glad Jason didn't write out any directions or put my problem in a diagram.

Thanks for reading...gp

Sweet seasons

(I always do a Carole King shoutout when I can...she wrote a song with that title)

But before I do, first, a tip to save money that I just discovered:

A week ago, I emailed the Amy's Food company. They make pretty awesome products, especially for people like me who are on a joy-free diet. One thing they make is this really good mac cheese that's both gluten free and dairy free. Problem is, it looks a lot like their other mac/cheese meals which DO contain either gluten or dairy. I brought one with real cheese, heated it up, took a bite and thought, "Hey, this is really good. It CAN'T be something I normally buy." Sure enough, I looked at the package and saw that it had "cheese", not "cheeze". (I am not kidding about this)
Anyway, I had to toss it out. I emailed the company, who responded very courteously to say they had received similar complaints and were updating their packaging. I thought, "Cool...glad they're doing it". And that was the end, until today, when I received about 20 dollars worth of coupons from them in the mail.
Moral: If you don't like what a company is doing (or better, if you DO like something they're doing), all you have to do in contact them. Even today, companies generally like to hear from consumers with constructive feedback. It makes them better and it saves you money. How cool is that?

Now, to the main event. My love of 4 seasons. (Not the band, although I must say I DID like them and lamely tried to imitate Frankie Valli's falsetto).
But I digress...
No, I'm talking meteorologically. I spent about 10 years in sun belt climates. Columbia, SC. Los Angeles, Nashville, TN. (the latter being a marginal sun belt city that gets 2 ice storms a season). And I hated, hated, missing winter and even more, the autumn.
When asked why I like living in CT, my #1 answer is "the first part of October." Case closed. Our state, and Litchfield County in particular, is the prettiest place on earth in early fall.
But beyond that, almost as beautiful is a new fallen snow. Of which we've had 4 events so far. None major. However, as beautiful as it is, driving in it is another story. Now, keep my background in mind. I have a masters degree in geography and I specialized in climatology and even taught it in grad school. I also have 9 credits in meteorology. Everyone who knows me knows that I'm a weather freak of the first order.
Therefore, it is, even now, inexplicable to me how I could be driving in each of the 4 storms. Let's take this chronologically.
1: First week of November, a week after Sandy hit (itself unprecedented). Where am I? I'm at the laundromat. The $%^&ing laundromat? Yeah, I was out of clean clothing. But I KNEW the forecast. So when they pulled my body from the wreckage, they could say, "Well, at least he had clean clothing."
2: My girlfriend, who still wishes for me to hide her identity, and I are out at a Christmas Eve mass. (She's a former Christian who wanted to revisit her faith). Beautiful music.  Boring prose. Amazingly
irrelevant sermon. Anyway, it starts snowing during mass. I need to drive her back. The snow has stopped, with very little accumulation. For you snow novices, that's a worst case scenario. A little snow makes the highways very, very slick. Again, we survived. This time, when our frozen corpses are found, they could say, "well, at least they didn't die alone."
3: Just a few days ago, I drive to anonymous girlfriend's house. And I leave in the heart of a storm that, when done, will only leave maybe 4-5 inches accumulation. Not a big deal. But, as the band 10cc said back in the 70's, "The Things we do for Love". All I had to do was wait a couple of hours. Or spend the night at my place. Or any number of other non-suicidal options. But no, off I went, on a drive that lasted over an hour, that's normally 20 minutes. I'm still not sure how I was able to go an hour without taking a breath. But somehow I did. This time, when my corpse is found, they could say, "He was a devoted boyfriend."
4: Finally, just 2 days ago, I visited my friend, Donna. I could have cancelled but this was already a reschedule. Nothing was going to stop me. When I left, it actually was not snowing. It started halfway there. By the time, I left from Donna's, it was snowing...and hard. (By the way, how come there's no verb to describe this condition? If it's rain, it's pouring, a downpour, etc. But when it's snow, there's no equivalent.) But I DO give myself credit for taking the longer, but flatter, route home. My normal route, which would have taken me down a steep hill on Rt. 15, an expressway, would have been suicidal. After I lost control of my car and careened into oncoming traffic, they could have said, "Well...he survived his last 3 suicidal encounters with clean clothing, a girlfriend, and devotion. But not this time. What an idiot."

All that wasted education. I promise to not do anything suicidal ever again. Unless anonymous girlfriend says otherwise.

A wonderful and blessed 2013 to everyone. Thanks again for visiting, y'all.

Spiritual Rx

I don't know about you, but being joyful sure is hard work.

When I first started this blog in the summer, I pledged to create a post every Sunday. For the most part, I've done that. I knew December would be a challenge but I never expected to be thrown this far off course.
There are 2 main reasons, one joyous and the other heartbreaking. The latter, of course, is the Newtown shootings, now 12 days in the past but still seems like an hour ago.
The other is that I'm in a relationship with a woman who is, as they say, a "keeper". She has asked me to remain anonymous for now in the blogosphere. It is NOT Berenice Bejo, the spectacularly gorgeous lead from the movie The Artist, (which I've seen twice). No, my love is even better. 
I tend to be overly confessional, so there's a better than 50-50 chance I'll say something that will elicit a "I cannot BELIEVE you put that in a blog" reaction from her. I'll say, "But sweetie...no one reads my blog." That will not persuade her. Therefore, I will delay my sonnets and romantic exhortations until she gives me the green light.
On the other end of the spectrum, I'm in a "Newtown echo" phase. Which is to say that I find myself spending less time per day thinking about the horrific events of 12/14. But a few times a day, I'll ask myself, "How can the parents of those sweet kids get through this period?" Sometimes, it's a mild echo. Other times, I'm almost obsessing over it. And of course, I never find answers. My powers of empathy do not extend far enough to include being a suddenly childless father. Even as I write these words, I freeze because, I suspect, to put myself in their shoes is just too painful for me. Yet, these parents somehow move on. As do all the other lives forever upended.
I posted on FB that I drove up to Newtown last Thursday, with my guitar and harmonicas in tow, hoping to just play some music. As I drove southwest on Rt. 15, the sunshine quickly turned to overcast skies. So quickly that I started asking myself if I could play music in a cold rain or sleet. I was already mentally chickening out. I got off 15 and onto Rt. 25, which runs through northern Fairfield County.
A side note for those not from these parts. Fairfield County is, for the most part, very wealthy. This wealth includes Newtown. As you drive in the area, you generally see wealthy colonials, stores decorated in a faux-Revolutionary War architecture, with ornately displayed business signs. It's not a Beverly Hills, new money, in your face, kind of wealth. It's more the opposite. It's a wealth that says, "We've had wealth for a long time and it's so much a part of who we are that we don't need to throw it in your face". The entire area says, "We are safe. There is no violent crime here." That's why it was that much more jarring that, as I got closer to the town center, I saw this uniquely Connecticut wealth mixed with signs of anguish and suffering. Like walking into someone's mansion, knowing that all is not well. None of this surprised me. It was essentially what I expected. But even with this knowledge, each sign that said "We love you, Charlotte" (or any other child) felt like being hit by a Floyd Mayweather right hook. For the 20th time, I again asked myself if I could do this. My answer was always the same. "You have no choice. And it won't be enough." So, northward I kept going, feeling a bit like I was driving into a hurricane.
I checked in at the police station to ask if it would be OK to do some music, After a brief wait, Carolyn, who I'm guessing is an administrator, came out and said yes, by all means. We chatted briefly and this woman, who must have been under an insane amount of stress, reached out and gave ME a hug. Which is what I was thinking of doing to her but thought it wasn't appropriate. This was the first of many signs that told me that for every sick individual with access to a weapon, there are 100 or more Carolyns in the world. People who want to do the right thing. Carolyn also gave me a contact of a woman who was organizing a concert.
I then walked a block south and looked over a makeshift memorial. 26 candles, teddy bears, toys, flowers, clothing, religious symbols, just about any symbol of love you can conjur up...all there on display. I could almost see the kids holding them. I saw 2 people looking alongside with me and started a conversation. (Side note: If we arm citizens, as the NRA and others seem to be pushing as the solution to these tragedies, I wouldn't have started a conversation for fear of offending them and getting my brains blown out for my trouble). As it turns out, Ken and Darla were wonderful people. Not only that, THEY were the ones who started the memorial, with the 26 candles. They could not believe that their initial offering had grown to include well over a hundred remembrances. Initial score: Evil, 1; Angels, 3.
I asked them if they'd be interested in any songs I could play for them. They said yes...anything. For reasons I still can't figure out, I started with the Moody Blues classic "Nights in White Satin." Maybe it was the refrain "But I love you, repeat, Oh how I love you". More likely, it was that beautiful melody, in E minor in a 6/8 meter. The lyrical connection isn't apparent to me, even now. But as a songwriter, I always trust a melody over a lyric. And in the end, it didn't matter. What mattered was that I did something...anything. In truth, I probably could have played industrial-punk-metal and it still would have been appreciated.
I followed up with the more obvious Graham Nash/CSNY "Teach Your Children". After that, I thought something holiday/kid friendly might be right. So I switched to Jingle Bell Rock, a song that, for some reason, I just can never get enough of. By this time, a few more people gathered around. After these 3 songs, my fingers were too cold to feel the strings. People wandered away. I felt like I may as well pack it in. Besides, I'll call this woman Carolyn told me about and we'll figure something out. So I've done enough for today.
To finish up the meteorological simile, I saw fewer and fewer signs as I got farther from Newtown. The storm faded away...at least for me. 
As it turns out, after 2 messages, I never did hear back from the woman Carolyn told me about. When people don't return calls, it generally pisses me off. But that didn't happen this time, because I have no idea what this woman is going through. That was lesson #1. Don't judge or assume anything. I cannot assume I know what Adam Lanza was going through either. Nor Nancy Lanza, his mother and his first victim. I don't know Adam Lanza's pathology. All I do know is that Asperger's Syndrome, which he may or may not have had, had nothing to do with it.
Which leads to lesson #2. Not only can I not judge, I also know next to nothing about the specifics of this tragedy. Therefore, maybe I'd do well to just keep my mouth shut when it comes to speculation. No one will ever know what Adam's pathology is. No one will ever know what possessed him to commit this unspeakably cruel act.  
Which takes me to lesson #3. If I can't say who's good or bad, if I can't assume facts about the case, what then CAN I do? Is it OK to have no answers? Because I surely do not. The answer to the "no answer" question is, of course, yes. I don't have answers but maybe "God", or whatever term one cares to use, does. Therefore, all I can do is let these questions go, which frees me up to look at my talents and skills as a way of providing comfort, knowing fully well that I can sing my heart out and it won't bring back the 18 sweet souls, nor the 8 beautiful souls who died just because they felt called to teach or help children. Nor Nancy Lanza, the 27th soul that's often forgotten. Someone who just tried to do her best in an impossible situation. A chemist who unwittingly engaged in a toxic form of chemistry, that being to expose one element, a mentally unstable human being, to another element, an assault weapon, creating a toxic compound that took the lives of 27 people.
In my last blog, I got deep into politics and the nuts and bolts of what to do next. So I won't repeat it here. But in the end, there IS no spiritual Rx, if "Rx" means to make well again. Because we all know that won't happen. But that won't stop me from trying to understand, from trying to bring a smile to someone who needs it. From being goofy and silly in situations that are anything but. From the simple act of being present with someone.
Which leads to lesson #4 for me. The next Adam Lanza could be someone I know. A person who is a medical and sociological enigma. Such enigmas should not own guns.  Therefore, get off my ass, fight the NRA and it's almost comical solution of arming schools. I suspect Wayne LaPierre knows this won't help. But, after all, he has a business to run. We need laws to make sure this particular toxic combination will never, ever, happen again.
And finally, lesson #5, I will try to pay attention to people, places, and things. I will try to slow down my mental NASCAR. All these issues that race around my head at 200 mph. I will try to shut out the myriad distractions. I already got rid of my TV years ago. I try to avoid anything that's mentally and spiritually toxic. I don't avoid it all, to be sure, but I DO know it's in my best interest to keep this up. Only with focus and clarity can I do whatever work I'm put on this earth to do.

The good, the bad, the ugly. This holiday season has had it all, on the most extreme level.

Next week, If I know myself, I'll be blogging about something silly and inane. I could use a good dose of inanity right about now.

To all of you who've read these blogs, or are doing so for the first time, a heartfelt thank you. I wish you peace.

...gp

Newtown/NewDialogue

First off, am back after a week off. Had to meet a couple of school deadlines.

I was prepping to write something about the holidays. But that all changed Friday morning.

I'm currently living something like a Jekyll and and Hyde existence. I was doing fine this morning until I got out of my car to enter my local supermarket and saw a kiddie play horse at the entrance and I suddenly felt paralyzed. Once again, my mental firewalls were breached. And, like an idiot, I bought USA Today, apparently looking to inflict further punishment on myself. That has to be because I want to understand something that's incomprehensible. I think USA Today is actually a terrific paper, but they didn't help me.
My girlfriend suggests I lay off this stuff. She's as heartbroken as I am. We went to a candlelight vigil at her school. She's a teacher too, plus she has two sons in their 20's, so this has a triple impact on her. Yet, she carries on. Even with her school having gone into lockdown earlier today. Even with extra meetings and drills. Maybe I can find ways to do the same. Is that what they're doing in Newtown? Are the parents carrying on? They will, eventually, I suppose. But right now, I cannot imagine how they can get through the day.
I've been asking myself what I can do. In truth, everything we do doesn't seem like enough. The real work is the longer term project of preventing this from ever happening again. Here's what my experience has taught me:
1: I have many friends who are gun owners. Every one of them owns guns for as many as 3 purposes: Protection, sport, investment. Every one of them are people who I'd trust with my life. They get very agitated when they hear about misguided legislation. We need to convince them that their 2nd amendment rights will not be affected. This can be done.
2: We need to, in its most basic form, separate the good guys for the bad (or potentially bad) guys. That means people who are at risk. That means, among other sub-groups, people with mental illnesses. Can anyone justify someone with a mental illness (involving a tendency toward violence. Most mental illnesses have nothing to do with violence) having the means to carry it out? Is this part of their rights as Americans? How we do that would take up too much space here, nor do I know the exact path. But we have to try.
3: This also means meaningful legislation addressing the issue of assault weapons. It's widely agreed that the assault ban passed under Clinton and expiring in 2004 was ineffective. So we need to readdress it. It means looking at how criminals got around the loopholes and fixing them. But not, for a minute, think that this is enough.  The government is a huge, lumbersome behemoth that rarely accomplishes what it sets out to do.
4: Most of all, we need to understand and to stop thinking we know exactly what to do. I sure don't. We're no better than the government at thinking up solutions to this problem. I don't understand why Nancy Lanza had an assault weapon, if all she did was keep guns around the house as an ordinary citizen. I don't understand why she'd do so knowing she has a son with a mental illness that might lead to violence. I don't understand the nuances of guns and their uses. I've never owned one. I want no part of living in a society where everyone is armed to the teeth and saying the wrong words might get my brains blown out.

Believe what you will, but the next victim, tomorrow, could be someone you love. Want that on your conscience? No? Then get off your ass and start thinking seriously about this problem.
1: Don't assume you've got all the answers. Pay attention. I'm no Bible thumper, but I completely relate to the ongoing passages about arrogance versus humility. Arrogance is often manifested as thinking you know all the answers. You don't. I don't. We don't until we...
2: Get to know the mindset of those who don't share your point of view.
3: See those with mental illnesses not as "nut jobs" (a phrase I've seen repeatedly in the last few days) but as people who have an illness that's not their fault. 
4: Comfort those who have to care for those with mental illnesses. They need your support and understanding.
5: Write your representatives with your thoughts. Start with www.senate.gov and www.house.gov. The sites are very easy to use for contacting your reps in DC. Our system of democracy is dominated by those with money. Your emails are the Rx for that. And yes, the reps DO listen.

This is test of our nation. I hope we pass.

Written on the subway walls...

As I've alluded to before, I have a love/hate thing with New York City. It's my home...I grew up in the Bronx until I was 13. Then Queens until I went off to college.
I love dissing New York. My childhood friends can do the same. So can any of the other 11 million Americans who are from the NYC Metro area. But if you're not from there, watch what you say. Because when it comes to verbally gutting you like a trout, we New Yorkers are non-pareil. Sound hostile? Venomous? Too damn bad.  Lewis Black said it best, when giving advice a few years ago to Republicans, arriving in NY for the convention. "Imagine you've just arrived at JFK. You wonder what New Yorkers are like. Here's your answer...imagine ME...times 8 MILLION!"
The problem is, to paraphrase Chrissie Hynde, "I went back to New York...but my city was gone." The problem, specifically, is that the hostile, in your face, high volume New York I grew up with has been replaced by, by, (this is hard for me to write...sorry)...friendliness and cleanliness.
It's like the city has become this huge movie set for the Stepford Wives. I don't understand.

This past Saturday, my girlfriend took me to NYC for my birthday (which is today, actually. 57 and life is very good.) We first went to the Guggenheim museum, which was phenomenal. But as much as I loved it, and as much as I loved being with her, what I REALLY loved was getting on the subway. I love subways. When I was a kid, my mom, among the many cool things she did for me and Jeff, my brother, was to take us to most of the Broadway shows. The shows were great, but even better was getting on the #1 train at 231st Street, which was elevated. The subway would head south, then somewhere at the south tip of the Bronx, the train would suddenly descend, like a pelican catching a fish, into darkness. Me and Jeff would stand in the front of the 1st car of the train and stare into the darkness of the tunnel. Just an occasional green or red light. Some litter (I always wondered how someone could actually litter in the middle of a subway tunnel). Then the light of the next station. At one point, I could tell you every subway line in the city, and it's terminii. (I'm trying to come up with a fancy word to describe the first and last stops of each station. I like "terminii", even if I'm getting the red squiggly indicating there's no such word. Ah, screw the red squiggly line. Ah, that felt good...very New York like)

But I digress...back to last Saturday.

So, we leave the museum. We walk across Central Park (which, again, was clean and safe. Very frightening. I was hoping some thug would accost us so I could fend him off in front of my girlfriend. Very disappointed to find a paucity of any threats) and we descend down to the B train, which will take us south to 50th Street, so we can catch the tree at Rockefeller Center. During the whole time on the subway (as was true on the #6 train that took us uptown to the museum), it was clean and quiet. The only echo of the old New York was that it WAS crowded. We were like the proverbial sardines. My girlfriend is 5 feet and I was wondering what the experience must have been like.  How could she see anything?
Again, sadly, no perverts trying to rub up against her. I felt all this New York macho energy, just wanting to kick someone's ass if they tried. But everyone was civil. People were smiling. One woman started a conversation with us about how nice it was to be in NYC during the holiday season. What??? What planet did you come from? What's wrong with you?
That's what I thought. But, I played along with all the other New York Stepfordians and engaged in a conversation with her. As I also did with the Japanese tourist who asked about the subways. She was smiling too. But she was Japanese, so, naturally, she would smile. I'm not proud of this, but my inner Archie Bunker possessed me for a second and I thought of asking her if she'd be in town for Pearl Harbor day, the following Friday. Fortunately, I kept my mouth shut.
Anyway, the tree was beautiful. We then walked over to Town Hall on W. 43rd Street to catch a live airing of the show Prairie Home Companion, which was way fun. Then we walked to Grand Central Station, grabbed dinner, and headed back to CT. I still love the small clock in the center of the station. Maybe I'm getting sentimental.
So, continuing this sentimental jag, being in NYC during the holiday season really is magical. Everything New York-y. All for free if you like, save the cost of getting there via MetroNorth. No fancy restaurants...you can buy a hot dog and a knish and soda from any corner stand. Watching New Yorkers just walking the streets...that's free too. As is the tree. As is looking in the windows of any fancy 5th Avenue store.
I couldn't ever see living in the city. No desire. I always get on sensory overload once the day is done; ready to head back north to CT. But while I'm there, especially if you're with someone you love, it just doesn't get any better. To quote my son's favorite cliche, often said when he's eating lobster, his favorite food, "Ah, this is the life."

Happy holidays, y'all. (or "youse").