First, a small update. Last week's blog sat in draft until a few minutes ago. Now published.
So, in what seems like an ethnic irony, I don't fit my stereotype. I'm like the clownfish in Finding Nemo, who's not very funny. Or like a person of color who's not athletic, an Asian who's not good at math, I'm an ethnic Jew who doesn't understand money. (Just to say this explicitly, I think all of these stereotypes are ridiculous...but they DO exist...Except for the clownfish. They're generally hilarious. And tasty, I might add.)
It wasn't always this way. I was always interested in how money works but I've never been self-disciplined enough to follow the path to wealth. And I admire those who do. I'm learning little by little but I'm 57 and it's getting late.
Thus, we come to our current year of 2013. A year in which the following happens, or has happened:
January: My son turned 25
February: My brother turned 60
March: My nephew turned 20
April: My uncle turned 80
May: Well...nothing. But it IS Mother's Day and I wanted to do something nice for GWCTRA.
June: I get a breather. (And I expect to be treated like a king for Father's Day. Hey...I've earned it)
July: My good friend Andy has a landmark. (I don't know if he wants me to say any more)
August: Another good friend, Andy's wife Diane also has a landmark. (And I REALLY don't know if she'd appreciate me saying any more)
September: My brother and sister in law celebrate their 25th anniversary.
October: GWCTRA has a birthday. Not a landmark, but it IS my 1st since we've met.
November: Speaking of which, GWCTRA and I celebrate our 1st anniversary, assuming she hasn't kicked my butt out the door before then.
December: It's MY birthday. And again, I expect everyone to be very, very, nice to me. Besides, it's now the holidays. Let me say up front...I'll be too broke to get you anything.
What kind of family planning is this? Didn't anyone central in my life consider how much this will cost me? And in 5 years, assuming I'm not in debtors prison, I'll have to do it all over again.
So, if you don't have any special occasions that began in a year ending in a 3 or an 8, give me a call. I'm sure this can be the start of a beautiful friendship. If you ARE in the "3" or "8" club, give me a call too. Just don't expect anything from me.
Monday, May 13, 2013
Let's hear it for catchers
First off, a shoutout to Mr. Germain. He was my Little League coach and a good guy. There I was, 10 years old, playing 2B with a mitt too small, and talent even smaller. At least as a second baseman. He saw this pudgy kid and said, "I think you might work out as catcher."
So, I put on the "tools of ignorance", aka the chest protector, the mask, the outsized (and outdated) catcher's glove, (the kind that was circular with a pocket in the middle), the shin pads, and off I went behind the plate. Catching Gene Bentz, the hardest thrower in little league. Easy job. All I had to worry about were foul tips, of which there were many.
I hated being a catcher at first. Up and down on every pitch. Putting on the gear and taking it off every inning, often in 80+ degree heat. But after a few innings, something happened. I really got into it. I loved thinking with the pitcher and the batter. Playing chess, except it was on a baseball field. It's the most demanding position in baseball. In fact, it's the most demanding position in any sport I can think of. What position in any sport calls for so many different skills? As a catcher, you need to:
It's no surprise that there are more ex-catchers as managers than any other position. Catchers are psychologists. So perhaps it's no surprise that I'm going into the social work profession, looking to become a therapist. Maybe it all began on the Little League diamond. Which, by the way, wasn't a diamond. They didn't have foul lines nor fences. So it wasn't so much a baseball diamond. More like a baseball polygon of some kind. I remember one of the rare times I got hold of a pitch and jacked it down the left field line. Umpire called it foul. There was no way he could see it clearly. Hell, there weren't any chalk lines to work off of. But I saw that ball. And it was fair, I still say.
Not only that, we were officially in the minor leagues. We were the Cubs, with little "Cub-like" jerseys and caps, in Cub blue. If you made it to the next level, you got the whole uniform thing. Pants with stirrups, cleated shoes, and much cooler jerseys and caps.
I never made it to the Little League "majors". Tried a few times but got cut each time. My brother, on the other hand, was really good. Played 1B and could hit for serious power. He was a Cincinnati Red, as I recall. I was way jealous of his uni. Still, the pain of being cut lasted only a day or two. As long as I could catch and be such a central part of the game, I was OK with it. And as a chubby 10 year old, I found the perfect position. Slow as molasses? No problem. A little overweight? Put on those tools, baby. Considered brainy in school? Squat down behind home plate, my man.
Catchers today are chiseled. I don't think pudgy catchers could make it to the pros. Some catchers of note:
1: Ivan "Pudge" Rodriguez, possibly the greatest all around catcher who ever played, wasn't pudgy. He had the greatest arm of any catcher I've ever seen. And was a phenomenal clutch hitter.
2: The Braves have a catcher, Evan Gattis, who could be an NFL linebacker. Absolutely the most menacing looking catcher I've ever seen.
3: Craig Biggio, who played all of his 20 years with the Houston Astros, started at catcher but was moved to 2B to preserve his knees, as he was the only catcher who was jackrabbit fast. He'll be almost certainly going into the Hall of Fame next year, his first year of eligibility.
4: Jerry Grote played his glory years with my NY Mets, catching the 1969 staff of Tom Seaver, et al. Grote wasn't great offensively but he called a great game and had a great arm.
5: Johnny Bench, considered by most to be the greatest catcher of all time, redefined the position on both offense and defense.
Catchers: They rock.
So, I put on the "tools of ignorance", aka the chest protector, the mask, the outsized (and outdated) catcher's glove, (the kind that was circular with a pocket in the middle), the shin pads, and off I went behind the plate. Catching Gene Bentz, the hardest thrower in little league. Easy job. All I had to worry about were foul tips, of which there were many.
I hated being a catcher at first. Up and down on every pitch. Putting on the gear and taking it off every inning, often in 80+ degree heat. But after a few innings, something happened. I really got into it. I loved thinking with the pitcher and the batter. Playing chess, except it was on a baseball field. It's the most demanding position in baseball. In fact, it's the most demanding position in any sport I can think of. What position in any sport calls for so many different skills? As a catcher, you need to:
- Hit, preferably for power but at least for average (I did neither, although I did have an ability to make contact and use the entire field)
- Have a good arm. (That, I did)
- Make sure the fielders are position properly. (I was pretty good at that too, actually)
- "Working" the umpire so you get the close calls. This calls for diplomacy, debating skills, and a bit of chicanery, such as framing a borderline pitch as a strike by how you position your glove. (Irrelevant in Little League. The umpires have absolute power.)
- And #1...work with the pitcher. That means calling the right pitches and knowing your pitcher. Is he laid back? Intense? Is he working too slowly? Too fast? (This was what I loved to do and what I did best, although Bentz was like Bob Gibson. Just let him pitch and don't even think of interrupting his rhythm.)
- Oh, and to do all these things while squatting down for half the game. If you catch 9 innings, you're probably catching around 120 pitches or so. So you're squatting/rising 120 times, perhaps 140 times a year if you're a starting catcher. How many people can do all this?
It's no surprise that there are more ex-catchers as managers than any other position. Catchers are psychologists. So perhaps it's no surprise that I'm going into the social work profession, looking to become a therapist. Maybe it all began on the Little League diamond. Which, by the way, wasn't a diamond. They didn't have foul lines nor fences. So it wasn't so much a baseball diamond. More like a baseball polygon of some kind. I remember one of the rare times I got hold of a pitch and jacked it down the left field line. Umpire called it foul. There was no way he could see it clearly. Hell, there weren't any chalk lines to work off of. But I saw that ball. And it was fair, I still say.
Not only that, we were officially in the minor leagues. We were the Cubs, with little "Cub-like" jerseys and caps, in Cub blue. If you made it to the next level, you got the whole uniform thing. Pants with stirrups, cleated shoes, and much cooler jerseys and caps.
I never made it to the Little League "majors". Tried a few times but got cut each time. My brother, on the other hand, was really good. Played 1B and could hit for serious power. He was a Cincinnati Red, as I recall. I was way jealous of his uni. Still, the pain of being cut lasted only a day or two. As long as I could catch and be such a central part of the game, I was OK with it. And as a chubby 10 year old, I found the perfect position. Slow as molasses? No problem. A little overweight? Put on those tools, baby. Considered brainy in school? Squat down behind home plate, my man.
Catchers today are chiseled. I don't think pudgy catchers could make it to the pros. Some catchers of note:
1: Ivan "Pudge" Rodriguez, possibly the greatest all around catcher who ever played, wasn't pudgy. He had the greatest arm of any catcher I've ever seen. And was a phenomenal clutch hitter.
2: The Braves have a catcher, Evan Gattis, who could be an NFL linebacker. Absolutely the most menacing looking catcher I've ever seen.
3: Craig Biggio, who played all of his 20 years with the Houston Astros, started at catcher but was moved to 2B to preserve his knees, as he was the only catcher who was jackrabbit fast. He'll be almost certainly going into the Hall of Fame next year, his first year of eligibility.
4: Jerry Grote played his glory years with my NY Mets, catching the 1969 staff of Tom Seaver, et al. Grote wasn't great offensively but he called a great game and had a great arm.
5: Johnny Bench, considered by most to be the greatest catcher of all time, redefined the position on both offense and defense.
Catchers: They rock.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
80
Since last week was a number, I figured I might as well keep it going.
80 refers to my uncle's recent birthday. We went up to his place in New Hampshire to celebrate. As I've mentioned many times, my uncle is the closest thing I have to a parent, having lost my mom when I was 13 and my dad when my mom was 7 months pregnant with me. He took me and my brother in because it was the right thing to do. If you were to ask him, he'd downplay it. But he in fact saved us from an orphanage and/or foster care. I thanked him in those early years by being an angry adolescent, testing his patience and probably everyone else around me. In addition, as a closeted (to me and my brother) gay man, he also had to go through hiding his orientation. Which was, strangely, the right thing to do at the time, considering how angry and homophobic I was.
Throughout the weekend, which went very very well, I had all kinds of inner dialogues and I learned a few things as well.
1: I have a self-destructive tendency to be responsible for everyone's happiness. Not a healthy thing, that. Especially given the mix of personalities, which consisted of my uncle, my girlfriend, my brother, who came all the way in from California, and my son, who came up from Washington DC. Keep in mind that I was the hub of the wheel, in the sense that, other than me, no one had spent significant time with anyone else. Was I nervous about how everyone would get along? Um...yeah. Not to worry. Everyone felt amazingly at home. There was enough laughter in one weekend to last for a year. Yet, my anxiety was through the roof, and remained that way until we left.
2: My son is funny enough to literally do stand up comedy, although his humor is more observational and might be better suited to writing. But he had us in stitches the whole weekend, just commenting on things.
3: My girlfriend (often referred to as GWCTRA, girlfriend who chooses to remain anonymous), who I already knew was a keeper, was amazing. It's as if she knew everyone for 20 years or more. That's how relaxed and comfortable she was. I am indeed a lucky man.
4: My brother, who I've had an up and down relationship with over the years, also was right at home. He was also funny, as well as gracious, erudite, and outspoken. Oh, and he picked up the tab for breakfast. Thanks, ZM! (My brother, real name Jeff, is aka "The ZenMaster")
5: My uncle may be 80 but has the mind of someone half his age. To call him "sharp" would actually be condescending, because he can hold his own intellectually and mentally with anyone. Oh, and he picked up the tab for dinner. Thanks, Uncle Ken!
6: Try as I might, my uncle and brother will never "get" my musical wiring. I wrote a song for my uncle's birthday which was well received, it seemed. But my expectations were probably unrealistically high. It's as if I thought I wrote another Somewhere Over The Rainbow. For them, music is "nice" and probably just "something I do". But it's never been understood. Music has been a friend and enemy to me over the years. Mostly the former. But I've also let it take me down financial and geographic roads that were not healthy. I learned that to try to force them to "get" me in this area is wasted energy. My energy is better spent loving and appreciating them for who they are rather than to resent this part of them. I'm not totally at peace with it but I'm working on it.
Why, then, the anxiety? Good question. Wish I had a good answer. I do know that on the last day, I couldn't wait to leave. It wasn't because of the company, or anything anyone did or said. It was just that I felt the room closing in on me. I felt naked and exposed, although no one in the room was there to judge me. There's ancient wisdom that says we fear success more than failure, as failure is familiar, while success is not. Maybe that has something to do with it.
This is something to discuss in therapy. But I do know that if I can make it to 80 and be half as sharp as my uncle, it'll be OK. My vision of me at 80:
1: To have GWCTRA with me, laughing, singing, kissing, and challenging me.
2: To have a continued strong relationship with my son. And that he'll be doing something he finds rewarding. And to keep our unique father-son dialogue going. Which is another way of saying; to laugh with him at stuff that no one else would "get" or find funny. And to be his #1 ear for things he probably wouldn't talk about with anyone else.
3: To have my brother, who'll be 83 at the time, still talking music, baseball, politics, and family stuff.
4: My uncle? Well, he'll be physically gone. But I believe people really do live on through others, when they pass on their kindness, compassion, humor, and grace. In that sense, he'll still be here.
Hey, maybe I should have retitled this "4". Because these are the 4 people that matter the most to me.
Thanks for reading.
80 refers to my uncle's recent birthday. We went up to his place in New Hampshire to celebrate. As I've mentioned many times, my uncle is the closest thing I have to a parent, having lost my mom when I was 13 and my dad when my mom was 7 months pregnant with me. He took me and my brother in because it was the right thing to do. If you were to ask him, he'd downplay it. But he in fact saved us from an orphanage and/or foster care. I thanked him in those early years by being an angry adolescent, testing his patience and probably everyone else around me. In addition, as a closeted (to me and my brother) gay man, he also had to go through hiding his orientation. Which was, strangely, the right thing to do at the time, considering how angry and homophobic I was.
Throughout the weekend, which went very very well, I had all kinds of inner dialogues and I learned a few things as well.
1: I have a self-destructive tendency to be responsible for everyone's happiness. Not a healthy thing, that. Especially given the mix of personalities, which consisted of my uncle, my girlfriend, my brother, who came all the way in from California, and my son, who came up from Washington DC. Keep in mind that I was the hub of the wheel, in the sense that, other than me, no one had spent significant time with anyone else. Was I nervous about how everyone would get along? Um...yeah. Not to worry. Everyone felt amazingly at home. There was enough laughter in one weekend to last for a year. Yet, my anxiety was through the roof, and remained that way until we left.
2: My son is funny enough to literally do stand up comedy, although his humor is more observational and might be better suited to writing. But he had us in stitches the whole weekend, just commenting on things.
3: My girlfriend (often referred to as GWCTRA, girlfriend who chooses to remain anonymous), who I already knew was a keeper, was amazing. It's as if she knew everyone for 20 years or more. That's how relaxed and comfortable she was. I am indeed a lucky man.
4: My brother, who I've had an up and down relationship with over the years, also was right at home. He was also funny, as well as gracious, erudite, and outspoken. Oh, and he picked up the tab for breakfast. Thanks, ZM! (My brother, real name Jeff, is aka "The ZenMaster")
5: My uncle may be 80 but has the mind of someone half his age. To call him "sharp" would actually be condescending, because he can hold his own intellectually and mentally with anyone. Oh, and he picked up the tab for dinner. Thanks, Uncle Ken!
6: Try as I might, my uncle and brother will never "get" my musical wiring. I wrote a song for my uncle's birthday which was well received, it seemed. But my expectations were probably unrealistically high. It's as if I thought I wrote another Somewhere Over The Rainbow. For them, music is "nice" and probably just "something I do". But it's never been understood. Music has been a friend and enemy to me over the years. Mostly the former. But I've also let it take me down financial and geographic roads that were not healthy. I learned that to try to force them to "get" me in this area is wasted energy. My energy is better spent loving and appreciating them for who they are rather than to resent this part of them. I'm not totally at peace with it but I'm working on it.
Why, then, the anxiety? Good question. Wish I had a good answer. I do know that on the last day, I couldn't wait to leave. It wasn't because of the company, or anything anyone did or said. It was just that I felt the room closing in on me. I felt naked and exposed, although no one in the room was there to judge me. There's ancient wisdom that says we fear success more than failure, as failure is familiar, while success is not. Maybe that has something to do with it.
This is something to discuss in therapy. But I do know that if I can make it to 80 and be half as sharp as my uncle, it'll be OK. My vision of me at 80:
1: To have GWCTRA with me, laughing, singing, kissing, and challenging me.
2: To have a continued strong relationship with my son. And that he'll be doing something he finds rewarding. And to keep our unique father-son dialogue going. Which is another way of saying; to laugh with him at stuff that no one else would "get" or find funny. And to be his #1 ear for things he probably wouldn't talk about with anyone else.
3: To have my brother, who'll be 83 at the time, still talking music, baseball, politics, and family stuff.
4: My uncle? Well, he'll be physically gone. But I believe people really do live on through others, when they pass on their kindness, compassion, humor, and grace. In that sense, he'll still be here.
Hey, maybe I should have retitled this "4". Because these are the 4 people that matter the most to me.
Thanks for reading.
Sunday, April 21, 2013
43
We've all been hearing about the new movie honoring Jackie Robinson. Haven't seen it yet, but GWCTRA (Girlfriend who chooses to remain anonymous) and I will be soon. I've seen the trailers and read the reviews, which match my reaction to the trailers. Which is that it seems shallow and formulaic and maybe too reverent. Yet, I still want to go and will keep an open mind.
But what you don't know is that Karl Rove is looking to cash in on this trend of "biopic with a number" title. Coming soon to a theater near you..."43".
Through some dogged research, sleuthing ability, and a recent discovery of some old mushrooms in the cellar, I have learned what the storyline is.
George W. Bush is born, not into luxury in New Haven, as we were told. Instead, he grew up in a shotgun shack on the outskirts of Midland, TX.
Through dogged persistence and something about a place called the Cayman Islands, he manages to get himself a scholarship to Yale. He wants to major in "freedom". Told there's no such major, he organizes a group of recently naturalized citizens to picket the hallowed halls of the famous university, ultimately winning a pledge from the deans to create such a major. He then says to President Kingman Brewster, in that famous folksy way of his, "Aw, ah was just pullin' your leg. You're doin' a heckuva job, Brewski." Everyone laughs and looks adoringly at the future POTUS.
But all is not well at Yale. 43 wants to be a star first baseman, like dad. But his teammates would have none of that, sneeringly rejecting him on the shaky ground that he can only hit .091 or that he cannot catch a ball because of his diagnosed case of tunnel vision, which only enables him to see only a thin line of light to his right side.
But our protagonist will eventually rise above it all. His mentor, Darth Voldecheney, says the words that will change his life. "I don't want a man who fights. I want a man who's smart enough to invade a foreign country for no reason whatsoever."
Our hero is inspired. His academic performance improves markedly, enabling him to graduate with a C average. He moves back to Texas and becomes the first black man to discover oil. (The storyline may take a few literary leaps in places). He enters politics. He fights for the people he represents; his working class millionaires.
And, as we all know, he would eventually rise to the highest position in the land. Under his leadership, all Americans prosper and terrorists are brought to their knees. And we all live happily ever, uh, um, well, I don't want to give away the ending. Besides, the mushrooms are wearing off.
But what you don't know is that Karl Rove is looking to cash in on this trend of "biopic with a number" title. Coming soon to a theater near you..."43".
Through some dogged research, sleuthing ability, and a recent discovery of some old mushrooms in the cellar, I have learned what the storyline is.
George W. Bush is born, not into luxury in New Haven, as we were told. Instead, he grew up in a shotgun shack on the outskirts of Midland, TX.
Through dogged persistence and something about a place called the Cayman Islands, he manages to get himself a scholarship to Yale. He wants to major in "freedom". Told there's no such major, he organizes a group of recently naturalized citizens to picket the hallowed halls of the famous university, ultimately winning a pledge from the deans to create such a major. He then says to President Kingman Brewster, in that famous folksy way of his, "Aw, ah was just pullin' your leg. You're doin' a heckuva job, Brewski." Everyone laughs and looks adoringly at the future POTUS.
But all is not well at Yale. 43 wants to be a star first baseman, like dad. But his teammates would have none of that, sneeringly rejecting him on the shaky ground that he can only hit .091 or that he cannot catch a ball because of his diagnosed case of tunnel vision, which only enables him to see only a thin line of light to his right side.
But our protagonist will eventually rise above it all. His mentor, Darth Voldecheney, says the words that will change his life. "I don't want a man who fights. I want a man who's smart enough to invade a foreign country for no reason whatsoever."
Our hero is inspired. His academic performance improves markedly, enabling him to graduate with a C average. He moves back to Texas and becomes the first black man to discover oil. (The storyline may take a few literary leaps in places). He enters politics. He fights for the people he represents; his working class millionaires.
And, as we all know, he would eventually rise to the highest position in the land. Under his leadership, all Americans prosper and terrorists are brought to their knees. And we all live happily ever, uh, um, well, I don't want to give away the ending. Besides, the mushrooms are wearing off.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Here we are again
As I write this, we're about 19 hours past the latest atrocity. This one, of course, in Boston.
As was true the last time I blogged about murderous acts like these, I find I'm at a loss for words. I can't add anything that hasn't already been said. Yet, I can't remain silent either. I ask myself what good I can possibly do just by doing a weekly blog. The answer, of course, is nothing. Yet, after all, a blog is, among other things, a venting mechanism. So I'll vent away...
After the Newtown tragedy, I did go up there for a few hours and it felt like I was doing something to help. I won't be going to Boston. I can't imagine why I would go. I can only do what, I'd hope, any responsible person would do. Which is to keep speculation to myself and my closest friends and to be as patient as possible while the authorities sort it all out. But it sure isn't easy. I want answers right now. I want to find the perpetrators and exact my own justice. I want to know how this could happen, when the authorities knew coming in that this week is THE week for domestic terrorism (if that's what it is).
I don't want to be numb to these tragedies. Yet, numbness seems like a tempting way to go. Imagining what these families must be going through is painful. Part of me wants to avoid all this. Yet, I know this isn't the healthy reaction. The only healthy reaction I can come up with is to be as empathic as I can and know that, despite all this madness, there's something greater than myself that will guide us through it. If this power exists, call it God, the Divine, some life force, then how could this same power allow such a thing to happen?
I recently read a book by Krista Tippett. She hosts a show in Public Radio called On Being. The show was formerly called Speaking of Faith. She often looks at the issues of science and spirituality. She wrote a book replaying conversations she's had over the years on these subjects. One was an interview with Sir John Polkinghorne, who is a physicist and former Anglican priest. His philosophy seems to be that God, as he understands it, essentially gives us tools to work with. We can use them any way we want. I don't entirely understand his views and what I do understand would take too long to put in here. But what he says resonates with me. I can believe that it's up to us to use what God gives us for good or evil.
I believe even more that the only way we can stop these tragedies is to set good examples, especially those of us who are parents. As Graham Nash said, "Teach your children well." Whoever is responsible wasn't taught good lessons. Yet, they ARE responsible. No amount of physical abuse or neglect can mitigate against these atrocities.
I think we all suffer, to varying degrees, from an overload of distractions. I'm as guilty as anyone. I'll go through periods when I want no part of NPR or any other news. I sink into sports stories, sometimes to excess. And when it's excessive, I know in my heart that I'm escaping something. An occasional escape seems healthy. But doing it constantly means I'm not paying attention to things that matter.
And this matters. I want to be brave enough to feel the pain of losing innocent lives. Yet at the same time, I want to believe that if we all do the work we need to, such as quieting our minds, avoiding toxic news, nourishing ourselves, then we'll honor all these lives that were snuffed out in murderous acts like these.
As was true the last time I blogged about murderous acts like these, I find I'm at a loss for words. I can't add anything that hasn't already been said. Yet, I can't remain silent either. I ask myself what good I can possibly do just by doing a weekly blog. The answer, of course, is nothing. Yet, after all, a blog is, among other things, a venting mechanism. So I'll vent away...
After the Newtown tragedy, I did go up there for a few hours and it felt like I was doing something to help. I won't be going to Boston. I can't imagine why I would go. I can only do what, I'd hope, any responsible person would do. Which is to keep speculation to myself and my closest friends and to be as patient as possible while the authorities sort it all out. But it sure isn't easy. I want answers right now. I want to find the perpetrators and exact my own justice. I want to know how this could happen, when the authorities knew coming in that this week is THE week for domestic terrorism (if that's what it is).
I don't want to be numb to these tragedies. Yet, numbness seems like a tempting way to go. Imagining what these families must be going through is painful. Part of me wants to avoid all this. Yet, I know this isn't the healthy reaction. The only healthy reaction I can come up with is to be as empathic as I can and know that, despite all this madness, there's something greater than myself that will guide us through it. If this power exists, call it God, the Divine, some life force, then how could this same power allow such a thing to happen?
I recently read a book by Krista Tippett. She hosts a show in Public Radio called On Being. The show was formerly called Speaking of Faith. She often looks at the issues of science and spirituality. She wrote a book replaying conversations she's had over the years on these subjects. One was an interview with Sir John Polkinghorne, who is a physicist and former Anglican priest. His philosophy seems to be that God, as he understands it, essentially gives us tools to work with. We can use them any way we want. I don't entirely understand his views and what I do understand would take too long to put in here. But what he says resonates with me. I can believe that it's up to us to use what God gives us for good or evil.
I believe even more that the only way we can stop these tragedies is to set good examples, especially those of us who are parents. As Graham Nash said, "Teach your children well." Whoever is responsible wasn't taught good lessons. Yet, they ARE responsible. No amount of physical abuse or neglect can mitigate against these atrocities.
I think we all suffer, to varying degrees, from an overload of distractions. I'm as guilty as anyone. I'll go through periods when I want no part of NPR or any other news. I sink into sports stories, sometimes to excess. And when it's excessive, I know in my heart that I'm escaping something. An occasional escape seems healthy. But doing it constantly means I'm not paying attention to things that matter.
And this matters. I want to be brave enough to feel the pain of losing innocent lives. Yet at the same time, I want to believe that if we all do the work we need to, such as quieting our minds, avoiding toxic news, nourishing ourselves, then we'll honor all these lives that were snuffed out in murderous acts like these.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Being true to the adjective
Hello all: Some random thoughts:
1: When I fill out an online form and I’m
asked to fill in my year of birth, it takes me 5 minutes to scroll down.
2: As I get older, it seems that people
increasingly use smaller fonts and softer voices.(By the way, this blog has undergone a font upgrade, along with some other changes. Thanks to my good friend Andy for the suggestions.)
3: Can you have a beck without a call? Or a nook without a cranny?
4: Why are criminal actions against
monstrous acts of depravity called complaints? Don’t we generally complain
about the weather and taxes?
5: I'm increasingly less patient with loud things. Loud people, loud headlines, loud anything. But yet, I almost certainly have a hearing loss.
6: The nicest American accents are low-country Virginia and Carolinas.
7: The most irritating accent is a Michigan accent...non-Detroit. (Apologies to my friends Leanne and Bob, if they should happen upon this. Their accents are actually pretty muted...thank God)
8: There are two versions of nice people. There's nice/Irish, which is generally outgoing. And there's nice/Canadian, which is more low-key. But I find myself drawn to both. And yes, Americans are generally nice too.
9: Everyone I've ever met named Heather has blond hair.
10: Every band I've ever heard in my childhood seems to be on a comeback tour.
11: Every time I think I've pissed someone off, I'm wrong. When I really do hurt someone or make them angry, it always surprises me.
12: The two biggest mysteries to me are money and women. The former confounds me. The latter fascinates me. And I'm not sure which is #1. However, with GWCTRA in my life, my fascination is now highly focused. But I'm no more educated now than I was 40 years ago.
13: I find myself getting irritated when someone does a Powerpoint presentation and reads the slides verbatim.
14: Country songs are the most deceptively hardest songs to write of any genre.
15: The mark of a bad comedy is whenever the camera pans in very close on someone being scared. So close that you can see their irises.
16: I find myself increasingly ignoring headlines that seem salacious. I guess if I click on one, I'm making money for the moron who wrote it. And as a corollary, I have no idea how much money he's making. Nor the business model that it's based on.
17: I find that in sports, I'm increasingly rooting for (or against) people more than teams.
18: The older I get, the less sure I am about almost anything. And it's strangely liberating.
That's all for now. Thanks for stopping by.
...gp
10: Every band I've ever heard in my childhood seems to be on a comeback tour.
11: Every time I think I've pissed someone off, I'm wrong. When I really do hurt someone or make them angry, it always surprises me.
12: The two biggest mysteries to me are money and women. The former confounds me. The latter fascinates me. And I'm not sure which is #1. However, with GWCTRA in my life, my fascination is now highly focused. But I'm no more educated now than I was 40 years ago.
13: I find myself getting irritated when someone does a Powerpoint presentation and reads the slides verbatim.
14: Country songs are the most deceptively hardest songs to write of any genre.
15: The mark of a bad comedy is whenever the camera pans in very close on someone being scared. So close that you can see their irises.
16: I find myself increasingly ignoring headlines that seem salacious. I guess if I click on one, I'm making money for the moron who wrote it. And as a corollary, I have no idea how much money he's making. Nor the business model that it's based on.
17: I find that in sports, I'm increasingly rooting for (or against) people more than teams.
18: The older I get, the less sure I am about almost anything. And it's strangely liberating.
That's all for now. Thanks for stopping by.
...gp
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Thanks, and other courtesies
Thanks for reading. I mean it.
Thanks for spending your hard earned time with me.
(I don't really mean that.)
Not that I don't appreciate you visiting. I really do. But when I exaggerate the level of appreciation, it probably comes off as phony, or even sarcastic.
I doubt I've ever been a paragon of courtly behavior. I'm not awful. Just not a role model. In truth, I have no business writing a blog about this. Maybe it's an age thing. Remember how your parents and grandparents used to bemoan the loss of manners in society? I'm basically turning into them. A deserved irony.
Which leads me to what's on my mind. The simple phrase "thank you."
I used to live in the south, where folks are polite. It's in the southern upbringing. But I don't get a sense that it's always sincere. Ironically, in the much more brusque northeast, folks here may not say thanks as much, but they're more likely, in my experience, to show appreciation from the heart. The best combination in my experience, is the midwest. Where people say thanks and, I sense, really mean it.
The words "thank you" may be the two most powerful words on the planet, when meant sincerely. I've heard that all prayer can be classified into four categories: "Wow", "Oops", "Please", and "Thanks."
On a secular level, this last category troubles me. Maybe it's just me but I don't hear the "T" word/phrase as much as I used to. We have a "thank you" gap.
The true test is the door. Do people hold a door open for you? Do you do the same? If so, does the recipient of your good deed say thank you? I do try to make a point to hold the door open for people. Some notice and say thanks. A larger group completely ignores the courtesy. The largest group of all mumbles what sounds close enough to "thanks". Which is good enough for me. Quite often, they're talking on the phone or texting, which I've grudgingly come to accept as the norm today.
I can't definitively say that we as a society are seeing our manners erode. I just sense it. And it's not just the door thing. In my local library, a place I like to do work at, about once a week, there'll be someone talking in a normal to loud conversational voice. As if they're outdoors. And the library staff won't "shhh" him/her. Aren't librarians trained to "sssh"? Isn't there a "sssh"101 course that's required? Apparently, it's not part of the curriculum anymore. So I take it upon myself, with a little voice in the back of my head saying "Are you insane? What if they threaten you? What if they have a gun?" But I'm learning to, as the western cliche goes, "smile when you say that". I consciously keep a smile and ask, nicely, if they could lower their voice. And I do NOT make eye contact. In fact, I walk away. This method has yet to backfire. But still, I'm angry that I have to do this at all. And if it's a phone call, that's even more of a challenge.
Each time, I ask myself why this is necessary. Don't people get it? Were they raised this way?
I suspect every person who ever hit their mid-50's says the same thing. (In 10 years, of course, no one will say it. They'll text it instead)
I just read an article saying that most students openly text in class during lectures. As an adjunct professor, I see it too. I tell my students that I don't allow it. They have no reaction. And some apparently forget that it's my class rule, so they need to be reminded again. I haven't yet deducted behavior points for this, but I'd consider it. I also have two students in my class who talk to each other incessantly. I've warned them, only to see it abate, then pick back up again.
At times, I ask myself what is wrong with society? But in my more lucid moments, I see this as a classic "one bad apple" thing. If I were to evaluate each person I meet on their courtesy, I suspect I'd be more hopeful. And it's also true that as technology changes at an ever increasing rate, we have that much more of a challenge in adjusting to it. Texting and cell phones being the most obvious examples.
It's probably important to make some adjustments to the new realities. It's certainly healthier. Maybe it's just the core courtesies that need to be kept as they are. It's really as simple as the Golden Rule, something that exists, in some form, in every major religion.
And a sincere thank you heads the list.
So...thanks for reading. And I mean it.
Thanks for spending your hard earned time with me.
(I don't really mean that.)
Not that I don't appreciate you visiting. I really do. But when I exaggerate the level of appreciation, it probably comes off as phony, or even sarcastic.
I doubt I've ever been a paragon of courtly behavior. I'm not awful. Just not a role model. In truth, I have no business writing a blog about this. Maybe it's an age thing. Remember how your parents and grandparents used to bemoan the loss of manners in society? I'm basically turning into them. A deserved irony.
Which leads me to what's on my mind. The simple phrase "thank you."
I used to live in the south, where folks are polite. It's in the southern upbringing. But I don't get a sense that it's always sincere. Ironically, in the much more brusque northeast, folks here may not say thanks as much, but they're more likely, in my experience, to show appreciation from the heart. The best combination in my experience, is the midwest. Where people say thanks and, I sense, really mean it.
The words "thank you" may be the two most powerful words on the planet, when meant sincerely. I've heard that all prayer can be classified into four categories: "Wow", "Oops", "Please", and "Thanks."
On a secular level, this last category troubles me. Maybe it's just me but I don't hear the "T" word/phrase as much as I used to. We have a "thank you" gap.
The true test is the door. Do people hold a door open for you? Do you do the same? If so, does the recipient of your good deed say thank you? I do try to make a point to hold the door open for people. Some notice and say thanks. A larger group completely ignores the courtesy. The largest group of all mumbles what sounds close enough to "thanks". Which is good enough for me. Quite often, they're talking on the phone or texting, which I've grudgingly come to accept as the norm today.
I can't definitively say that we as a society are seeing our manners erode. I just sense it. And it's not just the door thing. In my local library, a place I like to do work at, about once a week, there'll be someone talking in a normal to loud conversational voice. As if they're outdoors. And the library staff won't "shhh" him/her. Aren't librarians trained to "sssh"? Isn't there a "sssh"101 course that's required? Apparently, it's not part of the curriculum anymore. So I take it upon myself, with a little voice in the back of my head saying "Are you insane? What if they threaten you? What if they have a gun?" But I'm learning to, as the western cliche goes, "smile when you say that". I consciously keep a smile and ask, nicely, if they could lower their voice. And I do NOT make eye contact. In fact, I walk away. This method has yet to backfire. But still, I'm angry that I have to do this at all. And if it's a phone call, that's even more of a challenge.
Each time, I ask myself why this is necessary. Don't people get it? Were they raised this way?
I suspect every person who ever hit their mid-50's says the same thing. (In 10 years, of course, no one will say it. They'll text it instead)
I just read an article saying that most students openly text in class during lectures. As an adjunct professor, I see it too. I tell my students that I don't allow it. They have no reaction. And some apparently forget that it's my class rule, so they need to be reminded again. I haven't yet deducted behavior points for this, but I'd consider it. I also have two students in my class who talk to each other incessantly. I've warned them, only to see it abate, then pick back up again.
At times, I ask myself what is wrong with society? But in my more lucid moments, I see this as a classic "one bad apple" thing. If I were to evaluate each person I meet on their courtesy, I suspect I'd be more hopeful. And it's also true that as technology changes at an ever increasing rate, we have that much more of a challenge in adjusting to it. Texting and cell phones being the most obvious examples.
It's probably important to make some adjustments to the new realities. It's certainly healthier. Maybe it's just the core courtesies that need to be kept as they are. It's really as simple as the Golden Rule, something that exists, in some form, in every major religion.
And a sincere thank you heads the list.
So...thanks for reading. And I mean it.
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