Clarity in the Default World

Death and Taxes

2012-02-08T09:22:00.000-08:00

The only two things that are certain in life are Death and Taxes. Or so I am told.

I received my tax documents this week. With a steady resolve, I put them all into a drawer of my recently inherited china cabinet, where they wait ominously.

The thing about taxes is that it is kind of a reality check. I made how much? What did I spend it on? If it's been a good year, I feel a bit scandalized by the amount. If it's been a bad one, I go through a more complex feeling of self congratulations for making it on so little, and genuine fear of not making it at all. I know there are a lot of folks out there who are much worse off.

The death of a parent is another kind of reality check. When your parents start their own decent, it's hard not to notice the issues they deal with. I can't help but wonder what degenerative disease will take me now that I know what risks I have. The risks, make old age just as ominous. Instead of documents sitting in a drawer, I have future visions of myself losing my memories, motor function and eventually succumbing to a degenerative disease.

I know, it's a fate we all face, like taxes, but in this instance my own personal dilemmas seem to be at the forefront of my preoccupations this season. But at the same time I can't help but recognize the current health I have and my desire to have a life well lived.

Always Wanting More - Alfredo Guajardo Morales

2012-02-01T07:40:00.000-08:00

In few short hours we will bury my Dad. He died 4 days ago just shy of his 78th birthday.

Although expected, his death was still a bit of a shock especially for my mom who was convinced he would out-live her based on the life line on his palm. When we told her, she kept looking at her palm rubbing her thumb along her life line in disbelief.

Growing up, my Dad was practically mythical. He was involved in everything and exceptionally well connected. We considered it normal to have the Mayor over for parties, to be on a first name basis with judges, and to always be in the 4th of July parade. Even with our own activities, our parents were involved. If there was a project or a committee, my Dad would be on it, making things happen.

His involvement bled over to political arenas where he quickly became involved in many campaigns. I learned my way around, by mapping the streets of my town, walking precincts. He was in service clubs, on boards, and just had this way of making things happen. Once, he organized groups of low-riders for a neighborhood street cleanup to combat their bad image.

Looking back on it now, I realize where I get my own tenacity, because my dad was simply never satisfied. When he went in the Air Force, he was deemed too short to be a pilot, so he took one of the most dangerous jobs he could get on a plane without flying it. He was a flight mechanic on a typhoon chaser out of Guam. After the Air Force, still determined, he took private flying lessons and learned to fly single engine air craft. One of the proudest days of his life I think, was when he flew his own plane back to Texas to see family. I'd never seen him happier.

My Dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer's about 12 years ago. One of his doctors called it the "long goodbye." He was right. Sadly, most of my kid's recollections of their grandfather is of him being forgetful, not the man I knew.

Alfredo Guajardo Morales was born in San Antonio Texas in 1934. He lived life to the fullest, and taught me everything I know about always wanting more. Although we commit him to the ground today, all I can think is, "just keep flying Dad."

End of the Year, End of an Era

2011-12-31T07:55:00.001-08:00

Even though I'm 4o years old, nothing confirms full entry into adulthood like caring for an elderly parent. When the roles are reversed, and you are thrust into the role of telling your parents what to do, in the same way perhaps that you once spoke to your toddler, it is then that you realize that you are the next generation. You are now a keeper.

My parents have been in decline for years. It's part of the reason I moved back to California. In the year 2000, my father was diagnosed with Alzheimers. Back then he was just very forgetful and would get confused from time to time. Today he knows I'm related, but often doesn't know my name or exactly who I am.

My mother has been caring for him during most of his decline, and my sister and I helped her as much as we could as we struggled to raise our own families. About a month ago, it proved to be too much for my mother to handle any more. Not just caring for my father, we were already helping with that a lot, but just being with him. Her decline, which started about 3 years ago with a stroke, was followed by a diagnosis for Parkinson's disease. After that instance, our involvement in their care has been increasingly involved.

It seems that rise has crested now. My father was recently admitted to a Board and Care facility for those who suffer from memory disorders, and my mother who's health has rapidly declined in the past month will also go to a facility where she can receive the 24 hour attention she now requires.

I don't know which is more significant: that they no longer feel like my parents, or that it's beyond the abilities of my sister and I to care for them. Either way it's a poignant way to end the year, that leaves me wondering what's next.

Preoccupied with Occupy

2011-11-15T17:46:00.000-08:00

Let me start out with saying I support Occupy Wall Street and it's many sister movements. I'm happy that the term 99% now has a resonance throughout the country. I hope that it is a permanent part of the lexicon.

But, now that participants of Occupy encampments are being evicted across the country, I worry that the message is getting lost. As the battle becomes more about occupying a space I can't help but think that space is irrelevant.

For those who want change, myself included, it is good to remember that being preoccupied with occupying a space isn't the same as preoccupying the mind with an injustice that effects all but 1% of us.

Getting beyond the Hippies who Occupy Wall Street

2011-10-11T00:35:00.000-07:00

There's an old curse that says "May you live in interesting times." When I was a kid growing up in the Bay Area in the 70's and 80's I couldn't help but feel I had missed out on such times. The Summer of Love was just shy of a generation before me, and my parents were mostly squares committed to being good Americans.

But, I saw glimpes of interesting things when we visited my uncle in San Francisco. He was a Harvy Milk generation gay man living in the Haight at that time. His life and friends seemed romantically exotic, and it was from my visits there that I got my first archetype of a Hippie. To me they were funny, and happy, and artistic and with some higher purpose (pun totally intended) that was beyond my own existence. So to me, old Hippies were more like a favorite uncle. And I'll admit that as a result of those encounters, throughout my teens, I secretly mourned that I was born too late to be a Hippie.

It wasn't until Burning Man that I started to have a disdain for Hippies. You see, at Burning Man we have this ethos that is led by 10 principles, one of which is Radical Self Reliance. After several years of systemic preparation for my annual trek to the Playa, I began to grow weary of those who would rather rely on another Burning Man principle, Gifting. In fact it wasn't long before I started to despise the phrase, "the Playa provides." To me this was code for "I'm a hippie, you're suppose to take care of me." Almost overnight, I found exaggerated dread locks, drum circles and the smell of patchouli to be annoying. What was even more annoying was the notion that I was somehow lacking as a person for not living such an unconventional life.

When the first reports of Occupy Wall Street appeared in mainstream media, I recognized the embodiment of the movement, and that created a momentary conflict for me. The statistic used to measure who has most of the wealth in this country was something I was already very familiar with. Thus, my disdain for Hippies had to take a back seat to my sense of social justice, which I ironically acquired in Catholic high school.

Now, as the Occupy movement has moved beyond Wall Street to include union members, airline pilots and veterans, I can't help but think one of two things: either somebody, somewhere cast a curse upon us for interesting times, or at some point in the early 80's I wished too hard to be able to identify with Hippies.

Burning Man - What we build

2011-08-16T07:09:00.000-07:00

As predicted, with just days before I leave for the Playa, I am in a state of heightened anticipation, and a flurry of preparation.

I've said it before, for me, the the Burn starts with the prep. I make lists, preconceive, search, clean, buy and pack. There is something increasingly satisfying as I imagine the needs I will have for my time on the Playa and construct a personal infrastructure to meet them. Shelter, check; food, check; equipment, clothing, gifts, creature comforts, check, check, check.

What I do is simply a microcosm of what the community does as a whole. Right now, as I plan my remaining days in the Default World, friends are on the Playa, probably already at work realizing another preconceived plan that will support a community of 50,000. Later that population will flood the city, each camp with it's own plan.

Many are there to contribute in very significant ways; others maybe not so much. But, despite that, we will build a community of creative expression.

What strikes me the most about the process, is that given an opportunity, people will contribute to making an amazing community. They will create infrastructure and even institutions that benefit both themselves and others. It's what makes a community work.

With that in mind, I have to wonder about the motives of those currently trying to deconstruct community infrastructure in the Default World with tax cuts. What are they trying to build?

Rites of Passage

2011-07-07T02:04:00.000-07:00

It's that time again. In about six weeks I will be chomping at the bit ready to go to Burning Man once again. This year the theme is Rites of Passage, interesting theme considering this is my 7th Burn. That has to mean something.

I was thinking about Rites of Passage over the holiday weekend as I watched an evening parade to celebrate the Fourth of July.

In my home town, the Fourth of July always meant a Parade, Picnic, Festival and Fireworks. From the time I was about four years old, I can remember always being in the parade. I rode on floats, roller skated, tap danced with a show troupe and marched in bands. A couple of years I rode my pink Hello Kitty bike.

When I moved away from home there were parades too. In Italy, where I was stationed as a young soldier, the Fourth of July meant standing on a parade ground, saluting as cannons were fired and then parading in step to a Sousa march. My favorite was Stars and Stripes Forever, and the first time I marched to this in uniform I admit, I was a bit choked up.

When I worked for a public access television station, I use to say that it was a lot like the Fourth of July Parade where one half of the town lines up to wave at the other half. It's a chance to say hey, this is who we are and what we are about. We're cheerleaders, and dog lovers and ballerinas and classic car enthusiasts. And when we walk down the street, showing that pride, those that recognize and appreciate it smile, wave back and sometimes applaud.

When people ask me about Burning Man, I often tell them it's a festival of self expression. Imagine the biggest Fourth of July parade ever with roaming floats, marching bands, a festival and even picnics in Center Camp. It's a place where you can display your enthusiasm if you dare. And if you are really brave you can allow yourself to display that kind of enthusiasm in the Default World as well. Now there's a Rite of Passage for you.

Where and When does the World End?

2011-05-20T18:58:00.000-07:00

For weeks now certain Christians have been anticipating this day: May 21, 2011. An Oakland based pastor and his apostles are certain that this will be the Apocalypse, the day Jesus returns to earth, takes all the faithful with him to heaven, and leaves the rest of us to duke it out. My assumption is that I will be in the latter group.

But now, as this day has finally come, I can't help but wonder, in which time zone does the Apocalypse occur?

See the thing is, I'm currently in Japan. Here, it is 11:00 a.m. Saturday Morning. At my home in the San Francisco Bay Area, it is currently 7:00 p.m Friday, and in Jerusalem, it is currently 5:00 a.m. Saturday morning. So if the world is going to end, where is it going to end and in which time zone?

We've decided to have an Apocalypse party today with Movies like Independence Day, The Day After Tomorrow, and 2012. If the world is gonna end, might as well end it with a good burger and some hotdogs.

Due East

2011-04-17T09:39:00.000-07:00

Well, it's happened. The State Department has recalled all those evacuated from Japan in wake of the triple-threat disaster, earthquake, tsunami and a nuclear disaster that now rivals Chernoble. The boys are relieved to be going back, and I'm preparing for a major transition as I get ready to go with them.

In my head I'm already making lists of everything I have to do: finish up journalism assignments and consulting work, change addresses for major bills, set up mail forwarding, cleaning Jada's kennel and getting her health certificate, getting the house ready for someone else to stay here, disassembling and shipping my bike, packing and shipping boxes of what I think I need to take with me, stocking up on things I know I can't get there easily such as Mexican herbs and spices and Polenta, it goes on.

The other important thing I have to do is find a news outlet here who may want to use me while I'm there. At least now I know what I'm going to report on.

I like a change of scenery from time to time. I especially like living other places as opposed to visiting them. My theory is this: to really get to know a place, you need to live there through at least one change of season. Only knowing a place in one season, doesn't allow you to see how the people or the landscape change.

I know my kids are anxious to get back. I'm just anxious in general. I have a lot to do in a short amount of time and currently have no prospects for work once I get there. Makes for an interesting ride.

A Repatriated Routine

2011-03-30T12:02:00.000-07:00

The boys are home. They arrived after 36 hours of travel and processing.

Repatriation is a dicey business when living overseas as a Department of Defense dependent. The boys had to have orders that authorized their travel. Multiple forms were completed, reviewed, and completed again. Security checks were done at multiple points, and finally they boarded a plane filled with other dependents, most of which were under age 10. Also on board were 60 family pets and 46 baby strollers.

The evacuees flew to Denver Colorado, where they disembarked into a hanger and were processed again for their connecting flights. At the hanger representatives from the American Red Cross, the USO and Military members from local bases handed out snacks, carried bags, and assisted weary travelers. I heard one story of a full bird Colonel who walked one dog after the other so they could "do their business." Soldiers bounced babies, and played with young kids while parents napped, and a Sergeant-Major changed diapers. My younger son received a hand knit hat from a member of the USO and bags of snacks.

Finally, after another eight hours of processing they were able to get on their connecting flight that would bring them home.

They miss Japan. They miss the culture and the food, their friends and the routine they have become accustomed to. Now we have a new routine: I pamper the boys and makes all their favorite foods. They do about 3 hours of homework a day, catch up on American TV and talk to their friends online. We all go for walks on local trails, do housework, run errands and try to simulate some temporary form of normal.

I like having them here, but they can't wait to get back to Japan.

Jack Can Keep his Limbo Stick! Kids evacuating from Japan

2011-03-21T11:48:00.000-07:00

It has been more than a week since my kids experienced the most powerful earthquake ever recorded in Japanese history. They have weathered the disaster fairly well.

First of all, they have been reasonably safe the entire time. Being on a U.S. military base has it's advantages: power, gas, clean water, and an unbroken supply line. But as much as they have tried to go on as though it's situation normal, that is of course impossible. Continued aftershocks, cancellation of base activities and rumors of evacuation permeate their existence. Meanwhile I'm about 6000+ miles away simmering with concern and wanting them home.

Voluntary evacuations have begun, but getting them home is a challenge, even with a friend willing to escort them across the Pacific. So for the moment they wait. Their bags are packed and paperwork is completed, but they have to wait for the powers that be to figure out how to get hundreds of U.S. Government dependents, military and otherwise to multiple destinations. While they wait today, they will go back to school which has an increasing number of empty desks of other kids who have already managed to get out with their families.

Family in Japan - What happens next

2011-03-17T11:21:00.000-07:00

I'm not entirely unfamiliar with crisis. I was a soldier for 9 years, and one thing you learn rather quickly is if you are unexpectedly recalled, turn on CNN to see where you are going. I can still remember the night they started bombing Baghdad in Operation Desert Storm. I was in training at Fort Harrison, Indiana, and all we could do was hope for the best but prepare for the worst.

That's a mantra for the military and their families. After 9/11, we did the same thing. I was admittedly was out of practice then. I allowed myself to develop a false sense of security when my husband wasn't immediately recalled from the Inactive Reserve. Just as I had convinced my self maybe it wouldn't happen, it did, and he was gone for 2 years.

There have been other crisis since then. Their dad is no longer on Active Duty, but a Department of Defense Civilian. It doesn't change much. We generally just go with it. But this one is a little different. Usually my kids are with me, and it's my job to maintain a sense of normal for them. When they ask questions, I always answer as truthfully as I can, and tell them, "sorry guys, this is just how we live."

But this time, it's my kids who are in danger.

In truth I know that the danger is subjective. They are currently about 150 miles from the failing power plant. At the moment, their air is good, they are well supplied, and surrounded by well trained, well equipped professionals. They are also among friends, kids their own age who have experienced some of the things they have, and are experiencing this crisis with them. I think it's important that they have peers.

But I also know that if there is a melt down, that they are at the mercy of the wind. While the radiation would surely dissipate before it reaches them, there is still a threat, and that leaves me very uneasy. But it's out of my control.

So what's next? One of two things: at present the President has authorized evacuations for dependents of US Personnel. I don't know if my kids are among those who are authorized. I suspect that they are. Their dad will likely have to stay. It's his job. I get it.

If the kids aren't evacuated then I'm on a plane late next week.

The new normal in Japan and at Home

2011-03-16T17:06:00.000-07:00

It’s closing in on a week since tectonic plates moved Japan eight feet to the west in what is now classified as a magnitude 9.0 earthquake followed by a 30 foot tsunami.

The initial relief of “OK it’s over, lets move on,” didn’t even have a half-life. This disaster started as the largest earthquake ever recorded in Japan, went on to cause a wall of water that tore a 6 kilometer path in the north, and is now posing a threat to poison thousands more with radiation from a failing nuclear power plant.

This is the new normal for everyone in Japan, including my family who is currently living there. It’s also a new normal for me, who is currently half a world away, unable to get there for at least another week. Why not drop everything and just go? Well, I was originally scheduled to go and stay about this time anyway. There’s a lot to do when you are leaving the country for a fair bit of time.

So, my new normal is based on a few things: Skype, TweetDeck, cable news and online news streams from Japan. I follow the story best I can without becoming obsessed. I talk to my kids every morning before they go to school, and stay up late so I can see them when they get home from school as well. At the moment they are on their own a lot because their dad, understandably is working a lot of overtime. I like that I can be there with them to be sure they are ok, ask them about their day, and make sure that they are eating.

The base is making its best effort to have relatively normal operations, although many activities have been cancelled. Kids are still going to school, but sports activities are currently suspended. Mandated standardized testing however is not. So as these kids watch disaster relief stream through their base and hear about the possibility of radiation plumes, they also get to be sure to use a Number 2 Pencil and avoid making stray marks on the page.

Meanwhile, I am making lists of things to get done before I leave, finding foster care for my pets and wondering what will happen next.

Friday in California, Saturday in Japan

2011-03-16T16:31:00.000-07:00

I called the boys the next morning, their time, which was about 3:00 p.m. my time. I tried to avoid calling to early. I wanted them to sleep. The worst I hoped, was behind them.

When I finally did call, I was able to get through on the land-line. The kids both woke up antsy. Wyatt hadn’t heard from his (not) girlfriend who was on a field trip with the school band. He called her phone repeatedly, but couldn’t get through. Nolan, who is a little high strung anyway, was pacing the room. I myself, was still a bit shaken from what I had seen on the news. The full gravity of the initial reports were starting to sink in.

It’s hard to be away from your kids who are stuck in a situation that is completely out of your control. But for the moment, I did what I would have done if I were there.

“You know what would make mom feel better?” I asked Nolan.
“What?”
“I’d like you to make a survival pack with everything you would need to survive for a day or two, like we do on the Playa.”

My kids have been attending Burning Man since they were 8 and 5 years old. They know how to survive in extreme conditions. I gave them a quick list of what we normally carry: water, electrolytes, enough snacks for 24 hours, something warm to wear, bandanna, hat, flashlight, multi-tool, etc.

My husband made a trip to the commissary to get a few essentials that they didn’t have on hand, and each of the boys assembled their own pack. It made us all feel better knowing if they needed to, that they could grab it and go. It also reminded them that they have skills for stuff like this.

The rest of the day (for them) was spent at home. I did some work and then went out with a friend for drinks at a local tavern. Wyatt finally heard from his friend after several tense hours and dozens of calls to her mobile phone. She and the rest of the band members were on the bus working their way back through Tokyo traffic.

It wasn’t yet clear what would happen next, but for the moment I knew my family was safe, and for the moment that was enough.

Witnessing Japan's Disaster by Skype

2011-03-16T16:18:00.000-07:00

When I saw words “Major Earthquake in Japan” appear in my TweetDeck window, I reached for my phone. But before I could even find the right number to call, a Skype window opened on my computer. It was my family calling me to say that they were OK.

My husband, who works as a Department of Defense civilian, is assigned to Yakota Air Force Base in Fussa which is a suburb of Tokyo. They have been in Japan for about 7 months. They live on base, in military housing and the boys attend American schools there with other DoD Civilian and Military dependents. For them, it’s been like living in small town USA, except in Japan. The schools are smaller, and everyone knows each other. Kids still get excited about Homecoming during football season, hang out at the bowling alley, and have the freedom to roam the base without concern about violence or random crime.

It was late afternoon there, when the ground began to move. My kids had just gotten home from school. My (going on) 16-year-old, Wyatt was famously peeing when the quake hit. At the time, he was quite proud that he didn’t miss the bowl. My other son, Nolan, who will be 13 in June, said he was lying on the floor presumably watching TV, when the house began to move back and forth.

We knew it was bad, but had no idea how bad it would get. They were shaken up, but there was no damage. Their dad, who had come home to check on them, went back to work, and I stayed on Skype with the boys. We chatted nervously about the quake and their school day. Wyatt was trying to reach friends to find out about a soccer game that they planned to attend, but phone service, including mobile phones was down. Internet was the only means for communication on base and otherwise.

I flipped through cable to see what was happening and as the pictures began to stream in, I warned Wyatt that the soccer game may be cancelled. “They’re not going to cancel soccer,” he said incredulously.

We decided to watch TV together, and just as we settled on a news channel that we could watch simultaneously, the first live images of the tsunami began to emerge. I didn’t even identify it as water at first. It looked like a black blob oozing across a Japanese countryside. Denial immediately set in as I told myself that maybe there would be a minimal loss of life since the destructive wave seemed to be in a rural farming area. But the water kept coming. It swept up cars, and semi trucks and then houses and buildings.

As we watched the tragedy unfold, I also watched over my kids as they sat together on the couch, and I realized how lucky I was to live in such an age where such things are possible. Had I not been able to do this, I surely would have been far more upset than I initially was.

Giving up Lent, kind of...

2011-03-13T10:44:00.000-07:00

As a recovering Catholic, I find that one of the things I miss most about Catholicism is celebrating Lent. Lent is the season between Ash Wednesday and Easter Sunday. Good Catholics are supposed to forsake something they enjoy to commemorate the suffering of Christ, and not eat meat on Fridays. At least that's how I remember it.

How I really remember Lent is like a game. First you strategize what your going to give up. It must be something you truly will miss or it doesn't count. The first year I celebrated Lent, I gave up chocolate. All during the Lenten season I pined, and looked longingly at chocolate rabbits at the store. M&M's seemed to be everywhere, mocking me, and even the comfort of a cup of cocoa was verboten. Finally, on Easter morning I got a basket brimming with my previously forbidden treat. As we celebrated the belief that after the third day, Christ rose from the dead at mass, I celebrated a small personal victory over chocolate.

The other part of Lent, giving up meat on Fridays, always meant interesting dinner choices: Cheese Enchiladas, Mac & Cheese, Quesadillas and of course my favorite Fish and Chips. In high school I can remember going to the cafeteria and seeing the trays normally brimming with burgers and hot dogs, replaced with big trays of macaroni and cheese tuna casserole and fish sandwiches. Even though I had given up giving things up by then, it was still kind of fun to be deprived.

These days, I am typically more inclined to celebrate Mardi Gras, than Lent. I don't go to mass on Ash Wednesday, don't really celebrate Easter, but still enjoy making baskets for my boys who are quickly becoming young men.

But that doesn't replace the ritual of giving something up, so I decided to give up french fries for Lent, and to try and give up meat on Fridays. I think of it as an exercise in self-discipline.

I didn't think that through very well though, because now I've screwed myself out of Fish & Chips. Obviously, I'm a bit out of practice.

So I'm a Grown Up. But, Middle Aged? Yikes!

2011-02-28T11:13:00.000-08:00

According to Studio 360, a show I heard on NPR, I am middle aged.

WHAT? That can't be! But. by their standards middle age is between the ages of 33 and 50. And in truth the fact that my source is NPR should have been a big clue, although I've been a listener for at least 15 years. None the less, here I am, smack dab in the middle of middle age.

The title of the show was "I realized I was grown up when..." This got me to thinking. When does anyone really become a grown up? When did I become one? I have a few litmus tests that I go by, but these things are not in the least one size fits all, so sing along where you know the words:

I realized I was a grown up when...

I started getting excited about election day
I realized that lying, in general is just lame
I started to become exceedingly annoyed with people who use the word "like" more than one time in a sentence
I was more interested in connecting with people on an intellectual level than a physical one
I could moderate my drinking to get a desired affect: buzzed, happy, happy drunk, stupid drunk
I learned to quit drinking before getting stupid drunk
I started reading labels of every food I buy for calories, sodium and saturated fat
Analgesics became a regular item on my shopping list
I could be proud of my gray hair, but color them red or purple anyway
I realized not only do I not know everything, but in the great realm of things I don't know shit
I became comfortable with the fact that I don't know shit, and decided to do my best to know as much as I could
I embraced who I am, not who I wanted to be, and interestingly I then became the latter
The highlight of my day was getting hugs from my kids
I started to recognize my parents' mortality
I started realizing my own mortality

Soundtrack to an Independent Life

2011-01-23T19:16:00.000-08:00

I’ve been on my own a lot lately. One of the nice things about being on my own is being able to do things I want to do. So when I get a chance like this, I take full advantage and enjoy it while I can. At present I have full control of the TV remote, meal choices, and free time activities. This Sunday that freedom meant hearing some good Jazz with a nice lunch followed by creamy vanilla ice cream and fresh fruit.

A good four-chord progression is laid out like four easy rules to stay within. Jazz compositions are like saying here’s a big box for you to play in. Have fun, and it’s ok if you color outside the lines a bit. In fact it’s encouraged

I’ve also been on my own in another way recently. In preparation for a change of domestic venue, I’ve been freelancing as a consultant and news writer. Freelancing is always better than it sounds. It requires a lot more discipline and motivation than a regular job. I still have to get up to go to work, and to make that task more real I tend to work away from home a little every day. Usually this means a café or some other establishment offering free wifi. I generally go prepared with my computer power cord, my own travel mug and enough cash to keep me in snacks for the day. Sometimes a change of location is required. This is usually happens when inane talkers or giggling teens manage to overpower my headphones. That only happens once or twice a week.

Jazz is the perfect sound track to my temporary independent lifestyle. The players play for each other but also for themselves. And when listening to live jazz I can’t help but feel like a kid on the playground watching the coolest, most fun game, wishing I could jump in. There’s also something uniquely intimate about Jazz because of it’s improvisational nature. It yields a kind of intellectual pastiche that makes me feel less alone and more in tune with the dynamic world that surrounds me.

Date Night

2011-01-10T10:48:00.000-08:00

I've been on my own as of late. Being solitary isn't a bad thing from time to time. I begin to notice things around me that maybe were previously ignored due to the distraction of others around me. I've taken up crocheting again, finally have time to read my stack of New Yorkers cover to cover and enjoy the company of my four cats.

OK, being on my own has some slippery slopes. So instead of staying home making sweaters for my cats on Saturday, I decided to take myself out on a date.

After a typical Saturday of running errands and doing chores, I took a shower, dressed, put on nice-looking but potentially painful shoes, shaded my eyes and headed out for dinner, a movie and drinks after.

Armed with a back-issue of the New Yorker, I opted to sit at the bar of a local Italian chain restaurant, where I was able to fully engage with a very clever article about a teen fashion blogging phenom. I've learned that having good reading material is a must when going out alone. Reading a well written article is the equivalent of hearing a great story from a witty conversationalist. Add a good glass of wine and Pellegrino, and well, you have great dinner conversation, even if it is only between you and the writer and only in your head. On this night, I was so engrossed in my article that I agonized putting it down when my salad arrived, after my entree. It may have been an American chain, but I still order in the Italian way.

Checking the time, I paid my bill and made my way to the movie theater. Normally, I opt for German train time, but for this date, I was OK with being just a little atrazado. I entered the theatre just as the previews began, found a good seat and pulled out a container of Trader Joe's dark chocolate covered cherries.

Had I listened to that inner voice that said, "go home now, it's been a good night," I could have saved myself for what came after the movie. A cold California night hastened pain that pierced my brain as I walked to the car. I contemplated going home instead of for a drink, but decided I could tolerate one more venue if I took an Excedrin.

It was a bad gamble. The pain medication dulled my headache but couldn't cure the absolutely suck-tackular cover band that I paid a five dollar cover to see. Before I could finish my bourbon, I ordered a tall glass of water to quicken my exit. When the singer felt it necessary to preface, Jesse's Girl, I took that as my cue to leave. It wasn't a total loss though. I got home just in time to see the pilot episode of Firefly.

Overall it was a good date. I had a nice meal, saw a movie of my choice, and was able to end the evening without any "it's not you, it's me" awkwardness. And when I came home, the cats almost seemed happy to see me. If nothing else I'm sure they were happy to not have to wear an embarrassing sweater.

To Geek or Not to Geek

2011-01-06T12:16:00.000-08:00

I'm a Geek. It took me years to accept it, but now I embrace it. It's who I am and I wear the badge proudly.

What is a Geek? That depends on your definition. We're not exotic enough to be misfits, extroverted enough to be mavericks nor malleable enough to be with the in-crowd. We are creative, thoughtful, curious and brave. We deconstruct, figure out, re-imagine, and innovate for fun, seeking out knowledge, appreciating insight, and doing our best to understand the world around us.

The best of us realize this early, and understand that having the will to stand alone with your imagination, thoughts and beliefs takes a special kind of fortitude. These are the bravest among us. They are the ones willing to take the risk of not trying to fit in early. Perhaps it's because they realize that fitting in is just a slick slide down to status quo and the boredom that suck a life implies.

I wasn't one of those. Even though I was flute playing, theatre performing, documentary watching twelve year old, I made great pains to separate myself from the kids who hung out by the library at lunch. I liked those kids. They were nice and thoughtful, and accepting and funny. There was even a boy I liked there. He was tall, cute and very sweet. We slow-danced at a school dance, but when a friend told me that she heard he had wet his pants at school, it was too much for me to brave. I never talked to him or went back to the library for lunch again. I wanted to be cool and these kids weren't cool. They were brave. But, I couldn't see it.

So I sought out a different crowd. I started smoking, drank some, cut school, did other nefarious deeds. After a few years of escalating trouble I landed in catholic high school. I had a few friends there, but by then we had learned how to at least not get caught doing naughty things. There were some odd flirtations with religion there as well, and though I was much kinder to geeks then, I still refused to see myself as one.

Twenty-plus years and several lives later, I realize I was a geek all along, and wonder why I ever denied it. It's one thing to learn to be comfortable in your own skin...it's another be comfortable in your own mind. And now, by the power of the information age, geeks rule and it's pretty awesome in a lot of ways.

Truth in Advertising and Easy Solutions

2011-01-05T17:58:00.000-08:00

Well, a new year is upon us, with its predictable round of advertisements for diet plans and exercise programs. It seems the beginning of the year is an ideal time to begin new regimes and disciplines that help us to be better individuals. For some reason in January it is easier to imagine ourselves as more athletic, thinner and with fewer bad habits. Be it electronic cigarettes or fast food, in January everything is somehow geared to make us better people. Among advertisements in this trend I noticed that one fast food chain is now offering "natural cut fries with sea salt," as if being naturally cut with sea salt actually makes them good for you.

Of course, one wonders what exactly is a naturally cut potato? Is it grown in a special place where naturally formed crystals share the soil and through some special happenstance of circumstance the ground apple emerges pre-cut like a honey-baked ham? And even if this were the case, it doesn't change the fact that once saturated in hot boiling oil, and covered in salt from sea or table, it's both a tasty treat and potentially deadly foe. But it's January after all, thus even french fries can somehow be good for you when cut naturally and covered in something as natural as sea salt, right?

I suppose we can't blame advertisers who take advantage of our annual desire to be better people. What we can blame is our willingness to be taken by easy solutions. Solutions can be simple, but seldom easy. The former requires creative and elegant thought that choreographs effort with willingness and imagination. When such a circumstance is achieved one imagines that a great number of problems we encounter would be simple to solve. The latter simply calls for a desire to achieve goals with little effort, implying a lack of genuine will.

I don't really make New Year's resolutions. It seems that for me, resolve comes once I've decided to act on my contemplations, and that comes in its own time. And as much as I desire easy solutions, I know I have to have patience enough for my imagination and will to allamande making a perfect geometry that will show me how everything eventually ends up in its rightful place.

Oh, Happy New Year.

Decompressing

2010-10-11T12:23:00.000-07:00

Decompression is a term Burners use to describe the process of re-entering what we call the Default World. You see, Burning Man, can feel like an alternate universe. We do things there we don't do in regular life. We make eye contact with everyone we meet. We celebrate sun up and sun down. We hug like we mean it. We give, we get, we live.

Someone reminded me this year that time spent on the Playa, like dog years can be multiplied by seven. Using that math, I spent the equivalent of about 10 weeks in that universe. So yeah, it takes a bit to adapt from that.

Unfortunately, I had just as hard a landing in the Default World this year, as I did on the Playa. It just seems that hard landings are my new MO. So, it's taken until now, the week of San Francisco's actual Decompression, essentially a block party-after party for the Burn, to get my bearings.

Funny thing is, I decompressed from camping in the desert, by camping in the California hills near a reservoir with friends. It's amazing how much easier camping is without blistering heat, 40 mph winds, and the constant threat of dehydration. And it occurred to me that by going to Burning Man, a place of impossible conditions to escape norms that stymie creativity, that maybe we appreciate expression that much more when we are there. And by the same token, maybe I appreciate how much easier some things are in the default world, so I can remember I don't have to be in a challenging environment to be creative.

Sanctuary in Work - Burning Man 2010

2010-09-16T10:25:00.000-07:00

For me, work often cures a myriad of ills. Work distracts me. Work occupies me. Work is one of the things I do best.

After a very stressful, and very expensive trip to the Burn, I was actually ready to turn around and cut my losses. What was I thinking coming out to the desert for 10 days? I wanted to be in the default world, with my family who couldn’t come.

But I decided to continue on as planned, to my first shift with the Gate Crew. I got there, checked in, got my t-shirt and hoodie, got my laminate, and then sat down in the Black Hole to take in the scene.

Old couches sat upon old carpet laid to keep the dust down. Camping chairs left in a circled formation from the night before, continued to hold council around a still smoldering burn barrel. A crewmember slept in a hammock strung between two beams of the shade structure, as others came through looking tired but motivated.
The first shift with Gate includes an hour-long orientation. We learned do’s and don’ts, safety, what to look for, what to expect. Before long, we were on a bus headed to the gate where we were paired into teams and put to work.

Gate crew is responsible for every person that enters Black Rock City. We take the tickets, make sure folks aren’t bringing in forbidden items: guns, explosives, fireworks, dogs, live plants, feather boas, people without tickets, and then send them on there way down gate road to get hugs and excitement from the Greeters.

Working Gate is a dangerous job. There are a lot of vehicles, driven by weary but excited drivers, in various states of cogency. Exhaust combined with dust and beating sun, make for challenging work conditions, as does early morning cold when working the overnight shift. But there’s nothing like seeing a horizon that begins to glow with the earliest hints of day light before the sun rises.

Working the event changed my perspective about the Burn. I realized that I was no longer merely a participant. I was now one of many who help make it all happen.

After my first shift, I felt better, more like I was Home again.

Hard Entry, Hard Landing - Burning Man 2010

2010-09-10T21:04:00.000-07:00

“So how was Burning Man?”

“Good,” I say. “I worked a lot.”

It’s true, I worked seven shifts with the gate crew for a total of about 46 hours. Next time I plan to work more.

It’s a totally different Burn from that perspective. Being among those who make it happen makes a big difference in the experience. We participate, but with far more commitment. I marveled at the Gate Crew veterans, their dedication, their stamina. As a new crew member I just did my best to keep up on the shifts that I covered.

It was a hard entry into the Burn this year. After weeks of preparation, my anticipation went into a fever pitch the week before the Burn. So did my anxiety. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something felt out of wack. Low level nervousness turned into low level panic, but I had no logical reason why.

Thursday, the week before my departure brought the first blow. While in UN Plaza, in San Francisco, I somehow, lost my Burning Van keys. Gone! No where to be found. And…no spares. Several phone calls, about 5 hours and two locksmiths later, I had a fresh set of keys and a set of spares. Tragedy averted. Or so I thought.

One week later, I was in SF again, this time to pick up equipment for my riders. It all seemed to be going well, but I couldn’t help but have a serious case of the Heebee Jeebies. I was anxious for no good reason. Everything was packed. We would leave in the morning. But I felt like something wasn’t quite right.

My fears were finally realized as we started ascending the Sierra Nevada. Blinking warning lights that would seal our fate hastened my blood pressure to raise. We managed to make it to Truckee, but not without causing damage to the engine.

The news from the mechanic wasn’t good. What made it worse was that he didn’t think the work would be completed until the following Wednesday. My heart sank. He gave me a card for the local rental car company, that maybe a little to coincidentally had a Suburban available for the week. I jumped at it.

With my blood pressure causing a light popping in my ears, I drove the rental back to the mechanic’s where my travel companions took over unloading the Burning Van and loading the Suburban. We arrived on the Playa about 6 hours later than we had planned, but we made it. But, for the first time I wasn’t overjoyed to be there. I didn’t want to be there at all. I needed comfort. I needed to not have spent a small fortune to get there. I needed my blood pressure to go down.

The next morning, after some restless sleep in the truck, I found my way to medical. The popping in my ears had stopped but I still felt loopy.

“130 over 92” the nurse announced when she checked it a second time.

“It’s a little high.”

After contemplating my options, I decided to at least set up a basic camp, and work my first shift with the Gate crew, before deciding to leave. So I did just that. I set up my tent, stowed some gear, had enough time to grab some water and my Playa pack and headed to the Black Hole, headquarters for PG&E, Perimeter, Gate & Exodus crew.

My Three Favorite Cities

2010-08-26T08:12:00.001-07:00

As I plan my pilgrimage to my most favorite city, I started to think about my other favorite places. But first, a brief preface. I’m not what one would call exceptionally well traveled. I’ve been places, St. Louis, Seattle, San Antonio, Indianapolis, Vancouver, Las Vegas, Vienna, Venezia, Frankfurt, Heidelberg, Garmish, and Fulda to name a few. These are places in which I’ve actually spent some measure of time. I don’t include lay over cities like London, Salt Lake, Phoenix or Chicago. The list of places I haven’t been is by far much longer. I’ve never been to Boston for instance, nor Miami, Honolulu, or any major cities in Central or South America. I’ve also never been to any city in Africa, Australia or Asia. One of these will be remedied however in the year to come. More on that later. So, with all that said, here are my current favorite cities.

Number 3 – San Francisco, California

It never occurred to me how much I love this city until I left it for a time. I didn’t grow up in the City but in the outer Bay Area. But, we frequented it often. I had an uncle who lived on the pan-handle of Golden Gate Park. My older sister attended modeling school there. At the end of summer we use to hit the factory stores in the warehouse district, (now called SOMA) And sometimes, we would just go on a Friday night to explore China Town, and eat fried rice in a dinky restaurant in which you enter through the kitchen by way of an alley. In those days, San Francisco was still full of animated neon. The Hills Brother’s Coffee Man would great us from the Bay Bridge, bright red nipples flashed on Broadway, and Coca Cola simply just dazzled. It was an odd mix of glam and hippy art and love.

I work there now, so I still enjoy San Francisco, but not in quite the same way. Now I see it as a world class city, with diversity, and food, innovation and entertainment. Hippies are largely replaced with Hipsters, CocaCola still dazzles but little else does at night. SOMA is a district of tall shiny condos with shiny people to match. And there is a palatable level of smug largely possessed by those who did not grow up here. Despite all this, I still love San Francisco, it’s charm, it’s character and it’s people. I like seeing flash mobs, naked people running in the Bay to Breakers and other outward signs of expression that probably just wouldn’t fly anywhere else. I like eating crab with friends at Fisherman’s Warf on Sunday mornings. I like watching what looks like insane piles of houses on hills with intermittent towers that jut out like outcrops as I approach on the ferry in the mornings. It’s a great place to go 5 days a week, and I wouldn’t even mind living there.

Number 2 – Verona, Italy

I lived in Italy for three years between Verona and Venezia (Venice). Now, some might be surprised to hear that between those two cities, I would pick Verona over Venezia. I’ll admit, that it’s a beautiful place. The canals are enchanting, the food amazing, and the architecture breathtaking. But Verona is a city that is a little more my speed. It’s an old Roman City, the city of Romeo and Juliet, and an amazing cultural center.

Because it’s a Roman City, it has it’s own coliseum that is still in use. When I was there I went to the Ballet and rock concerts in the coliseum. The city center (Centro) is also laid out in concentric circles which can be a little disorienting when walking around drunk at night in the rain (another story entirely). Verona boasts one of the oldest market places in Europe, as well as a McDonalds. It has towers, city walls, ruins, Juliet’s balcony and her tomb. But all these reasons combined aren’t why I love this city so much. Beginning with my very first visit, I felt a connection with this city. It’s the kind of city that is automatically familiar. I think it’s because it’s both provincial and urban at the same time. It’s a place I dream about often, and hope to return to some day.

Number 1 – Black Rock City, Nevada

Black Rock City is the temporary establishment built on the Black Rock Dessert during the Burning Man Festival. If I’m lucky, once a year I get to call this place home for a week. Although temporary, BRC has a culture, an infrastructure, and even street names. We have DPW, Department of Public Works who create our perimeter, build our streets, build Center Camp, and many other places that support our citizens. We have DMV, Department of Mutant Vehicles who license art cars which act as our public transportation on the Playa. We have ESD, Emergency Services Department that includes doctors, nurses, EMT’s, and other Emergency personnel. And, we have our own intervention/resolution force (as opposed to police) called the Black Rock Rangers.

Black Rock City is a place to play, but also to appreciate. We believe in Radical Self Reliance, which means we don’t look to others to meet our needs, but at the same time we look out for each other. The absurd is encouraged, as is kindness, generosity and love. My love for Black Rock City is not based on the locale, although I’ve grown to love the vastness of the Playa. It’s not based on the architecture either, because save the Man, the architecture changes every year. I love Black Rock City for both the culture and the possibilities. Surprises are everywhere. Most are good, some are bad, (i.e. “Who left crap on the PortaJon seat?”)

In a little more than 24 hours I will depart for this place as I have done 5 times before. I must admit, that this year’s excursion is made with some apprehension, but the one thing I know is once I’m there, I can expect an amazing hug, new friends, and surprises around every corner.

Hasta la Playa!

-Clarity

Preparation Boiling Point - Burning Man 2010

2010-08-08T21:30:00.000-07:00

Every year I go to Burning Man, at some point it reaches a boiling point, and the reality of it all begins to overwhelm. I start second guessing myself. Am I forgetting something? Do I have enough food, water, equipment, booze?

Black Rock City is an amazing place, but it's also a dangerous place. The conditions are extremely harsh, and those of us that take the Radical Self Reliance Principle seriously, don't want to be caught unprepared. In years past I have always been over prepared, but that was when I went with my kids in tow. When going alone, I find myself in an odd middle ground between wanting to be prepared and wanting to stick to the KISS method. You know, Keep It Simple Stupid.

The thing is, it takes a lot of planning to go to the desert for spontaneous expression. You have to plan for water (one and a half gallons a day), food and the storage of perishables (there's a dry ice strategy to be employed), wardrobe (that is equal in both form and function), gifts (preferably hand made and/or pragmatic), health care (sun screen, baby wipes, hand sanitizer) and equipment (including a bike, tools, illumination, zip ties, and Gorilla tape). Getting ready for a full week of Radical Self Reliance, where you are completely responsible for your own well being, requires forethought and imagination. But that's OK, because that's a lot of what Burning Man is about: forethought and imagination.

The Playa is a place where one can be at the whim of imagination. Creativity is encouraged. Realization of vision is admired. As a community we dare to do brave things that we wouldn't do in the Default World. We hug like we mean it, all the time. We practice generosity. And although one of our principles is Radical Self Reliance, we look out for each other. Art and expression are the foundations of our culture, as is acceptance and participation. It's no wonder that when we get there, the greeters always say, "Welcome Home."

Flipping Bikes for Burning Man

2010-07-30T19:30:00.000-07:00

Serendipity is a funny thing. On the years I carefully plan and save money for Burning Man, the preparation is a year long affair. The times when I only decide to go after the cheap tickets are gone, somehow, the resources materialize.

Monday, on the week of the Burn last year I was lamenting how much I wanted to be on the Playa. By Thursday, I was there. I was randomly gifted a ticket, a gift that I will never forget. Fast forward to June of this year. I was once again fretting about missing the event, now at the end of July, with my other plans unexpectedly changed, I have a ticket and about 75% of my equipment and supplies.

Since, this year’s trip wasn’t planned, I had to come up with a fast scheme to raise the money. I decided to try bike flipping. And by bike flipping I don’t mean juggling bikes on a street corner for tips, but finding forgotten unwanted bikes at yard and estate sales, fixing them and selling at a profit.

There’s quite a market for used and vintage bikes (those that are at least 30 years old). And most of my buyers appreciate the work I put into them. Usually it’s a new inner tube and maybe some rust removal. Sometimes it’s fresh tires too. And almost always it’s cleaning grease and goop from in between gears with cotton swabs and WD40. They come out looking like the amazing treasures they are.
Now that the Burn is drawing nigh, I have started flipping Burner bikes. The best way to traverse the Playa is by bike. And when peddling through packed alkali dust you don’t want to be on your best bike. You want to take the bike that won’t break your heart if it doesn’t survive the trip. So now in addition to cool vintage bikes, I look for not so cool but still very useful bikes with big fat tires. Although some people are adverse to what I do, buy low, sell high, but when I tell them what I use the proceeds for they almost invariably approve.

After doing some math in my head, I figured out that I will have flipped at least 20 bikes before the Man Burns. At this point that’s six more bikes and 36 more days. I wouldn’t be surprised if I hit 25 or 30. Regardless, I’ve found a new pastime that benefits more than just me. Anybody wanna buy a bike?

Burn Baby Burn

2010-07-21T14:10:00.001-07:00

It's that time of year, when Burners can recognize each other by a shared frenzied gleam in the eye.

It's Burning Man season.

In the months prior to Burning Man, an annual festival of expression in the Black Rock Desert, participants plan, scheme, create and fantasize about the one week event staged on an ancient lake bed in the Black Rock Desert where we build our city. Yes, I say we, because I will once again be going home, and home is what we call the Playa.

With plenty of time to plan, I've taken to making a series of list for my preparations: Things I Need, Things I Want, and Things Not to Forget. These augment a master list I keep for packing, which includes Clothing, Health & Safety, Tools & Equipment, Food, and Sundries. It takes a lot of organization to go out and be spontaneously expressive, which is the Irony of Burning Man.

The level of organization that goes into the event rivals that of most military operations. It's a place where one can participate in self expression without caring what others think, but not a place to be careless in terms of safety and well being. Its very hot, and dry and there's always a lot going on, so attention to detail is of utmost importance. Things like forgetting goggles and a dust mask on a trip to the Jonny on the Spot can prove dangerous when you open the door to a white out dust storm.

This year, I came up with a scheme to raise money for the Playa by flipping bikes. I buy old, forgotten, forlorn bikes found at yard sales or in dusty basements at estate sales, clean them, fix them, and then resell at a profit to appreciative buyers. It's proven to be an effective strategy. In five short weeks, I managed to raise enough money for both my ticket and my camp fees. Plus it's therapeutic giving these bikes a second life and feels kind of zen which is quite appropriate for funding this trip.

So now the countdown begins.

Burning Man Countdowngreat free widgetsWidgetboxMore info

Seeing ourselves in our kids

2010-06-01T22:22:00.000-07:00

My kids are getting older. It's undeniable now. We have entered the realm of acne and twenty minute showers. But luckily, for me at least, they haven't left the building yet. They still tolerate me in general, and will even acknowledge me in public. I like to think that it's because I allow them ample opportunities for expression.

I'll be truthful. My kids are, well...twisted. I'm sure it has something to do with an early introduction to Shel Silverstein and the inordinate amount of Monty Python they watched as younglings. This had an early impact. I admit, I was proud when my then 6 year old wanted to dress as King Arthur with coconuts in his hands for Halloween. Of course, Monty Python led to harder things, like The Simpson's, Family Guy and That 70's Show. Add Mythbusters and Colbert Report, plus key flicks from TCM, and well you get what I have now: a would be evil genius and one that is always looking for a punchline.

All I can do is hope that I've provided them with good references.

I was recently reminded about references when I took BART to work last week from an early morning appointment in Oakland. Those who know me, know that I prefer public transit, but not so much when it is filled with school aged kids.

Spring is field trip season. Every year starting around March, scads of backpack laden children, with yarn necklace name tags and a few anxious looking chaperons cue up for day trip adventures. I have vivid memories of these forays into the adult world. It was like glimpsing into a secret life I wasn't supposed to know about.

The children on BART seemed to be having a similar experience.

"Look, that's where my daddy works."
"There's the freeway!"
"That's the bakery!"

I tried to drown out their exclamations with my reading material, but it proved fruitless without earphones. So I pocketed my magazine and watched the activity that went with the dialogue.

The group of kids closest to me seemed to be playing some sort of game like Slug Bug. They were looking for something specific, and then punched each other in the arm when they found it. At first I thought it was cars, but that didn't seem to be it. Then I thought it could be a type of store, but that wasn't right either. It wasn't until we started heading underground that I understood what they were looking at.

As the train lowered between the two concrete walls covered with graffiti, the children suddenly oohed and awed. What they were identifying in their game were graffiti tags. This was their reference.

Reference is an interesting thing. Reference is simile. It's what we use to help us contextualize the world, a way of making things familiar. And it wasn't until this experience, that I truly understood the significance and value of reference, how it contributes to perspective and influences understanding.

I started to wonder what such a reference would yield for these children, but decided to take another crack at my reading as the train slipped underground. The noise of the transbay tunnel would surely drown out their voices.

Seen enough or too much?

2010-05-24T17:13:00.000-07:00

"I've seen enough to know I've seen too much," so said the baseball announcer in the movie A League of their Own. Perhaps. When exactly does one realize that they have seen enough?

Apparently that time is now for Reality TV. This according to blog entry at MediaPost.com today that reported only 2 of the 36 shows in the works are for the fall season are of that genre. "There must be reality show burn-out among viewers and advertisers," writes West Coast Editor Wayne Friedman.

Gee. Ya think?

Friedman goes on to state that advertisers want better story telling, and I can't help but wonder why. Could it be that shows that are essentially produced for their voyeuristic qualities attract the most passive of audiences?

Maybe we have turned a corner!

Maybe, we as a society are ready to re-engage! Imagine it. No longer will we sit back at home watching other peoples lives while forsaking our own. We will actually be out there doing those things, making things happen, initiating dialogue, interacting with each other on a regular basis. Forget tanorexic over-privileged bimbo wannabees who despite everything they have are increasingly dissatisfied with life. Forget exaggerated opportunities used to induce contestants to seek their 15 minutes of fame by showcasing both real and perceived talents. Reality is not on TV, it's what you do every day! This is life baby and you are going to be part of it! Your ideas matter! Your participation makes a difference! You can change the...

(from the article)

"The key for many TV advertisers hasn't changed: They still value a new reality show at a discount to a scripted show. And with a suddenly strong TV advertising market, networks seemingly made the easy call: go for the bigger ad money."

Oh.

Well, maybe that means there will at least be something worthwhile to watch?

Maybe.

I've taken a great interest in how the market has changed in the past year. I noticed for instance, how quickly advertisers picked up on the new national mood. The message went from gross indulgence to value for your money in less time than it took for my cell phone to be outdated. And although I joke, action and innovation continue to be the sentiment du jour. Suddenly, major companies like American Express, Pepsi and even Absolute Vodka are introducing campaigns that focus on people's ability to make things happen.

So, maybe it is a good sign that Reality TV is out and creativity is back in, and not for the reason you might think. It could be that Ad Men know something we don't: that it really is much more fun to be a part of the game than to stand on the sidelines and cheer. Then again, they are counting on their message reaching me as I sit on my ass.

Dare to Hope, Hope to Persevere

2010-05-12T19:20:00.000-07:00

Another day is done, and once again I’m moving both forward and up and down as the ferry I’m on traverses a northwest current. The days have grown longer and my rides home are now through fading hazy sunshine that reflects across the water as I look across the bay, past Angel Island to the Marin peninsula that gobbles up cars crossing the Golden Gate Bridge.

Spirits are up despite the recent week of horrible news: oil drilling catastrophe, floods, terrorism attempts, and locally, a steady increase in violent crime and another dead whale floating near the San Francisco Ferry Terminal.

I don’t know if it’s that we’ve grown accustomed to these stressful times that we are in, or if maybe there is a glimmer of hope that we might come out OK on the other side of our national financial fiasco. A generation was sold on the idea of wealth, an idea that it seems was never truly intended to apply to them. And now it feels as if nobody wants to jinx whatever cusp we are on. The awkward balancing act is wearing, but at least we haven’t fallen off the deep end. For the moment it seems that most of us have learned to be practical, but I can’t help but wonder if it will be a lesson that sticks.

There are incidental signs though that the economy is improving. Retailers continue to display Help Wanted signs, parking at the Ferry Terminal is just a little more crowded, and I’ve noticed an increase in lunchtime lines at eateries near my office. Tourists have also returned to San Francisco unwittingly participating as voyeurs of our everyday life as they pass by in double-decker busses and rented bicycles. It feels good to work in a place and a community that others travel to, to marvel at.

It’s an odd predicament we have come to be in, where we dare ourselves to hope, hope to persevere, and wait for whatever comes next. At least for the moment, I have sunshine on my way home where garden gnomes wait patiently for my arrival.

Am I gentrified?

2010-05-10T08:36:00.000-07:00

Gentrification, a term typically used for the takeover of depressed neighborhoods by those who “see the potential” was injected into panel discussion I attended recently about community based media.

Community Based Media or Citizen Journalism as it is sometimes called is typically that which is produced from within the community, and from the community’s perspective. I’m a big fan of the trend. I think Community Based Media contributes to richer dialogue that helps better our practice of democracy. This, despite the fact that in some cases citizen dialogue adds to phenomena such as the Tea Party and militant militia groups. Overall I believe dialogue is a good thing, and the more voices added to it the better.

But this idea of the gentrification of media really bothered me. One of the panel members openly attacked anyone who was not of the 'Hood, for lack of a better term. In fact even those who live in depressed neighborhoods but were educated he felt was fair game, because obviously those persons were “privileged” enough to go to college.

Although I knew these comments were based in fear and anger more than in fact, I had to ask myself, “Am I gentrified?”

So I went down the check list: Catholic high school, check; college education, check; property owner, check; idealistic notions about social justice that may or may not apply to my specific living situation, check.

It wasn’t looking good, but despite this, I continued down the list and added some qualifiers: first generation working class family that started out working in the fields, check; GI Bill earned after 9 years of military service which paid for college and made home purchase possible, check; ten plus years working in community based organizations and projects, check; a deep commitment to honor the history and legacy of communities, check; nonprofit career that will keep me eternally overworked and underpaid, check.

So yes. In many, many ways, I am privileged. I have a house, a car, a job, and a rarified instance where my work is the same entity as my job. And I won’t deny that I can be an intellectual snob. I can’t help it. I like smart things, smart people and stimulating conversations. But I know enough to know that a) I don’t know much, b) that there is a big difference between having an education and being smart, and c) I know my own conscience and intentions, and they are not to capitalize on the potential of a property or an idea. I’d rather capitalize on the potential of people and their tenacity to survive despite all odds. In fact I want to celebrate it. Thus, my opinion is that there's a big difference between looking for someone to blame for a problem, and looking for ways to solve it.

I think there’s a difference between exploiting a situation for personal gain, and genuinely wanting to improve a situation for all those involved. Like all things, Community Based Media has players on both sides, with conflicting intentions. But we mustn’t paint with such broad strokes, as the panelist I saw last weekend did. Education, although often skewed to the mindset of the rich, does not leave us all with that notion. Many of us see the injustice and want to do everything we can to change it.

Us and them mentality won't yield cohesion...only discord.

Check out Community Based Media sites here:

http://ibvallejo.com/

http://www.blockreportradio.com/

http://oaklandlocal.com/

http://missionlocal.org/

http://sf.everyblock.com/

http://www.poormagazine.org/

http://news.eltecolote.org/news

Yorick, we knew him well.

2010-04-21T19:33:00.000-07:00

At approximately two o’clock p.m. on Tuesday, April 20th, a whale was spotted floating near the San Francisco Ferry Building. I saw the grim images on the local news and was heartbroken. I knew this was the whale we had been hoping to glimpse from the ferry that takes me to San Francisco during the week. Sightings were almost a daily occurrence.

Researchers determined, based on the size, that this was a juvenile and it died of starvation. When I learned this, the sad scenario began to play in my head. What we though was playfulness, may have been fraught. While we wondered at the grace in size, and elegance in movement, it wandered, confused why it wasn't feeling well.

Confusion is a scary thing. It leads to anxiety that sometimes leads to rash acts that we would not otherwise commit. Confusion impairs judgment, leading to foolishness and folly that we might recognize were we not so confused. And from the vision of this lost hapless giant, a metaphor emerged from my mind.

Like many Americans, I’m afraid for my country. I’m afraid that radical rhetoric is causing too much confusion. I’m afraid that confusion and anxiety are being used as a mechanism lead people to opinions and actions they would not normally have. I fear that what appears to be mere folly may in fact be disaster.

I decided to christen the whale as Yorick. Alas we knew him well, and his demise should encourage us to (among other things) consider Hamlet’s quandary:

To be or not to be– that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles
And, by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep
No more – and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to – ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished.

Confusion does not render cohesion. Thus, as we pursue discourse, we must do so in a way that leads us "to be".

Is self doubt good?

2010-04-07T23:01:00.000-07:00

I don’t know exactly when, but I know at some point in the not too distant past I stepped onto a path that brought me to the place I am this very moment. I knew what I wanted to do, and I set out to do it. Were it as simple as that, I don’t think I would be the person I am now. But as I think of that not so distant past I sometimes wonder how all these things came to be. How was it that I was able to do and have and make and be and arrive to this place I am at right now? Was it will? Was it fortunate circumstance? Maybe it was fate. I can’t be sure, but I continually hope that I’m headed in the right direction.

I use words like hope as opposed to know, because I’m still very doubtful about the things that I know. This is mostly because of the vast amount of things I don’t know. I don’t know the capital of Argentina or any of the elements on the periodic table, (I never took chemistry) and I still can’t spell words like entrepreneur without going back to correct them once I see the red squiggly idiot line appear below it.

I sometimes worry about my capabilities, my confidence, my conscience. I worry that I’ve become mean spirited, and arrogant, and that these things will make me unworthy for whatever comes after this existence. I think about what I failed at in this lifetime and wonder about how many ways I can make up for my shortcomings.

Self doubt, at least for me, is essential for growth. It’s how I look for ways to be a truer version of the person I want to be. But it’s a dangerous place to be, so I have to be mindful.

Yard Sale Part II - The real purging begins

2010-03-28T09:51:00.001-07:00

After the success of last week's free sale, I started looking around my house and realized how much crap I have. In a frenzy I started purging. First to go were all the glassware odds and ends. How I ended up with so many is anyone's guess. Dozens of empty jars went to the recycling, and any glasses with less than 3 mates went into the purge box. Next came the Mikasa Chrystal Champagne flutes, which I've owned for over 20 years, but used maybe once. Into the box they went, as did all stray cups and mugs.

I then moved to the bookcases. We have several. First to go were those which I've read and don't care to read again or share with anyone. Next were those that looked interesting enough to pick up second hand at some point, but clearly were not, because they were never cracked. As a rule, classics are always retained, as are those which I want my kids to read at some point.

Once I finished with books I noticed the linen closet door bulging with sheets obviously trying to escape. So they too were liberated. How many sheets do we really need anyway? All of the double sized went, followed by at least half of the twins. Sheets were followed by table cloths which I don't even remember acquiring.

As I was doing all this, my husband went through the CDs and DVDs, and my younger son collected a milk crate's worth of VHS tapes. And to top it all off, my other son cleaned out the coat closet.

A quick posting to craigslist on Friday night, and a couple of hand-made signs Saturday morning, and we had a yard sale. The media seemed to be the most popular. We sold DVD's for $2 and CD's for a buck. We also sold a couple of guitars, and two of the coats. Nobody touched the kitchenware or linens. Oh well.

The glassware odds and ends went into a milk crate with a free sign on them and by morning they were gone. Everything else went into our spare room for the next yard sale. Eventually it will all go to Goodwill, but for now, all this stuff brought us a little money we didn't have the day before.

Yard Sales

2010-03-20T16:50:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid, we use to get up early on Saturday mornings to look in the classifieds for Yard Sales. It was a ritual. First we marked the paper, then we plotted them on the map, and then we established a route to avoid crisscrossing and wasting gas.

It was a hoot. Very seldom did we go out looking for something specific. And almost always we came home with treasures. I usually looked for books and sheet music. My mother had a penchant for rot iron pieces.

Some days were epic. We'd make two or three trips back to the house to unload the station wagon and then go back out again. So, one can understand why I still get excited when I see boxes on a lawn and hand drawn signs.

The highlight of the year though, was when we had our own yard sale. We would prepare for weeks, set up goods like a department store, and place color coded stickers on items. My friends and I would scheme about how we would make hundreds of dollars selling baked goods and lemonade, and my mother would bring out a cash box my father made in metal works class at the local junior college. In an odd way it was like being queen for a day. It was our day to offer the things that were once part of our lives to the rest of the community. The only other events I can remember feeling as special were when my mother hosted Tupperware and Mary Kay parties.

I still stop at yard sales, but my Saturday Odessey now is pursued with surgeon like precision. Often now when I go, I am looking for something specific, and I no longer use the newspaper classifieds. Now I rely on Craigslist.

As for having my own yard sales, I'm more likely to take bags of items to Goodwil l than spend days planning and setting things up in my driveway. I do sometimes have "Free Sales" though. A free sale is when you put stuff out in the yard with a sign that says "FREE". Somehow it's deeply more satisfying than the former practice. The best part is when people knock on the door and ask, "Is it really free?" "Yup," we say. And then we thank them for taking things. It's both fun and exciting.

This year is going to be a purging year for us. We are downsizing to the nth degree. We have too much stuff and it's time to simplify. We started today with a free sale. Within two hours five left-over playa bikes (in dire need of some love) went to new homes, as did a set of Star Trek NG VHS tapes, and books that fell victim to the first cut. There will likely be more to come. We may even go through the trouble of having an actual sale, but for now it's enough to know we were able to give something that someone else wanted.

"...the only thing we have to fear is..."

2010-03-13T21:50:00.000-08:00

In 1933, at the opening of his first inaugural address, Franklin Delano Roosevelt told the nation, "the only thing we have to fear...is fear itself." These words were uttered at a time when unemployment was at about 25%, and two million Americans were homeless. It's easy to understand how fear could grip the country in such a situation, and why we should be leery of its effects. Fear after all is a powerful emotion that can elicit a fight or flight response, a response that is directly linked to our instinct to survive. Thus fear can also be a powerful influence upon us. It can incite, provoke and encourage behavior. So yeah, we should fear fear.

At a conference I attended recently, writer Rebecca Walker spoke to us about propaganda. She spoke of why we should be wary of it because the action it invokes may not be in our best interest, and her words resonated with me. Propaganda are messages intended to evoke action. Propaganda often relies on an emotional response, and quite often the emotion of choice is fear.

Right now in this country, there is an entire dialogue based in fear. It's the one that told us about Death Panels, American Fascism and the Nuclear Option. It's the dialogue that brought us the Tea Party, the Oath Keepers* and Survival Seeds. These are all the products of fear.

Yes, people are scared, but not rightfully so. They are scared by design. They are being told that in a country with a "free press" in the midst of the Information Age, that they can trust only one side of the story, the "Fair and Balanced" one.

Yes we should fear fear, but we should also be mindful of those who wield it.

*highly recommend this article.

Lady in Waiting, PART 2

2010-03-11T21:39:00.000-08:00

Waiting it seems is my new past time. As I recently wrote, my whole life, as are the lives of us all, is an exercise in waiting. We wait for time to pass so that we may come to the next happening in our existence. And then, we wait for death.

Waiting invokes patience and understanding. Without these two components waiting can be aggravating, frustrating, and a source of immense stress. Anticipation coupled with a desire to achieve solutions feeds into that stress, until you want to yell out at the world, "THIS IS FUCKING RIDICULOUS!"

Yes, I had to do some heavy duty waiting this week. And once again it involved a State of California bureaucratic system. This time it was the Secretary of State, Deborah Bowen's office.

When you call Secretary Bowen's office, the first thing the intended calming voice tells you is something along the lines of "Due to the state's fiscal problems, we are unable to answer your call, so listen to this endless phone tree so you can spend the next 20 minutes of your life listening to several possible options that may or may not solve your problem." It continues, "You may also find helpful information on the FAQ page of our website," blah blah blah.

You mean the one I got the phone number from? Uh...apparently not.

I've come to believe that phone trees are actually ironic reminders of why we should be wary of automation. Often when confronted with an automated voice I just start randomly pressing numbers and keys to try and get to someone...anyone who can tell me who I'm supposed to talk to. I've also come to believe that the people who write the copy that is uttered on those phone trees, are the same people who write standardized tests and 8th grade algebra problems. You know, the one's where a train leaves from one place and intersects a car that left from another, and you have to figure out who is going to go insane wondering which one get's there first.

After several rounds of options, I finally found the one I was looking for. "To talk to a technician press 0."

Really?!? Oh yeah baby! Give me your piped in music and tell me to stay on the line. I'm in this for the long haul. I've got a speakerphone. I can wait as long as you make me. Yeah...make me wait...I've got snacks at my desk...I could hold out for days, weeks mo...."Hello?"

"Thank you for waiting how can I help you?"

I state my case and find out I'm gonna have to wait some more, because they only update their records online once a week on Monday. Oh well.

What amazes me most about this most recent wait I had to endure, was that I was seeking basic service that any business would need. You know, businesses those money making ventures that create jobs and generate taxes so we can get out of this fiscal crisis mess thingy we're in. Services the state can no longer afford, because it doesn't earn enough income.

And yet there are still those who want to cut taxes even more. Seriously. I'm beginning to thing I should invest in a cleavage ascending fancy dress. If I'm going to be a Lady in Waiting, I might as well look the part.

Lady in Waiting

2010-02-23T17:54:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I was a Lady in Waiting. This is the anatomy of an exercise in waiting and patience.

It starts at DMV, where experience has taught me that if you cannot wait three weeks to get an appointment, your best bet is to be there when the doors open. I've been known to be in and out within 45 minutes using this approach.

But when I arrived at about ten til eight, the line was already a couple dozen long, and the doors were not even open yet. My first instinct was to get back in the van and drive to Napa DMV, where I can get in and out in 40 minutes any time of day. But I wasn't up for the drive. How bad could it be? I do a quick survey of the paperwork in the hands of those who came before me and determined at most, maybe 10 of them were there for the same reason as I was. "This is totally doable," I tell myself.

Finally, a uniformed security guard opened the door and the line lurched forward. Just as it comes to a stop again an elderly woman asks me if she can cut in front of me. I look at the line that now snaked along the sidewalk, an additional 40 people long, and pat her frail shoulder saying, "I was waiting for you, I'm so glad you got here on time." Winking, I make space for her in front of me.

The line progresses as each party in front of me makes their case at the "START HERE" desk and receives a number for the service specific to their needs. And finally I receive my number as well: G008. Only 7 others in front of me, and it only took 17 minutes to get this far.

So, I sit down, pull out my mobile device and start looking for interesting items to ReTwee t. Then I read some news, check a few emails, correspond with a colleague and check the clock again: fourty-two minutes since they opened the door. Looking up I notice that they are only on number 3 in my category and the line for the "START HERE" desk is still easily 50 people long. I read some more email and forward more tweets, but now check the clock every ten minutes or so. I see people who were in line behind me leave, happy to have finished their business, and still, there is no movement in my category. I started to become anxious and wonder, "Why aren't they calling the 'G' numbers?"

At one hour twenty minutes in I overhear the "START HERE" clerk say they are having a problem with the equipment required for my kind of transaction. It could take a while. She starts telling people to come back later. I look at the line that is still trailing out the door and then at my crumpled ticket I stuffed in my wallet and think about how maybe a drive to the wine country wouldn't have been so bad.

At the two hour mark I'm making a conscious effort to not begin heavy sighing and other signs of impatience. "It will happen when it happens," I tell myself. And finally at the 2 hour 20 minute mark it does. My number is called and I'm out the door within 20 minutes.

This wait was followed by another eight to nine minutes of hold time trying to get a doctor's appointment, waiting in line at the bank (7 minutes), at the grocery store (4 minutes), the doctors office (25 minutes), the lab (20 minutes) and the pharmacy (25 minutes).

I'm usually pretty good about waiting. It's a skill I picked up while stationed in Italy.

In Italy there are two kinds of waiting. The first involves a gaggle that produces an order based on the position of shoulders and elbows. Show no fear, and watch out for the Grannies, they're exceptionally skilled at getting to the front of these clusters.

The second kind of waiting is more enigmatic. One waits for an unspecified amount of time until the event you seek occurs. This event could be the crossing of trains, the length of a five-course meal, or the wait for death. It's a wait one cannot control, thus the wait is like a gift of unexpected time, to have a cigarette, another glass of wine, or to contemplate life thus far.

I was reminded of that kind of wait while I waited for a chance to write these things here, as I wait for the ferry I'm on right now, to traverse the gray choppy waters of the San Francisco Bay.

Sick of being sick

2010-02-18T18:04:00.000-08:00

I truly hate being sick. I should have known this was coming, seeing how I jinxed myself a couple months ago by declaring, "No I haven't really been sick in almost four years!" Right then and there I should have knocked on wood, gone outside, spun around three times and spit, and then sacrificed a live chicken. But even if I had done those things, I'd probably still be sick. I'm sure it was a powerful jinx, but at least I'd of had fresh chicken for soup.

We all know the signs as well as the precautions, some of which I obviously allowed to lapse. I ran out of Emergen-C at the most inopportune moment. I failed to sanitize my hands after using the handrail at the BART station. I forgot to hold my breath on public transit, don my MOPP gear, and pull out the Bubble-Boy suit I secretly bought on E-bay. And now as a result of this inattention to detail, I am a pariah. People hear me talk with a deepened voice that comes through my nose and they know. The nice one's at least sympathize before they slyly edge away, which makes me feel as though I should wear a sign around my neck. It should be one of those diamond shaped caution signs that reads "Warning! Rhino Virus XING." As it is,
I'm the recipient of both consolation and remedy suggestions. "Try some Hot & Sour soup, a wasabi sandwich, herbal tea or an OTC cocktail that will remind you why they put 'child safe tops' on them."

On the plus side, I did catch up on a bit of reading while stuck in bed. And I got to watch my choice of DVDs as my 11-year-old brought me cup after cup of hot tea with honey. And even though I'm over the body aches, chills, fever and insane headache, it's the dregs if you will, that are the worst: the lingering congestion that just won't go away and the coughing fits that alarm friend and stranger alike. That coupled with an accumulating amount of work, professional and household, prompt an internal battle between what is reasonable, what is necessary, and what is recommended. "Stay home when your sick!" a poster told me on the bus. "Sure!" I say. No problem. But then, suffer the aftermath as well.

Oddly, as miserable as I've been, I can't help but think maybe the microbes conspired with the universe to find a way to tell my body and mind, "STOP! YOU'RE DOING TOO MUCH." Maybe the annoying buzzing in my head is just a way to quiet the chaos of an over-tasked mind to the point where all I can really hear is my own complaints of misery and thus write them here.

So I think I'll call it even. Cost of Rhino Virus: 4 days in bed; one bottle cough syrup; cough drops; OTC meds; hot tea; two pots of soup; countless tissues; hand sanitizer and almost a week's work lost at home and in the office. Finding clarity of mind to resume this blog: Priceless.

Jobs are making a comeback

2010-02-05T08:09:00.000-08:00

Jobs are making a comeback. I started noticing anecdotal hints of this in retail windows a few weeks ago. From bagel shops to high end sports stores, retailers it seems are willing to take a little risk by hiring more help.

Perhaps the most telling indicators of a recovering economy are the smaller purchases. Things like bagels and coffee not made at home. Things that we know we can do without, but like to have. It's a start, a good gradual start, and maybe that's just what we need: good reminders that anything worth having takes work and struggle and time.

Rainy Days

2010-01-26T12:53:00.000-08:00

The days have been gray, wet and miserable. Normally in this part of California we rejoice when the rain comes, but after several consecutive days of umbrellas and rubber boots, it is we who are weathered. The evidence is in the multitude of battered umbrellas people carry, and the look of weary people have as they step out into the rain.

I've been feeling weary and weathered too, but not as a result of the rain. There has just been so much to take in lately that I haven't been able to synthesize succinct thought. It's a little unsettling.

I don't say Merry Christmas

2009-12-24T11:40:00.000-08:00

I don't typically say "Merry Christmas." I'm not a practicing Christian and don't feel compelled to celebrate the birth of Christ.

Happy Holidays seems a little too politically correct, and has a connotation of chicken shit, so I avoid that too.

Festivus, I think, is almost appropriate, because who doesn't use time with family to air out their grievances and participate in the feats of strength...namely surviving time with the family.

Solstice, seems most appropriate for me. It's the shortest day of the year, both a beginning and an end. It reminds us that life is a cycle and that we often get multiple opportunities to get things right.

I think if I had a choice my winter holiday of choice would be called Soltice Share. It would be a celebration of everything that has been and everything that is before us. We would celebrate by giving the best of ourselves to those around us, and the whole point would be to contribute to the benefit of others so they can do the same in turn.

Yeah, that's what it would be.

But, alas it is not that yet. I will however concede that this year is different. Our rampant consumerism has finally caught up with us, and many seem reluctant to touch the hair of the dog this season as we collectively suffer the hangover. Shoppers seem to be going about their deeds without frenzy. I also noticed today, that there is a sense of good will going around. I repeatedly heard "excuse me," and "let me let you through," as I shopped today. In fact everywhere I went complete strangers engaged in friendly chit-chat as we waited in line. There was definitely a sense of relief, as though everyone was happy to shed the expectation of consumer gluttony.

"It's because we're all in the same boat." my husband said when I mentioned it to him. Funny how misfortune can bring out hints of compassion. It's as though we are finally ready to embrace who we are, as opposed to the commercialized over-hyped version of what we should be.

So what does one say to friends and neighbors during the winter celebratory season? How about "Comfort and Joy!" If it's good enough for the Merry Gentlemen, it's good enough for us all.

Lead us not

2009-12-07T11:55:00.000-08:00

In a recent mediapost.com article, Derek Gordon provides a recap of internet evolution for 2009. He talks about the meteoric rise of Facebook, the advent of Twitter, and how these methods have integrated with the use of mobile technology. For those of us who are more than just passive users of these innovations, this is not really news. In fact middle school students understand the impact of being able to use such tools for validation.

But what Mr. Gordon wrote next caused me to take pause.

"...news and information aggregation sites like Daylife, that intuit relationships based on the search queries you provide to deliver both the content you want and suggestions for associated content are already changing the ways we look for information and entertainment on the Web."

I know this has been happening a while, but I can't help but fear being led by the nose through the power of suggestion, to a place of depraved homogeneity. Yes we make the choice to click, but how easy would it be to be led to a place we really didn't intend to go? (Yes I realize the irony of this as these words are placed right beside my GoogleAd, and thanks for the click)

This brings to mind early images imprinted in Catechism as we learned the phrase, "Lead us not into temptation." As seven-year-olds, we were just taught the words, not what they meant. But, somehow I knew, the request was to stay away from a very bad place. In my mind that place was dark, scary and cold. And I knew being led there would not be favorable.

As much as the internet connects us with friends, community and family, I can't help but see that there are still dark, cold places there too. And as our activity, our interactions, and our curiosity are harvested, processed and used to create a path of breadcrumbs for us to follow, I can't help but worry that malevolent intentions could be at play. One could argue that the algorithms used to create that trail are indifferent, after all they are just based on numbers which are neither good nor evil.

But even the idea of being led to a place is disturbing. Visions of sheep come to mind, ever trusting of their shepherd until they are led to slaughter. Makes me wonder if we are placing too much trust in suggested avenues on the web. Thus my atheist ways are cast aside as I remember those words, "lead us not..."

I feel they will still serve me well.

Gift giving beyond the holidays

2009-12-06T07:37:00.000-08:00

Once again the holiday season has encroached upon us. But despite the smell of a fresh Christmas tree in the lobby of the building I work in, bells ringing above red kettles on street corners and an increasing number of twinkling lights in my neighborhood, I am yet to feel merry. The truth is I loath the holidays. I don't like to decorate, hate shopping, and still have no idea what figgy pudding is. I also don't like senseless gift giving. This is the practice that brought us The Clapper and the Barrack Obama Chia Pet.

Don't get me wrong. It's not that I don't like to give, I'd just much rather give meaningful gifts, year round, and when they are unexpected. I suppose in some ways this attitude can be blamed on my time at Burning Man. As I've mentioned before, it's a gift giving society. When we encounter someone that needs something we can give, we do. And we think ahead. Every time I go into Wallgreen's to buy a $1.99 beanie cap, I buy two, so I can give one away. I do the same thing when I get a roll to eat on my way to work in the morning.

Random acts of kindness and giving gifts should not be something we do once a year. Furthermore celebrating such a beautiful thing by giving meaningless crap to those who don't need it is a disgrace to the practice. So please, give gifts that matter. Give gifts with meaning. Give gifts to those who need them, and give gifts year round. We don't need fat guys in red suits to remind us to do this.

California Dreamin' Thanksgiving

2009-11-25T16:56:00.000-08:00

I had lunch with a friend today at a diner in San Francisco's Union Square. It was a welcoming and warm California fall day. One could feel the expectation of the name brand merchants for the rush that will come on Black Friday. Windows were dressed, and displays meticulously arranged. In the middle of the square stood a holiday tree, stories high, still surrounded by cherry pickers used to decorate it with lights and colorful bulbs.

And as it is written in which Gospe l I can't remember, the poor are always with us. Many now have feline companions. I imagine it must be quite comforting to hold something soft and warm.

I tend to be the type that doesn't lower my gaze or look away when asked for a contribution. If I can give, I do. If I can't, I at least offer a sincere smile to acknowledge the request. And sometimes, I get the rare opportunity to jump in and give the right thing at the right time.

On my way back from lunch, I was waiting at an intersection when I heard an auditable "No!" It was a yell of unexpected loss. When I looked up I saw a man mourning the loss of a sandwich he had just scored, but dropped in the intersection. It had fallen apart, its individual components of bread, turkey cheese and lettuce scattered in the crosswalk across the street from me. I quickly grabbed for my wallet, wanting to replace his loss with a dollar or two, but as I reached him, I suddenly realized, in my hand was a nicely boxed untouched half of a Ruben sandwich with Fries. And just as he looked up from his loss for empathy I was able to offer it to him.

"Really?" he asked?

"Yeah," I said.

"When one door closes another one opens," he said. "Thank you so much."

I just smiled and continued on my way thankful for the opportunity to be able to give the right thing at the right time. Heading back to work, I passed by the temporary ice rink set up in the square, and contemplated the California dream I live in.

What's Happening

2009-11-20T18:42:00.000-08:00

On November 19th Twitter changed it's inherent question from "What are you doing," to "What's happening?" This was in response to how users engage with each other and the larger tweeting community. As stated in their recent blog entry

"...people are witnessing accidents, organizing events, sharing links, breaking news, reporting stuff their dad says, and so much more."

This is a major turning point for social networking and how it is used. And the fact that we use these tools as more than a way to track down old friends, broadcast our activities or engage in make believe wars is acknowledged in this change.

Think about it for a moment. It went from "What are you doing?" to "What's happening?" In that one change, this social media outlet suddenly acknowledged that the internet doesn't have to be an altar of narcissistic self indulgence. It's a way we share our experiences, our surroundings and our perspectives.

What's happening? Twitter has just validated the power of Community 2.0.

Disposing Disposable bags

2009-11-18T17:19:00.000-08:00

Years ago, as an undergrad, I wrote a rather lengthy paper about the merits of disposing of disposable bags. The research for this paper yielded all kinds of fun facts that I routinely reiterated to friends, family, colleagues and cohorts alike. Things like, plastic shopping bags are called the national flower of South Africa because they are so abundant, and are "harvested" and woven into more durable shopping bags that are then sold at markets. Or how in one South American Country, I think it was Argentina, so many plastic bags accumulated in the sewer system that the underground drainage became clogged thus causing an unnatural natural disaster.

Several years later some progress has been made. Many stores now sell reusable shopping bags and even give a store credit to those who use them. But plastic continues to be a problem. Today it flew right in front of me, or at least tried to.

I came across this bird on my way to work. At first I thought maybe the bag was just attached to its foot, but then I saw that the bag was tangled inside its wing. For a moment I contemplated trying to capture it to untangle the wing, but decided I didn't want to risk injuring the bird further, or allowing the bird to injure me. So I did what I could. I took this picture as a reminder to us all that the plastic we use has to end up somewhere. And sometimes, this is where it ends up.

Affording Quality of Life

2009-11-15T20:13:00.000-08:00

We can’t afford health care. At least that’s what the right side of the isle will argue in the U.S. Senate. It’s too costly, it will run up a deficit, it will kill our economy.

Wait a minute. It costs too much to provide health care? What is too much? Is it more than we as a nation spend on fast food? (over $110 billion) Or how about what we spend on going to the movies or buying DVD's ($10.8 Billion) What about video games? Does health care cost more than the amount spent on gaming systems and the elaborate escapist games that are no doubt played by kids and adults alike when they stay home sick? ($11.8 Billion)

I pose these questions because it occurred to me that if we truly can't afford health care, maybe we aren't as rich a country as we think we are. If providing health care will wreck our economy, and thus our ability to buy the things that make us feel rich, isn't that some sort of ruse? Is the ability to have the latest smart-phone-video-recording-mp3-playing-gadget that also makes julienne fries really more important than say preventing chronic conditions that will decrease the "genuine quality of life," and ultimately cost more money to treat?

Now, I want to make a distinction here about the difference between quality of life and standard of living. I think of these closely related concepts in terms of internal and external. Quality of life comes from our internal perspective that others cannot experience. These are our senses, what we see, what we hear, how we feel. Nobody else can experience these things for us. If we are in pain, it is our own pain. The same can be said of fatigue, muscle and body aches, and emotional stress or anguish.

Standard of living on the other hand, I believe is determined by the external. These are the things that outwardly comfort us such as clothes, housing, amenities and diversions. And as it happens, our standard of living has the ability to effect our quality of life. If our standard of living is depreciated, so is our quality of life.

Health care, I believe is a component of our standard of living. Access to adequate preventative care curbs illnesses before they become chronic conditions, which can increase quality of life.

So, when the argument is made that we cannot afford health care for everyone, what we really mean is that we can't afford the standard of living of every other industrialized nation, which will directly impact our quality of life. And if we are living at a lower standard than all the other industrialized nations, how rich are we really?

Are we fooling ourselves with diversions and materialism? Do gadgets and things really give us anything other than a false sense of security?

Or is that just a false sense of superiority?

Doing math for a civilized commute

2009-11-03T19:04:00.000-08:00

It’s one day after the Bay Bridge has reopened and life for most commuters is seemingly back to normal. Fortune was on my side during this latest commuting calamity. I was able to work from home through most of it, and took a mid morning ferry on the one day I had to be in the City. Getting into the City that day was uneventful, save having just a little difficulty finding parking. Getting back, was crowded, but, despite a capacity crowd on the boat, I still managed to get my regular seat near a power outlet so I could work.

I may be one of the few who will openly admit that those of us who ride the ferry are snobs about it. There’s a reason for it, that I’ll get into later, but it might not be the reason you think.

Those of us who take the ferry kind of know each other. We know who always works, who likes to talk, and who sleeps, and we seat ourselves accordingly. There are also certain etiquettes and protocols on the ferry. For instance, if you are at a working table, one where laptops are out, it’s not considered to be a place for conversation. Eating is fine, but don’t be gross, and clean up after yourself. Loud talking in the morning is frowned upon, as is cackling laughter at just about any time. Although we do imbibe here, it’s not a bar. And to that note, if you imbibe too much, the fact that you are on a boat isn’t going to mask that you are swaying as you walk. You just think it does.

On day two of the bridge closure, on the 4:30 boat home, it was easy to tell who was a regular and who wasn’t. The two women who sat at my table for instance, didn’t realize that they didn’t have to sneak quick bites out of their food until I laid out a loaf of Acme olive bread and offered them some. There was also confusion for some about where the line begins for the snack bar. And a few still hadn’t figured out where the head was.

But some of the strangers seemed to enjoy the novelty of a boat ride home, and maybe even considered making a change in their regular mode of transportation to and from San Francisco. And this gets to the reason why we who ride the ferry are so smug about it: its a better way to get there. We simply know this to be true, and nobody can tell us otherwise. Even if you discount the bar, power outlets, wi-fi on the Intintoli, and clean bathrooms, there's still the issue of money. Seriously. Do the math.

A monthly ferry pass is $290. Were I to drive, I would easily use a tank of gas per week, which is about $48. Add in bridge toll for two bridges every day and that’s another $40. Next add parking, which at best in SF is $10 a day, that’s another $50. If you’re honest with your insurance company, your premiums will likely increase about $250 or more per year which comes out to $4.80 a week. Plus maintenance on your vehicle will likely double, consider around $1000+ a year for that which is conservatively another $19.23 a week. Add it all up and your weekly commute for those who drive is $74.03 per week or $310.93 per month.

Ok, so it’s only a savings of about $20 a month, and I probably spend that in one week on drinks while on board, but it still just feels better, calmer, happier to sit back and watch the water go by. And when we come into dock at the Port of San Francisco looking up at the cars crawling across the Bay Bridge, it’s hard not to think that it is the only civilized way to commute.

Evolving Internet

2009-11-01T13:44:00.000-08:00

How is the internet like the Wizard of Oz?

Because, "My people come and go here so quickly!"

Well said Dorothy.

I got my first personal computer in 1997. It was a Gateway. I was never more excited to receive a cow printed box. Up to that point all the computers I worked on were owned by an employer, a friend or some other entity. I was well versed enough to own my own computer, but it still felt a little like the first time I drove by myself after I got a license.

Within hours of unpacking it, I was connected to the World Wide Web, and off I went into a new age of technology and communication. It wasn't long before I was looking at porn, conversing with friends via email and participating in chat rooms. I actually "met" a lot of cool people in some of those chat rooms. And before long, I had my own chat room, that was intended for "intelligent talk about politics and philosophy." It was fun while it lasted.

Since then, my activities online have evolved with the environment itself. I use Craigslist to find work, I watch television programs and listen to my favorite radio shows at my own convenience, I blog to share my ideas and perspective and I participate in social networks to broadcast things of interest. It seemed, if only for a moment, that the internet and it's tools had achieved an apex of sorts.

But the internet has a tendency to change, and change it does. Facebook for example, has recently changed it's page so that when you log on you have to update your News Feed in order to get information about what your friends are up to. It use to be that you logged on and at a quick glance could see who was spending way too much time on Mafia Wars. But now you log on, look and think, "nothing has happened since I logged on last?" And then remember you remember that you have to click something to see what your friends are up to.

This very well could be the pitfall of Facebook, then the end of yet another online fad. Ten years from now Facebook could like chat rooms are to us now: a seemingly meaningful way to spend time, but not something one ever admits to in public. When I posted these sentiments on my Facebook a friend replied,

"It's already so boring compared to a few months ago. I was never on my space but people say fb is way more fun and that's why ms died out, wonder what's next?"-(SBM)

Good question. What is next? But I think it also goes to the question of social networking and why we do it. Is it that we have all become busy bodies wanting to be in each others business, or do we genuinely care about what our "friends" have to say online? I use the italics here because I was recently reminded that some people don't really understand the subtle difference between social network friends and friends in real life. Here's a quick clue: friends in real life are the ones I complain to when I have cramps.

Personally I use social networking sites such as Facebook and Twitter to share interesting things I come across, help friends promote projects, and as a place to emit general snarkiness. It's useful, amusing, and a great way to start conversations about things that matter (to me). So I truly hope that this network of networks where my Twitter feed updates on my Facebook, and I share this blog by using both networks so I can share the multiple links I place in my blogs to direct folks to other things online, won't change too much.

But I can't help but think that there's a model of Chaos Theory brewing in all this. Every year it seems the internet has less of a resemblance to a frayed knot and more to the fiber optic cable that brings this ability now via wi-fi to my bedroom as I type these words on a laptop.

What is next? I've gotta wonder.

Flu Shots

2009-10-29T16:31:00.000-07:00

I think I got my first flu shot when I was in the Army. As the member of a medical unit, our commander ordered everyone who wasn’t allergic to eggs, to get one. It seemed reasonable enough at the time. When you’re stacked four to a room in the barracks, you become very cognizant of contagion. So after three years of such conditioning it always seemed to be a given: after October 15th the uniform is sleeves down and a small band aide on the spot where you got your shot. I continued the precaution after I left the medical unit, and into civilian life. It just became a given. The one year I skipped it, caught the flu, and was on my back for almost 3 weeks, so suffice it to say, I learned my lesson.

This year, Flu Season has finally gained magna status in the news cycle. The H1N1 strain has caught our attention. To date, as many as 5000 people have succumbed to this infection, and it seems that children are the most vulnerable among us. It’s actually not uncommon for people to die of Flu, but normally it’s the elderly or those who were somehow weakened to begin with who fall victim to the viral killer.
Although the cynical side of me would say, “yeah sure, it’s only a problem when cute people die,” the reality is that we may very well have a pandemic on our hands. So, go ahead and pass over that hand sanitizer.

On October 24th, the President made if official. The 2009 Flu season is officially a National Emergency. This move was apparently to ensure that communities could get any support needed from the feds if things start to get out of hand. I have to admit. It had the desired effect. Monday morning I took my kids to our health care provider for their shot. We arrived forty minutes early, only to line up behind approximately 50 who had gotten there before us. Many were like me, the parents of school-aged children, a disproportionate amount of which wore uniforms or some other indicator of private school. This made me wonder if private schools were making the flu shot a requirement, or if this observation was more indicative of which families have access to health care. By the time a friendly young medical assistant started handing out clipboards with questionnaires, the number of people waiting had increased two fold.

As my children grew more and more anxious over thoughts of needles, I answered basic medical questions about allergies, age, medical conditions and pregnancy status. The latter was a resounding no on all three questionnaires. And then the line began to move towards the temporary tents set up in the hospital’s parking garage. Nurses in brightly patterned scrubs checked paperwork and medical cards, placed indicative stickers on paperwork and pointed patients in the towards the tents, adults on the right, families on the left.

At this point my kids are mock debating over who should go first. “Well you’re the first-born,” my younger one says. “But I put my brother’s welfare ahead of my own,” the older one replies. The nurse actually seemed amused. It turned out I was asked to go first, to show the kids how it’s done.

But before I did, I actually got questioned, “Why do you need the H1N1?”

“Um…because I have kids,” I answered. “Plus I commute on public transit!” I quickly added. That seemed to be the right answer, because I was promptly poked with two needles.

The 14-year-old was next. He immediately started talking rapidly to stall. “How much do I really need this?” He asked.

“Well,” I said. “You can get a flu shot or I can describe sexually transmitted diseases to you again.” With that his sleeve immediately went up. When it was over, he said he didn’t even feel it.

The 11-year-old mimicked his brother by stalling, but I knew better. Of the two, it’s the younger one that has the high pain threshold. A quick poke and a staccato “YOUCH!” later and we were done.

Leaving the tent, I was relieved that neither the process nor the immunizations were particularly painful, and I took note at how lucky our family is to be able to prepare for such things. And although the line was now easily 200 people long, I didn’t doubt that most of those waiting would have the same feeling when they were done as well.

Blogging and Community Dialogue in Real Life

2009-10-24T10:41:00.000-07:00

Thanks to the current era of communication and technology, blogs, social networking and websites have created new facets of what we call community. And although this often takes place in the ether world, more and more, online communities are meeting up in person to talk about the ways they communicate and how to enhance the messages that are shared.

Blogger Beast is such an event that I'm currently blogging from in Oakland. This meet up/workshop/camp is part of the programming of the Public Media Collaborative (PMC) a collection of folks and projects that focus on community based journalism and media projects. I first became associated with this group about 9 months ago. Everyone involved is interested in discovering new ways to to use the internet as a soapbox or megaphone.

It seems that in many ways the internet and the self-publish culture that it cultivates has produced an entire nation of people anxious to articulate. After generations of participating in passive communication propagated by radio and television, we have embraced this new medium in which we are no longer required to simply be docile receivers. We are now in fact creators of words, pictures, videos and our own stories. The previously squelched repertory tradition of tales and legends have been revived with a click of the share button. There are quite literally millions of blogs, hundreds if not thousands of blogging tools and seemingly no end to blogging subjects. Who knew we had so much to say? But, this begs the question: What are we really saying, and does it make a difference?

Apparently it does. More and more journalism outlets look to the "non-traditional" blogosphere for source material. In fact some blogging sites have become news outlets themselves. Huffington Post comes to mind and so does a new sight that some peers at PMC launched this week, http://oaklandlocal.com/ . This project is a new media hybrid hyper-local news site that also includes community resources and organizations, and links to other community blogs. It's intended to be a jumping off point for all things Oakland.

The difference between Oaklandlocal.com and traditional news sites is that Oaklandlocal.com embraces the whole community real and online by linking it's readers to brick and mortar community organizations as well as online commentary written by those on the ground. They also produce top notch news content written by seasoned journalists many of whom were discharged by print publications that clearly value profit over quality of content.

Yes, this is a site created by friends, but even if it weren't I would still consider the model they have created to be cohesive, elegant and cognoscente of the era we live in: a new hybrid of the ether and empirical world. I believe it will be the new trend in community dialogue. It's at least one of the reasons 100+ bloggers show up on a Saturday to meet each other in real life.

Thoughts that take me back to the playa

2009-10-04T00:18:00.000-07:00

At some point you realize that your all grown up and in the midst of life. I had that realization as I made my way through former classmates at our 20 year class reunion. Despite my perceived unpopularity, many more people remembered me than I anticipated. And recounting life since high school wasn't quite as traumatic as I thought it would be. Some actually knew what I'd been up to. They read the bio I sent in. And the curious asked, "What's Burning Man like?"

"Amazing." Was my typical response. Explaining what it's like on the playa to those who have only vaguely heard of it was invigorating. "It's a festival of self expression," I would say. "We have a gift economy, there's no selling or buying of anything, our ethos is radical self reliance, radical self expression, and leave no trace." My favorite part is when I tell people I take my kids. The disbelief is palpable, and I can see the inner struggle people have in deciding whether or not this ia a good thing. I do my best to assure them it is.

But this year was my kid-free burn. Despite that, I still maintained many of my mit-kinder behaviors. On the day of the Burn I went to visit the Temple. If there is any place on the playa that's sacred, the temple is that place...and we burn that too. The temple is always beautiful, always emotional and always a safe place to cry. People bring their remembrances of lost love ones, of lost ideals, and lost causes. Many write messages on the temple itself to the dearly departed, or sometimes to the not so dearly departed. Sometimes people take things there that they want to let go. I heard one woman nailed her wedding dress to the temple this year to symbolize the freedom gained in a rather messy divorce.

I stayed at the temple a while, but needed someplace else to hang so I could eat lunch. It didn't feel right to lay out my spread there. So, I got on my bike and headed aimlessly onto the playa following a recently made road that obviously led somewhere. What it lead to was this art installation made up of cardboard mailing tubes that stuck out at all angles. Within the piece was an area with carpets and cushions...the perfect chill spot.

As I sat eating my lunch of nuts, dried fruit, wasa bread and carrots, others came in and joined me. We talked about our day, our lives, the temple and the playa. The overall consensus was that it was a very mellow year and that this was preferable. I got more playa hugs and after a while headed out to see more art.

When I got back to camp I decided to take a nap. I knew from experience that to make it to the burn I would need some rest. It was a heavy sleep in my warm van and the only cover I had was the sound of houling wind creating scattered white outs all over the playa.

When I finally forced myself to get up the wind was at full strength and the playa was in white out. I dressed and supplied myself appropriately, and headed out on foot this time, having had enough of trying to ride my bike on what was now very loose powdery playa. Walking through the white out, I sensed a shared expectation that this was the night we burn the man. People were bustling all over the city, putting on their finest regalia, make up, and glow lights. This was it. This was the night we came here for.

The dust was thick from the relentless wind. I decided to head to Earth Guardians to sit it out. Besides they always had good intellegence on when the man would burn. Earth Guardians are on the playa to educate the city about their impact as we celebrate. They encourage people to pick up MOOP, and make as little of a foot print as possible. And most importantly to Leave No Trace when we leave.

I found my friend Lokie in their bar and sat down to wait with the others. Every year it seems, the same thing happens. There is a horrendous dust storm on Saturday before the burn, and rumors circulate on whether or not the man will burn. He always does. Those of us who know this sit among friends in a sheltered place and imbibe.

As soon as the wind stops everyone heads towards the man. I hesitate. Waiting for the man to Burn can seem eternal, and tiring. I tend to stay back from the crowd so I have a better view. Once I do head out toward the man I avoid the throngs of revelers and instead find a spot where I can sit leaned up against an art piece. My view is great, and I am left to my thoughts as I wait.

My thoughts recount the week, the month, and the year since the last time I sat waiting for this symbol of what I haven't decided to make it's fantastic demise. So much has happened since then, I think. Deep in thought I only scarcely acknowledge others who come by and nod in acknowledgment.

Finally my thoughts are interrupted as the fireworks begin shooting off around the man. The crowd roars and I sit back to watch the show. Fireworks shoot off from behind the man, from his arms and into the dark sky above. Everyone is cheering, but I just sit back and observe and try to take well timed pictures. Then, seemingly out of know where there's a giant explosion. When the ball of fire clears, the man stands before us on fire. Now we wait has his demise is fueled by a light breeze. Every time another piece of the man falls to what I imagine is a growing pile of charred wood below him, the crowd cheers. This man, is exceptionally resilient. It's a good 45 minutes before his torso falls and all that's left of him are a strange triangle that were once his legs.

As the crowd begins to disperse to celebrate, I move closer in. I want to get close enough to feel the warmth of the fire. I manage to get all the way up to the barrier and look pensively at the fire that slowly eats away at the reason we all came. When I've had my fill of thought I turn and head directly to Jazz Cafe, where I stay with great comfort listening to musicians covered in dust play to their heart's content.

Thoughts on this to follow...

2009-09-15T10:53:00.000-07:00

Playa-tainment

2009-09-14T19:48:00.000-07:00

There's always a lot to do in Black Rock City. When you enter the City, typically you receive a book of "planned events" for the week. If I were actually talking right now, I would have totally used air quotes. There's something called Playa time, which means it happens when it happens, but generally after it was supposed to happen.

Friday evening was a great exercise in Playa Time. Apparently there was a scheduled "launch" of the Rocket. So, as Burners, we dutifully flocked to the perimeter set about the Rocket and waited with great anticipation. We listened to an art car's sound system calling for Major Thom...we sat, we stood, and then, after about an hour and a half, we left. There was another event to go wait for. The second event was inside one of the Domes towards the edge of the city.

The Domes are typically home of raves to the nth degree. The thumpa-thumpa is intoxicating enough (for me) but not for the multiples of those who experience the Playa in an altered state. Yes, this year I learned the term E-tard, referring to those who take so much E, that their eyes dilate to a point that they look like Anime characters and all they can do is laugh and react to the music. I don't envy the experience. I like my state of mind just as it is.

The music in the dome we ended up in was actually very interesting, as was the crowd. It was a techno version of what seemed to be Eastern European folk songs. Ravers were dancing happily around me, some without inhibition, some completely within their own worlds, and some oblivious to those around them. They wore variations of what seemed like gypsy/tribal garb, many with faces painted and props of indiscriminate nature. We were there to see a circus act, which, was operating on playa time as well.

The act we were there to see was actually quite exquisite. It combined an aerialist act, with fire dancing and various other erotic components. Although there was still more to see there, after a couple of hours, I was at stimulation overload. I needed a mellower place to be, a place without chemically induced euphoria. I parted from my friends with the intent to go to Jazz Cafe, but when I stepped out of the dome, I realized we were in the middle of a dust storm. And not just a dust storm but a white out. Despite the wind I got on my bike and headed the direction of Jazz Cafe, but after a couple of close calls with pedestrians, decided to dismount and just walk. I made it as far as the Man, when I decided pushing my bike into a wall of dust wasn't the thing to do. So I called it a night and headed back to my van instead. After walking across the playa, in a white out, I finally came to my block only to find another rave, just two camps down from my own, and almost every art car on the Playa seemed to be in attendance. The music was awesome and the crowd was inviting, but I was tired, and retreated to my van just the same, where I sprayed myself down with a vinegar solution and wiped the alkali based dust from skin. I fell asleep to the thumpa-thumpa of art cars and raves, and only woke up when the music stopped sometime just before sunrise.

Friday Part 2 Barbie Death Camp & "Joe"

2009-09-13T09:44:00.000-07:00

Friday the temperature continued to rise. By the time I made it back to my camp the temperature was well into the 90's and climbing. I grabbed my water bottle and joined my campmates under the shade structure.

At Burning Man, one of the things you must learn is to know your limits. Once the heat of the day sets in, it's best to find some shade and stay there. Failure to do so, will likely result in heat exhaustion, ruining the rest of your day and evening. Sitting around doing nothing can be infuriating at place like Burning Man. There is so much to do and see. It's easy to come down with a case of FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out). As I sat with new friends, listening to their stories from earlier in the week, I couldn't help but want to get back out there. Finally after a couple of hours, I relented and headed to one of my regular hangouts, Barbie Death Camp.

Barbie Death Camp is something everyone should see. Every year Hundreds of Barbies are set up into a concentration camp type march into a full sized oven, and otherwise sacrificed at Barbie Death Camp. I've seen women bring their childhood Barbie Dolls to add to the spectacle. It's both funny and sick at the same time. But that's not the only reason I go there. Barbie Death Camp is also a wine bistro, and always has shade and comfortable couches. And for some reason I always end up there just before Critical Tits, a 1000+ woman strong topless bike ride through Black Rock City.

One of the best things about Barbie Death Camp is the people you meet there. This year I met a guy who turned out to be an Iraq Vet. I'll just call him "Joe," I don't know if I even caught his real name. He seemed sweet but damaged in a way that was undeniable, both physically and mentally. But he smiled with a joy I recognized that only comes from being on the Playa.

He told me that after his time in Iraq, he was a worthless human being. He said he was hateful, and full of anger, and cruel...and then he came to Burning Man. "I'd never seen anything like this before," Joe told me. "People just create, and respect and love here. I know I could go down any street here and tell someone I love them for being a person, and they'll believe me."

His words made me want to cry. We talked a long time. He told me things he probably shouldn't have, but he knew I served in the military too, and trusted me. When we parted, we hugged a good Playa hug each of us glad to have met the other.

Day 2 on the Playa

2009-09-13T09:27:00.000-07:00

A week ago, Friday, I was there. I realized that I still had 3 full days on my beloved Playa.

Despite a late rise, I attempted to continue with my normal Playa routine. Normally, I’m up with the sun. I make coffee, head to Center Camp to check email and hang out for a while. But when I rose that Friday, the sun was already several fingers high, and the inside of the van was heating up.

I got up, dressed, took care of the necessities of sunscreen, goggles, and water and headed out. My first task was to find the original camp I was supposed to be with, but I had no luck, so I headed to Center Camp. When I got there I realized it was already well past 9AM. The wifi I was told was sketchy at best. I chose not to believe my source and made the attempt anyway. No luck. It was at this point that I realized this isn’t my typical kind of Burn. My typical obligations and routines didn’t seem to apply.

While at Playa Info, I collected some safe sex kits to redistribute, and headed to Center Camp proper. As usual, Center Camp was filled with meditation, yoga, random performance, the ball of pooh, contemplation and conversation. After circling a couple of times I chose a place to sit and share my morning meal of Wasa bread, dried fruit and salmon. The person I sat near was about my age, and also a mother of boys. We sat and talked about our lives as parents and some of the challenges of raising boys. After a while a third woman joined us and contributed her thoughts to our conversation. Her naivety about raising children was almost charming. After listening for a while she concluded, that maybe pro-creation wasn’t for her. I handed her a safe sex kit.

After Center Camp I stopped to visit my sister at her camp, Hot Monkey Sox where I was treated to a proper breakfast of bacon and eggs. There, I caught up with friends, but didn’t stay too long. It was moving toward the heat of the day, and I didn’t want to get stuck there so I headed back to my own hood by way of the open Playa to look at some of the art in daylight.

On the Playa - Part 2

2009-09-08T20:16:00.000-07:00

As we roll into Black Rock City, we quickly figure out the best way to deposit everyone in the right spot. Finding people on the Playa can be almost impossible, but this is the possible burn. As we drive on the outer rim, Mia spots her camps bus almost immediately. We quickly turn in, deposit her and her things, bid her well and seek out the next camp...mine.

I'm supposed to camp with Camp Radom, but the address my friend gave me is not the same as what is on the map. I go with what's on the map. After a bit of searching we find it, Camp Random and Unncessary, except they haven't heard of my friend. "Hmmm...well," I say, "I guess I should go look for them in the first spot they said they'd be at."

"Or you can just stay here," a lovely faced woman tells me. "It's called 'Camp Random,' come be our random camper." I thought about it, and decided it wasn't a bad idea. So I pull in and get a hug from new friends who offer food and drink. Amy wastes no time getting her stuff together on her bike. She's late for a meeting at Fire Conclave, which manages the actual burning of the man. She gives me a quick hug and she's off.

A lot is happening. I have to make camp and get geared up for the Playa, but I also want to go see the Billion Bunny March as they take control of the Man. I decide to do the latter first while I still have some light. I use my bike racks and a tarp to make a lean to on the side of the van. This allows me a space to put my bike and shower. Then, inside the van, I pull out the back seat making a bed, and stow things in sensible places. Out of one bag I pull out pieces of a torn sheet that I use as make shift curtains so I have privacy. Then, finally, I'm ready to don my Playa pack with everything I would need for a quick journey out. I get on my bike, put on a glow light, head lamp, and bandanna to use as a face mask in case of dust, and I'm off.

First, I stop at Kidsville to let my sister know I arrived. She's not there, so I leave word. Next, I stop at Center Camp. I walk in to the usual mayhem of drum circles and random performance, and look around for a place to chill for a moment. I sit beside an older gentleman, who seemed to be looking for company. "Well I need to go pay my respects to the Man" I tell him. "Mind some company he asks?" "No not at all I say." It turns out our bikes are literally parked right next to each other.

After a brief stop at "Fire Idol" which is a fire dancing version of American Idol on the Playa, we head to the Man. As we approach I see the giant floating eyes looking out at me just below the Man, and I realize I forgot my camera in the van! Argh!

I spent a good amount of time at the Man, and then rode along one half of the esplanade which offered the "spank-o-matic," an amazing dance troupe party, and a rave in one of the giant domes. Then I headed across the Playa again, and saw art cars, and exhibits of all kinds. I finally ended up at my default position which is Jazz Cafe, back in Center Camp, and just in time to see the naked saxophonist. He was actually quite good. It was then, that I realized that I'd already been up since 5:30AM, and it was going on 2AM, so I headed back to my van, which was ready for me to curl up on my Hello Kitty pillow. In one night, I had seen more of the Playa than I had in just about all the other years combined. I fell asleep listening to the thumpa-thumpa of a rave spot just two camps down. It felt so good to be home.

Day 1 There & Back

2009-09-08T13:17:00.000-07:00

Day 1 (Getting) THERE

I couldn’t sleep because I was so excited. I am going to Burning Man. It’s really true.

The day started like any other. I got my son up, made sure he had breakfast and a lunch and got him off to school, except this time the van was full of supplies for the Playa.

“Bring me back some stuff!” He says when he gets out. I smile, and tell him to be good.

A couple of hours later, I’m on the road with my riders heading toward the Playa. My riders are Amy, a 13-year Burner with serious art construction cred, and Mia a college girl newbie with aspirations to work in Community Arts. She marvels at us, as Amy and I giggle our way up Interstate 80, singing along with the playlist made especially for this journey. After a couple of brief stops, we finally turn off at mile marker 43 in Nevada just east of Reno.

Amy turns and tells Mia, “this is where the real journey begins.”

“She’s right” I agree.

“What do you mean?” Mia asks.

“You’ll see.” I say.

As we turn in Wadsworth onto the road that takes us to Gerlach the landscape is suddenly a beautiful pastiche of browns, tans and sage against a very blue sky. We take our time on this road. Not only are the speed limits strictly enforced, but this is where the most accidents occur. People get so excited to be on that road that leads to our destination, that they forget themselves and perhaps what’s safe or, they aren’t that conscious about it to begin with.

The road is two lanes, narrow, long and mostly straight. It’s agonizing. We want to be there so badly, but I force myself to drive a sensible speed, partially because I have the responsibility of passengers and partially because I couldn’t afford the two front tires my mechanic recommended.

We pass by an impossibly blue lake, familiar rock formations, and land that to me feels enchanted. It’s tribal land. I recognize that we are visitors, passing through and do everything I can to do so with respect and care.

At this point, my lack of foresight has deprived us of music. I realize I forgot the iPod charger. All we can do now is look at the road before us, and anticipate. To pass the time we tell our best Playa tales. Amy’s are great. She tells how her friends came to the Playa in a cab once from Reno after rolling their car. The fare was something like $200. My tales aren’t nearly as interesting. I just talk about how excited I am to be on my first kid-free Burn. “I’ve never gone with absolutely no responsibility to anyone else,” I say. “Monday, I was daydreaming about being able to do this one day, and today, (Thursday) it’s true.”

We have to make one more, brief stop before we get to Gerlach and then to the Playa. I have to see my Indian Taco lady, whose stand I have stopped at every year. She sees me jump out of my van and waves through the window at me.

“Where are the babies?” she asks.

“Grandma’s” I grin back.

After a very brief moment of confusion, she smiles back at me. “Good for you!” She says.

I only buy a 7up, and promise to stop by on the way out. We really want to get there.

Amy and I begin groaning at the road, that appears to be never ending. “Just after that ridge.” We say. “No that one.” The drive is much harder in daylight. At least at night you can see the glow of lights ahead. We keep hoping for the towns of Empire and Gerlach to appear. The giddiness and anticipation is almost unbearable when they finally do.

That’s it!” Amy says. “That’s where we are going.” Mia looks confused. “I thought it would be bigger.” She says. “No honey, that’s just the portal, if you will.” I clarify. “You’ll see.”

We pass through Empire and it’s sole store, and then Gerlach, which now offers some sort of Playa supply flea market. We wave at the locals, who smile and wave back, and finally, make the last turn before we get there.

“That’s where we’re going.” I explain to Mia as Amy frantically tries to find BMIR on the radio. We are driving beside an expanse of pale, flat nothingness. “That’s the Playa,” I say.

Thirteen miles later we turn onto the Playa itself. Amy and I cheer as we do. There is almost no line to get in, and I could easily drop my riders and go, but I decide to wait for them at Will Call so I can drive them in too.

There are a few people outside the gate holding signs, pleading for tickets. Some people just can’t stay away and come on hope. Before long, Amy and Mia both have their tickets and we are admitted in.

“Welcome home!” is what the greeters always say. We get out, and hug our greeters like long lost friends with good Playa Hugs that always feel real and sincere. Mia still looks confused. “Do you know them?” she asks. “No. This is just home.” I say.

BACK Day 1

I woke up tired and somewhat disoriented. My desert metabolism is confused, as is my inner routine. Instead of thinking about finding shoes to go to the port-o-jon I force myself up to make sure Nolan got up for school. The default world came crashing in on me last night as I realized that the van really needs those tires now. Plus with the distraction of unloading and cleaning, I hadn’t noticed we got new neighbors just a couple of doors down. We’ve already had a shooting, my 19-year-old tells me. “Great.” I say. It’s then that I notice there are cars lined up and down the street and no fewer than 50 kids in their yard, making all kinds of ruckus. This morning I realize why. Instead of cars outside the house, it’s limos, and everyone is wearing black. They had a shooting all right. And it was just three doors down. Nolan gets picked up for school, and I sleep a little longer. My body just does not want to cooperate in this environment. Finally when I do get up, everything feels foreign, and almost heavy.

My inner routine is off. Instead of goggles, facemask, sunscreen and water, I struggle to find keys, cell phone, wallet and ferry pass. It takes me forever to get out of the house, so I can limp my poor van to the mechanic for new tires. After dropping it off, I walk to the ferry terminal and observe how different the sound is. No joy, no frivolity, no laughter no thumpa-thumpa coming from insane art cars. If there is any music at all, it’s a more oppressive, bow-chick-bow of gangsta-rap. The walk to the ferry feels so much different than my morning treks on the Playa. The only song I really hear along the way are the high pitch moans of red-winged black birds that have taken residence in front of the ferry building, where I go to wait for my boat that will take me to work.

Playa Magic Exists

2009-09-02T10:27:00.000-07:00

Playa Magic Exists

Some years are better than others. Some years everything works out as I expect it to. Milestones are marked. We do the things that we normally do, and enjoy them.

This year, or rather this summer wasn’t quite like that. Our family routine was disrupted by other requirements and financial restraints. It just seemed to be one thing after another. Work requirements trumped family outings, family responsibilities overtook leisure, and then, last week, my clutch went out on my VW Beetle. Through it all though, for the most part, I stayed upbeat. I guess somehow I knew something else was out there for me.

On the years we don’t go to the Playa, we always watch for Burners heading that way on the freeway. They are easy to spot, with cars that look like they were packed by the Beverly Hillbillies, piled high with PVC and bikes, lots of bikes. And the passengers in these vehicles invariably wear blissful smiles. Am I romanticizing? Yeah a bit. It’s what happens when you really miss something. So, all day Sunday, every time we saw a car packed to the rim with equipment and bikes, we yelled, “Burners!” and laughed a little.

I stayed up till midnight Sunday to mark the time when we traditionally roll onto the playa, and Monday morning went to the Burning Man website to look at the Gerlach webcam, watching the vehicles go by. Before long I was looking at the pictures coming back, and commented how much I appreciated the images, and how if the Universe were to drop $500 in my lap this week I would definitely go.

Then, the impossible happened.

Someone who saw my comment sent me a message offering me a free, gifted ticket.

When I read the message, I gasped like I never had before. Could it really be true? I couldn’t even speak it when my co-worker asked me what happened. I just motioned her to come look at my monitor.

“No Way!” She said.

I was still speechless. Then I started laughing as I was filled with unexpected joy.

“Oh my god! Is this real?” I said.

There was a phone number in the email, which I called after a few moments of composing myself. The gentleman on the other end was sincere, and just wanted the ticket to go to “a good home.” I don’t know what I said, except a lot of “thank you so much!”

Although I hadn’t planned on going to the playa, I did have a fantasy of going on my own this year, just once.

For us, Burning Man is always a family affair, that takes months of planning and days of staging. We are always uber-prepared. When you go with kids, it can’t be grab a duffel bag, some water and try to survive the week on a can of Pringles and a bag of granola. The shortest amount of time I’ve taken to get ready is three weeks.

But this time is different. It’s just me. No tent, no kitchen to set up, no meals to plan. Somehow everything fell into place. I inexplicably bought nuts, dried fruit, and ready made couscous this last weekend. I only had to pick up some smoked salmon, wasa bread and protein bars. Then I went to the dollar store and picked up baby wipes, glow lights, and a few other basics that I didn’t have on hand. As a matter of circumstance, the weekend before, we had just gone through our playa boxes to find equipment for friends who were going, so everything was readily accessible.

In a matter of two days, I have just about everything I need, save the water, within two Rubbermaid storage bins and a milk crate. I also have two riders coming up with me to split the gas, and 3 days and 4 nights to live out what was just a daydream on Monday.

You see? Playa Magic is Real! Thank you so much Mike!

A new love...

2009-08-12T22:34:00.000-07:00

Meet Patty. Patty is an early 70's Schwinn Hollywood Cruiser and is all original except for the grips on the handle bars. She is my found treasure from the Elks Club Rummage Sale. I got the saddle bags there also. They still had bits of hay in them. The tassels I added myself. I just don't think a bike like this is complete without them. And I'm happy to say, that Patty is now world famous. I had coffee the other day at the San Francisco Ferry Building, and when I came out, a group of tourists were taking turns taking pictures standing next to my bike.

Who'd of thought...

2009-08-12T06:53:00.000-07:00

There's no argument that the health care debate this summer has heated tempers. Cable and online news sources continue to fuel the fire with disinformation or coverage thereof. The whole thing to me is disturbing.

I'm disturbed by the leaps and bounds conservative spin doctors have taken with their arguments. What use to be brokered through nuance has become a genuine campaign of misleading claims intended to scare the bejesus out of the uninformed.

I actually have to admire their tactics. First they convince their constituency that the only credible source of information is from them, by trademarking phrases such as Fair and Balanced. Then they spend years spewing hate-filled, and often racist speech, until it is an accepted norm. Then they introduce historically fearful words like Communist, Fascist, and Nazi, betting that the fear those labels invoke will override the lack of context in which the words are used. Next, add what one would think are normally outrageous and entirely incredulous statements, stoke fear and anger to create a collective frantic state, and then send out your scared, confused fearful masses to do your dirty work.

I find it extraordinarily ironic that they would use the term Nazi, considering this is the exact tactic that Hitler used. He took over the media message, created fear of Jews through a massive campaign of misinformation, stoked peoples anger about the reparations from World War I and then sent them out to do his dirty work.

I'm feeling quite helpless in all of this. As I saw a woman cry on television about the loss of her America it made me wonder exactly what it is she believes she is losing. And then it made me mad. She and others who share her fear deserve to not be lied to, manipulated and used by power brokers willing to do anything to win.

Who thought people could be persuaded to not want health care? It worries me and makes me what else could the misinformed be persuaded to do?

Discourse not Discord

2009-08-04T08:49:00.000-07:00

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

Summer Benchmarks

2009-08-03T21:50:00.000-07:00

Every year, since I've been back in my home town, I've cobserved benchmarks of summer. Fourth of July Parade, the County Fair, a trip to the Beach Boardwalk are all usual benchmarks for our family. But this year has been a little different. We didn't do any of those things. Blame scheduling, a bad economy, or a bad mood. All of it seems to apply.

But there is one last benchmark that I won't give up, the Elks Club Rummage Sale. Every year on the first Friday in August, a hundred or more people gather behind yellow caution tape that marks off the sale area in the Elks Club parking lot. By now, I'm an old pro. I bring my own coffee, my old lady shopping cart and no less than $50 in small bills.

This is the rummage sale to end all sales. It's so big, it actually has departments: appliances, tools, sporting goods, books, toys, clothing, kitchenware, shoes, furniture, plants, luggage and knick-knacks. When the caution tape comes down there's a genuine rush in, people actually run to look for that one thing they hope to find.

Most years I look for two things: books and supplies for Burning Man. And even though I'm not going to the playa this year, I will likely head to sporting goods first to check out the bikes. I love bikes. Especially vintage Schwinn bikes, and I've found more than one there before!

After the bikes, I'll peruse the other departments until I come to the books. Usually I look for classics, books like Tom Sawyer or To Kill a Mocking Bird. These are books I generally like to have on hand to give people, especially To Kill a Mocking Bird. I also like to have extra copies of books I want my kids to read, like Animal Farm, and Of Mice and Men. This year, I will probably look for Harry Potter and the Narnia Series. Should be no-brainer.

When my money runs out I happily head towards my car, usually with cart full of gems, maybe a manual typewriter to add to my collection, a really cool vintage jacket, the odd appliance. And it's always hard to do this, because I always want to go back and find more treasures. To feel that sense of glee when I see something really cool that just days ago was another person's trash.

In this summer of downturn, it's nice to look forward to a benchmark that I know I can afford. And although I may not spend as much as I normally do, the treasure hunt will be just as fun.

Things I don't understand...

2009-07-09T20:23:00.000-07:00

There's a number of things I don't understand. I don't understand fake boobs that look like water balloons. I don't understand why so many people wear their pants below their asses. And, I don't understand the need to wield will.

Ok, so maybe some things, I do get, like people who campaign against fur as fashion. Their will is to end the needless suffering of animals for the sake of vanity. But at what point is wielding will an imposition? And why do some have the need to wield will more than others?

Take China for instance. The Chinese government has actively campaigned to eliminate the culture of Tibetans and Uighers alike. Why? What does that really accomplish? It doesn't create a pureness for China, but an imperfect history, just as this country has a blemished history with the genocide of the indiginous cultures that were here before the land was invaded by Europeans.

It makes me wonder if maybe will is wielded as an incarnation of denial that perfection is in fact an abstract. Denying the abstract, as something that is essentially only perfect in concept, but not in the imperial world, is to deny the imperfect human condition, thus it is a denial of self.

So is this why some choose to wield will? Is it simply a manifestation of an inner rebelion to fight against what we cannot control?

Are those who wield will simply just in need of the Serinty Prayer?

Could be.

Shot across the bow? Ok you've got my attention now. Game On!

2009-07-05T22:11:00.000-07:00

WARNING: RANT AHEAD

Since the election of President Barack Obama, Sarah Palin to me has been largely inconsequential. She wasn't someone I railed against. In fact any mention of her in the news, was typically met with a roll of my eyes and an exhasperated shake of my head. I was more concerned with how she portrays women in politics than anything. Her delusions of grandeur, I concluded to myself, were the product of being the inhabitant of an extraordinarily small pond. She simply didn't know any better, than to make absurd statements, and do absurd things, like spend $150,000 on herself and her family in high end department stores. And the fact that Right Wing Conservatives still flocked to her Political Action Committee (PAC), just reinforced my opinion of her ineptness.

But then she got my attention in a press release cited by politico.com, dated on the 4th of July no less, warning news outlets not to print speculations about possible Federal investigations into some of her dealings in Alaska. Yes that's right America, lets celebrate the birth of the Country and all of it's values such as Free Speech and Freedom of the Press, with a news release that says, don't say bad things about Sarah Palin.

The last paragraph of the letter reads,

"To the extent several websites, most notably liberal Alaska blogger Shannyn Moore, are now claiming as “fact” that Governor Palin resigned because she is “under federal investigation” for embezzlement or other criminal wrongdoing, we will be exploring legal options this week to address such defamation. This is to provide notice to Ms. Moore, and those who re-publish the defamation, such as Huffington Post, MSNBC, the New York Times and The Washington Post, that the Palins will not allow them to propagate defamatory material without answering to this in a court of law. The Alaska Constitution protects the right of free speech, while simultaneously holding those “responsible for the abuse of that right.” Alaska Constitution Art. I, Sec. 5. http://ltgov.state.ak.us/constitution.php?section=1. These falsehoods abuse the right to free speech; continuing to publish these falsehoods of criminal activity is reckless, done without any regard for the truth, and is actionable. "

So here's why I can't just shake my head at this one. First, not all bloggers are journalists. And even if bloggers are journalists, it's a blog, not an edited publication, thus, opinions are allowed. If a blogger wants to write the sky is orange, they have the right to do so, because that is an opinion. Second, bloggers' opinions and observations are sometimes used as a barometer or jumping off point for journalistic organizations. Recognizing the value in what bloggers have to say is part of the new media landscape. Does it mean that news organization should use blogs as a single source for a story? Of course not, but bloggers do have a knack for bringing things to the forfront. As a blogger, I commit myself to keeping it real, read: tell the truth, but also assume that those who read my words recognize that these are opinions. A news organization that repeats such an opinion is simply citing a source. It doesn't mean that the opinion is valid, it is a method of considering that opinion for further investigation. Third, it is the job of journalists and citizens alike to present arguments and ask very tough questions and discourse amongst themselves in considering these questions, opinions, rumors and whatnot, allowing the reader to determine the value of such things. Threatening action against those who do so, is to me, quintessentially unamerican.

So here's my opinion. I think Sarah Palin needs to realize that she stepped into a much larger pond full of people that do know better. And as for Shannyn Moore, let me know if you need to start a legal fund. I'm more than willing to donate merely out of principle.

4th of July, Then and Now

2009-07-05T17:01:00.001-07:00

The Fourth of July has always been one of my favorite holidays. This was mostly because I was always actively involved in one sort of celebration or another.

In my home town, we have had a parade for the last 156 years. I can only remember watching the parade, maybe two or three years at most. Every other year, when at home, I was a participant, part of one contingent or another. I rode on floats, marched in bands, rollerskated in a blue sequined vest and rode my Hello Kitty bike passing out voter registration cards. Last year and the year before, I was the Executive Producer of the local Access TV coverage of the parade.

During the years I was away from home, particularly years spent in the military, my participation was far more patriotic. We shined our boots to look like glass, wore helmets and carried weapons onto a parade field where we stood as a Howitzer gun was shot off in tribute to each of the 50 states. Those field ceremonies always ended with the order, "Pass and Review," which meant we would march in formation past the presiding officer, usually a General, to a series of Sousa Marches. My favorite was always Stars and Stripes Forever, and I'll freely admit that the first time I marched in such a formation to that music, I did so with a lump in my throat.

This year was a little different. I wasn't in the parade. In fact, I didn't even attend. Instead we had a very low key barbecue at the house, with a couple of friends. We made homemade wine coolers, skewered shrimp onto bamboo sticks for the grill, and socialized. My oldest son schlepped his drum set onto the driveway where he beat to his heart's content under the shade structure we had erected. And later, after we ate, the kids played soccer on our speck of a lawn using chairs as goal posts, providing laughter to us all.

Instead of going out to see fireworks, we watched the PBS special from the National Mall, that included Barry Manalow, Aretha, the 1812 Overture (with live cannons) and of course fireworks over the nations capital to Stars and Stripes Forever. I smiled the whole time.

Why the change to a more passive celebration? Good question. I suppose that it's partially because of the work I've been doing lately around independent voices and their contribution to democracy. The work is grueling to say the least, but not since my time in the military have I been so convinced that what I do on a daily basis, really makes a meaningful difference. So maybe I'm not as inclined to make such a grandiose gesture to show my patriotism. Right now I am very lucky to do work that emphasizes the value of good journalism that is not part of the mainstream corporate media conglomerations. And, I'm quite proud to be a voice in a larger conversation that really focuses on E Pluribus Unum, and by this I mean gaining a genuine understanding of what that phrase means, specifically in public discourse.

So, yeah, it was a nice low key celebration yesterday. Mostly because today, I am focused on my real work, which goes beyond celebration to really trying to make a difference.

Nonprofit Karma

2009-06-22T14:44:00.000-07:00

What is it about nonprofit work that keeps me coming back? It’s something that I have to ask myself periodically. Usually when I’m overworked and tired, discouraged, or low on cash. And I have to admit, I’ve suffered from all of these lately.

But working for a nonprofit organization (NPO) has its own kind of Karma, and it tends to come around quicker than other things that go around. Huh? What I mean is that the Karmic cycle is much quicker and far more frequent in the nonprofit world.

I wish I could say, that no good deed goes unnoticed, but that wouldn’t be true. What I can say though is that things have a way of happening, not by magic but by design, one could even say intelligent design, because everything we do is thought over and planned out, hopefully with great rigor. Often, things work brilliantly, but not without challenge, and perhaps that’s what keeps me coming back: the challenge. And working for a NPO is a hellava challenge. It's not for the weak of spirit or mind.

Like problem solving? Then this is the job for you! This is creative thinking at its best. Sometimes solving the problems is simple. How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time of course, but that leaves out a lot of detail. Working in this field forces you to think strategically, and in steps, at all times, in every task. How does this break down? How can I make this easier, more efficient, more effective and fun all at the same time? We think like this all the time, and although it can be exhausting, it is in fact fun to push your mind and intellect to its limit. Some people do triathlons, I work in nonprofit. It’s that kind of limit pushing.

I was reminded of a lot of this on Saturday while attending the Craigslist Foundation Nonprofit Boot Camp. I attended what I think was the first such events in 2006. It was an interesting concept. Around 1500 like-minded individuals came together to learn how to do what they do much better. This year, the event was on the campus of UC Berkeley. I noticed a bit of a change in the constituency. Although beginners are still one of the largest contingents at the camp, there were a lot more veterans, such as myself attending too. The workshops were both helpful and validating as they reinforced and honed practices I use on a regular basis, and I learned a few new ones as well. Plus, I love the swag. I finally picked up the letter opener I've been looking for, got a mouse pad from PayPal, and the ever essential computer screen sweeper, plus a tote bag and t-shirt of course.

It's nice to be reminded why we do what we do from so many different perspectives. So here are some of the highlights from my notes.

From Arianna Huffington of Huffingtonpost.com

“If you think you’re too small to be effective, you’ve never been in bed with a mosquito.”

“Volunteering should just be something we do...it’s like a muscle, the more we use it the stronger it gets.”

“It’s not about how much we give but what kind of need we resolve.”
------
From Kay Sprinkle Grace, nonprofit funding consultant, www.kaygrace.org

“Who ever introduced the term whatever into our vernacular was preparing us for very interesting times.”

It’s not your organization that matters, it’s your mission.

“If you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always be what you’ve always been.”

In nonprofit, we either ease human suffering or advance human potential.

Grow leadership at every level.

People give because your organization meets needs, not because you have needs.

----

From Shirley Sagawa & Deb Jospin, Authors of The Charismatic Organization

Put the right people in the right job and nurture them. Share power responsibility and build a strong community because people want to make a difference and want to belong to a community.

Have a vision and mission that can be articulated and repeated with passion.

Have Data Driven Decision Making…know what your trying to achieve by expressing clear outcomes, setting measurable goals, creating a roadmap and showing results.

Create Can Do Culture: be vibrant, positive and inclusive

Create compelling communication. Tell good stories, and encourage everyone in your organization to tell their stories as well. People do this work for a reason. Letting people know that reason is a good way to get them to support you.

----

From Allforgood.org

This is a new website designed as an extra curricular project by engineers at Google. The website is open source and offers a customizable search engine for volunteer opportunities, and is usable in a number of popular platforms as a wigit such as facebook, twitter, cell phone aps, etc. For more information, go to their website www.allforgood.org . Or to see an example of it’s use go to www.huffingtonpost.com .

Friday's Reminder

2009-06-19T16:10:00.000-07:00

Howler Monkies should be sedated

2009-06-15T18:51:00.000-07:00

Oh the hazards of the 10AM ferry. In exchange for a nominal amount of extra sleep, I endure tables filled with teens playing cards, loud out-of-state vacationing talkers and sticky, howling children. Children who buy all the good donuts as soon as they get on board, whine about having to go to the bathroom, and narrate everything around them.

“Look! He has a hat!”
“Yes, dear. What color is the hat?”
“Blue! He has a blue hat!”

Lovely. On good days, the parents realize that it’s a two-deck boat, and they take the child upstairs. On bad days, the child is indulged, ceaselessly, so much that you want to shout out.

“Didn’t you learn anything about the effects of unrealistic expectations from the last meltdown of Britney Spears?”

Apparently not. Instead these parents allow their children’s outrageous behavior to escalate while everyone else on board suffers and considers using their cell phone to take video to send to the Super Nanny.

One of the benefits of being the mother of children is the justification I feel when casting annoyed, dirty looks, devoid of empathy or understanding toward parents who lack the courtesy of drugging their children if they can’t be controlled, before stepping onto a boat or a plane. I’m serious. When my kids were of howling age we use to fly a lot between SFO and St. Louis. I was a young mother with two boys. And, as I would board the plane, I could see terror in the face of every business traveler in coach, each of them making pacts with the devil or god so we wouldn’t sit near them. We would worked our way down the isle scanning for our seats, and I’d joke along the way, “Hi! It’s us, you’re worst nightmare!”

Once we sat, usually to the disdain of those sitting closest, I’d say, “Don’t worry. They’re drugged.” This line never quite got the reaction I was going for on the St. Louis side. Usually it was a look of astonished alarm. I mean it wasn’t like I was giving them Quaaludes…just a proper dose of Benadryl. It’s a trick I learned from a pharmacist when I was in the Army. I call it being considerate.

Sadly this wisdom is lost on some. I’ve tried to suggest the sedative method whenever I encounter a parent whose child screeches like a howler monkey, but they always look at me like I’m some sort of monster. So, I decided to just keep my suggestions to myself and cast dirty looks instead.

Made up

2009-06-02T20:05:00.000-07:00

My commute has become routine. I have commuting friends with whom I regularly sit on the ferry, the snack bar attendant knows I take my coffee black, and I've learned where the dead zones are along the route if I happen to be on my cell phone.

Today's commute was typical. I got my coffee, found my friend, and set out to get some work done after we exchanged pleasantries. But as I pulled out a notebook, legal pad and fountain pen, I noticed a young woman sitting across the isle from me, going through what I imagined is her typical commute. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and looked not much different than I do when I go out to run errands on the weekend. She sat sipping soda through a straw, a common practice on the ferry to avoid motion sickness.

As I turned to my notebook she produced a cosmetic bag from her backpack and proceeded to engage in a multi-step process of applying makeup. Liquid foundation was heavily applied to conceal a few blemishes, followed by a lighter tone of concealer for the area under the eyes and around the nose. Next came a fine powder and a dash of shaded color on the cheeks and eyelids.

I was enraptured by this ritual despite being deep in thought over the outline I was working on. Every few minutes I glanced her direction to check on her progress. After the powder out came the eyebrow pencil that was used to accentuate and better define her already nicely shaped eyebrows. A twist-up eyeliner followed to trace the the lower lid of what looked like hazel green eyes. I watched her, in glances, carefully follow the contour of her eye with one hand while holding a mirror with the other, all the while employing precision that rivaled that of a nuclear engineer.

After a few dabs from a sponge and another brushing of powder came the lipstick, a shade of summer peach that inspired thoughts of English gardens or Spanish courtyards. The lips were lined with yet another pencil to establish a boundary for the color, and with a quick blot, she (and I) realized that we had arrived to our destination.

I've always found the morning and the rituals which we subscribe to be very interesting. It's a gray area of a time between who we were in our dreams, who we are when we wake up and who we become as we prepare for our day. At some point the true self emerges...the question is when? At what point are we just made up?

Juju be gone!

2009-05-27T21:11:00.000-07:00

I have had a bout of bad juju for the last 7 or so days. I don’t know exactly where it came from, but I feel like I’ve turned the corner and it’s finally gone. Juju is a very interesting thing. I think of it as worse than bad karma. To me, juju is malicious and almost evil, definitely a thing of the dark side of the force.

I’m often told that I seem to be a very spiritual person. I find this a bit odd, since I’m somewhat of a secular humanist. I believe in the Universe more than a God and Karma more than the idea of original sin. The Golden Rule is one of my primary guideposts, and I think that the purpose of life is to seek out knowledge and use the knowledge we find for the benefit of others. Altruistic? Maybe. Realistic? Maybe not. Grounding? Damn straight.

It’s been a bazaar week. Yesterday in particular brought revelations both bitter and sweet. The California Supreme Court upheld Proposition 8, a statewide initiative that identifies marriage as being between a man and a woman. Which means same sex marriages are not permitted according to the California Constitution. I’m trying to figure out exactly how this is going to benefit society. I don’t think that it will. Prop (H)8 will only feed animosity between those who feel they should dictate the rules of love and life and those who choose to embrace who they are, no matter what the price. I don’t believe this defeat is permanent. In fact, I’m more optimistic now than ever that marriage will be open to everyone of sentient being in the future. The Universe has a way of balancing these things. Besides, co-habitating unmarried adults now outnumber those who are married. In the long run, it may turn out that the gays will be the ones who conserve the institution of marriage.

Before the news of Prop 8 though, came a reassuring message of balance. President Obama named his nominee for the Supreme Court. For a moment, lets forget the bootstrap American dream fairy tale that is the life and success of Judge Sonia Sotomayor. What sold me was her genuine experience, solid ethos of the rule of law, and subtle tenacity that the rest of us can only envy. Am I proud that she is Latina? Hell Yeah! But more than anything I’m proud that she is the embodiment of what it means to be smart and strong. And it’s hard not to be emotional about the realization that millions of little girls living in less than optimal economic conditions will see that such a life of success is possible for them as well. It’s definitely a wow moment that I will one day tell my grandkids about.

Bad juju sometimes happens, but I can always tell when it’s gone. A sense of calm envelops me and I’m suddenly reminded that I am strong, and that I can adapt and overcome. Maybe sometimes we need bad experiences to appreciate the opportunities we do have…like the opportunity to succeed despite the odds or to marry the person we love. What ever it’s purpose, I’m grateful for the feeling I have now, of not being overcome by a force, real or imagined, that has the potential of taking me down.

In-group psychology in need of a tweak...

2009-05-17T11:50:00.000-07:00

A recent Wall Street Journal article about Portland Oregon and other "Youth Magnet Cities" got me thinking. The article describes how despite a recession and a higher than average unemployment rate in Portland, young, educated professionals continue to flock to the city, lured by both the scenery and the scene.

This brings up a number of questions, specifically in this new era of responsibility. Is it more important to look for a scene than find a meaningful way to contribute to the struggling economy? The article cited an underemployed lawyer who didn't mind answering phones and walking his bosses dogs, and I can't help but think, what a waste. Maybe part of the reason the country is having a hard time with the boot straps is because every body is wearing Uggs.

I think this could be a case of in-group psychology in need of a tweak. If it's true that young professionals would rather live someplace cool, than a place in need of their education, youth and innovation, then maybe we need to redefine what cool is. Indeed, relocating to a new city with limited prospects for employment may seem brave, but isn't much braver to leave one's comfort zone? I understand the desire to be among those who are like minded, but I also believe that cultural hubs be they left-minded or right-minded contribute to increased polarization within our society. Which leads me to the question, how does hip migrate? Does it begin with just one person or a group? And who among us are not just brave enough, but secure enough in our convictions and cultural landmarks to go out among those who do not live and think as we do?

Sadly, I don't fit the bill. If I did, perhaps I'd still live in the Southern Illinois, where the specialty at the local bakery is literally white bread. Thus I continue to be a whole grain, sourdough and intellectual snob who commutes to a postcard city with a vibrant culture that is just sooo cool. So maybe there is something to be said for aesthetics. Glass houses after all are quite beautiful.

Working at finding relief on the ferry

2009-04-20T18:14:00.000-07:00

I hate it when I don’t write. My thoughts become confused, as they are constipated in my head, and then, I can’t write, and every time I sit down to relieve my mind, nothing but brain farts come out.

It’s a gorgeous day in the San Francisco Bay Area. The water is calm and smooth, and the sky clear and blue with anemic, thin wispy clouds that are sure to burn off before noon. It was unseasonably warm yesterday, and today promises to be the same. The current prediction is a temperature of 90 degrees in San Francisco. I dressed light, but probably not light enough.

I woke up sluggish today. My intention to take the dog for a walk fell victim to the snooze alarm, I left the house with wet hair and without brushed teeth and I barely made the ferry. Once on board and settled into a seat, I grabbed my ditty bag and headed to the head to take care of those details. It was on my way back to my seat that I finally had a chance to see what kind of day it was. The water was glassy, the wind light. I couldn’t help myself as I stepped out onto the deck and leaned over the rail to let the breeze hit my face. I suddenly understood what dogs get out of it.

And as much as I want to empty my mind, I want to go back to that rail and feel more of that breeze. It's an incredible sensation that will surely free my mind far more than these forced words. So, off I go...

Being Smart is so much better...

2009-03-29T08:22:00.000-07:00

I very recently (last night) went to a Mother Jones fundraiser featuring a conversation Rachel Maddow. She was as engaging and funny in person as she is on her show, and very approachable. So much so, that I was able to get a picture with her, and she wrote a note to my 13 year old son.

The on-stage conversation covered politics and media, with an occasional toe dipping into conspiracy theories and other personal views that make Rachel tick. And I found that I identify with Rachel on quite a few things.

There was talk about how Rachel and her show are both smart, and how the expectation that the audience can keep up is part of her show's appeal. She quipped about not being a typically pretty news anchor, saying "...if you're dealing with people who are not making a decision purely on the basis of celebrity or looks, then ou have to offer something else..." For Rachel this means detailed news peppered with nuance and cleverness. Her words reminded me of a transition I experienced a few years ago.

First of all, I've always been a geek. Whether or not I was in denial about this fact for a number of years or just oblivious to my own geekyness is a personal dispute that I occasionally wrangle with. Nevertheless I was a geek all the same. Still am. But, in my younger years, I was also quite the babe. Although not very tall, I was slender, with an athletic build, long hair and an ass that looked great in red jeans. I was pleased with how I blossomed as a woman, but also very frustrated. I found that I had a hard time getting people to take me seriously. Contrary to my cute looks, I was quite a serious person, and had a hard time connecting with people on a personal and intellectual level. This struggle lasted for a number of years, until after having my second child, I gained weight and lost my babe status.

At first I mourned the loss of being desirable, but then I started recognizing the benefits. For the first time, I was being taken more seriously. Not being an archetypal object of desire afforded me the opportunity to be thought of by my state of mind. When people described me as having a great personality, it was more than a euphemism for being fat. It was a genuine observation that might have been missed in previous years. It was as if not being thin and pretty anymore allowed me to be smart, clever and quirky. I was finally recognized for who I really am.

So it's for this reason that I choose to celebrate the success of someone like Rachel Maddow. She doesn't fit the classic tv model for broadcast media. And as a result, her audience watches to hear what she has to say, and enjoy the many ways that she brokers her finely distilled intelligence. I hope that her success is the beginning of a movement that truly celebrates women for being smart as opposed to being sexy. Because quite honestly, I've enjoyed the former far more than the latter. It is by far a better way to be recognized and reinforces a mantra that I regularly repeat to friends and colleagues alike: The best things we can be as women are smart and strong. Once we embrace that, everything else falls into place.

I'm one of them

2009-03-14T19:09:00.000-07:00

At various times in my life, I've come to the realization that I'm one of them. When I wore a pleated skirt and penny loafers, when I donned woodland camouflage, when I carried one child in my arms and led another by the hand, I was one of them. I became a member of a group, of a class of a sect, and that membership led me to a new realization of who and why I am. I correlate these realizations with what I consider to be chapters in my life. They are segments that make up the whole, or whole parts if you will. Thus, once again, I'm one of them. A new self identified with an other that contributes to my whole.

On weekdays, I dress sensibly, pack a lunch and travel to work. White ear buds account for my bobbing head as I work on my laptop, sipping coffee from a pink thermos on the way there. When I arrive to the world class City I work in, I trek along the Embarcadero, passing by a postcard scene, that tourists awe, and inhabitants cherish. It's that kind of town, and I go there 5 days a week.

I get to my office, where I write emails, return phone calls and take meetings. Most days, I eat lunch at my desk, but sometimes I traverse from one ethnic district to another for something both interesting yet common to the locale. As I perform my work, I draw from a culmination of experience, knowledge and skills, all the while gratified that I can do such things.

At the end of the day, I trek back to my way home, to a suburban existence. I read my favorite magazine, watch a video on my computer and on Fridays enjoy a beverage. Upon arriving, I'm one of many who cross an intersection to the parking lot where we park our cars.

We all carry computer bags, talk to our loved ones on cell phones and repeat the ritual over and over again. And thus, I realize, I am one of them.

Imagine me and you, I do...

2009-02-28T12:05:00.000-08:00

I took Jada for a walk today.

As soon as I'm up in the morning she starts to get excited. She jumps around and wags her tail, and can hardly contain herself once she sees me going for my shoes. She's a good dog. She will calm herself enough to sit while I put the leash on, and walks very well, without excessive pulling.

Like most days, once we get to the meadow, Jada goes off leash. And what happens next is what prompted this blog entry. Once off leash, in the meadow, she's a different dog. She is suddenly transformed. She saunters in the tall grass with a confidence that I don't see anywhere else. She jumps and bounds through brush, and occasionally she points. When we are on the trail, it's not uncommon for her to rustle out pheasants and turkeys. She is both primitive and focused at the same time.

Today as I watched this transformation in Jada, I thought of my son at an earlier stage. I remembered my now surly teenager, playing outside as a preschooler, running across the yard with a stick in his hand. And I could see it in his face, that the stick captured his imagination. It held endless possibilities. He had a tool, and could imagine himself in a new way because of it.

Then I began to think of how many times and ways we re-imagine ourselves. When we dress for the day, who do we become? Does a single item or accessory capture our imagination and transform us for the day? And what about long term transformations? Do these simply become layers upon layers that make up who we are?

So I asked myself, how many ways have I imagined myself, and to what did I transform? I've been a musician, an artist, a wife, a soldier, a mother, a student, a politico, a writer and an innovator. Each one of these identities contributed to the next, and it can seemingly go on forever. This I think is what Shakespeare meant when he wrote,

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,

(As You Like It, Act II, Sc VII)

I have a theory that we are our truest selves around the age of ten. When ever I experience a difficult individual, I always imagine them at that age on the playground. Which kid were they? Were they the kid that intimidated others by being bossy? Or, were they constantly overcompensating to mask insecurity? Some people, you can tell that they were the kids who moved easily between groups. And others, just as they do in adulthood, thrived on cliques.

After a jaunt in the meadow and through the forest, Jada and I came back to the street, where she obediently sat while I reattached her leash. And, as we went from grass to sidewalk, this whirl of thoughts ceased. Back in a world of houses, yards and streets I thought of all the things I would have to do today and wondered what will capture my imagination next.

Share what you covet

2009-02-23T06:42:00.000-08:00

In a Daily Beast article this morning, Noreena Hertz wrote,

"While it is true that over the past few decades there has been a growing obsession with material worth, this may be more a case of nurture than nature. Anthropological studies show that societies that have less share more, while recent work in behavioral economics has confirmed that benevolence is not alien to human nature. So while under Gucci Capitalism there was a tendency to bowl alone, it might just not be the case that we are essentially individualistic.

More likely is that we are entering an age of pulling together, as was the case during the Great Depression and the Blitz, and that this will be one of this era’s key defining characteristics."

I have a confession to make. I have secretly been hoping that the economy would fail for this very reason. For years I have been personally offended by the celebration of wealth at others expense. I've been equally disgusted by the rampant materialism that seemed to have taken hold of our culture. For some time it has seemed that the primary thread that connects us as a culture is our consumerism, our desire to covet, and have. The problem with this, as I see it, is that if we are gratifying ourselves with the acquisition of things, where does it end? When do we have enough? And, do the things we buy for gratification really gratify us long term? I think not.

I admit, I'm guilty of such gratification. I have a shoe and bag habit, albeit comfortable shoes and second hand bags, it's a habit just the same. And I admit, that the more I acquire, the less I give. I start to become very attached to my things. It's the ugly underbelly of relative success.

What Hertz writes about sharing is true. I've seen it at Burning Man where sharing becomes infectious. Once you are out there, you're limited to whatever food, water and supplies that you've brought. If you're like me, you go uber-prepared, ready to share the many extra things that were packed. Last year, we shared, powdered drink mix, aloe vera, lotion, an extra moo-moo, a bike inner tube, lots of bacon and cereal and of course cocktails. It's good to be reminded of this on a yearly basis.

Even in my current travels I try to share, but recently I was reminded I do not share enough. It happened Friday, on the ferry when I struck up a brief conversation with a fellow New Yorker reader. We talked about how we had both let our subscriptions run out. He had just bought the most recent issue at full cover price, which we both agreed is absurd. At the end of the ferry ride, upon our arrival to the home dock, he handed his issue to me. "Here," he said. "I've read it." I was both grateful and shamed because I seldom share my New Yorkers. They are something I covet. But here was someone who understood why I covet them so much, willing to share, without provocation. It's a reminder and a lesson that offering what we have to each other is far more gratifying than covetting for one's self. I think it will be something to really work on this year.

Working for my job...

2009-02-20T19:36:00.000-08:00

Three weeks into the new job has left me quite satisfied. I’m satisfied to spend approximately 10 hours each week motoring back and forth across the San Pablo, Richmond and San Francisco Bay on the ferry. I’m satisfied to say that I’ve learned how to traverse across the City using public transit. And I’m satisfied to feel as though I do all this traveling in order to do my work as opposed to a job. A very wise friend told me once that there is a difference between one’s job and one’s work. A job is something you do to make a living. Work is what you do for life. It’s a seldom privilege to meet both objectives in one’s occupation.

Going to the City every day is still quite exciting. Metropolitan areas have always fascinated me. There’s a rhythm to urban space that is infectious. It’s both fast and intense. There’s always a lot going on, people walking places, deliveries being made, and eye candy on every block. This is especially true in the city that I work in. There’s never a lack of something to look at. I could spend days just examining the architecture. And then there are the random exhibits of expression. These come in many incarnations: sidewalk stencil art, political messages inwindows, stickers on bicycles, graffiti, and of course fashion. I’ve begun taking pictures on my cell phone of things that catch my interest. After time I believe these shots will begin to tell a story that my words never could.

Well, it’s 5:59PM on Friday, ad as I write this the sky is turning a dusky purple and refinery lights can be seen reflecting off of the silvery water. And as the ferry slows, and turns into the channel where we will dock, I look forward to another grueling week of work, and hope that the satisfaction I feel on this Friday will be a frequent occurrence. Or at least, I hope I remember to come back and read these words when they aren’t.

A walk in the park

2009-01-31T17:51:00.000-08:00

I lied. the other thing I've been missing at my new digs is my dog. She comes to visit me two or three times a week, but I miss our hikes. I'm sure she does too.

I took Jada for a walk in the park near my parents house today. It was a beautiful day, and the meadow was calm and quiet. I use to play in this place when I was a kid. It hasn't really changed that much. The property owners whose yards we use to cut through to get to the park all have fences now. The giant play structure with it's multiple slides is gone. But it still feels the same. It's still an interesting and magical place.

There is an almost pungent perfumed smell that comes from trees that bloom with bright yellow flowers. That scent is layered with the scent of Eucalyptus that comes from the adjacent grove. As a kid, I can remember walking into that forest to a chorus of birds. They chirped wildly chattering back and forth. Below the chirping, an owl would hoot methodically.

We imagined great things in that forest. We told each other stories of fairies, and ancient spirits. We caught frogs and polliwogs and collected feathers. Later when we were teenagers and we went there to do the things teenagers do, we still appreciated the magic of that place. We laid on hills and watched sunlight fall through the trees appreciating the serenity that it offered.

One of the great things about living in the place where you grew up is being reminded of these things. There's an entire study that focuses on memory of space. This space for me is not just a place I played. It's a space that preserves our memories, our emotions, and our adventures. Everyone should be so lucky to have such a place.

Two days and a wake up

2009-01-28T11:21:00.000-08:00

Hallelujah! I'm a person again! Well at least I'm online that is.

It's been an interesting month. My mother has been sick. So, being the dutiful Mexican daughter that I am, I came to camp in my childhood room, so I can cook, clean, and drive for the folks. It's not that bad. I have my own tv, my own bathroom, and time to actually read. The kids aren't here so I get all the coco pebbles to myself, and because I have to feed the folks a low fat, high fiber, low sodium diet, I'm losing weight. The only thing I haven't had is internet.

I never realized how essential internet has become until I went without for almost a month. I was relegated to do email via my wannabe Blackberry mobile device. There was no online Tetris to clear my mind, no endless link surfing, and no online video clips. Of course I could spend some time at work checking headlines, but it's not the same as taking time to read an article and googling the facts. Even writing email wasn't the same. When on a computer my fingers are simply an extention of my thought process. I can type almost as fast as I think and speak. Using the miniature keyboard on my mobile device to send meaningful messages proved to be quite a challenge. I finally understand why kids resort to so many acronyms.

In the middle of my communication breakdown I got a new job, and now I'm going to have to commute. In my area, commuting is a way of life. I don't mind it so much. I simply accept it as a subculture that I'm a part of. There are all kinds of commuters. There are those who drive solo, they're usually talking incessantly in their Bluetooth headsets, shaking their heads and gesturing as though the person on the other end of the call can see them. Then there are the carpools. Some casual, some arranged. The person in the back seat is usually reading the paper, while the person riding shotgun figures out how many more times they can listen to the same play list the driver has plugged into his stereo. Finally, there are those who take public transit. Although I sometimes fall into the previous two categories, public transit is my mode of choice.

I have the options of a bus, a train or a boat, or a combination. Each has it's pros and cons. The buses available to me are quite nice. They are the result of a nice pork package courtesy of our local Congressional Representative. Pork has never been so nice. The coach buses have nice plush seats, and a luggage area below if you have a bike or shopping cart. And as long as you don't look through the wind shield you won't get carsick.

The bus can be taken all the way to the City or to the light rail system. Light rail in the Bay Area is called BART. BART can be very interesting. There's what I call BART theatre, which are those uncomforatable moments when people talk to themselves, fight, make out, or inexplicably recite a soliloquy. The down side to BART is that it is often crowded during commute time. But, one can still read by holding on to a pole with the crook of your arm while holding your book or magazine. This brings me to my favorite part about any public transit. I could never read while I drive. I could never sleep while I drive either. I couldn't crochet, organize my backpack, review my calendar, make a grocery list or drink alcohol. The latter option is possible when taking the ferry.

To me, the ferry is the most civilized mode of travel. There are tables to work on, a snack bar that also serves cocktails, a bicycle rack, coat hooks and nice scenery. It's relatively safe to fall asleep and it doesn't take long before the crew knows you by name. To celebrate my new job, I treated myself to a new bike helmet and thermos. I can't wait to enjoy a daily journey to and from the world. It always makes home, where ever that is at the moment feel that much more special.

It's a new world

2009-01-21T12:23:00.000-08:00

Maybe it is, and maybe it isn't. But it certainly feels like a new world. Has anything really changed? Not really. Unemployment is still inching toward double digits. Naysayers are revving up for a new front. We still have two wars. But America has just been told that this is a "new era of responsibility." So it does feel like a new world.

2009-01-02T21:49:00.000-08:00

Happy New Year!

Yes, it's a new year. This is the year we inaugurate our first President of color. One of the things I usually hate about the week between Christmas and New Year, is the inevitable retrospectives on television and in print. This season was the exception. Reliving President-Elect Obama's victory over and over again on various news programs never got old, and never ceased to make me misty. His election is the event that I hope defines many generations to come. And the exuberance of that moment will be something I will always cherish.

And, I can't help but feel hopeful. Even though the economy is tanking, jobs are harder to come by, and an endless war rages in the Holy Land, I feel like things are about to happen. Great things. Amazing things. Things that we knew could happen but were not brave enough to make happen. I think that's what I always hope for...the ability to do really brave things.

Speaking of brave things, this will also be the year I blow off my 20th class reunion. Nobody liked me in high school anyway. Of course, that won't keep me from trying to loose 40 pounds by summer just in case I decide to change my mind.

So here's to a new year, a new president and hope for the opportunity to be brave.

E Pluribus Unum

2009-01-01T23:21:00.000-08:00

This is from a recent writing assignment. For what, I will not say, but I so enjoyed the process, that I decided to post it here as well. Happy New Year!

E Pluribus Unum, Out of many, one. This American motto chosen by Charles Thornson, has been in use since 1795. It is a phrase, seen passively on notes used for debts, both public and private, and it encapsulates the nature of American culture and society.

The idea of American democracy is based in convergence. E Pluribus Unum is an acknowledgment that, as a country, we are not all alike; an understanding that we do not come from a common race, ethnicity or religion. Thus, we seek to be unified by ideas, concepts, and values that are not predestined. E Pluribus Unum is a summons to seek out collective understanding via discourse, informal dialogue, and individual expression. In this democratic society, the pursuit of such a collective understanding is an exercise we rely upon to come together as a people.

Collective understanding is based in multiple perspectives and disciplines. Perspectives range from the intellectual to the social to the personal to the artistic. And in the conglomeration of these ideas, patterns emerge and are repeated until they are recognizable as indicators of culture.

Media and art represent two modes of distribution for ideas. Media, or Press as referred to in the First Amendment of the United States Constitution, is designated to provide truth-based information to freethinking citizens for interpretation, discussion, and action. Media provides narrative, but media also offers opinion, and it is through public opinion that collective understanding is gauged. Thus, media can be a powerful instrument of influence.

If Media provides a narrative, then art offers perspective. Art conveys complex messages by appealing to our senses, be they visual, auditory, sensory, olfactory, or even taste.

To understand a democratic society that is E Pluribus Unum, one must be able to understand multiple perspectives. Because our democratic society seeks out equality, not just for people, but also for ideas, it is necessary to see those ideas from the originator’s point of view, both intellectually and emotionally. Art allows us to venture from that which is purely intellectual, to a hybrid of thought and emotion. Art is perspective, art is insight, art implies that which is unsaid and often offers vibrant opinions.

Comfort and Joy

2008-12-26T10:57:00.000-08:00

Good writing is good thinking. In order to be a good writer, one must have organized thoughts and an idea of how to traverse those thoughts in order to reach a point that is already predetermined in the mind. Not being able to think well impedes the process. This I believe is the nature of writer's block. It's something I've experienced periodically. I hate it when I can't think straight. It makes me uneasy and frazzled.

At Burning Man there's a camp known as Comfort and Joy. In 2007, a young man who was deeply depressed chose to take his life there by hanging himself from their dome structure. Nobody from the camp knew him, but that didn't make it any less tragic. The message boards after the burn were filled at first with messages from the young man's friends who lost track of him on the playa, and then with messages of support and sympathy from the rest of the community.

This year, "tidings of comfort and joy" have taken on significant meaning. As I see those around me beginning to struggle in this economy, desperately grasping for a sense of security, I can't help but wish tidings of comfort and joy. It's fundamental to what we really need and want. Comfort in knowing that we can make it through this crisis. Joy in the things we do have. Comfort in our own shrewdness and capabilities. Joy in our ability to employ them for the benefit of those we care for. Contrary to one sad soul's demise, Comfort and Joy is not a place to succumb to burdens or adversity. Comfort and Joy is the place we go to confront them; a place to organize ideas in one's mind in such a way that everything makes sense. And even if it doesn't make sense, at least we hope for such a place for others. So, to my friends and whomever else may come across these words, I wish good tidings of Comfort and Joy in the New Year. It's the best wish I can imagine right now.

And the inevitable flip-flop

2008-12-22T08:51:00.000-08:00

Yes. I believe that we have largely looked to consumerism as a method of gratification. But I left out a few caveats. As much as I like being frugal, I also very much enjoy nice things. Not that I indulge in such things on a regular basis, but given the opportunity, I love a good meal served in courses, well made shoes and clothing, and even domestic help.

Do I feel I deserve such things? Maybe, to a degree. I must admit there is gratification in knowing that I've been able to purchase a home, have a good car, and a decent computer. The reason I'm considering such things at the moment is a new blog on the Daily Beast, The Bag Lady Papers by Alexandra Penney.

Ms. Penny had made it. She worked, and accomplished, and created a life that I could aspire to. And, it all disappeared in what turned out to be a Ponce Scheme. And I can't help but feel her pain. I don't know if this is empathy, or sympathy, but I know that I've also worked very hard to be where I am today, and I have also been at the brink of losing what I've worked for. Such a loss is a shock at best, and a devastating blow. Ms Penney's blight is a good reminder for me to be thankful for what I have but to still aspire to do and be more.

Flip-Flop

Some things I just can't make up...

2008-12-16T22:33:00.000-08:00

BigHappyHair.com . This falls into this category. This is the website for a commercial I saw tonight on cable tv, offering a gadget that gives flat hair an instant Lisa Marie lift a la Sara Palin. As though we have nothing else to worry our little heads about.

Just the utterance of the website name, sent me into a snide cackle. The absurdity of such a product isn't enough. It has to have a website name that accompanies it that implies a body part, that is actually made up of dead cells can feel emotion. This of course begs the question, what happens if our hair is sad? Now, some days, I do have bad hair, which is in fact sad for me, because my hair is short with a lot of wave, so when it's bad I tend to look like a Mexican Q-Tip.

Why would someone need Big Happy Hair? Maybe to hide increasing insecurities we recognize that this is not a drill. The economy really is in trouble. And despite multiple years of being coaxed into a fearful state by alerts in a rainbow of colors, we weren't entirely equipped for a real crisis. Because this is more than a financial crisis. This is a crisis on our national identity. Consumerism is more than an approach to economics, it's our culture. And, compulsive consumerism, which has been allowed to burgeon uninhibited became an accepted path to euphoric gratification. So go ahead and make your hair happy America!

Except, these quick fixes may not work anymore. I honestly hope they don't. I hope that a different norm wins out, that we decide what we do for our community and for others is more important than what we have. I hope we realize that our desire for things hasn't made us any bigger or happier than our hair could be. Because the reality is, that this happy hair devise is simply a ruse, designed to makes something you have look like more than it is. And in the same way, we have looked to the things we have to make us more than we are, or rather more than we choose to be.

Knowing what you don't know...

2008-12-15T09:22:00.000-08:00

A shoe was thrown at the President during a press conference in Iraq.

To which the President says, "What do I care if someone throws a shoe at me?"

He should care. He should care that Iraqis have taken to the streets by the thousands in support of their new national hero shoe hurler. He should care that gestures such as this are not as casually given as our favorite one finger salute. In fact, usually such a gesture results swords or automatic weapons being drawn. These are the makings of clan warfare not unlike it's cousin gang warfare, because in American gang culture there are similar gang sign gestures that have the same response.

So what does this mean about the stature of our outgoing President? Does it mean that he is now seen to be no more than a common thug in this part of the world. Or does his question reflect a glaring wanton ignorance that not only led to this war, but will prove to be the legacy that the President is desperately trying to fabricate?

A shoe was thrown at the President during a press conference in Iraq.

2008-12-08T07:55:00.000-08:00

Yes, the holidays are upon us. Call me sentimental, but there is a familiar feel to this year's season that I haven't felt for a long, long time. I was born in 1971. I can remember the Carter recession, long gas lines, and advertisements in grocery stores that identified them as "inflation fighters." The ad that comes to mind was a huge screen print poster of a woman cracking the word "INFLATION" in half with a rolling pin.

In those days we shopped at K-Mart where the novelty was that everything was made in China. And Christmas then meant maybe one toy we asked for and then a lot of kick-knacks. We always got pajamas, and on a good year slippers too. Stocking-stuffers included hair ribbons, Q-tip swabs, a toothbrush, and my mother's special care package that had an apple, a tangerine, hard ribbon candy and mixed nuts.

As the current financial crisis continues, I can't help but be encourage by an increase in what I consider sanity to holiday purchases. The frenzy seems to be gone, and in it's place thoughtfulness has re-emerged as consumers carefully consider how to spend the money they actually have as opposed to a ridiculous amount of credit used in years past. Gift giving, with the absence of credit just may regain its soul, and in turn so might the holiday season.

And the holidays are upon us...

2008-11-28T11:10:00.000-08:00

And we're off. Thanksgiving left overs are smartly stacked in the fridge, and someone has already been killed, literally, in a stampede at a Long Island Walmart. (Sigh)

Shopping in a Depressed Economy

2008-11-17T10:07:00.000-08:00

The economy is depressed. It's been running around in sweats, leaving the house without socks on, sleeping a lot, and eating ice cream strait out of the carton--no scratch that, ice cream is too expensive.

Shopping in a depressed economy is stressful. I am by nature a frugal shopper. I will often go without or make due with what I have. I don't as a practice buy name brand groceries, and I improvise a lot. This I know has not been the norm in recent years. Most recently, we were encouraged to spend, consume, gratify, pamper, and spoil. But that binge is over and now we have an economic hangover. The American public is hugging the toilet, hurling with much regret and even remorse that we thought living beyond our means was sustainable.

So now we need to transition from that destructive practice and I've seen a palpable change in the market place. The spell is broken and suddenly people are beginning to think in terms of what they need as opposed to what they want. I've seen it in the grocery line most.

I do the bulk of my shopping at a grocery close-out store, where there aren't tabloid headlines to entertain me as I wait in line. So I've become a grocery voyeur. I'm always interested in what other people buy. I've noticed that like me, people are buying more ingredients than prepared food and more staples like potatoes and rice than snacks like chips and cookies. And everyone has a new look of stress. Not the kind of stress that comes from being over committed in social activities, but the kind of stress that comes from fear. People are genuinely scared, despite our recent election of Hope. It's the kind of fear from the realization that maybe we got carried away, and maybe some of us knew better.

There's a point when drinking alcohol between tipsy and drunk, where if you stop right there, and start drinking water, you wont have a hangover, and probably wont embarrass yourself. I think this is what could be called drinking in moderation. And it's this same point that we need to learn to recognize to avoid future economic hangovers. Yes, now, people will be forced to spend less because of the lack of availability of credit, but the important thing is to realize where excess begins.

Maybe this is just a cycle that we have to go through, but I actually hope that some of us not only learn this lesson, but pass it along.

Remembering Erma Bombeck

2008-11-13T09:05:00.000-08:00

Remember Erma Bombeck? She wrote a syndicated column that was eventually turned into a series of books. I came across one of these books in tenth grade, and was immediately enamored. It was the first time I realized that women can be smart and funny. She was the best kind of feminist. She acknowledged the heroism of women but made a woman's struggle humorous. Erma's strength was her humor, and it's only now that I realize that she is probably the source of my belief that as women we should be smart and strong.

I was reminded of Erma today after reading Tina Brown's article about Sarah Palin where she wonders, "Sarah, who does look after the kids?"

I wondered the same thing. I work full time, I have two kids less than Sarah Palin, I have parents and a partner who pitch in, but I'm still exhausted. There are times, when I pull out the Golden Lasso, and for a brief moment believe I'd look great in a bustier on an Invisable Plane but, I've come to realize that doing it all usually means something or someone will suffer. Sometimes it's the house, that hasn't had a proper dusting in a month. Other times it's the dog who looks longingly at her leash. And yes, sometimes it's the kids, who go to school without socks on, not because they don't have clean ones, but because they don't have the time or patience to dig in the communal sock bin for a pair that matches.

As women, we no doubt do amazing heroic things every day. But as women, we also sacrifice more. Some might want me to give up my feminist card for stating this, but it's true. And that ability to sacrifice turns back on our heroism. This makes me wonder what would have happened had Sarah Palin said, "no thanks, my family is stretched enough." Sadly that's not what happened. Thus, I'm reminded of a passage by Erma Bombeck where she ridicules a magazine spread that celebrates the woman that can do it all.

She wrote about how the pictures were absurd with the woman on the job site in a suit reading blue prints, her yellow shoes smartly matching her yellow hard hat, and then in the next picture at home the kids were lovingly setting the table...it's a myth. Bombeck reflected that the pictures failed to show what really happens before dinner, when she was running around trying to defrost pork chops under her armpits. This of course was before microwaves were such a vital part of life.

Yes, as women we have to do so much more, especially when we have a family. And because of this, if we are ambitious, if we put something else first, the family will suffer. Fair? No. Realistic? Sadly, yes.

I kind of like Laura Bennett's approach to this conundrum. If you're family already feels neglected, they won't notice the difference. And it's not that I believe Laura is a neglectful mother, but that she raises her brood to be more independent and not require a doting mother. Doting is fine in spurts, but as I lay in bed, typing this on my laptop, my ten-year-old is dutifully making his own lunch for school. Of course, I'll check to be sure it contains more than a pudding cup and a juice box, but I know when this kid is on his own in 8 years, goddess willing, he'll be fine. He won't screw up his laundry, and will have the good sense to pack a peanut butter sandwich when he leaves the house.

2008-11-06T09:58:00.000-08:00

I think there was a world wide moment of disbelief when at 11:00PM the media called the Presidential Election for Barack Obama Tuesday night. And then, the world erupted in tears and jubilation. Most telling to me was a man I saw on TV in Grant Park. His hands were to his mouth, and his expression was pure awe, a combination of fear and amazement.

America had indeed changed. I've spoken to a lot of people. And no one can remember anything that caused so many people to run into the streets and hug each other in spontaneous celebration. The closest, I'm told was V-day.

And Americans it seems are eager for this change. President Elect Obama's words of sacrifice and cohesive work for the next chapter of our history was embraced by a crowd that chanted "Yes We Can!" As it turns out, we want to be challenged. We want to accomplish. We want to be inventive, clever, smart, and the leader of innovation and new ideas of how to do things.

What strikes me the most is that the success of President Elect Obama's campaign, is based largely on empowerment. His volunteers were told they could be a part of change. They were given tools and entrusted to spread that message. And they did. This was a lesson that given the opportunity, the American public is up to what ever challenge is set before them. Given the opportunity, Americans will coalesce in creative ways. They will form alliances and work for a common goal.

I suppose at this point my hope is that that spirit of cohesion will not be lost but will continue and perhaps even become a new norm of unity, where we work together, accepting the best everyone has to offer in order to seek out that Perfect Union.

NO ON 8!!!!

2008-11-03T17:36:00.000-08:00

This is just an FYI. I was horrified today to see that my Adsense ad was a Yes on Prop 8, which is the ban againsts gay marriage in California. So I removed my adsense until after the election.

I am vehemently against Prop 8. The state should not be able to dictate who one loves and how one wishes to live. The will and desire to be united with someone should be open to every person regardless of race, creed, religion, or orientation. If you are a California voter, please vote NO on Prop 8

And speaking of souls...

2008-11-02T20:21:00.000-08:00

I've found that as an adult child of aging parents, I have a number of duties that are expected of me. These range from dealing with my parent's rental properties, to finding a trustworthy cleaning lady to driving them anytime they need to go out of town. The last one I imposed myself. I'm just not comfortable with my 73-year-old mother driving anyplace more than 5 miles away.

So, because of this self imposed duty, it falls to me to drive my folks to see their closest relatives. In my mother's case, this means the grave of her grandmother who raised her. We go to her cemetery usually twice a year. As a kid, I can only remember going there once. We were there for another funeral, and I remember we had a hard time finding the grave because at the time of her death, my parents couldn't afford a headstone. At some point after I was well into adulthood, this was rectified, and she now as an adequate marker with an engraving of the Virgin of Guadeloupe and a picture of her from my mothers wedding. My mother used that picture because she said it was the only one she had of my great grandmother smiling.
We drive about 60 minutes so we can stand and admire the headstone and leave some flowers. Since my mother has developed arthritis in her knees, it falls to me to get down on my hands and knees to clean things up and arrange the flowers. I don't mind doing it. All I've ever known of this woman is from the stories my mother has told me. It's feels good to have a connection to Soledad, which was her name, but she was called Chula.

Over the years I've learned a lot about Chula. She was married at a young age to man in Mexico, but then abandoned for her lack of ability to produce a child. As an abandoned woman she "did what abandoned women do," is what my mother said. She had affairs, and was a quereida, or mistress of a Mexican General. This was apparently how my grandmother was conceived. She was Chula's only child, and her name was Cuca.

I don't know if Cuca was born on this side or that side of the boarder. Apparently in those days the idea of the Mexican boarder was kind of ambiguous. What I do know is that Chula and Cuca remained with the larger family clan. Chula had multiple siblings and they all traveled and worked together in agriculture. And this is how Cuca met my grandfather, working in the spinach fields of Chrystal City, Texas. The best I can tell, in those days, my grandfather was kind of a slacker. He was prone to "headaches" and would leave the field before the workday ended, but then would be well enough in the evening to serenade my grandmother outside her window. Apparently he was very handsome, but known as a ne're do well. My mother said that among the worst of his transgressions was the knowledge that he regularly smoked pot.

But love is love I suppose, and Cuca married him. It wasn't long before my mother was born in a migrant worker barrio. I don't know what Cuca's marriage was like, if she was happy, or really what kind of mother she was. She died of Tuberculosis when my mother was only two. What I do know is that after Cuca's death, she was buried in Chrystal City. I've been to her grave once. Cuca's grave marker is worn and nolonger bears her name, but is recognizable by a heart that is part of its design.

After Cuca died, my grandfather took my mother to live with his family. But, Chula, who had been abandoned as a wife and only had but one illegitimate child was not going to lose her only grandchild as well. Through a family member, she threatened to have my grandfather deported for being a pot smoker. He gave up his child to her and fled back to Mexico. And that's how it came to be that my mother was raised by her grandmother.

Chula's grave is in an older part of one of the California Mission cemetaries. Many of the graves that surround her are long forgotten. And, it occurred to me today, that when that time comes for my own mother, her grave will likely be many miles away from this graveyard. Chula's children will be scattered from here to Texas and likely beyond. But despite this, I know that Chula's spirit and strength are not lost. My boys who are the descendants of this abandoned woman who never gave up, have her shrewdness. And this, I know is her legacy. I'm sure of it.

Hijacked Halloween

2008-11-01T09:46:00.000-07:00

I like Halloween. I like the idea of being creative, embracing an alter ego and giving out candy. In my house we have a strict rule about Halloween candy. My kids are allowed to eat it till they get sick. The same rule applies for Christmas and Easter.

This year we decided to be one of the cool houses. Not only did we give out regular sized Reece's Peanut Butter Cups, but we also gave glowing bracelets and necklaces. The ooo's and wow's we got out of that were totally worth it.

In the morning, as my kids were treating their sugar hangovers with more candy, they came across what looked like a novelty fake $1,000,000 bill. Upon further inspection though, we found that this was in fact a religious tract. Normally I don't have a problem with this. A church on a street I use to Trick or Treat on as a kid gave out miniature versions of the book of John. I always felt that to be more of a gesture than the iniquitous swag that found it's way to my kid's bag of treats. What my kid got was far more nefarious. One doesn't expect a treat to include the words, "[G]od sees you as a lying, thieving, blasphemous, adulterer at heart. The Bible warns that if you are guilty you will end up in Hell. That's not God's will." As my husband read this out loud, in his best scary political ad voice, my boys collapsed in giggles.

On the one hand, Trick or Treating by it's nature is a gamble. You're always gonna end up with at least one granola bar or worse, raisins. But I'm almost sure that if I threw in literature about my heathenish ways, or even just something about the Guiding Principles of Burning Man, I would no doubt be the object of much disdain.

I suppose in some ways, since Halloween is All Souls Eve, in theory, saving souls is part of the celebration. But, stern warnings about adultery are not quite what I had in mind. In our house moral guidance is more along the lines of do unto others, leave no trace and don't be evil. I wasn't aware that Halloween had become the repent or go to Hell holiday. Maybe I need to keep up. Then again, maybe not.

I believe, for this instance my family acts as good Americans. We consider Halloween to be a chance for kids of all ages to be silly, imagine themselves in another way, play tricks, watch tacky and gory B flicks and get free candy. We'll pick another day to worry about the kid's souls.

On taxes

2008-10-30T08:09:00.000-07:00

So lets be clear about taxes. Why is paying taxes so wrong? We have a crumbling infrastructure, failing schools, disenfranchised youth who become criminals and eat up more tax money as criminals, and bankrupt cities. Personally I'm willing to go without and pay a little more to have a better quality of life. I'm willing to pay for children to get a top notch education so that they become great contributors and innovators in society. I think it's a good idea to fund public transportation, specifically high speed rail. And health care, I believe should be a right.

If we all prosper together won't we prosper as a nation? Does capitalism require that we live in a land of haves and have nots? Does wanting people to have what they deserve as humans, make me a bad person...a socialist?

One of the things I actually like about elections is that we get to see the naked insecurity rot by political philosophy, through disingenuous prose and media. A lot can be learned by paying attention to how a political campaign plays on emotions. This is especially true in the current election cycle. And unfortunately for them, it seems that the Republican Party has drastically underestimated the American voter's ability to free themselves from a knee-jerk emotional response to that of thoughtful consideration.

Keep up with the class!

2008-10-29T09:15:00.000-07:00

I read today, that Senator John McCain is just now learning how to send email and use the internet. I can't begin to express how disturbing this is. Yes, I realize that this reeks of ageism, but it seems to me if you are going for the top job in the land, you should have the required skills. And in this generation the skills are not in stasis but a constant state of change.

We email on our computers, our phones, we keep digital diaries, we cross reference news articles with video feeds, and look each other up on Google. Accessing information is now a way of life. And while the value of much of the information that is being exchanged is in debate, it is considered a basic necessity to know how to do these things.

There is much to be learned from our senior citizens. We should value their knowledge and experience. But participating in society is increasingly dependent on technology. Considering someone for leadership who is not up to this now most basic task is simply tragic.

Why I'm voting for Obama

2008-10-26T20:49:00.000-07:00

Two years ago, I went to my state Democratic Convention. This was when there were still 8 candidates in the primary and they all wanted to make an impression, and most of them did.

I was yet to make up my mind at that time, so I tried to be somewhat objective. Bill Richardson was smart and obviously qualified, but I knew he had little chance. Hillary commanded the room and the moment she walked it. She was a force and I was impressed. And Barrack Obama was charismatic and eloquent, but I didn't get the same feeling I got with Hillary. So, I made my choice. I proudly wore my Hillary T-shirt, and put her name on my bumper. I'll admit, I was bitter when she didn't get the nomination. I really wanted her to be president.

I'll also admit that I did not immediately jump on the Obama band wagon. He had my vote, but I had no excitement for him as a candidate until the debates. What Barrack Obama failed to do for me during the primaries, he more than made up for in the debates and the campaign after. I saw a candidate who is thoughtful, methodical, and smart...real smart. And then I learned a little more about him as a person. Despite the Republican's every (wo)man approach, I feel much more of a connection with Barrack Obama's determined rise via an unpriviledged life. Despite his time as an Academic, he does not appear to be so far removed from the modest life that led him to this point.
As a writer, I've never cared for the phrase, a picture is worth a thousand words. In truth I prefer the words. But this picture says it all for me. The caption from this picture stated that Senator Obama said he had already had these shoes resoled once on this campaign, and that was all I needed to know; that despite his education, and experience, he is still sensible enough to know that problems have sensible solutions. It might be inconvenient to resole shoes, but it's sensible. And, beyond that it shows a sense of value that we seem to have lost in recent years. I believe we are more likely to replace things than to fix and reuse them as though we are a country of spoiled brats. Having a leader who will resole his shoes is a sober reminder that maybe we shouldn't want to be like Paris Hilton. Maybe we should want to be more like our grandparents who lived through the Depression, and WWII and learned to tap cleverness and ingenuity from those experiences. Personally, I would be very proud if my grand kids were amazed at what my generation accomplishes. I hope I can tell them, "we elected one of our nation's greatest presidents."