The essay below was written in 1879 by Senator George Graham Vest. At the time, he had been hired by a plaintiff that was suing his neighbor for having killed his dog. For anyone who is a dog lover, this is the best piece of writing about man's best friend.
______________________________
Tribute to the Dog
The best friend a man has in the world may turn against him and become his enemy. His son or daughter that he has reared with loving care may prove ungrateful. Those who are nearest and dearest to us, those whom we trust with our happiness and our good name may become traitors to their faith. The money that a man has, he may lose. It flies away from him, perhaps when he needs it most. A man's reputation may be sacrificed in a moment of ill-considered action. The people who are prone to fall on their knees to do us honor when success is with us may be the first to throw the stone of malice when failure settles its cloud upon our heads.
The one absolutely unselfish friend that a man can have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts him, the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous is his dog. A man's dog stands by him in prosperity and in poverty, in health and in sickness. He will sleep on the cold ground, where the wintry winds blow and the snow falls fiercely, if only he may be near his master's side. He will kiss the hand that has no food to offer; he will lick the wounds and sores that come in encounter with the roughness of the world. He guards the sleep of his pauper master as if he were a prince. When all other friends desert, he remains. When riches take wings, and reputation falls to pieces, he is as constant in his love as the sun in its journey through the heavens.
If fortune drives the master forth an outcast in the world, friendless and homeless, the faithful dog asks no higher privilege than that of accompanying him, to guard him against danger, to fight against his enemies. And when the last scene of all comes, and death takes his master in its embrace and his body is laid away in the cold ground, no matter if all other friends pursue their way, there by the graveside will the noble dog be found, his head between his paws, his eyes sad, but open in alert watchfulness, faithful and true even in death.
- Senator George Graham Vest, 1879
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Vote for the light to change
In this uncertain time, reeking of financial mismanagement, unemployment, higher inflation and insecurity, there is a cry across the land for change. In a week, we will vote in likely the most contentious election in the past eight years. Obama’s mantra is “Vote for Change.” One need not vote specifically for change. Change just happens.
Voting for change is nice. His is a catchy phrase that his public relations folks, who are surely paid exorbitant sums of money because he can afford it, most likely invented. Or in this case, better yet, reinvented. Change is all around us in many different ways.
This financial crisis came on suddenly. Still to this day, I really don’t understand it. The government can’t explain it to me nor can the CEO’s who drove their business to bankruptcy and walked away with millions. The last time I heard the term derivatives, I think I was in high school dreaming about Christie Brinkley. Shorts? Bermudas. But, these terms led to a crisis that changed my lifestyle. It is Publix chicken instead of Perdue on our barbecue. Now, I act like my father and chase after everyone at home to shut off all the lights (I guess there was a method to that madness). I buy toothpaste and toilet paper in bulk, when on sale, because neither go bad. Energy saving lightbulbs are being phased in throughout the house. They give off this nice, white, nuclear-like glow in each room. I’ve put the dishwasher on normal wash instead of heavy. Who knows if this saves a lot of energy or water. At least I feel good because I think I’m on the green bandwagon now. Hopefully it runs on ethanol or hydrogen and not gas.
There are other changes, quicker and more subtle, all around me. Lights change from green to red on the street. Of course, if mine turns red, I’ll curse the guy for going slowing down and because I’m from Boston, it’s what we do up there. Seasons change. We have two in Miami, damn hot and hot.
It was once thought that drinking alcohol was bad for you. If done in moderation, now, it is not a problem. Drinking one glass of red wine is now encouraged as it lowers cholesterol. Coffee was once shunned. Yet, today, it is believed that one or two cups a day can be healthy. Juan Valdez’s lobbyists may have been behind this study. I also figure if one or two cups are healthy, then eight or nine have to be even better.
We used to be told that red meat was unhealthy and had to be cut out of our diet to lose weight. The vegans were surely spitting blood angry when along came Dr. Atkins. For years, his diet has been considered one of the best for losing weight. And on the eighth day, joy fell upon every carnivore in the land. Actually, drinking wine to lower cholesterol while eating the equivalent of two cows is like the intersection of health and well-being. What a change!
Plaid was out with the end of the 70’s, but happily kept alive by some lumberjacks. Along came grunge and then it was in fashion again. That music has now gone the way of plaid, although I’m told in some corners of Vermont they still listen to Soundgarden and Nirvana.
Living together before marriage was once considered a sin. Now, whether you are straight, gay or other, it is quietly approved. It has done nothing for the divorce rate, though.
The Red Sox lose for eighty six years and we New Englanders felt like the most cursed fans. Then the Sox changed, went out and won the World Series twice in three years. Today, we are spoiled.
When I look around at all the things I’d like to change, I question whether I really want to. Change just comes naturally, in every aspect of my life, whether I'm in control of it or not. I know the resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue will change in January. And it's true, the only thing that is constant is change and I don't even have to vote for it.
Voting for change is nice. His is a catchy phrase that his public relations folks, who are surely paid exorbitant sums of money because he can afford it, most likely invented. Or in this case, better yet, reinvented. Change is all around us in many different ways.
This financial crisis came on suddenly. Still to this day, I really don’t understand it. The government can’t explain it to me nor can the CEO’s who drove their business to bankruptcy and walked away with millions. The last time I heard the term derivatives, I think I was in high school dreaming about Christie Brinkley. Shorts? Bermudas. But, these terms led to a crisis that changed my lifestyle. It is Publix chicken instead of Perdue on our barbecue. Now, I act like my father and chase after everyone at home to shut off all the lights (I guess there was a method to that madness). I buy toothpaste and toilet paper in bulk, when on sale, because neither go bad. Energy saving lightbulbs are being phased in throughout the house. They give off this nice, white, nuclear-like glow in each room. I’ve put the dishwasher on normal wash instead of heavy. Who knows if this saves a lot of energy or water. At least I feel good because I think I’m on the green bandwagon now. Hopefully it runs on ethanol or hydrogen and not gas.
There are other changes, quicker and more subtle, all around me. Lights change from green to red on the street. Of course, if mine turns red, I’ll curse the guy for going slowing down and because I’m from Boston, it’s what we do up there. Seasons change. We have two in Miami, damn hot and hot.
It was once thought that drinking alcohol was bad for you. If done in moderation, now, it is not a problem. Drinking one glass of red wine is now encouraged as it lowers cholesterol. Coffee was once shunned. Yet, today, it is believed that one or two cups a day can be healthy. Juan Valdez’s lobbyists may have been behind this study. I also figure if one or two cups are healthy, then eight or nine have to be even better.
We used to be told that red meat was unhealthy and had to be cut out of our diet to lose weight. The vegans were surely spitting blood angry when along came Dr. Atkins. For years, his diet has been considered one of the best for losing weight. And on the eighth day, joy fell upon every carnivore in the land. Actually, drinking wine to lower cholesterol while eating the equivalent of two cows is like the intersection of health and well-being. What a change!
Plaid was out with the end of the 70’s, but happily kept alive by some lumberjacks. Along came grunge and then it was in fashion again. That music has now gone the way of plaid, although I’m told in some corners of Vermont they still listen to Soundgarden and Nirvana.
Living together before marriage was once considered a sin. Now, whether you are straight, gay or other, it is quietly approved. It has done nothing for the divorce rate, though.
The Red Sox lose for eighty six years and we New Englanders felt like the most cursed fans. Then the Sox changed, went out and won the World Series twice in three years. Today, we are spoiled.
When I look around at all the things I’d like to change, I question whether I really want to. Change just comes naturally, in every aspect of my life, whether I'm in control of it or not. I know the resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue will change in January. And it's true, the only thing that is constant is change and I don't even have to vote for it.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Smoking prejudice
We stand on a precipice and look across. Over there, on the other side, is a black President, the culmination of decades and centuries of battling and overcoming prejudice. Many feel if we cross and elect a President who is black, it will finally eradicate hundreds of years of prejudice.
Prejudices are universal and many. We carry them overtly or hide them behind closed doors, whether we can admit it or not. You may feel that Hispanics are taking advantage of us, or that Muslims are all terrorists, every Southerner is country, women should be home, or maybe smokers should be shunned.
For better or worse, I am a smoker and have been for years. I’ve had to endure lectures, insults in public, dirty looks and ostracism. I am sure that I have offended people by the smoky smell of my clothes in meetings, restaurants or public places. Although I am addicted to a bad habit, I was not born this way. I took up smoking on my own volition and today pay the price for it.
Smoking has been proven to be harmful, yet I still enjoy my cigarettes. When I write, I feel looser with my thoughts. During my drives, I am more relaxed and it may even help me avoid road rage (now wouldn’t that be a great study?!). If I have a glass of wine or two I’ll smoke. They make a perfect complement to a cup of coffee in the morning.
For work I travel a lot in airplanes. It is interesting how one can easily pick out who the smokers were on a flight after landing. They are the ones dodging people and suitcases, not holding doors for others and walking faster than those on the moving walkways. How do you differentiate a smoker that just got off a plane from a late passenger running to the gate? The direction.
When I came back from Mexico City last week, I was one of those running toward the first exit. But the Miami International airport is very strict – they do not allow smokers on the terminal side of the street. Smokers have go across three lanes of traffic to special areas about 200 feet from the doors. Talk about being singled out.
As is common in Miami, many people try to skirt the rules. They’ll look around to see if the non-smoking enforcers (skycaps) are busy. Then they’ll light up. So, as I wiggled and jiggled expeditiously to the street, I figured I would do the same. I reached the door, looked left and looked right. No problem, I saw another guy smoking. I grabbed a cigarette, took a drag and moved up next to him. I learned that watching National Geographic: the strength in numbers strategy.
A few puffs later, I noticed the skycap moving toward us. Little did I know that the bubble I had lived in for so long was about to be burst. I looked at the guy next to me and we both kind exchanged these looks of, “Damn! We’re about to get booted!”
Then the white skycap was right in front of us, dressed in a typical skycap outfit. He pointed to the black gentleman standing next to me and asked him to go across the street to smoke. Just like that, he turned and walked away to look for his next tip. I was left alone to smoke my cigarette in front of the door. I felt lucky to not have been singled out. Then I slowly walked back inside for my luggage, thinking that a black President would not have changed that skycap's behavior.
Prejudices are universal and many. We carry them overtly or hide them behind closed doors, whether we can admit it or not. You may feel that Hispanics are taking advantage of us, or that Muslims are all terrorists, every Southerner is country, women should be home, or maybe smokers should be shunned.
For better or worse, I am a smoker and have been for years. I’ve had to endure lectures, insults in public, dirty looks and ostracism. I am sure that I have offended people by the smoky smell of my clothes in meetings, restaurants or public places. Although I am addicted to a bad habit, I was not born this way. I took up smoking on my own volition and today pay the price for it.
Smoking has been proven to be harmful, yet I still enjoy my cigarettes. When I write, I feel looser with my thoughts. During my drives, I am more relaxed and it may even help me avoid road rage (now wouldn’t that be a great study?!). If I have a glass of wine or two I’ll smoke. They make a perfect complement to a cup of coffee in the morning.
For work I travel a lot in airplanes. It is interesting how one can easily pick out who the smokers were on a flight after landing. They are the ones dodging people and suitcases, not holding doors for others and walking faster than those on the moving walkways. How do you differentiate a smoker that just got off a plane from a late passenger running to the gate? The direction.
When I came back from Mexico City last week, I was one of those running toward the first exit. But the Miami International airport is very strict – they do not allow smokers on the terminal side of the street. Smokers have go across three lanes of traffic to special areas about 200 feet from the doors. Talk about being singled out.
As is common in Miami, many people try to skirt the rules. They’ll look around to see if the non-smoking enforcers (skycaps) are busy. Then they’ll light up. So, as I wiggled and jiggled expeditiously to the street, I figured I would do the same. I reached the door, looked left and looked right. No problem, I saw another guy smoking. I grabbed a cigarette, took a drag and moved up next to him. I learned that watching National Geographic: the strength in numbers strategy.
A few puffs later, I noticed the skycap moving toward us. Little did I know that the bubble I had lived in for so long was about to be burst. I looked at the guy next to me and we both kind exchanged these looks of, “Damn! We’re about to get booted!”
Then the white skycap was right in front of us, dressed in a typical skycap outfit. He pointed to the black gentleman standing next to me and asked him to go across the street to smoke. Just like that, he turned and walked away to look for his next tip. I was left alone to smoke my cigarette in front of the door. I felt lucky to not have been singled out. Then I slowly walked back inside for my luggage, thinking that a black President would not have changed that skycap's behavior.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Coffee for Evelio
A day or two after moving to Miami, I was desperate for a haircut. Steve, my landlord, was the first person I got to know in Miami. Evelio, was the second. I ran into his barbershop by accident and came away with one important lesson.
Steve had suggested where to get a haircut. He told me of a great place, the best in Miami, that few people knew of. There was a terrific hair stylist with whom he could make an appointment for me. But, I mentally paused on the term hair stylist. A vision played out in my mind of a guy with a lisp, methodically stretching my hair out, cutting it with his clippers, all the while his pinky fingers sticking out. Steve told me the best thing about this place was that it was not far and would cost only $35.00. Calmly, I thanked Steve. I asked for the phone number, told him I’d set it up myself and that simply pointing me in the right direction was more than sufficient. I thanked him and went on my way to find a barber shop with a candy cane.
When I met Evelio the barber for the first time, I saw an old man who appeared to never have had a decent meal to eat in his life. He was softspoken and always seemed to smile. Evelio would wear the white barber flock, his name in cursive, that never had a rogue hair hanging out on it. Evelio's hair way gray and thinning, combed back in his attempt to hide the ongoing loss. It was unlikely, I thought, that he’d go for regular haircuts.
Like so many older Cubans, Evelio never lacked for things about which to complain. But, he had a unique way of conveying annoyance at everything he saw as wrong. Evelio would hesitate, look around before sheepishly admitting that something was bothering him. He would speak just above a whisper after moving closer to my ear, while the blades kept churning to cover up his words. Was it worry that still, fifty years later and in the United States, someone would be listening in that would turn him over to authorities?
Evelio feared the wrath of God and hurricanes too. The barbershop had crosses, rosaries and pictures of the Virgin Mary on the walls. He had a hand painted sign that said, in Spanish, “Paying bills maintains friendships.” Another one said, “CASH ONLY.” He had been cutting hair since he was a young man in Havana. Apparently, he worked at the best barber shop back then and was known throughout the city. Sometimes, as I’d listen to him harken back to his hair cutting all star days, I’d feel sad, as if the time and distance from home blurred realities. It does for all of us.
While waiting for my turn, I would observe this kind old man. For being over 70 he’d move with surprising energy and alacrity. But, he also needed someone to keep reminding him of where he had placed a guard, or oil, or talcum powder. That someone was himself. We all talk to ourselves once in a while and Evelio was no different.
For two years I would go to Evelio’s to get my haircut. His barber shop was located in a run down strip mall on the border of Little Havana. There was a dollar store, a liquor store and a coffee shop, from where I would bring coffee for all that were in there. Sometimes, there would be one or two seemingly homeless guys that would wait their turn outside to sweep Evelio’s floors for a buck or two. His shop was hidden in plain sight under a sign that said, simply, “Barber Shop.” And, it had a candy cane. Sometimes, when I would get bored, I would just go to sit and listen to all the old Cubans yell, scream and complain at Evelio’s. It was entertaining. Except Evelio. He’d whisper something in a person’s ear, but I could not hear him because of the clippers.
I realized one day that there were more friends and visitors at Evelio’s than actual customers. He admitted to me that business was not good. Evelio told me that no one wanted to get a quality haircut anymore, no scissors, shaves or men talk. He’d whisper to me about the new generation being corrupted with blowouts, fades, and things unbecoming nice young men. Then he’d jump back look at me and shrug his shoulders, as if accepting his fate.
One day, I told him that I would be moving to the other side of Miami. See, Miami is a geographically a very large city. The area of Kendall where I had bought a house would be 20 miles west of Evelio’s, as far west as civilization dared go before confronting alligators and other nefarious creatures. Evelio was happy for me as he was for any news that I brought him about my life in Miami. Evelio would shake my hand with both of his, wildly, and a genuine smile across his face.
That day, I didn’t know it would be the last time I would walk out of Evelio’s barbershop. Sure, I was moving but I figured that on my way to and from meetings in the future, I could always stop back at Evelio’s to get my haircut, listen to some stories, laugh a little or drink some jet fuel coffee.
In my new neighborhood, they opened a new Hair Cuttery, at a new mall, with a newly paved parking lot. It was so close, I could walk. It had new paint and a synthetic feel. Pictures of the Virgin Mary were replaced by magazine cut outs for some gel or shampoo. No candycane outside the door. Gripes about life and doctors and politicians and Castro and bills were replaced by music, hair dryers and the credit card machine puking out its receipts. My life had become more hectic and the convience offered by the Hair Cuttery was valuable, even though it cost $20.00.
On occasion, I would think of Evelio and how he was holding up. He was one that always told me to work hard, fight but to never lose my soul. Five or six years later, I happened to drive right past the strip mall where I would first go and get my haircut. Everything was boarded up and for how long, I didn’t know. I had to pull in front Evelio’s window, which was now covered with plywood as if awaiting the fury of a hurricane. Mine was the only car in the parking lot. No homeless. No coffee shop. No dollar store. No more coffee for Evelio. I knew he’d be proud of me for my hard work and how I had fought adversity over the past few years.
Alone in that parking lot, I felt a heaviness that made it difficult to breathe. In five years I had not found one hour to drive to Evelio’s to just say hello. Now, his fate that he had so matter of factly accepted that one day in a spirited matter, had befallen him and he was no where to be found.
Steve had suggested where to get a haircut. He told me of a great place, the best in Miami, that few people knew of. There was a terrific hair stylist with whom he could make an appointment for me. But, I mentally paused on the term hair stylist. A vision played out in my mind of a guy with a lisp, methodically stretching my hair out, cutting it with his clippers, all the while his pinky fingers sticking out. Steve told me the best thing about this place was that it was not far and would cost only $35.00. Calmly, I thanked Steve. I asked for the phone number, told him I’d set it up myself and that simply pointing me in the right direction was more than sufficient. I thanked him and went on my way to find a barber shop with a candy cane.
When I met Evelio the barber for the first time, I saw an old man who appeared to never have had a decent meal to eat in his life. He was softspoken and always seemed to smile. Evelio would wear the white barber flock, his name in cursive, that never had a rogue hair hanging out on it. Evelio's hair way gray and thinning, combed back in his attempt to hide the ongoing loss. It was unlikely, I thought, that he’d go for regular haircuts.
Like so many older Cubans, Evelio never lacked for things about which to complain. But, he had a unique way of conveying annoyance at everything he saw as wrong. Evelio would hesitate, look around before sheepishly admitting that something was bothering him. He would speak just above a whisper after moving closer to my ear, while the blades kept churning to cover up his words. Was it worry that still, fifty years later and in the United States, someone would be listening in that would turn him over to authorities?
Evelio feared the wrath of God and hurricanes too. The barbershop had crosses, rosaries and pictures of the Virgin Mary on the walls. He had a hand painted sign that said, in Spanish, “Paying bills maintains friendships.” Another one said, “CASH ONLY.” He had been cutting hair since he was a young man in Havana. Apparently, he worked at the best barber shop back then and was known throughout the city. Sometimes, as I’d listen to him harken back to his hair cutting all star days, I’d feel sad, as if the time and distance from home blurred realities. It does for all of us.
While waiting for my turn, I would observe this kind old man. For being over 70 he’d move with surprising energy and alacrity. But, he also needed someone to keep reminding him of where he had placed a guard, or oil, or talcum powder. That someone was himself. We all talk to ourselves once in a while and Evelio was no different.
For two years I would go to Evelio’s to get my haircut. His barber shop was located in a run down strip mall on the border of Little Havana. There was a dollar store, a liquor store and a coffee shop, from where I would bring coffee for all that were in there. Sometimes, there would be one or two seemingly homeless guys that would wait their turn outside to sweep Evelio’s floors for a buck or two. His shop was hidden in plain sight under a sign that said, simply, “Barber Shop.” And, it had a candy cane. Sometimes, when I would get bored, I would just go to sit and listen to all the old Cubans yell, scream and complain at Evelio’s. It was entertaining. Except Evelio. He’d whisper something in a person’s ear, but I could not hear him because of the clippers.
I realized one day that there were more friends and visitors at Evelio’s than actual customers. He admitted to me that business was not good. Evelio told me that no one wanted to get a quality haircut anymore, no scissors, shaves or men talk. He’d whisper to me about the new generation being corrupted with blowouts, fades, and things unbecoming nice young men. Then he’d jump back look at me and shrug his shoulders, as if accepting his fate.
One day, I told him that I would be moving to the other side of Miami. See, Miami is a geographically a very large city. The area of Kendall where I had bought a house would be 20 miles west of Evelio’s, as far west as civilization dared go before confronting alligators and other nefarious creatures. Evelio was happy for me as he was for any news that I brought him about my life in Miami. Evelio would shake my hand with both of his, wildly, and a genuine smile across his face.
That day, I didn’t know it would be the last time I would walk out of Evelio’s barbershop. Sure, I was moving but I figured that on my way to and from meetings in the future, I could always stop back at Evelio’s to get my haircut, listen to some stories, laugh a little or drink some jet fuel coffee.
In my new neighborhood, they opened a new Hair Cuttery, at a new mall, with a newly paved parking lot. It was so close, I could walk. It had new paint and a synthetic feel. Pictures of the Virgin Mary were replaced by magazine cut outs for some gel or shampoo. No candycane outside the door. Gripes about life and doctors and politicians and Castro and bills were replaced by music, hair dryers and the credit card machine puking out its receipts. My life had become more hectic and the convience offered by the Hair Cuttery was valuable, even though it cost $20.00.
On occasion, I would think of Evelio and how he was holding up. He was one that always told me to work hard, fight but to never lose my soul. Five or six years later, I happened to drive right past the strip mall where I would first go and get my haircut. Everything was boarded up and for how long, I didn’t know. I had to pull in front Evelio’s window, which was now covered with plywood as if awaiting the fury of a hurricane. Mine was the only car in the parking lot. No homeless. No coffee shop. No dollar store. No more coffee for Evelio. I knew he’d be proud of me for my hard work and how I had fought adversity over the past few years.
Alone in that parking lot, I felt a heaviness that made it difficult to breathe. In five years I had not found one hour to drive to Evelio’s to just say hello. Now, his fate that he had so matter of factly accepted that one day in a spirited matter, had befallen him and he was no where to be found.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Let me speak, forget the duel
It used to be that a man would invite an offender of his name to a duel in order to defend his honor and pride. Or sometimes he’d just shoot him. Alexander Hamilton died this way. This was general accepted practice. Opinions and divergence in beliefs were rarely accepted as they are, supposedly, today.
Of course, duels don't exist today, thank God, for I was involved in an argument that insulted my honor. Two hundred years ago, murder would have been justified although that would have resulted in a very anti-Christmas dinner at Christmastime. All talk about love, peace and brotherhood would have been forgotten.
Most people do not know to what extent America is a wonderfully broad and diverse land. There is such a difference between the Northeast, Southeast, mid-West, California (heretofore known as the land of fruits and nuts), and the only place you need a passport and language skills to travel, Miami. I really do believe, being the ignorant American I supposedly am, we don’t need to leave this country to explore different cultures.
One region in particular, the Southeast, held out its arms and welcomed me for two years as I traveled to many of its cities and towns. I got to know the region as well as can be expected in that time. I will never be a Georgian, Mississippian or Carolinian. I am a New Englander, with a Jewish last name, living in Miami, who happens to be half Spanish. That being said it, I was accepted in the land of Baptists, barbecue, Bubbas and football.
The real South extends from Richmond down to Jacksonville (and no further), west over to Pensacola and into Mobile, then over on to Vicksburg, north to Jackson, up to Memphis, Nashville, Knoxville, Chattanooga, and finally back over to the Carolinas. That’s it. Texas is its own world, as most Texans would gleefully admit. Northern Virginia is not South. Most of Florida is a land that God forgot, except the Tampa area. Kentucky is, well, Kentucky. Today’s Mason Dixon line is not what it once was.
So, while I recalled and bored most at Christmas dinner with how lucky I was to have traveled extensively throughout the real South, some invitees were kind enough to show mild amusement, others continued to dive into my mom’s lamb, potatoes and salad with pure Christmastime delight.
As the wine began lifting my spirits I let the tongue leash loose just a bit. The conversation up to that point had been superficial and had followed some United Nations, Robert’s Rules of Order mode, given that some of us were getting to know one another. But, wanting to move away from such superficiality and fancy prep school formalities, I decided to pepper my thoughts with some observations about our brethren in the South, and in particular Georgia.
I am a great admirer of the city of Atlanta, also known as the New York City of the South, Georgians, and their history. Stone Mountain, Augusta, the woods and hills, Okefenokee and beautiful Savannah are but a few of the places of pride in Georgia. The people are warm and always greet you with a smile, whether on the Hertz bus, at the store, or walking down Peachtree Avenue. But, I also lit a fuse, not really on purpose, when I stated that the only problem with Georgia is that once you step outside of the greater Metro Atlanta area, it becomes white sheets and cross burning country.
I have met Georgians that had been preachers in Alaska, converting Eskimos to some kind of Christianity. Others told stories of tramping off into the woods for beer and crawfish parties and not coming back for days. One or two told me they are not racists but just don’t like blacks. Some detest Northerners and never want to meet another. And Bubba is a real name. A friend in Macon told me to never again serve Georgians bagels, fruit, milk and juice for breakfast. Gritting his teeth, he said, “These are Southern boys, grits for them.” I have sat on the porch of a general store in a rocking chair somewhere in the Georgian countryside while taking a break from motorcycle riding, sipping a lemonade, and watched a 50 something year old woman come screaming into the parking lot in a 1976 Ford pickup, stumble out of it in a ripped and dirty tank top, run in to the store and run back out with a 12 pack of Bud, lit cigarette in her mouth, climb back in to her truck and take off as if she were the female version of Bo and Luke Duke.
Unbeknownst to me, at Christmas dinner, one of the new faces, who happened to be a daughter of a good friend of my parents, had lived for many years in Columbus, Georgia. Like a good Southerner, or one that spent some time there and picked up at least one good trait, she was formal, kind, and maintained her composure while I presented my view of parts of Georgia. But, it was not until the next day that my little sister launched a verbal assault on me for having offended her.
We all have pride, yet more so when it comes to things near and dear to us, such as our homes. Americans are a traveling lot, not quite vagabonds, and one thing that some of us carry is a warm feeling and fond memories of whatever place we call home. With time and distance these bonds grow stronger yet more unclear as to truth.
If we feel we have learned something in these past fifteen years after college, it seems we really have learned nothing. After being pounded by popular belief that opinions are to be respected, or so that’s what I was told at UMASS, no matter how off base they are. But this daughter of my parents’ friend should not have been so upset as to require my sister to figuratively tie me to the post for 20 lashings.
Each person has unique experiences and viewpoints. Had things been reversed at Christmas dinner, this person might have made mention of how New Englanders are haughty, know it alls, cold, critical and liberal. But, see I would have agreed. After all we did lite the fuse that started the revolutionary war, have the best education in the country, best healthcare, are a center for high technology. We do suffer through miserable winters so we work hard and expect the best from each other.
Beautiful diatribe and pretty pictures painted with words cannot hide facts and should not be substituted, like Equal, for a real opinion or experience. We are adults, supposedly sure of our knowledge, feelings and well planted in our beliefs.
Maturing over these centuries has changed us from challenging duelers to debaters, from using swords to pens. But now we have gone too far, where we have become complete contradictions, painting beautiful and phony scenes where each one of us respects the opinion of the other, no matter how outlandish or false. At the same time we prohibit mention of opinions that don't fit the ideal of the moment, for fear of offending another, having to apologize or receiving a lecture from a sister.
Of course, duels don't exist today, thank God, for I was involved in an argument that insulted my honor. Two hundred years ago, murder would have been justified although that would have resulted in a very anti-Christmas dinner at Christmastime. All talk about love, peace and brotherhood would have been forgotten.
Most people do not know to what extent America is a wonderfully broad and diverse land. There is such a difference between the Northeast, Southeast, mid-West, California (heretofore known as the land of fruits and nuts), and the only place you need a passport and language skills to travel, Miami. I really do believe, being the ignorant American I supposedly am, we don’t need to leave this country to explore different cultures.
One region in particular, the Southeast, held out its arms and welcomed me for two years as I traveled to many of its cities and towns. I got to know the region as well as can be expected in that time. I will never be a Georgian, Mississippian or Carolinian. I am a New Englander, with a Jewish last name, living in Miami, who happens to be half Spanish. That being said it, I was accepted in the land of Baptists, barbecue, Bubbas and football.
The real South extends from Richmond down to Jacksonville (and no further), west over to Pensacola and into Mobile, then over on to Vicksburg, north to Jackson, up to Memphis, Nashville, Knoxville, Chattanooga, and finally back over to the Carolinas. That’s it. Texas is its own world, as most Texans would gleefully admit. Northern Virginia is not South. Most of Florida is a land that God forgot, except the Tampa area. Kentucky is, well, Kentucky. Today’s Mason Dixon line is not what it once was.
So, while I recalled and bored most at Christmas dinner with how lucky I was to have traveled extensively throughout the real South, some invitees were kind enough to show mild amusement, others continued to dive into my mom’s lamb, potatoes and salad with pure Christmastime delight.
As the wine began lifting my spirits I let the tongue leash loose just a bit. The conversation up to that point had been superficial and had followed some United Nations, Robert’s Rules of Order mode, given that some of us were getting to know one another. But, wanting to move away from such superficiality and fancy prep school formalities, I decided to pepper my thoughts with some observations about our brethren in the South, and in particular Georgia.
I am a great admirer of the city of Atlanta, also known as the New York City of the South, Georgians, and their history. Stone Mountain, Augusta, the woods and hills, Okefenokee and beautiful Savannah are but a few of the places of pride in Georgia. The people are warm and always greet you with a smile, whether on the Hertz bus, at the store, or walking down Peachtree Avenue. But, I also lit a fuse, not really on purpose, when I stated that the only problem with Georgia is that once you step outside of the greater Metro Atlanta area, it becomes white sheets and cross burning country.
I have met Georgians that had been preachers in Alaska, converting Eskimos to some kind of Christianity. Others told stories of tramping off into the woods for beer and crawfish parties and not coming back for days. One or two told me they are not racists but just don’t like blacks. Some detest Northerners and never want to meet another. And Bubba is a real name. A friend in Macon told me to never again serve Georgians bagels, fruit, milk and juice for breakfast. Gritting his teeth, he said, “These are Southern boys, grits for them.” I have sat on the porch of a general store in a rocking chair somewhere in the Georgian countryside while taking a break from motorcycle riding, sipping a lemonade, and watched a 50 something year old woman come screaming into the parking lot in a 1976 Ford pickup, stumble out of it in a ripped and dirty tank top, run in to the store and run back out with a 12 pack of Bud, lit cigarette in her mouth, climb back in to her truck and take off as if she were the female version of Bo and Luke Duke.
Unbeknownst to me, at Christmas dinner, one of the new faces, who happened to be a daughter of a good friend of my parents, had lived for many years in Columbus, Georgia. Like a good Southerner, or one that spent some time there and picked up at least one good trait, she was formal, kind, and maintained her composure while I presented my view of parts of Georgia. But, it was not until the next day that my little sister launched a verbal assault on me for having offended her.
We all have pride, yet more so when it comes to things near and dear to us, such as our homes. Americans are a traveling lot, not quite vagabonds, and one thing that some of us carry is a warm feeling and fond memories of whatever place we call home. With time and distance these bonds grow stronger yet more unclear as to truth.
If we feel we have learned something in these past fifteen years after college, it seems we really have learned nothing. After being pounded by popular belief that opinions are to be respected, or so that’s what I was told at UMASS, no matter how off base they are. But this daughter of my parents’ friend should not have been so upset as to require my sister to figuratively tie me to the post for 20 lashings.
Each person has unique experiences and viewpoints. Had things been reversed at Christmas dinner, this person might have made mention of how New Englanders are haughty, know it alls, cold, critical and liberal. But, see I would have agreed. After all we did lite the fuse that started the revolutionary war, have the best education in the country, best healthcare, are a center for high technology. We do suffer through miserable winters so we work hard and expect the best from each other.
Beautiful diatribe and pretty pictures painted with words cannot hide facts and should not be substituted, like Equal, for a real opinion or experience. We are adults, supposedly sure of our knowledge, feelings and well planted in our beliefs.
Maturing over these centuries has changed us from challenging duelers to debaters, from using swords to pens. But now we have gone too far, where we have become complete contradictions, painting beautiful and phony scenes where each one of us respects the opinion of the other, no matter how outlandish or false. At the same time we prohibit mention of opinions that don't fit the ideal of the moment, for fear of offending another, having to apologize or receiving a lecture from a sister.
No one ever got fired for being five minutes late
I am a blue collar philosopher and believe that one does not get fired for being five minutes late.
My philosophies don’t hail from the school of Rousseau, Socrates or Emerson. I do not come up with things while sitting around in a darkened room, with lots of cushions, a few lit candles, mood music, Abisnthe and herbs. Coffee houses do not attract me either. I really don’t think I can solve issues that men exponentially smarter than I, over the ages, never did.
I commute, I work at a job where I travel a lot, I always talk on the phone to customers and partners, I attend meetings, and type on a computer or my Blackberry most of the day. At home, I try to watch TV, exercise, read and write. I go out with my family and friends, on occasion I drink and smoke, and I eat lots of pizza. I philosophize in between.
The other day I did something as common as a cold and frequent as a Executive flier. It happened in my adopted hometown of Miami. Although technically a city, it really isn’t. It’s a community made up of 2 million islands. This is not the kind of trait that you would want to announce to the world as a top ten reason to live in Miami. It’s not a very big city, but funny enough in a Napoleonic way it tries to demonstrate itself as such. There’s one ruling family with more than a million members, and they have all been fleeing their island over the past fifty years, some even in rafts.
So, on this very regular day, in a very irregular city, I drove to work and parked my leased car. It’s a nice car, not very expensive, silver and a six speed standard. I leased it because I didn’t have any money with which to buy a car. The way things are in our country, it is cheaper, easier and quicker to get something new than old.
When I came to a complete stop in between the parallel yellow lines and the bottom scratching piece of concrete slab, I did not immediately shut off the engine. I wanted to finish listening to the song. It was Born to Run. Meanwhile, a polling agency asked me what musician would most likely make me stay in the car to finish off a song before heading into a meeting. Of course, The Boss was first. Maybe, Billy Joel, but his earlier music. Bruce Springsteen just continues to move and inspire through the ages. Why I pretended that some agency would find me important enough and more, would find this an important topic, is ridiculous. But ridiculous is what makes my world go round.
On most days, I’d usually just shut the engine off and hustle in like all those cattle around me, off to slaughter. There’s no rule that governed my particular behavior that morning. Sometimes, weird things happen, sometimes they don’t. My mood and Born to Run intersected in my car. Anyway, I hurried from the parking lot to the building because I was going to be five minutes late, but still on time. Yes, I do believe that. If asked why I didn’t leave five minutes earlier, I’ll respond that I did, but there was an extra ten minutes of traffic. So, showing up on time while being five minutes late, I'd get a bonus of slapping some controlling and unknown authority just a bit.
The building had two sets of doors. This is the same set up the space station has for astronauts coming back in from their space walk. I am sure of this as I have seen it on television. Since I am not in England, I always approach the door on the right. The outside set of doors to the building said pull. And that’s fine as the door could also have been pushed and someone could get hurt physically or emotionally if they pushed instead of pulled. But, there was no sign to tell you to walk through it after pulling, I guess because it is accepted as common behavior.
The closing of the first door is timed perfectly so that as you get to the second set of doors, the first one shuts completely. This is called insulation. It keeps the cold air on one side, warm on the other. This works kind of on the same principle as a McDLT. The building that housed this meeting apparently likes saving energy and precious resources. Who knows if they are coal, oil or nuclear. I guess turning the air conditioner up a few degrees has not materialized as an option in the mind of whoever it is that makes that decision. I can never keep it straight, by turning the air up does the temperature go down?
As I thought that to myself I noticed that the next door had a sign to pull also. But, there were other instructions. The door, I guessed, was broken. So, all of us cattle had to follow the instructions and use the other door. Again, the instructions were well laid out. Two hand written pieces of paper were on the door. The first one was at eye level more or less. In capital box style letters, it said “Use Other Door.” Right beneath it on the other paper there was an arrow. It pointed at the location of the other door. My guess is that both were written and hung by the same person as the paper, scotch tape and black magic marker seemed identical.
If the pull sign on the door is there to help people or prevent them from feeling like an idiot in the sixth grade again, then would the arrow serve the same purpose? There were only two doors. One door was broken but thank God for the explicit instructions and the arrow.
I can only imagine walking in the building on another occasion, with the broken door, and finding someone standing there and looking around because there was no arrow pointing to the correct door to use. Likely, this person would be a philosopher wondering about how many other possible doors there could be to get into the whole building, and which one was meant for him to take. Kind of like two doors diverged in a yellow building. By that logic he would never get in the building because he would never know which door to go through.
Since I am on time for being five minutes late, I happily followed the swarm, thanked God for the arrow and went through the door on the left. I arrived at my meeting five minutes late and excused myself due to the traffic.
My philosophies don’t hail from the school of Rousseau, Socrates or Emerson. I do not come up with things while sitting around in a darkened room, with lots of cushions, a few lit candles, mood music, Abisnthe and herbs. Coffee houses do not attract me either. I really don’t think I can solve issues that men exponentially smarter than I, over the ages, never did.
I commute, I work at a job where I travel a lot, I always talk on the phone to customers and partners, I attend meetings, and type on a computer or my Blackberry most of the day. At home, I try to watch TV, exercise, read and write. I go out with my family and friends, on occasion I drink and smoke, and I eat lots of pizza. I philosophize in between.
The other day I did something as common as a cold and frequent as a Executive flier. It happened in my adopted hometown of Miami. Although technically a city, it really isn’t. It’s a community made up of 2 million islands. This is not the kind of trait that you would want to announce to the world as a top ten reason to live in Miami. It’s not a very big city, but funny enough in a Napoleonic way it tries to demonstrate itself as such. There’s one ruling family with more than a million members, and they have all been fleeing their island over the past fifty years, some even in rafts.
So, on this very regular day, in a very irregular city, I drove to work and parked my leased car. It’s a nice car, not very expensive, silver and a six speed standard. I leased it because I didn’t have any money with which to buy a car. The way things are in our country, it is cheaper, easier and quicker to get something new than old.
When I came to a complete stop in between the parallel yellow lines and the bottom scratching piece of concrete slab, I did not immediately shut off the engine. I wanted to finish listening to the song. It was Born to Run. Meanwhile, a polling agency asked me what musician would most likely make me stay in the car to finish off a song before heading into a meeting. Of course, The Boss was first. Maybe, Billy Joel, but his earlier music. Bruce Springsteen just continues to move and inspire through the ages. Why I pretended that some agency would find me important enough and more, would find this an important topic, is ridiculous. But ridiculous is what makes my world go round.
On most days, I’d usually just shut the engine off and hustle in like all those cattle around me, off to slaughter. There’s no rule that governed my particular behavior that morning. Sometimes, weird things happen, sometimes they don’t. My mood and Born to Run intersected in my car. Anyway, I hurried from the parking lot to the building because I was going to be five minutes late, but still on time. Yes, I do believe that. If asked why I didn’t leave five minutes earlier, I’ll respond that I did, but there was an extra ten minutes of traffic. So, showing up on time while being five minutes late, I'd get a bonus of slapping some controlling and unknown authority just a bit.
The building had two sets of doors. This is the same set up the space station has for astronauts coming back in from their space walk. I am sure of this as I have seen it on television. Since I am not in England, I always approach the door on the right. The outside set of doors to the building said pull. And that’s fine as the door could also have been pushed and someone could get hurt physically or emotionally if they pushed instead of pulled. But, there was no sign to tell you to walk through it after pulling, I guess because it is accepted as common behavior.
The closing of the first door is timed perfectly so that as you get to the second set of doors, the first one shuts completely. This is called insulation. It keeps the cold air on one side, warm on the other. This works kind of on the same principle as a McDLT. The building that housed this meeting apparently likes saving energy and precious resources. Who knows if they are coal, oil or nuclear. I guess turning the air conditioner up a few degrees has not materialized as an option in the mind of whoever it is that makes that decision. I can never keep it straight, by turning the air up does the temperature go down?
As I thought that to myself I noticed that the next door had a sign to pull also. But, there were other instructions. The door, I guessed, was broken. So, all of us cattle had to follow the instructions and use the other door. Again, the instructions were well laid out. Two hand written pieces of paper were on the door. The first one was at eye level more or less. In capital box style letters, it said “Use Other Door.” Right beneath it on the other paper there was an arrow. It pointed at the location of the other door. My guess is that both were written and hung by the same person as the paper, scotch tape and black magic marker seemed identical.
If the pull sign on the door is there to help people or prevent them from feeling like an idiot in the sixth grade again, then would the arrow serve the same purpose? There were only two doors. One door was broken but thank God for the explicit instructions and the arrow.
I can only imagine walking in the building on another occasion, with the broken door, and finding someone standing there and looking around because there was no arrow pointing to the correct door to use. Likely, this person would be a philosopher wondering about how many other possible doors there could be to get into the whole building, and which one was meant for him to take. Kind of like two doors diverged in a yellow building. By that logic he would never get in the building because he would never know which door to go through.
Since I am on time for being five minutes late, I happily followed the swarm, thanked God for the arrow and went through the door on the left. I arrived at my meeting five minutes late and excused myself due to the traffic.
A philosphical attempt at improving our lot
Americans, whether Democrat, Republican or other, seek the same goals. No one likes stress, discrimination or crime. We all want to improve our economy and ensure our defense. It's amazing a criminal said it best, "Can't we all just get along?" As we hope for these ideals year in and out, we seem to get further away from them. We just don’t seem to advance much; what we seek we left behind years ago.
There was a one year time stamp, in each of our lives, when there was no wrong and we lived ideally. These 365 days now belong to the ages. Most of us cannot remember being three years old, although our parents can tell stories and show pictures. So, observe, when you get a chance, those who are three. You will see an accurate portrayal of what it is we seek as adults.
At three years old the world and all in it is right. There is no peer pressure. It does not matter that your feet lack the essential Nike's. You are not laughed at if you are have to ride the bus, have braces, glasses or are fat. Other three year olds play with you regardless if you are black, purple, brown or Martian. There is no finger pointing. No one cares if you rent or own; if you have a Caddy or a Kia.
At three years old you are oblivious to the constant bombardment by the American media on cholesterol, global warming, low approval ratings, car-jackings, corruption, homicides, plane crashes, incompetent politicians, teenage pregnancies, or a down stock market. You don’t care whether Lindsay or Brittney has divorced, checked themselves into a clinic, or became lesbians.
In this live quick, die quick society, anyone over three has become overly stressed. Is it the media's fault? Well, they only expose what happens outside our windows. But, at three all you could see through the glass was fun and wonder. As you got older, wonder was replaced slowly with reality. At a certain stage in aging, somehow, physical and material appearances begin to be used as criteria for determining how important you are in the pecking order and eventual ostracism. If, as a youngster, you are sentenced to the outside to look in, the reality of an unfair and cruel world set in early.
It is a tough and unforgiving place out there. Naturally, we all want it better and we feel like we fight for the ideals of when we were three. As things get worse and time trudges along, it is apparent that Americans become more exasperated and focus on the dangers around us. Our economy is in a crisis and we want change, fight crime, give me healthcare or give me death.
Is it inherent in human nature to find the easiest solution? We do seem to be like water, always seeking out the path with least resistance. Problems are not being resolved, vote them out! Like the oft seen showdowns of the devil vs. angel on cartoon characters' shoulders, life tempts us to go in appealing, easy but usually misguided directions. Underneath, is that desire which plagues Americans on the whole. Do we want the seemingly easy way or the tough path? We have made avoidance and blame habitual hobbies.
The source of greatest frustration is knowing that all Americans agree on what is a problem. But, we do not circle the wagons and win any of these battles because so many of them are internal. As a people we find it easier to fight the symptoms than the causes. We’ll yell and scream at each other while the house burns. Cancer patients choose to go through excruciating radiation treatments because they know awaiting them, after the pain, is health. If America were that patient, it would be taking pain killers for the cancer and avoiding the chemotherapy.
We used the power of the vote to kick Democrats out of town and replaced those seats with Republicans. Now, it looks as if we are going to boot out the Republicans and replace them with Democrats. The ferris wheel goes round and round.
Democrats and Republicans have different ideas on how to solve America's problems yet sometimes they don’t even agree on what is a problem. The economy; we all know we are in a crisis. If Obama wins and somehow, magically, he parts the waters and rights the economy, he’ll bask in the glory. If he can’t, then he’ll shrug and say, “What did you expect with the mess that was left to me?” Fingers point everywhere but at the self.
We were three once and all was right with the world. Today, we are not inside looking out in wonder. You and I live in a harsh world where the road to solving problems does not lie in Democrat vs. Republican, but within each one of us to get us back to when we were three.
There was a one year time stamp, in each of our lives, when there was no wrong and we lived ideally. These 365 days now belong to the ages. Most of us cannot remember being three years old, although our parents can tell stories and show pictures. So, observe, when you get a chance, those who are three. You will see an accurate portrayal of what it is we seek as adults.
At three years old the world and all in it is right. There is no peer pressure. It does not matter that your feet lack the essential Nike's. You are not laughed at if you are have to ride the bus, have braces, glasses or are fat. Other three year olds play with you regardless if you are black, purple, brown or Martian. There is no finger pointing. No one cares if you rent or own; if you have a Caddy or a Kia.
At three years old you are oblivious to the constant bombardment by the American media on cholesterol, global warming, low approval ratings, car-jackings, corruption, homicides, plane crashes, incompetent politicians, teenage pregnancies, or a down stock market. You don’t care whether Lindsay or Brittney has divorced, checked themselves into a clinic, or became lesbians.
In this live quick, die quick society, anyone over three has become overly stressed. Is it the media's fault? Well, they only expose what happens outside our windows. But, at three all you could see through the glass was fun and wonder. As you got older, wonder was replaced slowly with reality. At a certain stage in aging, somehow, physical and material appearances begin to be used as criteria for determining how important you are in the pecking order and eventual ostracism. If, as a youngster, you are sentenced to the outside to look in, the reality of an unfair and cruel world set in early.
It is a tough and unforgiving place out there. Naturally, we all want it better and we feel like we fight for the ideals of when we were three. As things get worse and time trudges along, it is apparent that Americans become more exasperated and focus on the dangers around us. Our economy is in a crisis and we want change, fight crime, give me healthcare or give me death.
Is it inherent in human nature to find the easiest solution? We do seem to be like water, always seeking out the path with least resistance. Problems are not being resolved, vote them out! Like the oft seen showdowns of the devil vs. angel on cartoon characters' shoulders, life tempts us to go in appealing, easy but usually misguided directions. Underneath, is that desire which plagues Americans on the whole. Do we want the seemingly easy way or the tough path? We have made avoidance and blame habitual hobbies.
The source of greatest frustration is knowing that all Americans agree on what is a problem. But, we do not circle the wagons and win any of these battles because so many of them are internal. As a people we find it easier to fight the symptoms than the causes. We’ll yell and scream at each other while the house burns. Cancer patients choose to go through excruciating radiation treatments because they know awaiting them, after the pain, is health. If America were that patient, it would be taking pain killers for the cancer and avoiding the chemotherapy.
We used the power of the vote to kick Democrats out of town and replaced those seats with Republicans. Now, it looks as if we are going to boot out the Republicans and replace them with Democrats. The ferris wheel goes round and round.
Democrats and Republicans have different ideas on how to solve America's problems yet sometimes they don’t even agree on what is a problem. The economy; we all know we are in a crisis. If Obama wins and somehow, magically, he parts the waters and rights the economy, he’ll bask in the glory. If he can’t, then he’ll shrug and say, “What did you expect with the mess that was left to me?” Fingers point everywhere but at the self.
We were three once and all was right with the world. Today, we are not inside looking out in wonder. You and I live in a harsh world where the road to solving problems does not lie in Democrat vs. Republican, but within each one of us to get us back to when we were three.
March back to New England
March is a sophomoric month, in like a lamb and out like a lost collegian. In New England, you don’t know from one day to the next what the weather will bring.
The weather in March makes you feel lost. You are at the mercy of mother nature's whims, a helpless victim. You do not belong to either winter nor Spring. One day you’re winter’s slave, the next day Spring teases your feelings, blows a 75 degree kiss across your cheek, and as you go to return it, you’re met with old man winter’s nose. When the weather man tells you snow is coming, you’re waiting and wanting to die. Then looking at the calendar you can feel reborn. It can get warm and and the air injects you with a new lease on life. You feel as if your whole life ahead of you will not have one down moment. Everything will finally be straightened out in your life and that of all around you.
I remember how every one of my 20 years in New England, without fail, I complained about winter, about Spring, about summer, about fall. Everyone did, that was cultural. But, we had normal complaints too like Republicans about Democrats and vice versa. Traffic. Neighbors. Work. School. Actually, the only years we didn’t complain much about sports was 1984-1986, when even Boston College made us proud.
Complaining about the weather is an undeniable right in New England, like life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. They did not even have to write it in the Bill of Rights. When I began working after college, I recall how people would gather around the window, look out over the parking lot and complain about the weather. Each year it was the same. A coworker would say “When will it stop raining? I hate April!” Or in December, “Look it’s 4pm and it’s already dark!”
In high school, my mother used to get into the mix too. When she she would have to drive me to basketball practice, she’d always proclaim “I hate snow!” in such a way as to insinuate that I had been in cahoots with Mother Nature the night before to make it snow. Of course, July would bring those three weeks of Miami heat and humidity for all to complain about how miserably sweaty and sticky we were, craving for February for just a night. Then in February we’d always wish it were July. August would bring nights of 50 degree temperatures. My friends and I would stand around prematurely mourning the loss of summer, in heavy sighs, at the Friendly’s parking lot, weighed down by sweatshirts. We all knew full well that in little time September would mean one last breath for summer, even if for a few short weeks. But, by then we’d be back at school, so it wouldn’t really matter.
Every August it was the same, every May was the same, as was every July and every February. It was the same in 1997 as it was in 1987 and as it was in 1977, only cars, clothes and governors changed. But we had to treat each month, each season, each year as if it were the first one we had ever lived and the last one we might live, for that is how special it was to live in New England.
The weather in March makes you feel lost. You are at the mercy of mother nature's whims, a helpless victim. You do not belong to either winter nor Spring. One day you’re winter’s slave, the next day Spring teases your feelings, blows a 75 degree kiss across your cheek, and as you go to return it, you’re met with old man winter’s nose. When the weather man tells you snow is coming, you’re waiting and wanting to die. Then looking at the calendar you can feel reborn. It can get warm and and the air injects you with a new lease on life. You feel as if your whole life ahead of you will not have one down moment. Everything will finally be straightened out in your life and that of all around you.
I remember how every one of my 20 years in New England, without fail, I complained about winter, about Spring, about summer, about fall. Everyone did, that was cultural. But, we had normal complaints too like Republicans about Democrats and vice versa. Traffic. Neighbors. Work. School. Actually, the only years we didn’t complain much about sports was 1984-1986, when even Boston College made us proud.
Complaining about the weather is an undeniable right in New England, like life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. They did not even have to write it in the Bill of Rights. When I began working after college, I recall how people would gather around the window, look out over the parking lot and complain about the weather. Each year it was the same. A coworker would say “When will it stop raining? I hate April!” Or in December, “Look it’s 4pm and it’s already dark!”
In high school, my mother used to get into the mix too. When she she would have to drive me to basketball practice, she’d always proclaim “I hate snow!” in such a way as to insinuate that I had been in cahoots with Mother Nature the night before to make it snow. Of course, July would bring those three weeks of Miami heat and humidity for all to complain about how miserably sweaty and sticky we were, craving for February for just a night. Then in February we’d always wish it were July. August would bring nights of 50 degree temperatures. My friends and I would stand around prematurely mourning the loss of summer, in heavy sighs, at the Friendly’s parking lot, weighed down by sweatshirts. We all knew full well that in little time September would mean one last breath for summer, even if for a few short weeks. But, by then we’d be back at school, so it wouldn’t really matter.
Every August it was the same, every May was the same, as was every July and every February. It was the same in 1997 as it was in 1987 and as it was in 1977, only cars, clothes and governors changed. But we had to treat each month, each season, each year as if it were the first one we had ever lived and the last one we might live, for that is how special it was to live in New England.
Brazilian bobblehead routine
The other day I was getting ready for a trip. It should have been a simple task, as I had done it hundreds of times. But, no, I was in a new house and no longer had my routine down. The underwear was here, socks over there, I couldn’t find my ties, the suit was where it was supposed to be at least, but I couldn’t find the shoe polish. It took me almost two hours to pack. I used to do it in 15. When I arrived at my hotel in São Paulo, I chuckled to myself at the ease with which I unpacked. In a city 4000 miles away I had more of a routine than where I lived. Then I laid down, closed my eyes and realized I have another routine that never fails.
So, I boarded the plane in Miami the previous evening and sat in 26A, right next to a nice, little old lady. She was 60, maybe, and a candidate for Grandmother of the year. She smiled, as if to say to me, "Hey neighbor, we’re gonna be together for eight hours." Before turning away and placing her bags under the seat in front of her as directed by the flight attendant, she opened her mouth as if to say something. I leaned closer, but not too much, we were not yet even on speaking terms. I was ready to listen to this warm, cookie-baking, sweater-knitting grandmother. But, no words came out. No Portuguese. No English. No Chinese. No Spanish. Just an open mouth and eyes looking at me. Then I heard what I thought was the roar of a jet engine. But, it came from somewhere deep inside of her. In that first nanosecond I had hoped that my hearing compass was off and it was really the pilot revving the engines. It wasn't; people were still filing in, lost sheep looking for seats, clearly marked by numbers and letters. The next nanosecond it hit me. My worst fear hooked me in its death grip. She had a rumbling and then a loud, gut wrenching COOOUUGGGHH!
Like a shotgun just fired, I recoiled. I cracked the back of my head on the window. I stared at her wide-eyed. Post traumatic cough syndrome they call it. It was not a tickle in the throat kind of cough. Grandma had not accidentally swallowed the wrong way. It was the cough of the devil itself.
In Portuguese she said, "Boy, I hope you don't mind but I have a horrible COUGH, COUGH, COUGH cold." She had gone from kindly grandmother to poltergeist in three seconds flat.
What could I say? I tried to quickly and desperately come to terms with this catastrophic situation. I recalled what the woman who checked me in said, "We have a completely full flight tonight so we can't upgrade you. I’m sorry." I’ll bet! These two were in collusion. To me, those words from the American Airlines check in lady, were a death spell she cast upon me. How could she...I was just a regular, nice, traveling average Joe.
Yet, there I was, with nowhere to go. It was an emergency. Panic. Hell. Punishment. Brutality. Torture. Eight, nine hours next to disease central. What amendment to the Constitution states no cruel and unusual punishment?! Would it be possible for both the Marlins and Yankees to lose?
Truth be told, I was only getting over a cold. It was gifted to me in Spain a couple of weeks earlier. I took it with me to Miami, Boston and Maine. It logged many miles on American Airlines. I brought the last vestige of it with me to Brazil. I was hoping to give it a final send off and burial somewhere in the concrete of Sao Paulo. The thought of a sequel was too much for me.
Three minutes after boarding the plane, I was trapped completely, staring down the barrel of another cold or worse. I was threatened and cornered, looking around in desperation as more passengers had trouble deciphering their seat assignments. At the very worst they would have to sit next to a crying baby, a snorer, a portly person. Next to me was the SARS flag bearer.
Maybe, I thought, there would be a no show and I could take their seat? Middle, shmiddle, I didn’t care! In vain I summoned all of my strength, hoping to duplicate some Star Trek trick and force a seat to appear - just for me - somewhere, anywhere, the wing, engine nacelle, wherever but next to 26B. I didn't care about being obvious. I looked left, and right, and left and right. Eyes wide open. Little dog like whimpers were emanating from me. I would have spent the flight on the wing if I could have. Forget the cold outside at 37,000 feet. I'm from New England, I could have taken it. But, that jungle fever she had brought with her no hardy New Englander could tolerate.
I was gripped by anger, overcome by fear. COUGH COUGH COUGH! Grandma, I mean Poltergeist, continued her gagging, raspy, deep cough at 15-second intervals. Maybe it was biological terrorism, a new secret weapon? Had airport security searched her? Should I warn the stewardess, after all that would surely have resolved the situation. Maybe her real name was Fatma Al Aqsa Allah Mohammed Mohammed Allah.
Her head would bob left and right, back and forth, in stride with the rhythm of her coughs. She looked like a goddamned bobblehead doll. Pretend your grandkids are around, set a good example and cover your mouth! On the inside of course.
I cozied up to the window as if I were a drunk and it my bottle. I rang the bell and asked the stewardess how to roll down the window. I had become delirious. My system had gone into shock. I pointed those useless and noisy air conditioning jets right into the DMZ between us to blow away the germs that were invisibly invading my personal space. I feared a slow, SARS related death somewhere over the Amazon at 3am. Would they just throw my body out of the plane like they do when someone dies at sea? Maybe Ebola would be quicker.
But alas I realized I have a routine of bad luck with neighbors on flights. And the Captain of flight 907 had his routine. He said, "Make it so," and gunned the engines. For me it was so, for the whole flight down to Brazil. Eight hours. COUGH COUGH COUGH. COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH. Wheeeeeeeezzzzzeeee. Wheeeeeeeezzzzzeeee. COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH.
So, I gave up and accepted my fate. We all have our routines. Then I took my shoes off, wondered why I had showered that morning and waited for my Dixie cup of ice with a splash of Diet Coke.
So, I boarded the plane in Miami the previous evening and sat in 26A, right next to a nice, little old lady. She was 60, maybe, and a candidate for Grandmother of the year. She smiled, as if to say to me, "Hey neighbor, we’re gonna be together for eight hours." Before turning away and placing her bags under the seat in front of her as directed by the flight attendant, she opened her mouth as if to say something. I leaned closer, but not too much, we were not yet even on speaking terms. I was ready to listen to this warm, cookie-baking, sweater-knitting grandmother. But, no words came out. No Portuguese. No English. No Chinese. No Spanish. Just an open mouth and eyes looking at me. Then I heard what I thought was the roar of a jet engine. But, it came from somewhere deep inside of her. In that first nanosecond I had hoped that my hearing compass was off and it was really the pilot revving the engines. It wasn't; people were still filing in, lost sheep looking for seats, clearly marked by numbers and letters. The next nanosecond it hit me. My worst fear hooked me in its death grip. She had a rumbling and then a loud, gut wrenching COOOUUGGGHH!
Like a shotgun just fired, I recoiled. I cracked the back of my head on the window. I stared at her wide-eyed. Post traumatic cough syndrome they call it. It was not a tickle in the throat kind of cough. Grandma had not accidentally swallowed the wrong way. It was the cough of the devil itself.
In Portuguese she said, "Boy, I hope you don't mind but I have a horrible COUGH, COUGH, COUGH cold." She had gone from kindly grandmother to poltergeist in three seconds flat.
What could I say? I tried to quickly and desperately come to terms with this catastrophic situation. I recalled what the woman who checked me in said, "We have a completely full flight tonight so we can't upgrade you. I’m sorry." I’ll bet! These two were in collusion. To me, those words from the American Airlines check in lady, were a death spell she cast upon me. How could she...I was just a regular, nice, traveling average Joe.
Yet, there I was, with nowhere to go. It was an emergency. Panic. Hell. Punishment. Brutality. Torture. Eight, nine hours next to disease central. What amendment to the Constitution states no cruel and unusual punishment?! Would it be possible for both the Marlins and Yankees to lose?
Truth be told, I was only getting over a cold. It was gifted to me in Spain a couple of weeks earlier. I took it with me to Miami, Boston and Maine. It logged many miles on American Airlines. I brought the last vestige of it with me to Brazil. I was hoping to give it a final send off and burial somewhere in the concrete of Sao Paulo. The thought of a sequel was too much for me.
Three minutes after boarding the plane, I was trapped completely, staring down the barrel of another cold or worse. I was threatened and cornered, looking around in desperation as more passengers had trouble deciphering their seat assignments. At the very worst they would have to sit next to a crying baby, a snorer, a portly person. Next to me was the SARS flag bearer.
Maybe, I thought, there would be a no show and I could take their seat? Middle, shmiddle, I didn’t care! In vain I summoned all of my strength, hoping to duplicate some Star Trek trick and force a seat to appear - just for me - somewhere, anywhere, the wing, engine nacelle, wherever but next to 26B. I didn't care about being obvious. I looked left, and right, and left and right. Eyes wide open. Little dog like whimpers were emanating from me. I would have spent the flight on the wing if I could have. Forget the cold outside at 37,000 feet. I'm from New England, I could have taken it. But, that jungle fever she had brought with her no hardy New Englander could tolerate.
I was gripped by anger, overcome by fear. COUGH COUGH COUGH! Grandma, I mean Poltergeist, continued her gagging, raspy, deep cough at 15-second intervals. Maybe it was biological terrorism, a new secret weapon? Had airport security searched her? Should I warn the stewardess, after all that would surely have resolved the situation. Maybe her real name was Fatma Al Aqsa Allah Mohammed Mohammed Allah.
Her head would bob left and right, back and forth, in stride with the rhythm of her coughs. She looked like a goddamned bobblehead doll. Pretend your grandkids are around, set a good example and cover your mouth! On the inside of course.
I cozied up to the window as if I were a drunk and it my bottle. I rang the bell and asked the stewardess how to roll down the window. I had become delirious. My system had gone into shock. I pointed those useless and noisy air conditioning jets right into the DMZ between us to blow away the germs that were invisibly invading my personal space. I feared a slow, SARS related death somewhere over the Amazon at 3am. Would they just throw my body out of the plane like they do when someone dies at sea? Maybe Ebola would be quicker.
But alas I realized I have a routine of bad luck with neighbors on flights. And the Captain of flight 907 had his routine. He said, "Make it so," and gunned the engines. For me it was so, for the whole flight down to Brazil. Eight hours. COUGH COUGH COUGH. COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH. Wheeeeeeeezzzzzeeee. Wheeeeeeeezzzzzeeee. COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH.
So, I gave up and accepted my fate. We all have our routines. Then I took my shoes off, wondered why I had showered that morning and waited for my Dixie cup of ice with a splash of Diet Coke.
Label me, please
I felt so pressured to fit into an ethnic group and be labeled that I decided to do something about it. Why did I need to attach a label to my name? Wouldn't a Jr, or the IV or something simple suffice? Robert Freeman, Black, White, Purple, or Hispanic, Jew, Asian. I didn't quite know back then which one would be appropriate. I was confused. So, I decided to visit a specialist for help:
Good morning Mr. Group Labeling Specialist, I am so confused and lost. There were no scholarships for college. I couldn't get hired since I was unable to help anybody get a tax break. The military needed a label and gave me one a long time ago. But, I can't quite identify with anybody in politics, basketball, the store, television shows...I feel so lonely, and that's why I came to you. I need you to give me an official label as to who I am so I no longer feel like such a nobody, a zero. I want to be able to hang out with my people who I don't know yet and feel some history! Then I can feel proud when one of my people get an award or dunk a ball or discover something important.
"Well that's very good of you, you're quite brave for doing so. It is important for all of us to feel like part of a group. This country is not so much a melting pot but a human stew. And it is because of this stew that has been created why you find yourself so alone. You need to remember your roots. In this manner you can have pride in your race and become part of a group. This will make you and your group stronger. Your winnings will be greater."
Sounds good doc, I am glad I came to you. I feel better already. Let's go label me!
"Yes, Bob, tell me about yourself. This way I can fit you into a label. Then companies will want you, you will get money for colleges, and other untold benefits await you that you haven't even dreamed of yet!"
Great! Well doc, my real name is Roberto.
"I am sorry to have offended you Roberto by calling you Bob."
Not a problem, here in the US I have it as Robert.
"OK Robert"
Or you can call me Bob if you're short on time.
"No, I have time. Well which do you prefer?"
I don't really care.
"Well Robert it will be."
OK. Doc, I was told I fit under white. What is white? My Greek friend is white too. But I don't have one molecule of Greek blood in me. I don’t even know what Uzo is. I have Italian friends, I love their food, but I'm not Italian.
"Well Bob from your skin color there is no doubt about it, you are white."
But Doc, is physical appearance everything? Another friend from Puerto Rico has whiter skin than I. And she is not labeled white. She is Latino. Crazy Salsa dancer too.
"Well physical is not always the primary criteria, like say in dating."
Heh heh, true, well that’s what the ugly ones say, right?!
"Now don’t judge people.”
You're right, she does have a good personality.
"Hm. You're white on the outside. Now look inside of you, who are you and what are you?"
Well, I am mostly Spanish. Then there are some Jewish roots. There is a smattering of Scottish and Irish blood too. And if I look far enough back, some American Indian.
"Boy, that's quite a mess Roberto Bob. It may get complicated and I may have to bill you extra. But it's for a worthy cause."
I was afraid of that Doc.
"Well, you said maybe some American Indian, we should ignore that since it is so small and insignificant. Scottish and Irish. That's interesting. The Scottish part won't do you any good - especially living in Boston. That's what we label white, anyway. Being white won't really get you anywhere this day in age. Jewish. Now there we may have something! Ethiopian Jewish by any chance??"
No Doc, Eastern Europe, Lithuania, Poland I think.
"Aha! That must be where Freeman comes from. Not good. I can’t label you Jewish or African American. That would have been your best bet. So far you still fall under white. Well, you said Spanish. That remains our only hope. So, where are you from?"
Madrid. I was born there. My mother is Spanish. Tapas, bulls, wine and Don Quixote Doc.
"Oh Madrid! Great. That's a beautiful city! Excellent! There are scholarships for Hispanics, Hispanics have preferences for jobs, why you could just speak Spanish and get along fine. Wait! You do have a green card? You are here legally right? Good, you know I flew to Madrid a few years ago from Dallas, and it’s not that far, we went to the Mayan ruins and..."
No Doc, Madrid, Spain, next to Portugal, across the Atlantic, it makes up the Iberian peninsula, used to be called Hispaniola, Latin language roots, we don't like the French, we colonized many American countries, Mexico, Peru, settled Florida, Puerto Rico, Cuba...
"Ah, Spain. That's right, I again need to apologize if I have offended you or your people. Wow, where is my brain! Let me see...OK you are from Spain, Latino...oooh well according to the book, Spain is in Europe and that would - SIGH - make you white also. Sorry you're not Hispanic or Latino. Say I'm going to Rio de Janeiro, how do you say YOU ARE WELCOME in Spanish?"
Oh Doc! You're saying then that I AM white?! I am not Latino? What about Hispanic? What's the difference? Am I nothing?
"Sorry Roberto, you are white, we can't get you in under African American because you're not Jewish from Ethiopia. You're too far removed from your Irish, Scottish, American Indian roots. Nor Hispanic, you're from the better side of the ocean. You just don't have the right blood in you.”
I have the WRONG blood? What are you talking about? Can I blame my parents? The government? Who??
"Let me explain. There is no wrong blood. There is just not right blood. Do you understand? I'm sorry Bob you're white. And I don't think that can be blamed on your parents. I think that's only when you murder, rape, or steal something."
I can't believe this. White?!?!? Like the Italians? Germans? Russians? Irish? British? Australians? Greeks? I don't feel like any of those people! I mean all that we have in common is red blood and yellow piss!
"I'm sorry but white it is. Feel free to cry all you want, it's different for men today."
I feel worse now than when I came here, Doc. I must be the only Spanish, Jewish, Scottish, Irish, White American person in the country. I feel worse now that I talked to. I may as well be from Mars. Being white really sucks.
Doc who made up this criteria? Can this be appealed? Can being labeled just plain American help me with anything? Will that allow me to apply for a job, or schooling, or loans, without prejudice?
"Hm. Don't really know. I have Alan Dershowitz’s number, he's still at Harvard. Try him, he performs miracles.”
Good morning Mr. Group Labeling Specialist, I am so confused and lost. There were no scholarships for college. I couldn't get hired since I was unable to help anybody get a tax break. The military needed a label and gave me one a long time ago. But, I can't quite identify with anybody in politics, basketball, the store, television shows...I feel so lonely, and that's why I came to you. I need you to give me an official label as to who I am so I no longer feel like such a nobody, a zero. I want to be able to hang out with my people who I don't know yet and feel some history! Then I can feel proud when one of my people get an award or dunk a ball or discover something important.
"Well that's very good of you, you're quite brave for doing so. It is important for all of us to feel like part of a group. This country is not so much a melting pot but a human stew. And it is because of this stew that has been created why you find yourself so alone. You need to remember your roots. In this manner you can have pride in your race and become part of a group. This will make you and your group stronger. Your winnings will be greater."
Sounds good doc, I am glad I came to you. I feel better already. Let's go label me!
"Yes, Bob, tell me about yourself. This way I can fit you into a label. Then companies will want you, you will get money for colleges, and other untold benefits await you that you haven't even dreamed of yet!"
Great! Well doc, my real name is Roberto.
"I am sorry to have offended you Roberto by calling you Bob."
Not a problem, here in the US I have it as Robert.
"OK Robert"
Or you can call me Bob if you're short on time.
"No, I have time. Well which do you prefer?"
I don't really care.
"Well Robert it will be."
OK. Doc, I was told I fit under white. What is white? My Greek friend is white too. But I don't have one molecule of Greek blood in me. I don’t even know what Uzo is. I have Italian friends, I love their food, but I'm not Italian.
"Well Bob from your skin color there is no doubt about it, you are white."
But Doc, is physical appearance everything? Another friend from Puerto Rico has whiter skin than I. And she is not labeled white. She is Latino. Crazy Salsa dancer too.
"Well physical is not always the primary criteria, like say in dating."
Heh heh, true, well that’s what the ugly ones say, right?!
"Now don’t judge people.”
You're right, she does have a good personality.
"Hm. You're white on the outside. Now look inside of you, who are you and what are you?"
Well, I am mostly Spanish. Then there are some Jewish roots. There is a smattering of Scottish and Irish blood too. And if I look far enough back, some American Indian.
"Boy, that's quite a mess Roberto Bob. It may get complicated and I may have to bill you extra. But it's for a worthy cause."
I was afraid of that Doc.
"Well, you said maybe some American Indian, we should ignore that since it is so small and insignificant. Scottish and Irish. That's interesting. The Scottish part won't do you any good - especially living in Boston. That's what we label white, anyway. Being white won't really get you anywhere this day in age. Jewish. Now there we may have something! Ethiopian Jewish by any chance??"
No Doc, Eastern Europe, Lithuania, Poland I think.
"Aha! That must be where Freeman comes from. Not good. I can’t label you Jewish or African American. That would have been your best bet. So far you still fall under white. Well, you said Spanish. That remains our only hope. So, where are you from?"
Madrid. I was born there. My mother is Spanish. Tapas, bulls, wine and Don Quixote Doc.
"Oh Madrid! Great. That's a beautiful city! Excellent! There are scholarships for Hispanics, Hispanics have preferences for jobs, why you could just speak Spanish and get along fine. Wait! You do have a green card? You are here legally right? Good, you know I flew to Madrid a few years ago from Dallas, and it’s not that far, we went to the Mayan ruins and..."
No Doc, Madrid, Spain, next to Portugal, across the Atlantic, it makes up the Iberian peninsula, used to be called Hispaniola, Latin language roots, we don't like the French, we colonized many American countries, Mexico, Peru, settled Florida, Puerto Rico, Cuba...
"Ah, Spain. That's right, I again need to apologize if I have offended you or your people. Wow, where is my brain! Let me see...OK you are from Spain, Latino...oooh well according to the book, Spain is in Europe and that would - SIGH - make you white also. Sorry you're not Hispanic or Latino. Say I'm going to Rio de Janeiro, how do you say YOU ARE WELCOME in Spanish?"
Oh Doc! You're saying then that I AM white?! I am not Latino? What about Hispanic? What's the difference? Am I nothing?
"Sorry Roberto, you are white, we can't get you in under African American because you're not Jewish from Ethiopia. You're too far removed from your Irish, Scottish, American Indian roots. Nor Hispanic, you're from the better side of the ocean. You just don't have the right blood in you.”
I have the WRONG blood? What are you talking about? Can I blame my parents? The government? Who??
"Let me explain. There is no wrong blood. There is just not right blood. Do you understand? I'm sorry Bob you're white. And I don't think that can be blamed on your parents. I think that's only when you murder, rape, or steal something."
I can't believe this. White?!?!? Like the Italians? Germans? Russians? Irish? British? Australians? Greeks? I don't feel like any of those people! I mean all that we have in common is red blood and yellow piss!
"I'm sorry but white it is. Feel free to cry all you want, it's different for men today."
I feel worse now than when I came here, Doc. I must be the only Spanish, Jewish, Scottish, Irish, White American person in the country. I feel worse now that I talked to. I may as well be from Mars. Being white really sucks.
Doc who made up this criteria? Can this be appealed? Can being labeled just plain American help me with anything? Will that allow me to apply for a job, or schooling, or loans, without prejudice?
"Hm. Don't really know. I have Alan Dershowitz’s number, he's still at Harvard. Try him, he performs miracles.”
My father wore plaid and hated rap
In middle school, high school and college, my musical world revolved around the likes of Doug E. Fresh, De La Soul, Big Daddy Kane, Erik B and Rakim and Run DMC. Once introduced to rap, I held it close like a drunk the bottle. Many people were bewildered by me: a rap connoiseur, from white suburbia, way before it became popular with that demographic. Rap came and went for me and left me a lesson.
Back in the day, whenever I drove anywhere, the smooth sounding voice of Q-tip would ooze out of my speakers for the world to hear. I’d listen to how Erick and Parrish shot the sherriff, the potholes in De La Soul’s lawn or BDP’s philosophy. Sure, most rappers couldn’t differentiate between a c-note and a c-chord. But, that was not the point. The lyrics were fresh and fun, DJ's were real and there was real scratching, pioneered by Grandmaster Flash. Rappers were classical poets and rapped about their sneakers, or how good they could rap, or about dancing or other innocuous themes. Also, who could forget the beat box masters like Doug E. Fresh, the Fat Boys and Biz Markie?
Rap got a bad rap. There were many positive and good messages conveyed to listeners. Stop the Violence. Streets of New York. Don’t Curse. The Message. There were so many more. Rap was once legitimate. It had a roster full of talented artists that provided a venue for those who otherwise would have had no voice. There was political rap like Public Enemy and KRS One or playful like Heavy D and Kid’n’Play. There were battles (LL Cool J vs. Kool Moe Dee). It was a rich and deep movement of music, culture and freedom that is now lost.
Today no one will listen to songs like How Ya Like Me Now, Paid in Full, or Stop the Violence. Rap today consists of tales of shootings or references to ones crotch, or some woman’s breasts, or money, bling, cars. If you can swear, rhyme without reason, brag about your Tech-9 or your ho's, you may just find yourself on BET, MTV or blaring out of car speakers at a stoplight. The beats and lyrics are bit and recycled and lack creativity. Once, I asked a person younger than I buying a Souljah something or other CD. "Hey--you ever hear the Symphony? Raw?" I might as well have asked him if he thought the Civil War was fought over slavery or state's rights.
Rap sells today exponentially more than it did when I was "in the house." It has sold out. I do recall KRS-One saying prophetically in 1988, "Here is the message we bring today, Hip-Hop will surely decay, if we as a people don't stand up and say, Stop the Violence."
Sometime around 1996, I sobered up and came to realize that rap, as I knew it, was dying. I was passing from one life to another and was closer to being certified parent material. You may not know or recognize the rappers mentioned, or the songs, or the messages. But, that was not the point. It meant one thing to me, to the select few that were lucky to have grown up when rap was underground and in its infancy. Today, it surely means something a whole lot different to the kids, although I can’t quite comprehend it. It was difficult to accept the fact that quietly and quickly I shed that phase and left it behind.
At some point in life, sooner or later, each one of us will realize the passing from one stage to another. My grandparents and my parents went through their stages. Boy, I thought my parents were habitual sighers, because before each complaint there would be a deep breath: “What is that crap you’re listening to?” “Kids these days!” New things spring into vogueness while others, to make room, must die. All things pass but the meaning of our lives hopefully remains.
Not too many years ago my parents could not understand how Kurtis Blow's "Basketball" could have been considered music or much less how anyone could have liked it. To them it was junk, to me, freedom. Now, I walk in the shoes they did twenty years ago as I listen to a corrupted art form. Kids these days, if only they could appreciate good music. I neither see nor derive any benefit from rap today and I can’t stand it. And I only thought my father wore plaid and complained about rap.
Back in the day, whenever I drove anywhere, the smooth sounding voice of Q-tip would ooze out of my speakers for the world to hear. I’d listen to how Erick and Parrish shot the sherriff, the potholes in De La Soul’s lawn or BDP’s philosophy. Sure, most rappers couldn’t differentiate between a c-note and a c-chord. But, that was not the point. The lyrics were fresh and fun, DJ's were real and there was real scratching, pioneered by Grandmaster Flash. Rappers were classical poets and rapped about their sneakers, or how good they could rap, or about dancing or other innocuous themes. Also, who could forget the beat box masters like Doug E. Fresh, the Fat Boys and Biz Markie?
Rap got a bad rap. There were many positive and good messages conveyed to listeners. Stop the Violence. Streets of New York. Don’t Curse. The Message. There were so many more. Rap was once legitimate. It had a roster full of talented artists that provided a venue for those who otherwise would have had no voice. There was political rap like Public Enemy and KRS One or playful like Heavy D and Kid’n’Play. There were battles (LL Cool J vs. Kool Moe Dee). It was a rich and deep movement of music, culture and freedom that is now lost.
Today no one will listen to songs like How Ya Like Me Now, Paid in Full, or Stop the Violence. Rap today consists of tales of shootings or references to ones crotch, or some woman’s breasts, or money, bling, cars. If you can swear, rhyme without reason, brag about your Tech-9 or your ho's, you may just find yourself on BET, MTV or blaring out of car speakers at a stoplight. The beats and lyrics are bit and recycled and lack creativity. Once, I asked a person younger than I buying a Souljah something or other CD. "Hey--you ever hear the Symphony? Raw?" I might as well have asked him if he thought the Civil War was fought over slavery or state's rights.
Rap sells today exponentially more than it did when I was "in the house." It has sold out. I do recall KRS-One saying prophetically in 1988, "Here is the message we bring today, Hip-Hop will surely decay, if we as a people don't stand up and say, Stop the Violence."
Sometime around 1996, I sobered up and came to realize that rap, as I knew it, was dying. I was passing from one life to another and was closer to being certified parent material. You may not know or recognize the rappers mentioned, or the songs, or the messages. But, that was not the point. It meant one thing to me, to the select few that were lucky to have grown up when rap was underground and in its infancy. Today, it surely means something a whole lot different to the kids, although I can’t quite comprehend it. It was difficult to accept the fact that quietly and quickly I shed that phase and left it behind.
At some point in life, sooner or later, each one of us will realize the passing from one stage to another. My grandparents and my parents went through their stages. Boy, I thought my parents were habitual sighers, because before each complaint there would be a deep breath: “What is that crap you’re listening to?” “Kids these days!” New things spring into vogueness while others, to make room, must die. All things pass but the meaning of our lives hopefully remains.
Not too many years ago my parents could not understand how Kurtis Blow's "Basketball" could have been considered music or much less how anyone could have liked it. To them it was junk, to me, freedom. Now, I walk in the shoes they did twenty years ago as I listen to a corrupted art form. Kids these days, if only they could appreciate good music. I neither see nor derive any benefit from rap today and I can’t stand it. And I only thought my father wore plaid and complained about rap.
Loyalty and an affair
As I fell in love with Rose Mary, I warned her that I would be loyal and have just one affair. I told her not to despair but to feel secure in it. My loyalty and faithfulness to her would be proven through my affair.
My love affair began when I was 1o and in the fourth grade at Loring School. Mr. Myers was my teacher, a cantankerous Maniac from Portland. One day in the middle of class a knock came upon the door. It was my mother! She was peeking in the class from just behind the door in the hallway. So I ran to her, embarassed, to see why she had come. She didn't say anything but just pulled a picture of Jim Rice that she had autographed for me at Star Market. It said, "To Bobby. From Jim Rice." It has been 26 years and the memory and warmth of that moment is still fresh, although the picture and signature have faded somewhat. This is how my love affair with the Red Sox began.
My passion for this storied franchise never waned, even after the debacle of Butch Hobson or the infamous hit by Mookie Wilson through Bill Buckner (actually Bob Stanley put the Sox in the position to let the game rest on such an error). There is much history, Fenway Park (Boston's Basilica) and there were many captivating figures in each decade, too many to list here except for one. Ted Williams, the Splendid Splinter, was the the greatest hitter ever - the first and last to bat over .400. His story left an indelible impression on me. Not once but twice did he interrupt his baseball career to go serve in war as a Marine Corps Aviator (World War II and the Korean War). The best dedication written about him was by John Updike, "Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu."
Anyway, I live in Miami today and read the Boston Globe online to catch up on everything Sox. In my sales presentations, I sometimes throw in great pictures of Sox figures or unforgettable moments for effect. My little girl Sofia has been following in my footsteps and proudly wears her Red Sox hat to school. At ten years old, she can tell you the starting pitchers, where Big Papi bats in the order, and why she can't wait to go to Fenway. When Sofia sees someone with a Yankees hat she feels the same nausea I do. This is passion unbridled and unequaled; it is the passing of this depth of feeling from one generation to another and unwavering loyalty that separates Sox fans from all others. It is also the way a true fan speaks of the team: it is not "the" Red Sox. It is "my" Sox, as we are all part owners, players and commentators.
It is easy to root for a winner. To understand how one can root for a team befallen by bad luck (or the curse of the Bambino) for 86 years is to reach into the deep chasm of human psyche. Many fans came and went without seeing the celebration of 2004. Yet they never wavered in their support for their local 9.
The rings of 2004 were dedicated to all who played and never won the grand prize; to those who were accustomed to Springtime greatness, summer slumps and the last gasps of fall; to those who never had the chance to see their Red Sox take the field in Spring as defending World Series champions. But most of all they represent loyalty, hope and unwavering support - that which we should all hold as an example and emulate. Rose Mary understands and is fine with my affair, yet she still doesn't quite get my Sox.
The dilution of individual responsibility
There are two weeks and two days to go before the electoral college decides who the next President will be. The one most critical issue, deeper than the every day dissections and discussions, does not appear in any mainstream newspaper, magazine or talk show.
Let me bore you for thirty seconds and repeat the other popular topics in no particular order: foreign policy (Iraq, Afghanistan, a resurgent Russia, Iran, North Korea, world relations, etc.), the economy (financial crisis, recession, unemployment, jobs, inflation, national debt, etc.), healthcare (coverage, costs, quality), social security. These are important, in differing degrees. But, at the core exists individual responsibility.
It seems a forgotten topic for the Democrats; Obama and Biden have paid it no attention. CNBC, CNN, ABC, Boston Globe, NYT, the Washington Post, have but dismissed what is the base for all decision making: individual responsibility. This is insulting. Do the media and Democrats feel I am too limited in my mental capacity to grasp the meaning and act as a responsible individual?
Individual responsibility means that I am in control and should be responsible for my actions, thoughts and well being. This can translate to infinite things: for whom I vote, where I spend my money, how hard I work, what I want in life, what I can and cannot buy, and to live with the consequences of my abilities and decisions.
Senator Obama wants the federal government to be a surrogate for my own thinking process. Most media support this and it insults me. Obama feels that I am not capable, intelligent or experienced enough to make my own decisions. So, he wants to help me out and tells me not to worry. Somehow, he knows what is better for me. Through his proposals (including the tax increasing), he will take more of my money and apply it where he feels like it can best be used. It will be given to other individuals, programs and organizations based upon his criteria and not mine. With my money, he will, for example, give healthcare coverage to everyone, regardless of quality, efficiency, or bureaucracy.
When taxes go up, people will have to cut elsewhere - like charities. I currently donate money to a few, such as Make A Wish, St. Jude's, DAV, and various others. There are millions of people who voluntarily donate money or time to the charities and causes they feel represent their beliefs. As an aside, the states that give more to charities are also the poorest and vote Republican, but let's leave that for another day.
So, I will not vote for Obama. He thinks he is smarter than me, he thinks he knows what is best for my family and I, yet we have never met. I will vote for McCain mainly for this: he will allow me to make my own decisions and accept responsibility for them. And another reason is because we still live in a harsh world where 40 years of sacrifice, experience, toughness and a steady hand help.
But, here comes Obama. He wants to take over as he feels I am not smart enough. As taxes go up - and they undoubtedly will under his stewardship - I will have no choice but to cut back on everything, so other "worthy" causes can be funded by him.
If you can't think for yourself and would rather not be responsible for your actions, then you will need the government to do it for you. Vote for Obama. If you want the government to improve your life, instead of relying on yourself, vote for Democrat.
If you are a plumber, financial analyst, secretary or sales person and are happy and have no desire to improve your lot, that's fine. That is your choice. If you want to excel and own a plumbing company, manage a fund, be an office manager, or sales director, great! That should be your choice and the government should encourage that. If we elect Obama, we will begin peeling away more layers of individual responsibility and give that power to the government to make decisions for us. First, it will be our money. Then with our professional growth (wait...if I become office manager, I will have to pay MORE taxes, work harder and I'll get less handouts...ok it may not be worth it; if I hire one more person, my company will make more money but pay more taxes...hmm...may not be worth it!).
Individuals should be able to choose what to do with their lives, their money, their future. That's why I support McCain. At the end, a vote for Obama is a vote by those who don't feel they can administer their lives well enough. They want the government to step in, give them and guide them, while offering up a new source of blame - instead of oneself.
Let me bore you for thirty seconds and repeat the other popular topics in no particular order: foreign policy (Iraq, Afghanistan, a resurgent Russia, Iran, North Korea, world relations, etc.), the economy (financial crisis, recession, unemployment, jobs, inflation, national debt, etc.), healthcare (coverage, costs, quality), social security. These are important, in differing degrees. But, at the core exists individual responsibility.
It seems a forgotten topic for the Democrats; Obama and Biden have paid it no attention. CNBC, CNN, ABC, Boston Globe, NYT, the Washington Post, have but dismissed what is the base for all decision making: individual responsibility. This is insulting. Do the media and Democrats feel I am too limited in my mental capacity to grasp the meaning and act as a responsible individual?
Individual responsibility means that I am in control and should be responsible for my actions, thoughts and well being. This can translate to infinite things: for whom I vote, where I spend my money, how hard I work, what I want in life, what I can and cannot buy, and to live with the consequences of my abilities and decisions.
Senator Obama wants the federal government to be a surrogate for my own thinking process. Most media support this and it insults me. Obama feels that I am not capable, intelligent or experienced enough to make my own decisions. So, he wants to help me out and tells me not to worry. Somehow, he knows what is better for me. Through his proposals (including the tax increasing), he will take more of my money and apply it where he feels like it can best be used. It will be given to other individuals, programs and organizations based upon his criteria and not mine. With my money, he will, for example, give healthcare coverage to everyone, regardless of quality, efficiency, or bureaucracy.
When taxes go up, people will have to cut elsewhere - like charities. I currently donate money to a few, such as Make A Wish, St. Jude's, DAV, and various others. There are millions of people who voluntarily donate money or time to the charities and causes they feel represent their beliefs. As an aside, the states that give more to charities are also the poorest and vote Republican, but let's leave that for another day.
So, I will not vote for Obama. He thinks he is smarter than me, he thinks he knows what is best for my family and I, yet we have never met. I will vote for McCain mainly for this: he will allow me to make my own decisions and accept responsibility for them. And another reason is because we still live in a harsh world where 40 years of sacrifice, experience, toughness and a steady hand help.
But, here comes Obama. He wants to take over as he feels I am not smart enough. As taxes go up - and they undoubtedly will under his stewardship - I will have no choice but to cut back on everything, so other "worthy" causes can be funded by him.
If you can't think for yourself and would rather not be responsible for your actions, then you will need the government to do it for you. Vote for Obama. If you want the government to improve your life, instead of relying on yourself, vote for Democrat.
If you are a plumber, financial analyst, secretary or sales person and are happy and have no desire to improve your lot, that's fine. That is your choice. If you want to excel and own a plumbing company, manage a fund, be an office manager, or sales director, great! That should be your choice and the government should encourage that. If we elect Obama, we will begin peeling away more layers of individual responsibility and give that power to the government to make decisions for us. First, it will be our money. Then with our professional growth (wait...if I become office manager, I will have to pay MORE taxes, work harder and I'll get less handouts...ok it may not be worth it; if I hire one more person, my company will make more money but pay more taxes...hmm...may not be worth it!).
Individuals should be able to choose what to do with their lives, their money, their future. That's why I support McCain. At the end, a vote for Obama is a vote by those who don't feel they can administer their lives well enough. They want the government to step in, give them and guide them, while offering up a new source of blame - instead of oneself.
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