Being Truly Thankful

You will have to make a gargantuan effort in two ways to be thankful today, Thanksgiving 2009. The past 12 months have been an absolute disaster for so many that you have to somehow block it out for 24 hours. The economy has been on the precipice all year. One out of every 8 people is unemployed, friends are losing their homes, and more of us live paycheck to paycheck. There have been divorces and deaths also, like any other year.  Cars have broken down, you may have fought with a friend, and your favorite person may not have won American Idol. No, it won’t be easy to build a temporary wall around all of this.

To truly be able to give thanks today, the effort needs to be made with your day to day life. Shut the computer down. Being on the Internet, surfing the web, Facebook and MySpace, is quickly turning us into a country of 300 million independent pods with an ever diminishing ability to interact face to face. Turn off the television. There is a reason why it used to be called the idiot box. It also foments our materialism and superficiality. Today, a Kardashian is hailed a hero, Lambert's lambasting helps him become richer, and reality shows are not really all that real. Who cares who will be the next top model or who lost the most amount of weight? Too bad family time can't be DVR'd. Put the cell phone away.  Our always on society with text messages, emails and games, interrupts your ability to focus for more than 30 seconds on anything.

Blocking out the difficulty of 2009 and stepping out of your technology inspired life for just a day will permit you to start noticing things for which to be thankful.

If you have someone to share a meal with today, appreciate it. Some weeks ago I was out to dinner and observed an elderly woman all by herself with just a magazine and magnifying glass to keep her company. She looked around every once in a while and smiled at different tables. No one seemed to notice. My father once told me that loneliness is the worst disease. Her eyes confirmed that.

In your mind, say thank you to the Marine Corps, Army, Air Force, Navy and Coast Guard. You may or may not approve of our current wars. Yet one thing is certain. These men and women have sacrificed more than you or I ever have and ever will. Today will be a long and lonely day for many of them.

Maybe you are lucky enough to live where birds sing. If you are and you hear a bird sing, stop for ten seconds. Listen to its songs. Look for the bird. Don't be envious because his is a simple life.

Sit with your dog for ten minutes. Give him a treat, pet him and talk to him. How great is it to have a true friend that would never leave your side, for anything? The loyalty and dedication of a dog is unequaled in our world. Their lives are too short.

Remember your parents. You may be with them or you may not.  Take just a few minutes and flip through some memories. Your mother’s soothing words after breaking up with a girlfriend or boyfriend. Or her hands putting on a band aid and telling you not to worry. Remember your father teaching you how to drive. Remember your father’s face of unadulterated pride at your graduation.  These are times that will never come back.

Talk to your best friends, even if they are far away. Your hectic lives may have separated you, yet that will never erase the good times and bad times that were shared.  Friends have helped make you what you are today.  A true friend is family.

In your walks today, wherever you may go, you may see an elderly couple holding hands. That is indescribable and beautiful. After decades of wrinkling together, the bond is still there.  They know they are in the fall of their lives.  That couple likely never stepped into the Walden woods but surely they have sucked the marrow out of life.  They will not waste one minute on such unimportant things, like the Internet, television and texting, like you and I do.  Happy Thanksgiving.

The Last Decade of Innocence

Children know what adults forgot:  life is simple and should be good.  Then you reach the teenage years and life's complexities begin to show.  The bonds that held you tight to your family begin to erode as you seek your own existence and want to define your life as you dreamt it years ago. Then after college when you finally face the cold wind of life alone, the kid realizes that the score is 100 to 0 and he is down.

As I entered my adult years, I finally admitted to myself that once in a while I wanted to run back to the safety I had when I was 12. The family room with the woodstove awaited me, where we’d all sit down at 5:30pm and watch All in the Family. Or, I would love to have laid down once again on top of my bed and look directly at my Run DMC poster. Nothing could replace sitting at the kitchen table on a cold Sunday morning, with the smell of coffee and fresh baked cornbread intertwined in a heavenly dance.

There was a comfort that life provided and my parents had been the root. Back then, as life was truly straightforward, my world consisted of my parents love and discipline, their principle and hard work; piano lessons and Boy Scouts; baseball and basketball; fights in school and fights at home; and of course, my few good friends. It was a simple world and a small town, with an overabundance of dreams and hopes and yes, it was good.

Life was so simple when I was 12. Of course I knew little about little. My music tastes varied. I did like Rod Stewart (only today can I admit that) and Noah still remembers my extensive collection of Hall and Oates. We would play them over and over again at night, pretending to be DJ’s on my Realistic tape recorder my Dad bought me. Noah and I would listen to WCOZ or WROR and when a good song came on, hit “Record” and “Play.” It didn’t matter that we’d catch a little of the DJ’s voice. We didn’t have iTunes back then. We had imagination.

My family and I grew up on Cider Mill Road, in a town called Sudbury. It had 12,000 people. Our house was set back from the street, with woods all around. There was a huge and hilly back yard that was absolutely perfect for sledding in winter. Our mountain began at the basketball pole, down the first small hill. Then it went on to the big one and from there to the third hill, the most challenging, that went past the stacked wood on the right, and down through the woods. I had to avoid the oaks and maples that were standing or fallen, to land on the frozen little stream that never seemed to go anywhere. Every Spring I’d go down there to see if there were any fish or turtles. There never were. But, one day while exploring the woods, not quite like Christopher Columbus, I discovered oil! I ran back home, screaming, to my mom that we were going to be rich. Shortly thereafter as I guided her to the secret location, she told me that some fool had dumped his car oil into the stream.

Hard work was what also defined my mother. One thing that she slaved at and could do and outdo anyone was cooking. I can still recall from the recesses of my mind the smell of the feasts cooked by my mother. They would have won awards at any competition. Forget Rachel Ray and those other overpriced, overmarketed figures on television as they cannot compare. My mother could take scraps of food and any leftovers and within 30 minutes whip up a meal worthy of a banquet. My mother cooked an incredible meatloaf. Noah and I partook of one particular iteration of that meatloaf one night. It was so good that we helped ourselves to more and more until it all disappeared. Of course, the next day he and I denied any involvement. But, we had no alibi nor did she have anything to serve for dinner that night.  She knew it had been us.

Christmas and Thanksgiving were special times for my mother to show off her skill. She would spend all day basting and cutting and preparing and making sure that every detail, smell, and taste would be perfectly coordinated. I will never forget that one Thanksgiving, as we all sat down in absolute drooling hunger. My mother was slicing the turkey in the kitchen. Her friend brought it to the table. Her footsteps got closer and closer to the dining room where all ten of us friends and family were sitting in pure agony waiting to feast. In absolute slow motion horror, I watched as my mother’s friend stepped in to the dining room and tripped over something. The beautifully juicy and perfectly sliced turkey breast unceremoniously fell to the floor. Our dog loved her even more that year.

My parents would give me an allowance for raking leaves, mowing lawn, shoveling the driveway and cutting, splitting and stacking wood. Before I hit 14, I alone deforested half of Sudbury, on direct orders from my father. Also, I contributed to global warming by polluting the winter air as I kept the wood stove fed and roaring throughout the winter. I was a Republican years before I could vote. But, work did not stop there. My mom had to have hers, too. So, without a union to defend me or any rights whatsoever for protection, I also became her servant. At a young age I became adept at dish washing, dusting, vacuuming and knowing how to keep the house ready for the ever pending Presidential visit. Of course, he never came.

Santa Claus did stop by, every year. But, I knew he did, and that he must have really liked our cookies and milk. Every morning on Christmas day, one bite was taken from the cookie and he drank some milk. Like most other kids, it was impossible for me to fall asleep as the great anticipation of Christmas morning was more than I could take alone in my bed. Somehow, I did fall asleep. Waking up was never a problem! One year, Santa hung out a little too long since, I guess, he had finished his rounds. I remember vaguely Santa walking up and down the hallway one winter, with his bell, waking us up, saying, “HO HO HO! Merry Christmas!” I woke up and there he was. I watched him and watched him in total disbelief for about one minute. Then I realized he sounded familiar and feminine. It was my mother, as a surprise to us all, dressed as Santa, doing her best to give us the most amazing Christmas possible.

Even at Christmas, our pets were given a little something. Canela was our German Shepard that outweighed me when I was ten by at least 30 pounds, she was faster, had bigger teeth and loved Frisbees, peanuts my sisters and I. She was a great wrestling partner, a gentle giant, protective of all that she considered hers, even the cats Sandy and Ashley. The cats would team up and tease Canela and make her run after them, up and down the hallways and stairs. My father would swear the house was coming down or that some earthquake had just rocked us. We learned to get out of the way so as to not become some statistic of injury inside the house. Once in a while, I did want to push a sister in the way, just to see what would happen. But, all big brothers are like that.

In the fall I would rake leaves with my cousin Charles, who was much older than me. We would always build the biggest pile of leaves possible at the bottom of the hill. Then, he’d encourage my sisters and I, at the top of his lungs, to jump in. And we did, over and over again. We seemed to have an endless supply of energy back then. We always made sure our pile of leaves was really big, as we could really get some speed and height running down that hill. Canela would gallop after us and jump in also, as she knew nothing but happiness when she was with us. We were only jumping into a big leaf pile in a New England fall, nothing more. We would delight ourselves at leaping into it over and over again, best friends in absolute and innocent ecstasy. The ache, twenty years later, is in my heart and no longer my arms.

My very first Mustang was in fact a blue Ross Ten Speed with baskets on the side in the back. I’d ride in loops, up and down my street, between Raymond Road and Robert Frost Lane, for those were my boundaries. I would pretend to be John Poncharello, imitating a siren and pulling my sisters over on their bikes. I had a little notepad and pen to write out fake tickets, for ugliness, being liberals or for just plain breathing too loudly. My mom told me years later that she had fielded at least two or three calls from the neighbors because the siren sound was just too loud. I wonder if they ever appreciated my sacrifice.

Back then, I worked at Star Market as a bagger and made $3.25 an hour, which was great money at the time. I was on my way to being the next Bill Gates. I hated having to take the bus to work downtown after school because it was embarrassing. I also had a paper route for a while. It was terrible having to deliver papers early in the morning and get laughed at by the high school kids who stood on Robert Frost Road while I made my way home for the middle school bus. And it was all the worse when there was snow and I rode my Ross 10 speed, trying to out run snowballs, without snow tires. I detested having to mow lawn, clear leaves, shovel the driveway, cut and split wood and make sure there was enough in the garage in case a monster snow storm suddenly appeared that Dick Albert had not seen, yet somehow my father with his Farmer’s Almanc had predicted. I am still wondering if he co authored it.

My dad used to embarrass me a long time ago. I have seen my father blow his nose in public in a sheet of newspaper. When he would go to the apothecary, and the charge was $9.73, he’d unload his two pants pockets which somehow, amazingly, held enough miscellaneous items to build a space shuttle. Then in front of everyone, he’d separate the exact change from the crumpled bills, the binaca, the keys, handkerchief, pens, notepad, wallet and credit cards. My father would always start up a conversation with any stranger and crack dumb jokes. Back then, I would instantly go running quickly in another direction, head low, wanting to divorce him somehow for embarrassing me. But, those are quirks and I, as an adult, have inherited them. I swore I would never do all that and today, I am just like him. The apple never falls far from the tree and I’m glad.

When I was younger, the first few times I’d smell a wood stove burning in October represented a sadness as it was the signal for winter. This would mark the exclamation point on the temporary death of late nights at Friendly’s and the pool hall; Saturdays at Horseneck Beach and Sunday morning basketball. It would spark thoughts of the coming months, of snow and Christmas, of mid terms and college applications, of cloudy days and 4pm sunsets, of cold mornings and the Toro snowblower.

Children look in amazement at the world around them and wonder about all that will be theirs. Somewhere that vanishes. As a child I was no different. I wanted to grow up so fast, that the handcuffs of time frustrated me. One day I was going to be a pilot. Then I thought about a fireman or a lawyer. Then I thought about basketball. Then girls. Quickly I had graduated college, got a job and the difficulties of life expanded exponentially. Looking back on a simple time, there were downs but not like today. It was the last decade of innocence. Those few negative things were simple strangers that passed by. All that they left in their wake, was a bed of memories so warm and comforting that still today I want to jump back in, fall asleep and be woken up again by Santa Claus.

Appreciating a Gift

Recently, I have been telling a story about the most wonderful experience in my life. I was lucky to have grown up in the 80’s in Boston. The Celtics were my team and they were my Gods. Larry Bird, Kevin McHale, Chief, Cornbread Maxwell, and Dennis Johnson. DJ was my guy. I loved his tenacity, grit and basketball awareness. Those no-look passes to Larry Bird down low are as clear in my mind as if it were 1986.  I still remember Johnny Most, "There's a steal by Bird, underneath to DJ!"  Who always drew the defensive assignment on Michael Jordan or Magic? Dennis Johnson. It was because of him that I worked like hell on my defense.

In 2005, I boarded a flight from São Paulo to Miami. Like always, I was full of anxiety and itching to get home. As people filed in, I started playing my game of Seat Roulette, “That person, no, that one no, maybe that one, DEFINITELY not that one.” Some people, unfortunately, look like science projects gone bad and you definitely don’t want them sitting next to you for eight hours.

I had noticed an awful lot of tall guys with USA Basketball jackets coming down the aisle. I thought to myself, “That’s pretty cool, USA basketball on my flight.” It was not going to make me suddenly rich or famous but possibly worthy of a trip anecdote. I recognized maybe one or two guys. Then, suddenly, time slowed down. The angels sung. There he was, Dennis Johnson, entering to economy class.

I quickly put my head down. I was nervous. I thought to myself, “OH MY GOD IT’S DJ, IT’S DJ, OH MY GOD.” I tried to grab my cell phone to call someone. I dropped the phone. I bent over to pick it up. My hands were trembling, palms sweating. I got my phone, looked up, looked left, and there, in all his glory, was Dennis Johnson in the seat next to mine, the Angels were holding the high note. Again, I looked down, left, right, left right. What was my name? Could I form vowels?  I had Parkinsons. I felt faint.

Dennis Johnson tapped me on the shoulder and I passed out. When I came to, he spoke and simply said, “I’m sorry I’m a pretty big guy. If I fall asleep and you need to get up, don’t hesitate, shake me, elbow me, it’s not a problem.” I tried to respond. My mouth opened at least. All I could manage was a grunt and a head nod.

I slowly regained control of my muscles and my mind. I turned back to the TV screen for a second then blurted out as quickly as I could, “Mr. Johnson, I am straight, but really you were my hero and my idol growing up, I loved watching you, the way you played, your intensity, your awareness, your passing, your defense. I copied all of your moves. I had posters of you in my room. I even know why you spin the ball before a foul shot. You have no idea what I am going through right now having you sitting next to me.”

His reaction was stunning. All he said was, “Thank you. I appreciate that.” I was calming down, quickly becoming a 34 year old man again and not some 12 year old school girl at a New Kids on the Block concert. We then chatted, the basic chat one does on the plane. As we taxied and took off, we went from chat to conversation. He talked to me about Robert, Larry, Kevin, KC, as if I were on a first name basis with these guys as well.  I felt as if I had been part of the Celtics in the mid 80’s. It was so cool! DJ told me about his goal to one day coach in the NBA.  He had recently  accepted a new job to coach some team in Texas and had to leave Florida.

Then came an even more incredible move.  DJ asked me what I did for a living and so I explained it. I remember he told me that it was nice to hear about things other than basketball and how lucky I was to travel so much. He asked me about my family and how they deal with me being away. At that point I felt at liberty to go even further and asked him for advice, for at the time I was coaching high school basketball. He shared some pointers and drills that I could implement. By the time dinner was over, I felt like we had become friends. At the end of our flight, we shook hands and I expressed to him once again, the incredible luck in meeting my childhood idol and the joy in talking to him. I wished him luck and he thanked me. For some hours, to me, he was Dennis Johnson the man, down to earth, considerate, and humble.  

I had been given a gift that became even greater because in early 2007, Dennis Johnson suffered a massive heart attack and died while coaching practice for his team in Austin, Texas. He never made it to the NBA as he had told me he wanted on that flight from Brazil. Larry Bird called him the greatest basketball player he had ever played with.

To me, Dennis Johnson is my hero and my idol because he was simply a good man.

Pardoxical Irony

There were many wonderful ironies during last week’s buildup to the NFL game in London on Sunday. How great was it that the “Patriots” were playing on British soil? There was the actual football game in the land of another kind of Manchester United, where that sport is also called football. Yet, there was a striking contrast that was likely missed by most.

To discover this obscure contrast, one had to have looked just past Tom Brady at his press conference. Tom Terrific stood on a podium, in front of cameras, reporters and the like, as he has done hundreds of times. Behind him, there was a large Dunkin Donuts advertisement. This is the same Dunkin Donuts, founded in Massachusetts that is currently conquering the world with its delicious coffee.

The Dunkin Donuts sign was placed over a plaque memorializing some Brits who lost their lives in World War I. Many other companies leverage mass marketing and branding as a way to rule the world, such as Starbucks, McDonalds, and so on. We are fairly immune to this, except when it comes to the desecration of famed stadiums and ballparks. But in World War I (and World War II) the path to world domination was war. Yet in London this weekend, the power of modern day media trumped yesterday’s British power of valor and sacrifice.

Had it not been for the British and the United States in World War I, Dunkin Donuts and other companies would not be conquering world palettes. It is plausible that today they would go by different names and peddle fine schnitzel and warm beer.

In World War I, many British paid the ultimate sacrifice to defend their homeland and in a trickle down process have allowed the West to flourish. That is how Tom Brady was able to have his press conference on Saturday and how Dunkin Donuts can continue serving coffee in other countries, even Colombia.

Dunkin Donuts of course has a contract with the Patriots that cost the company millions of dollars for advertising rights. So, one the one hand, legally, they did nothing wrong. Since we are immune to mass marketing, except for the Super Bowl, we surely were oblivious to this contrast. But, the question must be posed: why couldn’t Dunkin Donuts skip one press conference? For one second, imagine the significance. It would have been nice to have Dunkin Donuts sacrifice those ten minutes in the spotlight by not arrogantly displaying its logo over a remembrance of those that died battling tyranny. Or, maybe they could have just found another angle or venue.

I remember when 9-11 happened, People magazine came out with an issue dedicated solely to that tragic event. On one page there would be a photo of someone jumping from a tower. The opposite facing page would have an advertisement of a smiling woman and her wonderful shampoo. Imagine for a second if Dunkin Donuts had not hung its logo that one time, out of respect for those British that gave their lives in World War I. The final irony is that companies would gain greater respect and customers by once in a while skipping the advertising.

The Hispanic and Latino Impossibility

In the United States we throw around two seemingly interchangeable terms, Latino and Hispanic, without even the slightest idea of how to define these words. From job applications, to the census, to scholarships and on and on, this country seems hell bent on classifying people. Yet, the words Latino and Hispanic will never be adequately defined. Let’s look at just a few basic reasons why not.

With regard to the classification of Latino, there are many paths this can take. Should it be someone with Latino roots? If so, would this, therefore, include Italians, French even Romanians? Or, should it be a requirement that this person be from this side of the Atlantic? Maybe we should only include Spaniards and their offspring from "over here"? What about Belize, in Central America, where English is the primary language? One thing is for sure, Brazilians don't like being labeled Latinos, altough their language has Latin roots, so that will limit a geographic definition.

Geography is one way to possibly define a Latino or Hispanic. But, should we also limit how many generations removed a person is? If a person was born in the United States, to parents born in the United States, whose parents immigrated from Colombia, would that be too far away to be considered Latino or Hispanic? Is a person born in Argentina to parents from Italy also Latino or Hispanic? If we accept this, then we creep closer to including those aforementioned countries in Europe under the Hispanic and Latino definition.

Now, these terms also present another challenge, one of misconceptions. From my experience, Hispanic, for example, has been used to describe a "minority" in the United States (sometimes in a derogatory way). But, who is Hispanic? Is a white Chilean an Hispanic? A Spaniard? Is a Brazilian also an Hispanic? After all, the Portuguese settled Brazil and while sharing the same peninsula with Spain, Hispania. Unfortunately, many people in the United States somehow equate Hispanic with Mexican and there go the stereotypes. But, we don’t all like tacos and mole.

The countries south of the Rio Grande have such a rich cultural and ethnic mix that it makes it almost impossible to define these terms. The skin colors are as varied as the foods, holidays, religions, and ethnic backgrounds. Set foot in Peru and observe how many Japanese descendants there are! In Argentina, there is an important Jewish population. The Dominican Republic, Puerto Rico, Venezuela and Cuba have many blacks who can trace their roots to the slave ships and Africa. Also, there is an important Arab influence in many countries "down south." The original peoples of the continent still exist as well.

In the end, the terms Hispanic and Latino will never be satisfactorily defined and I speak from experience and from the heart. I was born in Spain to a Spanish mother and American father. I consider myself Hispanic, Latino, American and Spanish.

At different moments of my life, different definitions of these words have prohibited me from participating in certain activities. One that I recall vividly was an Hispanic scholarship that was unavailable to me because I was not considered Hispanic. A classmate of mine, who was born in the United States, to parents who were also born in the United States, of Guatemalan and Mexican roots, won it. In culture, language, and birth, he was exponentially more American than I. He did not even speak a word of Spanish.

To define Latino and Hispanic, we must dig deep beneath the surface and consider many variables. In so doing, we will discover how incredibly dynamic, broad and rich the cultures are that came from the Romans. We can even make a link via Peru and Brazil that the Japanese and Latinos/Hispanics are cousins by marriage.

Mocking Domestic Violence

When Rhianna was beat up by her boyfriend, it was splashed all over the news. A spotlight was shed once again on the issue of domestic violence. Quickly, the media shut off the light and Rhianna’s problem seemed to have disappeared. But, not completely. It is back and more serious, only it is presented in a different way.

Rhianna has a new album and the cover sure is racy and sexy. In it, she is naked except for barbed wire covering her private parts. The media has come back to her once again yet instead of portraying her as a vicitm, she is called intelligent, daring, sexy. They say she is pushing the envelope and they're in awe.

So today, I looked it up to see what all the hulabaloo was about. Sexy, yes. Racy, absolutely. I can understand all the fuss and know there will be more. Show a pair of breasts to most men and they’ll call the woman anything! Intelligent? Sure, if it helps. But, the reality is that it’s not hard to market a naked woman to men.

Daring? Yes, how dare she. After becoming a media figure for the abuse she took from Chris Brown, Rhianna’s album cover makes a mockery of the seriousness of domestic violence. When a man beats a woman, it stems from insecurity and his needs to feel powerful and in control. The woman is not treated with respect nor as a human, but as an object.

When Rhianna arrogantly exposes her breasts on an album cover, most men will think of one thing. They are not going to study the picture and think of the beauty of a woman’s body, of how it compares to a Van Gogh painting. These men will certainly not consider her intelligence or her potential or her humaness. They will think of one thing: those two objects can satisfy these other needs. Leveraging a well known weakness in men is not that difficult.

With Rhianna’s ability to reach and influence so many people, one has to wonder if she thought this one through. It's not too smart of her. The reality is that there are many men that look at women as objects, not as art, not as equals, not as intelligent humans worthy of respect. This picture reinforces that women can be considred objects.

Recently, Nicole Kidman testified before Congress and stated that Hollywood can be considered at fault for perpetuating violence against women by portraying them as objects. This won't get much air time from the media. They are also at fault, as they are at fault for most of our ills. The media reinforces society's ills, as they have with Rhianna. By confirming that Rhianna is intelligent, daring, and pushing the envelope with this picture is deceitful. They forget her domestic violence while they applaud the picture of Rhianna’s breasts.

Rhianna has lost a great opportunity. Intelligence comes from the inside. The ability to communicate a thought clearly, string together an argument, be unique – that is the basis of intelligence. Rhianna just took a picture of herself, naked, and wrapped in barbed wire. That’s not intelligence; it is a mockery of the seriousness of domestic violence. Her brush with this faded yet in many streets and avenues in the United States, it continues for many other women. Some women in abusive relationships will undoubtedly, and sadly, end up buying Rhianna’s album.

Atticus and Linus

Now I realize that for years I had been peering out windows looking for flying pigs. But, I stopped, forever, as the days of hoping Atticus Finch would run for elected office are over.

I live in a country that I adore but where all politicians are actors, not just Reagan and the Terminator. Actors are also politicians, one is heads, the other tails. There has never been a time where I’ve been in a drug induced haze, legal or other, while hoping that a truly decent man or woman would stand up, in the act of representing the people, and simply lead this country through strength, values, and honor, not lies.

These people exist, if imperfect, in history books. They wrapped me for years in the blanket of idealism. They were called Jefferson, Washington and Lincoln. I have now learned that every Linus has to grow up at some point. This year, it was my turn.

I used to consider myself a Republican because of Ronald Reagan and my Conservative upbringing. Also, I have always worked hard and still today, hate to part with money. I registered as a Republican at 18 and through the years, donated money to the cause. That’s past tense as I can no longer do it in good conscience.

For most of my life, I demonized only democrats. Reality has now sunk in. Whether Democrat or Republican, they are all the same to me. Politicians are hypocrites, devoid of intelligent argument and genetic liars. Take a cue card or script away from them and they become incapable of orating. Values? Scratch the surface just a little and you'll hear the air escape. Honesty? That depends on what your meaning of truth is. Our government is run by the equivalent of baboons in three piece suits.

Why did I leave the Republican Party? Well, you simply cannot on the one hand preach less government and grow government at the same time. How can they scream family values but then run off to Argentina behind a wife’s back? A real moral compass does not lead you to solicit sex in a bathroom. You cannot hold the Bible in one hand while you steal money with the other. How can you say you are pro life but support the death penalty? Is it too much to ask that if you parade freedom and liberty on the campaign trail, you don't limit mine after being elected?

The Democrats are hypocrites and liars just like the Republicans. How can a President be a champion of woman’s rights while treating interns and secretaries like objects for his satisfaction? You have a representative from New York who fights for the poor yet he hides his millions of dollars of assets. Traditional Democratic states have the highest tax rates yet year after year they rank near the bottom as far as giving to charity. The current President says he doesn’t want to bicker, then in the next sentence he takes swipes at his opponents. He runs on a platform of openness yet we have no idea who received our money for the bailouts. I don’t understand if all men are created equal, why do the Democrats therefore demonize those that are rich?

I am no Arlen Specter or Benedict Arnold. I am just Conservative, except of course when expressing my opinions. There is so much to be said about the disenfranchising of Americans with their politicians. There is a growing gulf between those we elect and every day people. It continues to grow even faster than the icecaps are melting.

I know somewhere in this great country, there are Atticus Finch’s that could lead America as it should. But, they are terrible actors.

We've lost our minds

Michael Jackson's passing is a glaring example of how we have lost our minds. He was a phenomenal performer, whose songs many of us grew up with.

Yet, the frenzy caused by his death obscures the dark side of Michael Jackson, that of a bankrupt child molester, drug addict, man-boy, whose bizarre behavior left many of us shaking our heads in disbelief. Today, we honor him as a God.

His is a sad story but what is truly sad is how he has been annointed a deity. Not even Pope John Paul II's passing created such havoc. At the end, what Michael Jackson did was write great songs, invent a cool dance, molest children, bankrupt himself, lie, take drugs, and dangle his baby over a balcony (without ever being investigated for child abuse). These were his horrific trespasses.

Michael Jackson's death has been elevated above all else that is important in our world. But, he is not a God. A long time ago we lost sight of values and standing for right and wrong. People lost their minds upon his death in every way: emotionally and in the midst of the greatest economic crisis, somehow found money for his funeral today.

Imagine for a second the benefit, if the people that tried in vain to get tickets to today's event, would have dedicated that time to a truly worthy cause, or had donated the money they spent on tickets to a worthwhile charity. Maybe, just maybe, that would have been a way to honor someone who supposedly was all for the children. They could have left the Jackson family to mourn in private. Unless, of course, the media attention helps them get back into the spotlight, a stroke of marketing genius.

The media's constant 24 hour vigil on every nuance and event regarding his death from around the world has fed this frenzy. Unfortunately, the last tragedy with regards to Michael Jackson's death is what is left: for lawyers and his family to fight amongst themselves for whatever remains of his material wealth. Who wants to bet that the mother of his children gets nothing and no one will stand up for her?

Chicken or Pasta?

Since time began, man has wanted to fly. In the old days, he looked at birds and made them Gods. He wondered what the view would be like from way up there. Man was envious. Centuries after his lust for flying began, he flew thanks to the Wright Brothers, Santos Dumont and many others. Now man can fly as far and as high as he wants. Yet, today flying is miserable.

The first thing I would ask a flight attendant, if given the opportunity, is: did you want enjoy the glory of what a flight attendant used to represent or did they not accept you as a guard at Riker’s Island? Flight attendants are like Nazi Prison Camp guardians. They do not talk, they do not smile. They grunt and glare and say three things: chicken or pasta, pull your seat up now, that needs to be turned off immediately. You are not allowed to talk back to a flight attendant, crack jokes or complain about anything. You will be arrested upon landing.

Flight attendants play their own little games, too. Their favorite one seems to be smash elbow. This is where they will drive the cart up and down the aisle as fast as possible, eyes closed, and count how many elbows they can smash into.

On International flights, in economy, there are two carts: one with drinks, one with food. The one with food has two flight attendants and goes first. Right behind it is the drink cart but with only one attendant. The food cart goes three times as fast: they have two people (basic math) and it is easier to throw a tray of food than a cup of liquid. Therefore, if you fly economy, you will always finish your chicken or pasta before you get your drink or $6.00 MD 20/20 tasting “International Flagship” wine.

Now, the next source of misery are stupid fliers. If you don’t have an elementary school education, you should not fly. There is a simple order to where seats are located on a plane. There are numbers and letters, 23A, 28G. When you get on a plane, there is a flight attendant to help guide you. She will ask everybody to show a boarding pass, which has a seat assignment. Then, you will be pointed in the right direction. This flight attendant located at the boarding door is a backup for cases of stupidity. At this point, even a monkey could find its seat. But, incredibly, some people still cannot. Extreme stupidity has no solution. If you have trouble finding your seat, you should not fly. If you sit down in the wrong seat, you should be escorted off the plane, no questions asked. Why? Because when you get asked whether you want chicken or pasta, your brain will explode. By then, we’ll be in mid flight and have to land due to the mess.

An elementary school education also comes in handy when asking for a drink. They have some sodas, juices, coffee, warm beer and two 7 Eleven wines (but no brown paper bags). You have the option to ask what they have. If, after the flight attendant tells you everything available, you ask for tea, you should never fly again.

The TSA does a decent job of screening for weapons, liquids and patting down old ladies. But, they need to search and seize Cuban and homemade food. This is a weapon of torture. In a plane, you are no better than sardines in a can. There is no air nor space and having to smell this vomit is on the level of waterboarding.

If you are male between the ages of 14 and 60, you need to man up. For the love of testosterone, don't bring a pillow on the plane. Yes, airlines have done away with this luxury. Of course, the seats are as comfortable as those at Fenway. But, what has happened to toughing it out? These men should have their pillows removed to help get them back on the path to being a man. It is fine for kids, women and senior citizens. Back in the day when we dreamed of flying, a man would sleep on rocks and under a tree but never brought his own hay to make a pillow.

We all know people who fly first class are rich. They made their millions by inheriting it, screwing someone or a few of them through hard work and luck. Yes, they will enjoy a certain luxury in the air for a few hours while having paid ten times the price of economy. Yet, when we economy fliers get off the plane, the first class cabin always looks as if a tornado came through there, with blankets, food, water bottles, newspapers strewn about as if it had been Armageddon. When the firsters board the plane, they will plow through us serfs while looking down on us. Then, we are made to walk through their waste when we get off. It says a lot about rich people.

Bait and switch is illegal. This is when you advertise one product, expound in its glory and amazingness, yet after purchasing it, the buyer realizes it is no better than a two day old turd. The government allows the airlines to bait and switch. Television commercials demonstrate happy fliers. They smile, they wave goodbye, hug hello, they sleep happily on the plane, the flight attendants smile, the person eats well and can’t seem to wait to fly again. It is as if the life got touched by the magic wand of nirvana.

The product is not like that. Open the American Airlines magazine and you will find a page with dry snot, tons of ripped pages, the crossword puzzle filled out and sticky substances on the cover. Your knees are stuck against the seat in front of you. It is then that the guy will decide to push his seat back right on top of your knees. Now, your eyes and his balding, dandruff filled head are two inches apart. You can’t eat, you can’t read, you can’t work and you can’t put your own seat back because the guy behind you is 6’7”. His knee is your armrest. The guy next to you is burping and taking ear wax out of his ear with his pointer finger and making little balls of wax. What an interesting dinner it will make: dandruff falling from above the tray and little yellow curry balls from the left. To your right and across the aisle is a little kid hate because he is oblivious to the hell and torture that surrounds you. Looking up, you notice one of the panels on the wall is held on to another panel with duct tape. There are still eight hours to go. Chicken or fucking pasta.

Car executives were smart. They flew in their own planes and got skewered by Congress when they went to DC. The second time around, they drove. It says a lot when someone would rather spend 12 hours in a car made by GM or Chrysler, instead of two hours in a plane. Over a hundred years ago we should have been careful what we had wished for.

Taxes are not about smoking

Understanding the explosive new federal tobacco tax increase is simple. Smokers bad. Public sentiment is overwhelmingly against smoking. Politicians smelled easy money and went after it.

Yet, this new tax has nothing to do with smoking. It is about our government meddling in our private lives and using this tax as a form of behavior modification. It has to do less with health.

Our founding fathers warned us of the excesses of the majority. In America's history - and the world's! - we have seen governments try incorrectly and unsuccessfully to "clean" certain behavior (prohibition, McCarthyism). Today, anywhere one goes, smoking is not allowed. Smokers get nasty looks from passersby. Once in a while, we'll even get the exaggerated "cough! cough!" from some clown too weak to make the point to our faces but trying to make a point nevertheless.

What is frightening is how this tobacco tax could lead to future taxes on anything deemed dangerous by our government and society. Should we have 85% tax on foods and drinks that make you obese? Forget backyard burgers. How about 85% tax on gasoline if you have an SUV? So much for my choice. Should we tax gamblers? If you live in a high risk area (flood, hurricane) or in a very polluted city, should that be taxed also? What other behavior should we tax that is deemed "bad" by society? These behaviors are detrimental to our health in some way, just like smoking. Bad behaviors lead to bad health which leads to higher health insurance costs.

I know smoking is bad. What is worse is for the government to try behavior modification through taxation. Claiming they are trying to reduce health care costs and improve our lives is a smoke screen. It's just easy money and it sets an awful precedent for whatever behavior they want to change in the future. Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness...unless the government doesn't agree that what you choose to do with your life.

Tribute to the Dog

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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.