Author: docthink

no one of consequence

Bus Sketches

The aisle on an empty bus

The woman was filling the boxes of her crossword puzzle in the morning paper. In pen. She sat sideways as the bus pulled away from its bay. She turned to the woman next to her and offered her a sweet.

The woman shook her head, “no,” and politely smiled her “thank you.” She had a pleasant round face topped by a hat. The leopard trimmed brim was double accented by the fringes of her pageboy peaking out and framing her full cheeks. The weather flirted with cold and the forecast teased rain. The hat was both prophylactic and camouflage–protecting against a potential storm and masking her need to see her hairdresser. She pulled the cord, requesting the next stop.

The man facing front looked up as the woman with the hat pulled herself out of the seat. She led with her chest, almost like someone was pulling her up via a string attached to her breastbone. The man read the sign floating above the aisle. It said the name of the next stop. The woman with the puzzle asked him a question. It might have been about the news or about an event at her church. He responded in a way that was familiar, but when they got to the next stop, a silent woman who was seated next to him stood up, too. He gently guided her off of the bus that pulled away as they got on to their day.

Posted on by docthink 1

Behind the Mask

Filters of the Doc's 2016 pumpkin.

There was a welcome dearth of that cartoon princess with the icy blue dress and the long blond braid this year. I think we only had one. And she was a zombie version.

Not surprisingly, there was a new group of Harry Potters. What did surprise me was the number of girls dressed as Harry. The only Hermione I saw was a girl who said she was a “grown up Hermione,” since she was regular Hermione last year. Holtzman from Ghostbusters did show up, though.

There were plenty of superheroes–at least four Captain Americas. One had a shield I was very ready to poach. Just one Iron Man. I guess we know whose Civil War side was favored. [Full disclosure: Doc was Team Cap, too.]

I misidentified a trick-or-treater as Batman. He was wearing one of those costumes with the built in pillow pecs, and I was working my line about how he must lift. It always cracks me up. And I called him Batman. He very politely–almost apologetically–corrected me. While his mask had the same ears of the hordes of costumed Batmen trick or treating my porch, this guy was actually Black Panther. In recognition of his boss-dom and my error, I noted that he was much stronger than Batman and much more wealthy than Tony Stark. His dad, who was hanging a bit back, piped in, “See? They know!” The Dad was also dressed as a Black Panther. I recognized his black beret sporting a panther patch. I tossed a candy his way. He totally caught it, despite the dark.

The push and pull of family relations are told through some costumes. The parents who apologize for YAP (yet another princess), the kids who turn to their folks to ask “who am I, again?” and the occasional fusion when the child wanted to be a banana and the mom totally nailed the outfit. You can tell because that team is full of some wicked pride.

Personally, I like giving away candy and watching the show. I do not miss the costume scramble. Not at all.

The Big Guy dressed as The Joker for his Halloween haunting. To work the Joker makeup, he needed to be clean shaven. I saw his boy’s face that had been hidden for years under his beard. I asked him if the bar asked for his proof of age. He said his former co-worker didn’t recognize him.

When I looked at him, though, I knew exactly who he was. And, I felt like I was ten years younger. Definitely trick.

Posted on by docthink 2

Cut to the Chase

Shiny silver razor.

Ooof! The conspiracy theories. This is the time to sharpen Occam’s Razor. You know

The simplest explanation is usually the right one.

and, also

Other things being equal, simpler explanations are generally better than more complex ones.

Why would this be? Not because truth is inherently simple–even though that might be.

It’s really about piling on. Complex explanations are based on more and, sometimes, more complex, assumptions. This means that as you build your theory, you are building in dependencies that have to fall just the right way to make your explanation work. Any one of those assumptions going awry means the entire house of cards comes crashing down. So, it’s most likely that the simple thing is closest to true.

I watched this man on TV this morning tie himself up in logic pretzels based on whack innuendo. He almost started foaming at the mouth as he built on one tenuous link upon the prior convoluted premise. Even the host, who generally lets the madness flow, had to stop him and call him on his fantastical yarn.

But what do you do when the facts point to bonkers?

This is the hard part. Occam’s Razor does not mean that the impossible cannot be true. True is true. But that doesn’t mean that all the other flaky, implausible or unhinged are ipso facto true.

Need more data.

Posted on by docthink 0

Giddy Up

A bunch of empty--and temporary--stalls.

Her fingers wrapped around the cold metal separating her from her quarry. Her breath was a cloud in front of her tiny nose. She waited. She was soon rewarded.

She heard a hollow clippity-clop of horseshoe on concrete. The percussive rolling four/four  was the back beat to her fantasy. She pushed her face closer to the diamond grid of the fence. The better to see.

A young woman, maybe her in eight or ten years, loosely held the reins of a great steed. The girl at the fence drank in the close black breeches capped by shiny black boots. The boots had a block heel, rounded toe and a seam circling the leather at the top third of the shaft. They were finished with a brass button at the very top. A long braid trailed from the round black helmet and down the back of a velvet coat.

But it was the horse that took her breath. He wasn’t the biggest horse she saw, but he was certainly big. He was an almost white gray with definite white spots on his back haunches. His arched neck was topped by the knobs of tight braids. His dark eyes wereXxx  unfocused. She tried to catch his attention by clicking her tongue. He didn’t respond. Rider and horse walked past to their quarters. 

Her mother was hanging just a few steps behind the girl. She walked ahead and tugged the imaginary line between her and her daughter. It worked and the girl moved a along the sidewalk. She stopped again, in front of a chamber full of four horses. There were two bays, a chestnut and a gray. The gray had the biggest head, but the chestnut was the biggest horse of the four. She tried to get them to see her, but two of the horses were flirting with each other and one had her head in her feed.

For a second, the girl made contact with one of the horses. He looked right into her and the girl felt like he touched the inside of her chest. She caught her breath and looked straight back at him, holding her breath. His  gaze went through and then beyond her.

But for that second, he was in her. She ran up to her mother to tell her how she felt the horse. She put her hand in the one automatically offered. Her mother’s eyes were fixed on the next pod, where she made a connect with a chestnut flipping his head and snorting. 

She crouched next to her daughter and pointed a long finger as he tossed his mane their way. The girl and her mother held his gaze and each other on that cool fall night under the stars and on their way into the arena where they would see the horses and riders compete. 

“Mommy, can I be a rider for Halloween?” The woman smiled and wondered if her old helmet would be too big for her. 

“Sure. You can wear your rain boots…”

“No I can’t. They’re yellow. Riders don’t wear yellow. Can I get new boots?”

Her mother looked down at her own tall boots and thought about budgeting for riding lessons. “We’ll see.”

Posted on by docthink 2

Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

A caterpillar metamorphosis into a butterfly in three easy steps.

There’s this TV show that has an actor confront someone on a street–in a college town or medium sized city–and push them into an emergency makeover. Like serious sirens-and-flashing-light-type emergency.

The show is called something like 5 Alarm Ugly. Or, maybe, the Personal 911 or Frump Shaming. Could be 2ugly4Cable or Your Own Real World is Real Unattractive or You Are Awful and Need Help. Well, that last one might be too literal for TV.

Anyway, a perky stylist scopes the mean streets of the locale and accosts people tooffer services that need to be had THAT DAY. Like NOW. No real thinking.  The offer runs out in 5 seconds. So, if you have to get the kids from the babysitter, no. If you have a job, no. If you are going to the dentist, no. But that last one is cool. Clean teeth are always a plus.

The deal includes a haircut and coloring–highlights or Sabrina to Samantha, a professional makeup job and an outfit that befits the current couture. After the amazing transformation, the “contestant” meets up at a (awkward) happy hour with her too perky millennial coworkers or  with her real friends or with her partner and/or their family for the reveal. The reveal is when the former frumptress walks in to a public space to much oohing and aahing. Then there is the requisite tears of joy showering the ugly bug-ling released from her chrysalis.

She is now a beautiful butterfly. She’s lost her frizzy or limp mousey-colored locks. Her skin is now accentuated by the newest products to give the mostest dewiest glow. She dons shoes with heels bringing her stature to new heights and eschews the hum drum baggy t-shirt and jeans of her near past for an outfit that conveys her newly transformed self.

What a cruel show.

Imagine to be selected from the streets of your city as the ugly duckling to be turned into a swan. To be princess for the day because you were obviously a loser before the TV fairy godmother scrubbed you clean.

Isn’t she pretty now, with her new blowout? Her too close set eyes and thin lips totally corrected by the Mac cosmetics? Her most abysmal taste as evidenced from the back of her closet now debugged by that alluring silk blouse and adorbs turquoise push-up bra? Isn’t she so much better?

When I watched the show–back to back episodes–I was curious about the results but was ended up squeamish. What’s wrong with us? Why do we need to fix that which isn’t broken? Why can’t we see beauty with her big framed glasses or last seasons’ clothes?

She doesn’t need fixing. We do. 

Posted on by docthink 0

A Tale of Two Cities

Paint swatches. Gray, black, extra white.

WHAT THE &$*!?

That’s all I could come up with as I facepalmed in utter disbelief. Although my disbelief was quickly booted aside by a recognition that this would, of course, happen.

Let me let the New York Times tell you. I will interrupt them occassionally with my analysis or maybe, more accurately, my rant.

PORTLAND, Ore. — Armed antigovernment protesters led by Ammon and Ryan Bundy, charged in the takeover of a federally owned Oregon wildlife sanctuary in January, were acquitted Thursday of federal conspiracy and weapons charges.

[Armed antigovernment protesters!!??] What the hell kind of euphemistic bullshit is that? How about thugs with automatic weapons who charged into federal buildings and threatened law enforcement? Or maybe you can’t be a thug if you’re white and wrap yourself in a Christian flag?

And then, [acquitted??!!?] << This. I can’t even.

The surprise verdict in Federal District Court was a blow to the government, which had argued that the group used force and threats of violence to occupy the reserve, impeding the federal workers there. But the jury appeared swayed by the occupiers’ contention that they were protesting government overreach and posed no threat.

Wait. [they were protesting government overreach and posed no threat?!!??] Everybody saw a dozen or so armed cowboys forcefully occupying a federal wildlife refuge, blocking access of federal employees who were unable to do their work onsite. There were 30 guns seized after the standoff. An FBI agent testified that 16,636 live rounds and nearly 1,700 spent casings were found. The terrorists set up a defensive perimeter. They forcefully occupied the area for five weeks. The insurgents destroyed federal property, including archaeological artifacts. By the way, the staff felt threatened, and indeed the people in the county did, too.

In a sign of the high tensions throughout the trial, Ammon Bundy’s lawyer, Marcus R. Mumford, was restrained by four United States Marshals in courtroom tussle after the verdict on Thursday. He was enraged that the Bundys were not being immediately released.

Oh and then their friggin lawyer starts throwing punches in the courtroom? Yeah, like that would go over well in a Baltimore City court. Well, if he did that in Bal’more he’d be shot dead. Maybe not. He’s white.

All of them got off. Even the guy who acted as his own lawyer.

Meanwhile, almost 1,300 miles due east a different verdict is being played out. I can’t give you a link to the NYTimes, though, because they are not covering this other story. So let’s try the BBC. You know, the news source from across the pond.

Riot police have begun removing protesters from private land in the path of the Dakota Access pipeline…Dozens of officers in riot gear, some armed, moved in on Thursday assisted by trucks and military Humvees.

So police are taking down teepees that were erected just yesterday. They are rolling up in tanks, suited in full riot gear. They are shooting “bean bag” shotgun rounds “designed to incapacitate people without causing death or permanent injury” and using pepper spray against overwhelmingly peaceful protesters.

There were reports of rock throwing. After the police moved in, there was a report of gunfire and a woman was arrested. In addition, over 100 people have been arrested. This type of protest–you know the one that disrupts the oil or natural gas industries–must not be allowed to continue. And we can hurt these types of protesters.

To be clear, the protests are being led by Native Americans trying to protect their sacred lands. You know after the Trail of Tears and whatnot.

It’s the best of times for white terrorist ranchers who use violence and a warped interpretation of the constitution to justify stealing from the government to line their own pockets. And, as it has been historically, it’s the worst of times for people of color.

</rant>

Posted on by docthink 0

Throwing in the Towel

Pink bath towel set.

It was a simple task. Maybe it wasn’t really that simple since there was already a task in the queue. She would call them “errands.” She had no idea what he would call them.

The goal was a simple wedding, and, as far as weddings go it was. The time frame between “will you marry me” through “I do” was a week shy of three months. They conned a priest into marrying them in a church and selected the #2 readings with full mass. Honestly the only criteria for the service was to avoid the “submit to thy husband” reading. Any of the other Old or New Testament love readings would be fine. A box checked.

There was a maid of honor and a best man, no additional maids or bearers. She told the maid to pick out a dress that would be appropriate to the best man’s tuxedo. And any color. Except white. There were many compliments to the bride over the maid’s sartorial selection.

She bought her own dress off the rack from the fancier department store. It was left over from prom. She had a choice among four or five white or near white frocks. She was very happy with the one she bought. And it was on sale, too.

The reception would be in his huge group house where there had been many large parties with multiple keg runs. He had a roommate who had access to wholesale booze, and they found a caterer that would bring food and a cake and wouldn’t charge for the champagne flutes even though they were only pouring and not supplying the bubbles.

Her sole requirement for the catering was that they show up. She didn’t care what the food tasted like as long as it was there before the guests. When the caterer mentioned a bakery he worked with, she enthusiastically said “Yes!” even before he could sell her on the the airy, buttery cake with raspberries spread between the layers. Her only request was that the bride and groom at the top of the cake was a man and a woman. Done and done!

The week of the wedding was pretty busy. There was family and friends coming from across the country–at least one, and perhaps as many as six, said that they had to witness him say, “I do.” There was a house that they closed on two days before the wedding. And there were two separate households to move into the freshly mortgaged cottage.

He and his best man were heading off to pick up the three tuxedos, one for the father of the bride, too. This is where the simple task came in. She realized that there were no decent finger towels for the bathroom.

“When you guys are out, can you pick up some hand towels for the bathroom? Pink, please. And if they don’t have pink, white would be fine.”

The time to the rehearsal began to close in like the trash compactor in Star Wars. There were amazing wedding elves moving furniture about, sweeping and mopping, and artfully hanging these ridiculous white paper bells and twists of gray and pink crepe paper, but the list of things to do was still daunting. She was becoming overwhelmed. He knew. She didn’t know, so much.

She needed to get her clothes and check into the hotel, then change, then to the church for rehearsal, then the dinner, then back to the hotel. She kept going over her list around and around like that stupid zipper ride at the fair. The one where you go up one side and down the other in these cars that swing around and upside down and the people riding throw up. The elves checked in and she distributed more tasks.

The soon-to-be groom and his best man came back with the tuxedos. He handed her dad’s suit to her so she could bring it to the hotel. He wasn’t going to the hotel.

She looked at him.

“Did you forget the towels?” Her voice went sharp and a half octave higher from the strain of being calm. She was approaching the peak of the zipper ride.

“We got them. We didn’t know where to go so we went to the drugstore. They didn’t have many towels but we found these.” His brother showed a shopping bag. He pulled out four towels. They were more like kitchen towels, which would be okay, but they were not pink. They were orange.

She did not handle the color substitution well. Her disappointment was of volume. It was such that the women who would be her sisters-in-law the next day flanked her, grabbed her by the elbows and led her out of the house to work through her zipper list. She wasn’t sure, but it seemed that everyone who remained in the house was relieved when the squad removed the ticking bomb.

Anyway, The Spouse brought up those orange towels today. “Well at least it’s not as bad as when I got those pink towels!” (Yes, he still clings to his improper claim that they were pink. I kept the evidence for about twelve years.)

Why bring it up? It’s been decades of errands and lists and stress and explosions and near misses since that day. I guess the towels are an expression of something the priest read at our supersized wedding:

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.

—1 Corinthians* 13:4-8

So when he reminded me of his abject towel failure, I asked him why with a crooked grin then a chuckle and then a belly laugh. Because I know exactly why he said it.

* for those keeping track at home, that’s pronounced First Corinthians.

Posted on by docthink 2

Whiskey Sour

A fancy drink on a wooden tray on a wooden bar.

He watched her study the cocktail menu. The place was very dark. He took his phone from his pocket and set the flashlight. He held it above the menu for her. She looked up from her examination and smiled as she waved him away. “I can see okay.” She held the menu closer to the lit votive and looked at him as if to say, “See? I got this.”

She returned to her selection process. He returned to watching her. She looked down at the list, and her averted lashes cast a shadow on her smooth cheek. He appreciated the contrast of the thick black eyelashes against her creamy skin. He liked the corkscrew tendrils of her curls that fell over her shoulder. Her chin and her nose were a little sharper than what he thought of as his “type,” but she was objectively pretty.

She flung her head back up and looked at the drink he had in front of him. “I can’t decide. I’m thinking either this Cicada Song or the Whatever Doesn’t Kill You. What are you drinking?”

Ugh, he thought. Here we go. He purposely got there early so he could order before she arrived. He wanted to avoid this part of the conversation.  He didn’t drink, but having drinks is what people do. So he invited her for a drink.

He was soft-spoken but it was clear that he grew up in a New York borough. “It’s a club soda.” He waited for it.

“What?”

“I don’t drink. I never have. It’s not my thing. But you go ahead. We can get some snacks.”

She started to feel very awkward. “Well,” she dragged the word out as she tried to pull her thoughts together, “Well that’s cool that you don’t, but why did you invite me to this bar if you don’t drink?” Drinking alone was not what she had in mind for a first date.

“Well this place was top of the cocktail scene on Yelp and it’s a cool place, don’t you think?” Would she go for his diversion? He looked into his cooler glass as stirred the ice and poked at his lime with the cocktail straw.

“We don’t have to stay here if it’s not your thing,” she offered. “There’s a new coffee joint down the block–they have this special single origin organic & fair trade coffee that they roast on site. Why don’t we go there, and we can talk?”

“Sure, we can do that.” He left a bill on the bar. She pulled her tote over her shoulder, and they walked out into the early evening. She stood still for a minute as her eyes adjusted to the brightness.

She was much shorter than him. Online he didn’t realize she was so small. She skipped a little to keep up with his stride. She was a little sorry that she wouldn’t try that pink drink with the mezcal and egg white. She decided that she’d come back with her roommates sometime to try it.

The sidewalk was full of people making their way to and from restaurants and happy hours and to the theatre. He lost her for a minute as a posse of teenagers stepped between them. He stopped and looked around. He was supposed to keep track of her. Meanwhile she was opening the door to the coffee shop. She looked up and wondered what happened to him. He followed her in a long minute later.

She drew in a breath of the eau du cafe. It smelled amazing. None of that burnt coffee smell, just the earthy sweetness of coffee. There were just two people in front of them.

“What are you going to get?” He had his hand on his wallet. He had asked her out.

She motioned to the cashier, “You go first.”

“Oh, me?” He took a step back. “I’m not getting anything. I don’t drink coffee.”

She stopped herself from asking the snarky question that was forming in her head. Instead she just repeated him, “You don’t drink coffee?” Her phone rang. It was her best friend. She was so glad that they took care of each other. “Sorry, I need to get this.”

Her roommate asked her how it was going. She answered forcefully, “Oh no! I’ll be right there!” She looked up at her non-imbibing companion and drew her most concerned face. “I’m so sorry, but there’s trouble with our plumbing and I need to go home. Text me?” She stepped out to the curb, threw up her right hand and hopped into a cab.

He was confused. He stood in the doorway of the coffee shop until somebody pushed their way past him. He should have hailed the cab for her. She was gone. He walked towards the garage and realized that her eyelashes were so long and thick because they were fake. Also, she was entirely too short.

Next week she would go back to the cool bar. With her friends. She was pretty sure she wouldn’t bump into him.

Posted on by docthink 3

Roux the Day

A worn wooden spoon on a worn wooden cutting board.

She stood over the stove stirring. Stirring, stirring, stirring. She wasn’t giving up.

She was learning to cook. It was a grownup thing to do, and she was ready to be a grownup. She outfitted her kitchen with a few pieces of mid-priced cookware to join the battered pots that had been her stepmom’s. She was addicted to cooking shows and studied the mis en place and vino in mano of her favorite chefs on her favorite shows.

Between HGTV, YouTube and prodigious brunches around town she was growing her skills, her palette and her repertoire. She fancied herself the foodie friend. She had started inviting friends to stand up cocktails with cute things on skewers and bites on those silly appetizer spoons. She graduated to hosting her own brunches filled with fancy french toasts, egg custards, salads and mimosas. Last year she did Thanksgiving for the friends who couldn’t get home. The boxed wines she served were the good ones. Everyone said she did great.

She was ready to cross into new territory. The turkey dinner was a win, but she was ready for something from her own inspiration. She decided that she’d host her alumni squad for a fun dinner party after the game. Her solution? Gumbo.

Gumbo was like chili only more exotic. Like chili, it could make ahead of time, it didn’t need extensive staging and it was hearty. She figured she’d serve gumbo, a goat cheese and pear salad with candied pecans that Giada makes and a baguette from the local bakery. She’d lay out some of Emeril’s “kicked up” olives, that fancy cheese with honey, breadsticks and beers to hold her guests while she warmed up the stew. She was hoping to remind people of New Orleans. Her idea was to have a party that was theme-y without really having a theme. She expected maybe ten or so.

She hadn’t made gumbo before, but didn’t consider it beyond her domain. The ingredients weren’t unusual–save the okra, but okra is a vegetable. She hadn’t been challenged by a vegetable yet. She felt confident. She got up early.

First up, the roux, the key to an authentic gumbo. Ingredient-wise it’s just oil and flour. Not too complicated. All she had to do was heat it and stir it until it was a deep chocolate brown. It seemed triflingly simple. Stand and stir. And stir.

After about five minutes she could see the color change. She nodded to herself. Something was happening. She figured a few more minutes. All she could hear was the spoon on the pan. Her phone should be charged by now. She grabbed it off the charger in her bedroom. She swiped around until she found an appropriate Spotify list–1,600 songs from New Orleans. That was good for mood setting.

She walked back into the kitchen to a scorched pan. The roux was burned. She had stepped away for two minutes, okay, maybe five or six, but it’s supposed to cook for like fifteen. Crap! She only had one big pot. She had to wait for it to cool before she could clean it out.

She fiddled with her playlist and made sure that her phone was connected to the speaker before she started again. She was glad she started early. She smiled and thought if it were later she’d have some cooking wine. Maybe it was better to be stone cold sober. She filled up her coffee mug, swirling in some of that hazelnut creamer. She dried the pan with a dish towel and put it on the burner to remove the last traces of water. She was ready.

Roux take two.

She measured out the oil and the flour and began the stirring process. She knew now that this concoction was a demanding master. She kept her spoon moving through the flour and the oil. It swelled and bubbled a little. She kept stirring. It went from vanilla to beige. More stirring as it passed from beige to taupe. It started to smell a little nutty. That was a good sign according to her recipe. She stirred and stirred. She swept the spoon in figure eights. She squiggled it through the mixture. She sipped her coffee from the cup held in her left hand as her right hand pushed the the darkening roux back and forth. She wasn’t stopping this time.

She had massaged the stuff in the pan for fifteen minutes. It seemed stalled. It wasn’t getting darker. It was stuck on caramel colored but she needed dark chocolate cake batter colored. She turned the heat up to make something happen. And it did. It went from a nutty smell to the stench of old fire pit. A few curse words sputtered from her lips.

Ruined roux number two.

She inhaled long. She exhaled from her nose and mouth at the same time. She needed to get this done and cooked before she left for the game, so she didn’t have time to get frustrated. She waited, again, for the pot to cool. It was a good thing, because she needed to cool, too.

She looked at the clock. She was running low on time. She googled “roux” and looked through a few of the entries. She found one from a site called BlueBayouCrazyCajunCooking that said it takes a half hour to get the right shade of chocolate and to lower the heat toward the end to avoid burning.

Well, she definitely knew how to burn it. She had two techniques for that. She shook her shoulders out and switched her coffee out for a coke. She measured out the flour and the oil and began the process again, hoping that the third time was the charm.

 

Posted on by docthink 3

Old Road is Rapidly Ageing

OMG! Is that Diana Ross singing

It was an enormous party. It was part celebration and part catharsis. Ingredients for a good soiree. After twelve years wandering, wondering and wallowing, they had won.

I sat there on the heavy blanket, one of the carpets leftover from The Spouse’s single days when a housemate tried to conjure rent money by selling the junk blankets from his ancestral home to yuppies in the upscale markets. He did alright. 

The blanket was a critical barrier against the cold January sod. It was both a tablecloth and a canvas to arrange the Cheerios in my pocket–and those in my bag and in the sandwich bag and in the other pockets–in different puzzles to keep the bitty boy entertained. And snacked up. A full child is a content child. 

We were surrounded by hippies that hadn’t quite aged out. Okay, they aged out, but Baby Boomers would never admit to that. For evidence note that they still sing the self-hating anthem in which they “hope to die before they got old.” They are old. They’re not jumping on ice flows. Seems like some cognitive dissonance on fleek. 

Why don’t you all fffffffffffffff-ade away?

I think that that stutter was for a very different eff-word. But I digress. Back to the show.

The stage was the Lincoln Memorial. An oversized stone-faced icon sat staid, unmoved and unmovable behind the performers. The disciples that had come out of the desert lined the ledges of the reflecting pool and fanned out to the hinter roads.

Some had been there the day that Dr. King exhorted us to be our best selves. Many others wished that they had been, but were grown and prosperous enough to make sure they didn’t miss out this time. That cohort was checking off an item on their political-moral-ceremonial bucket list. Only the left would do this, the privileged left that benefitted from education and draft deferments. And then without any apparent irony sang that they wished they were dead. Baby boomers. Ugh. 

Of course there was a brave left that were once peaceniks, activists and, some, hippies. Then there was the more populous faction who wished that they were hippies–and even had imagineered stories to support that narrative. But the reality was that at the time they were worried about their futures. No tattoos, no extra piercings, no inhaling, no arrests. People who wanted nothing on their permanent record. Go ask Alice, when she was just small.

Michael Bolton sang his blue-eyed soul, and Kenny G blew his little soulless whistle. The crowd went wild over those curly coiffed stars of that time. Me? I rearranged the Cheerios for another round of war. I was waiting for something better and had a bitty boy to entertain. Then it happened.

It was the Queen. The Queen of Soul, Aretha, entered stage left and saved the day. As she does. She brought her authentic self. I stood up with the bitty boy in my arms and taught him to spell. R-E-S-P-E-C-T. She sang from my hometown, from Motown. She brought church and people of color and working people to the Mall. And it was good. I could have gone home then.

It was chilly and I snuggled up next to the bitty boy. He snuggled back and I pulled out the secret sandwiches. Rule one of successful parenting at an event or trip? Hold back some surprises. Hold them back so tightly that you sometimes bring them home. Keep your powder dry until you are on the precipice of too late. 

Then they all rose, as one. As if at church. And I covered my ears with my hands as a reedy phlegmatic voice pierced the January afternoon. I turned to the standing Spouse. “Who’s that?” He looked at me incredulous. It was Dylan.

I stayed seated on our blanket, divvying out a quarter of a PPJ on wheat bread and a small handful of goldfish crackers to the bitty boy. I punctured the top of a juice box. The Spouse may have been a bit embarrassed at my nonchalance, but I didn’t care about that artist. He was not from my time. 

But the crowd was awed to take in his poetry and mouth harp. I didn’t know his music, except when Jimmy covered it, so I don’t know what he sang. But me and the bitty boy didn’t spell have anything to spell. 

That’s my Bob Dylan story. I remembered it because he was awarded the Nobel Prize in literature and doesn’t have enough manners to return the awards Committee’s invitation. 

You know, Aretha would. 

Later on we walked into one of the many entertainment tents erected on the field on the mall. The tempo was up and the guitars were prodigious. In the center, surrounded by the mariachi band was a woman circled by colorful rings down to the floor on her traditional skirt. It was Linda Rondstat, who had found herself after a career of starvation and exploitation that brought her fame and financial success. This afternoon she was singing most beautifully. She channeled memories of music from her childhood. And it was authentic. And it was good.

She would be polite, too. 

Dylan’s biggest sin wasn’t going electric. It was going full hubris. It’s not cool to be rude. Especially if someone is giving you snaps. 

But ultimately, I didn’t care then and I don’t really care now. And I’m going to find Rondstat’s catalog for streaming. Respect. 

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