Author: docthink

no one of consequence

Precious Cargo

Oklahoma City National Memorial at night. All lit up. Remembering those who were lost.

The day that the Murrah Building was bombed, I was in Kansas City.

I was staying at either the Hyatt Regency Crown Center or at the Westin Crown Center. They were the same. One was darker than the other, but they were the same. The hotels were linked by a pedestrian bridge that intersected a Hallmark building. Hallmark being a big deal in Kansas City.

You could walk by and watch the artists making Shoebox Cards–the funny cards–through a big window. Sometimes there’d be nobody at the desks. I guess they were on break.

When I went by that window, I was pushing a stroller that was full of a big fat baby Baby Bear. He was my traveling companion that first year of his life. He went from Boston at 10 weeks to Palm Springs at 10 months. There were two trips to Kansas City in between and maybe one after. There were likely six or eight other cities, too.

I took a new job when he was in my belly. I started on April Fools’ Day and he was born in the heat of August. My first foray into business travel with an infant was to Copley Place–I think it was a Marriott. There was some kind of pedestrian walkway there, too. My best mother-in-law ever joined me on that trip. She’d watch the Baby Bear when I was at the conference. I would ply her with the breakfast that I’d walk back from the Au Bon Pain–this was the olden days when their French roast was brewed strong and sweet, they had real cream and their bagels did not insult my New York MIL. We tried room service the first day and it was costly and crappy. Fresh coffee and bagels on the other hand, need I say more?

My assistant was in charge of shipping my breast pump. It was the size and weight of a significant car battery. My company paid the FedEx back and forth. It was cheap for all the work I was doing. Seriously. I carried the stroller on the plane. It came in handy when Grandma pushed him as she strolled downtown Boston.

We met my Bestest in Cambridge. We took the Green Line and transferred at one point to some old trolley car. We carried the stroller up the stairs of the old fashioned car, having to pause once or twice for an outburst of giggles or maybe it was hysterical cackles. This wasn’t the subway she knew in Manhattan and environs. It also bore no resemblance to the D.C. version of train that I knew. My Bestest was happy that we were city people and were up for the misadventure. My favorite part of the evening was strolling among the shops after dinner and finding the red telescope that The Big Guy wanted. MIL asked me if she could buy it for him for Christmas. I still have it.

By the time I arrived in KC, I had done a few solo gigs. My job took me to nice hotels and I’d find a sitter via the concierge. I bet I didn’t tip her well enough–but I also bet I mentally excused myself since I couldn’t expense this big expense. I’d go to sessions, give some presentations and build business during the day. I’d usually skip the socials. I didn’t need a glass of wine. Baby Bear was hungry. And I was mostly exhausted.

Did I tell you what a great traveler he was? People would see me get on the plane with a laptop on one shoulder and a fat baby and bright blue diaper bag on the other. Usually their faces would fall. Especially when they saw me edge toward their seat. The Bear didn’t cry. He didn’t fuss. He’d have his meal and read books with me, except when he was making friends with the person in the seat behind us. My neck muscles elongated like a ballerina’s as I looked over my shoulder at him and his newest friend(s).

The day there was “weather” in Dallas and we were diverted to San Antonio, we sat on the tarmac for three hours. After the first hour, the flight attendants let us all loose. They brought out those little bottles filled with fire water and dug out the remaining cold burritos to keep us happy. Other passengers were shocked that there was a baby on this hell-flight. Frankly, he was having a great time. Better than the ansty adults who entertained themselves by passing him around.

But on that day in April, we were in Kansas City. I didn’t know anything about big federal buildings and the regional fed hubs. That morning, I ordered room service and put on the TV. I didn’t have anyplace to be. I held Baby Bear close to me and sobbed. And sobbed. Downtown Kansas City was uneasy. There are plenty of federal buildings and nobody knew if their would be more attacks.

I put the sweet Bear in his stroller and we walked from one of the hotels, across the link and past the Hallmark artists and through the mall to the other hotel. I don’t know if we started or ended at the W-hotel or the H-hotel. But we went back and forth more than once. We stopped and looked through the glass wall surrounding the bridge. We saw very very wide and very very empty roads below us. I wasn’t scared, but I thought about it. Being scared, that is.

Mostly, though, I thought about those babies who would never grow up. But I couldn’t think about their parents. I still can’t. I don’t know if I could get myself out if I did. My Baby Bear is a young man. I weep for the parents who never got to know their babies as kids and tweens and teens and young adults.

Fuck Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols. Bastards.

But I can’t end on that thought. No. They aren’t the story.

I will thank the amazing first responders who walked into that horror. To the people of Oklahoma City who were almost all touched by this tragedy, I’m awed by your resilience. And to the families who lost so much, I am so sorry. Those who you loved so well are still remembered.

And a grateful hug to my Baby Bear. I am counting my blessings through a reprise of tears.

Posted on by docthink 2

Golf Service

East Potomac golf course from the "clubhouse" on a typically beautiful day. 254 weeks ago.

There are places that are more than a whereabout. Some places are memories or markers or junctures or triggers.

The ancient and huge porch at East Potomac Park is not a place of thought. It is a place of is. I sit at the more yellow than orange but almost brown recycled composite plastic picnic table and look at all the green in front of me until it shifts to a glowing cerulean. It’s late afternoon glow.

My back is to the clubhouse and grill. Two imposing pillars, like ancient cement deities from a long forgotten story, frame the scene in front of me. The first hole on the red course is on the left, where people without either time or skill play. On the right is the sixth or seventh hole on the Blue course. I am not sure since this is a course that real golfers play. It’s a full eighteen holes. I usually play the course for the skilless or, when I’m feeling cocky, I fail more fully on the 9-hole White course.

Yes, there are three courses and they are red, white and blue. On the fifth hole on the red course, you can drive right to the Washington Monument. Well, at least in that direction. It’s Washington, D.C., urban golf.

The sun forced itself into my coarsely green-painted wooden stall as I swing through my Sunday rosary. I set up mysteries of five balls. These are glorious mysteries. I concentrate on the invocation and the alignment. I swing with fervor and sometimes even abandon. I flail and fail. I work on grace as I set the next five. The sun advances into my cave, lighting it up and heating it up. I step into the sunny stream, condensation on my skin.

I use the same club for this entire service. I concentrate on keeping my left shoulder down and rotating from my core. I focus, too, on how I intertwine my hands and how I hinge my right wrist. I shut down other distractions to deliberate on these few efforts. I try to repeat when I swing well, and adjust when I swing less well. I am not frustrated. I am at peace.

I return to the big porch guarded by the forgotten gods. I’m filled with contentment and joy. A bird sits on my table and I toss her a french fry, sharing my treasure and pleasure in the day. Blessings.

Posted on by docthink 0

For Naught

A zero that has a WTF air.

I was trying too hard. I was getting nowhere. I was working on a grand metaphor and delivered a grand goose egg.

It was easier a few weeks ago, this writing thing. I’m still struggling. I’m think I’m having issues. When I write something that I think is good or worthy, I post with aplomb. But I feel like I just created a standard, and that I can’t publish something less worthy the following day. Sometimes I can pull it off–something good, that is–other times I take an idea and knead it and toss it and stomp on it and I write it and it’s more pedestrian and I have a hard time hitting the publish button.

So when I was trying to write the big thing, I got nothing. I didn’t even get to the actual writing part. I know that there is something there, but it has to sit a while.

And instead, I’ll write this. More of a confession than a post. But I’m going to publish it.

Posted on by docthink 0

Tonal Morning

carillon bells. They are very big. And loud.

I stand in the front yard waiting for The Beast to accomplish what I thought he was set out to do based on his doleful whine at the front door. He was in no hurry.

It’s not really a cool morning. There’s the backdrop aura of a spring day, but it’s way in the back. In the fore is a damp start. We’re outside in between the rains as I expect it to begin raining again and it had clearly rained not too long before. There isn’t any bite or sting to the air and not really a chill, but some contact with the water vapor that is suspended in the air that is not as warm as the air itself.

The Beast continues to sniff around the yard. Based on his at-the-door antics, I’m a bit surprised that he is being so deliberate and particular. That’s how it goes.

I hear the bells from the church spire. I don’t know the time, so I count the verses. One, two, three. I wait for the fourth, but it’s done, signaling the third-quarter hour. Wheels are hissing on the pavement as cars go up and down Twelfth Street, kicking up the water on the asphalt and whistling it through the treads on the tires.

There are at least three different birds with three different songs in nature’s own Sensurround. One is puncturing the morning with staccato yips. The others are a more melodic greeting of the morning, The Beast and me.

Posted on by docthink 0

Curry Favor

Basketball shot.

Black Mamba hung up his his kicks night before last. After having been recruited right out of  high-school to the NBA, a bunch of rings, wins, points and sneers delivered over his career, he’s done.

In typical Kobe fashion, he took all the shots on the way to a sixty-point night. The crowd at the Staples Center went, as they say, wild. Kobe went out with a bang–everyone clearly feeding him the ball to rack up his final feat–especially after he smiled and mostly walked through this final season.

At least one reporter lamented against his unnatural friendliness during this season. “Go out as who you are!” he admonished. “Be your asshole self. ”

Okay, then.

I will stipulate that Kobe may have reasons for playing like he has a chip on his shoulder. I’m clueless as to why. But there are many who will not miss his growls and slights.

That same evening, a few hundred miles up the coast in Oakland, another basketball moment was happening. The Warriors broke a 20 year old season win record led by their inimitable, huggable superstar, Steph Curry. The worst I’ve heard about Steph was when some sportswriters were peeved that his totally adorbs two-year-old daughter sat on his lap and pwned a post-game presser. Seriously. That’s it. In addition to being a future hall of famer, he’s a chill guy. “Huggable.”

I don’t pay much attention to basketball, but the contrast struck me. Clearly both players are superstars. One is team Nike and the other Under Armour. One is finishing and the other is early career. One is abhorred and one is adored.

Is it better to be feared or loved?  Time will tell.

#swish

Posted on by docthink 0

Bad Word Choice

The Urban Dictionary gigI’m thinking that we need an Urban Dictionary chrome extension. Or at least some tool to help contemporary writers check their words at the pre-review state.

I have, more than once, and maybe more than fifty times, checked my “cool words” against the Urban Dictionary. This is because I don’t know what is happening in linguistics.

Really, writers, it doesn’t take much time. You think you are being “right on” but you are actually being stupid. And, nobody likes being stupid. Well, except for some of the people running for president. But, seriously, we don’t need to be like them. We can try a little harder, and write a little better.

It’s ridiculous to get it wrong. We have the internet!

That is all.

Posted on by docthink 0

The Midnight Train Goin’ Anywhere

a confusing array of kitchen cabinet knobs and pulls. Who could decide? They are all fine.

Kitchens. Baths. Mudrooms. Decks. Master suites. Remodels. Some people are all about the process of remaking a home into theirs: the discovery, the design, the development. Me? I’m about the Done.

The thought of picking out knobs for cabinets, looking for the perfect granite vein, comparing backsplash options, selecting faucet and matching vanity lights? Shoot me now, in the head.

It’s not that I don’t care. I want a good remodel. I want to respect the bones of our great old house. I definitely have an aesthetic, but extreme nuance is uninteresting and somewhat unfathomable to me. Shades of taupe? Notched or twisted pull? I really don’t care. Does it work? Is it sturdy? Does it look okay? Great! Done and done.

I’m simple. My goal is to be able to cook a good dinner and for my guests to be able to turn on the light in the bathroom. Right now it’s a trick. The switch is on the outside wall. Inside would be a huge win. Another criteria is that nobody gets electrocuted. If someone gives me a reasonable fixture option, I’ll say yes. I care about completion and operation.

A friend was talking about a partner who wants to completely understand the process. He’s researching the natural light from multiple sources and how they will blend and create a perfect reading spot. He explores design with the fervor of a securities attorney unraveling the complex law–in this case laws of nature, laws of composition, and even, perhaps, those of humanity. The journey is made of hundreds, if not thousands, of turns that will determine the future of their lives.

Me, I’ll take the average of those options and plot a way forward. I’m not so deep.

I’m not being flip. Okay a little flip, but I don’t think he’s wrong. I’ll stipulate that there can be meaning in all those options. I personally can’t care about most of them. It’s why I only drove back to Detroit twice in decades. I can’t stand to drive eleven hours–twenty-two round trip–when I can fly in seventy minutes. I care about being there not getting there.

“Wait, Doc!” you say. “Look out the window will you?”

And to you I say, “have you ever driven on the Ohio Turnpike? Nothing to see here. Move along.” Yes, I have patience issues. I want to be there more than get there.

People have their things. People really enjoy the art and craft of serial-remodeling, either the same house or flipping houses. People like to shop shop shop for the best antique or best bargain or best find. People tinker with their cars inside and out, sometimes spending more time on the detailing than on driving.

I’m not immune. I would rather start a meal from scratch–selecting, washing, cutting and roasting or sautéeing vegetables; whisking the mustard into the oil and lemon juice for a vinaigrette; flipping a steak continuously in a red hot cast iron skillet and basting it with butter. Some call me crazed to perform cooking feats at the end of a workday. But this journey, from kitchen to table, is as important to me as the destination, from fork to lips.

I don’t know why some journeys have meaning to some and not to others. Why the selection of a pecan over a walnut floor stain defines peace for one person and elicits indifference in another? Why having flowers in my house is important to me, but arranging them is not?

When I was thinking about being a destination person and not a journey person, I realized that I was wrong. We are all on our own meta-journey that is made up of mini-journeys and side destinations along the way.  This greatest journey has a destination, too. The destination none of us will avoid, but most of us are not anxious to see.

I’m working on enjoying my overall journey on my own path until it’s natural end. There’s nothing else.

Posted on by docthink 0

Rule Breaking

non-branded junk food, like fries a cheeseburger and a soda. Not even I diet soda!

I’ve been feeling hungry most of the afternoon. I want to clarify that this is a completely unrighteous hunger. I ate cereal for breakfast, a muffin top for elevensies, then had a proper lunch with two sides.

Unrighteous is truth. I tried to keep this phantom hunger at bay, first by working, then by drinking tea with fake sweetener and then by watching cute puppies on the internet. No good. I started gnawing at the inside of my cheek. I looked up and the clock said quitting time. I was out the door, looking forward to a healthy and satiating dinner. Then, it hit me.

The Beast needs food.

I punched myself in the head for blowing the task off this weekend. Punching made me less hungry for a second. Anyway, I literally drove by the dogfood store on Sunday after the dog park, but found no convenient parking. I couldn’t imagine success in trying to balance the insane 78 pound dog on one arm and a 35 pound bag of kibble in the other. I drove home. Now I am very sorry. Very sorry. And not less hungry. Maybe more hungry. I swallow reflexively.

My desperate mind races to the bottom of the food storage container. Even if I could scrape a scant dinner from the depths of his echoing bin, there would be nothing for tomorrow morning. That’s it. I have to buy dog food. I am without another choice.

I am feeling even more hungry. My stomach is eating itself. Not really, but the unrighteous hunger is unrelenting as I try to push it aside. Instead of going home and digging up some dinner, I need to hop in the car and drive to the store.

Now I’m thinking about what I can eat in the way to the dog food store. I don’t want to wait. I want to have something salty or sweet, or sweet and salty. I’m thinking of burger toppings. I’m thinking of filling up at a drive-thru.

Arrggh! I remember that it’s not food if arrives in the window of your car.  And I’d be breaking a bunch of other food rules, like only eating junk food that I make and only eating at a table. My steering wheel is not a table. And I already said muffin-top in the third sentence here, that’s as close as I want to be.

I start thinking about responsibilities. I call up those days–usually a sunny and warm day–when I get in my car and feel like I just want to drive. And drive. Drive right out of town. Maybe to the beach.

I want to roll down the windows and turn up the radio and sing as loud as I can. So loud that other motorists turn to see where the caterwauling is from. And I just laugh and sing even louder and with even more “feeling.” I don’t know where I’d go, but I’d go.

I’m at the train station. I walk out of the car to the platform. It’s sunny, but end of the day sunny with long shadows suggesting not much sun left. I’m wearing a coat and pull it a bit closer. It’s not that warm, either. I ride down the escalator and amble to the turnstile. I flash my pass and the gates open in front of me.

I’m not that hungry. I bet that The Beast is way hungrier than me. I near the house and see the car on the street. I can be back with the goods in a quick twenty minutes. A business walk and then just a few more minutes to get my plate on. I can hold out. And I can feel righteous in my choices.

My real dinner. Not junk. And Satisfying.
My real dinner. Not junk. And Satisfying.

 

Posted on by docthink 0

Spares

bunch of shoes.

The lights are really bright in this basement. Most of the fixtures are bright but yellowish. There are two, though, that broadcast the brightest and whitest light. I bet they are new LED lamps. Energy efficiency and all.

The halls are lined with locked black metal storage cabinets. The cabinets are short and tall. Some of the short ones needed to be short because there were mysterious electrical boxes sticking out on the walls above them. There are plenty of mysterious boxes. There are also some short cabinets underneath free wall space. I guess they were all ordered at the same time and somebody didn’t do the measuring.

The tall black metal storage cabinets are deeper than the short ones. These were not all from the same order. There are slight variations among them. Just a few inches in height and a few inches in depth. They were randomly aligned–two tall and fat, one smaller, one taller, two smaller. The locks were also a hodgepodge. I don’t believe that the size of the lock was related to the value of the contents. But that’s just a guess.

The floors in this basement are peculiar. The hall is wide and the deck is primarily cement. There is about three and a half feet of steel in the middle. The steel is textured and bright. When you walk on the steel it feels hollow underneath. I stepped as lightly as I could to avoid the clank caused by my shoes. I preferred to walk on the edges, on the cement. The basement was empty and this made me feel less conspicuous. I didn’t want to sneak up on anyone, nor did I want to announce myself so loudly.

I stopped in the restroom. It was surprisingly nice for a non-public area. Lighting was excellent, no broken tiles, sturdy wooden doors for the stalls. The sinks were pedestal-style. I walked back out into the industrial underbuilding.

There is no wifi and only an ineffective blip of cell signal so there were no selfies. I waited for my colleagues outside the locked door. To the bowling alley. In the bowels of the White House.
bowling sign in the scary basement.
For those of you at home keeping score, I bowled in the bottom quartile of the bottom quartile. My solo tour of the basement was the best part of my game.

Posted on by docthink 0

Spin Cycle

laundry piling out of the washing machine. what a drag.

Laundry.

Admit it. You had a reaction when you saw that word. While thoughts of laundry could conjure the sweet smell of clean and the warmth of a towel pulled out of the dryer, that’s not the conjure that hits me first.

When I started doing laundry as a Young Doc, it was about moving piles to the basement in the dorm, waiting for the machines and returning at the end of the cycle to see someone had pulled your clothes out and put theirs in. Grrrrr.

Absconding with the community car, a few of us discovered the wonders of the laundry assembly line, the laundromat. We’d hit it up Sunday morning, slightly hungover, filling up three or four washers at a time. To save coin, we’d combine the wash into two dryer cycles. The big dryers were more expensive per cycle, but not per load. Completely done in two hours.

Fast forward to daily laundry. Doing one load every day kept the piles at bay. Mondays towels. Tuesdays jeans and tees. Wednesdays whites. Thursdays perma-press. Fridays sheets. Saturdays whatever’s left. Daily meant that while you were never done, the piles didn’t grow. Family laundry tamed. I think I only stuck to it a few months. Although, it could have been a few years since there was so much laundry that needed to be done for so long and memories get muddled like that.

Next phase was roll your own. The every-man-for-himself model spread the burden family wide. The Boys had uniforms for school and sports. There were specific soccer socks, then baseball socks, then football socks, that needed timely cleaning. Mixing with household laundry slowed things down. Happy to say I had no blame for a game-day fail. Sometimes they wore dirty jerseys. So be it.

All last week I was searching for three tees. They were long-sleeved and I needed them for our unseasonable weather snap. I couldn’t find them in the drawer. I looked on top of the dresser, nope. I went in the hamper with the folded clothes that never make it to the drawers. Not there. I put the folded clothes in the drawer. I looked in the other hamper with the clean clothes that I didn’t fold. While I was there I folded some of the bigger items. Did find those wool socks. No tees, though.

As I sorted clothes for washing today, I found the tees. How could they be dirty?  I hadn’t worn them in like six weeks. Going through my clothing pile, I’m thinking maybe I haven’t done my laundry for a while. Like a long while. I’ve done household laundry, but haven’t touched my hamper. Oopsie. I’m now thinking I need to cut the laundry lament.

Laundry and it’s process could be a metaphor for cycles in life, for picking yourself up, for cleansing, for mindfulness, for handling with care, for studies in timing, for sorting things out.

I’m not feeling any depth in the lessons of laundry, today. As I walk up and down the stairs, reading labels to catch the line-dries, all I can think of is spin, lather rinse and repeat. Not much there but the task.

Posted on by docthink 0