Category: universe

politics, sports, pop, fashion, science with a sprinkling of thinkings

It’s Complicated

Low hanging fruit, specifically apples with a little dew, being picked off the tree.

It’s easy to say it’s easy. If you just blah blah blah, it would be fine. We seek the low hanging fruit, pilot programs to show how this can work and non-specific, non-tactical theories of change that will magically change the game. We dally at the edges, expecting the fundamental change to seep in. As if.

The problems, the big crazy stuff that we’re hating, that hold us back, that fuel anger and frustration, isn’t at the edges. While there are absolutely things to improve–or things to make us think we’ve improved–there are fundamental challenges that are hard to figure out.  The problems and the work are structural or we don’t know the interdependencies or the effort is unfathomable. What needs to be fixed isn’t at the edges. It’s in the middle of this huge mother-f’ng Gordian knot.

Our problems with water in our cities and counties is compounded many times by the decay of the water system and our lack of investment. Chronic underfunding, disagreements on jurisdiction and responsibilities and multiple years of delayed maintenance are behind today’s fire department call to Metro. I won’t try to unravel the geo-political scene, but suffice it to say, it’s knotty.

Like the Biggest Loser, we didn’t get to our current state of excess overnight. There is an accretion of decisions and circumstances and responses to those circumstances that begot today’s environment. And, like we have recently learned, austerity and starvation is not a solution. At least not in the long run.

Advocating platitudes like making government small, putting the Constitution first, or supporting “traditional” values (whatever tradition that calls to mind) doesn’t fix tough challenges caused by a globalized and interconnected economy, disenfranchisement that feeds disgust and polarization or technological changes that are getting in front of our ability to intellectually and ethically integrate and manage them.

We need to recognize our penchant to operate under Parkinson’s Law of Triviality; that we waste time on trivial issues or arguments while the critical problems remain unaddressed and unresolved.

We need to be smarter, more thoughtful, more creative and more flexible in creating a shared future. We need to be realistic and play a long game because it took a long time to get here. Enough of the quick fix. What’s quick doesn’t fix.

Truly, if it were so easy it would be done already. We have real work to do.

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Spoiler Alert!

Three or four pretty ripe bananas. Not quite spoiled, though.

I asked the Big Guy if he watches Game of Thrones. He said he has, but not yet this season. And before I could form another word, he said he knew what happened. It wasn’t like I was going to tell him–although I heard about it, too. From the innerwebs.

He wasn’t concerned that I would tell. He just wanted to release that part of the conversation. Anyway, he said he doesn’t care about spoilers. He’s amused that fans get worked up. For him, the value of GOT is not plot–he says it’s all predictable and not that compelling. He watches it for the way it looks, the world created and the acting.

I met up with some friends who were in town from the middle of the country. We got together for a beer after they finished their Lincoln tour. Actually, the “Lincoln Assassination Tour.” The tour routes around a small circle between the White House and Fords Theatre and the house where he died.  In two hours they covered a mile and a half. They loved it.

The guide made it worthwhile. He was incredible. He told layers of stories with intricate and interesting details about Lincoln and the Civil War and John Wilkes Booth and probably some medical stuff, too. They definitely recommend it, and might even do it again. Even though, without a doubt, they knew how the story ended.

There definitely is something about being surprised at the reveal that Darth Vader is Luke’s father. Even more of a twist–perhaps even a twisted twist after Leia planted one on his lips–when we learn that Luke and Leia are twins. But while you can only be surprised that first time, you can still enjoy Mark Hamill’s lousy acting when he overacts his reaction. You can even find yourself licking your lips in anticipation of his howling, “Nooooooooooo, nooooooo.”

I have read and reread the Harry Potter books and have watched and rewatched the films. I don’t like them any less on return. In fact, I reread them and rewatch them because I DO enjoy the story. Knowing the plot frees me from frenzied page turning and lets me focus on the characters, their relationships and motivations and the themes of loss, friendship and power.

Frankly, not knowing how a bad movie turns out doesn’t make it any better. It’s still a waste of time. Actually, if you knew how it ended you might throw in the towel earlier and keep that time for yourself.

The topic of spoilers came up when I recommended that the Big Guy watch a hysterical White House video. I couldn’t tell him about it. I could, but then it would ruin it. Jokes are like that. You can spoil a joke. That is wrong. We agreed on that. You either tell the joke, or you don’t. Sure, you can retell a joke, but it’s never as funny as the first time.

Now a STORY, on the other hand…

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Sweet, Sour & Hot Sauce

Beyonce fooled you again. (from Telephone video)

Ring the alarm! Beyoncé is black!

It’s been creeping up on white people for a while, but they can no longer deny.

Sure, there were early signs, but many white people refused to acknowledge them until it was too late. [I see YOU Piers Morgan.] They bought her music on CDs and iTunes and just added a Tidal subscription to their bills, bills, bills for her newest visual album.

But in people’s sweet dreams, Beyoncé is simply an American sweetheart. We might have a black president, but a black America’s sweetheart? Her white fans had their flawless evidence.

Single ladies, put a ring on it.

For example, in her Dreamgirls role, she famously starved herself, erasing her beautiful, bootylicious curves to portray a teen diva. She was just like a waif-like Audrey Hepburn, right? Also, isn’t she crowned by a halo of blonde hair? And isn’t she besties with whitest and most clueless diva ever, Gwyneth P? They were even sighted at a Coldplay show together. That’s super white.

Hot sauce?  Hot sauce looked like a total false alarm when Hillary Clinton–with her awkward inability to say her name–also claimed to never leave home without it. That could be dismissed as a Southern thing. Guess I missed the image of Scarlett and Melanie as single ladies hoisting bottles of Tabasco out of their bags before the burning of Atlanta.

Beyonce? She Flawless!Her shocked white fans started on their path to resentment when Bey called herself a feminist, like she runs the world? But as long as she was a naughty girl riding her surfboard–a definite white Beach Boys’ reference, right?–and writhed drunk in love on the floor her agency as an independent woman could be dismissed, too.

Beyonce flips out.Then, out of the blue, she drops her new album. While there is definitely universality in her countdown of shared human experiences of intuition, denial, anger, apathy, emptiness, accountability, reformation, forgiveness, resurrection, hope, redemption, she also excludes.

She might tell a different story if she were a boy, but she focuses on her own experience as a woman. She is a mother to a daughter. She is a daughter to a mother who, too, was a survivor of marital infidelity. She works words and music along her journey beyond the poison of resentment that many women have faced. But she goes further into her own experience–that of a black woman, in formation with other black women and their unique experiences of love, loss and tenacity. And, white America, you aren’t with that because that message is not for you. It is for her and her sisters. You feel left out.
Foxy Cleopatra throwing some shade.

Oh, that sneaky Beyoncé. She made you all crazy in love with her because of her talent and hard work–and because she didn’t talk too much. You liked that she was empowering but not scary. And now, after sucking you in, she goes ahead and scares the living shit out of you. She is provocatively political. She made you look when you weren’t intending.  Don’t hurt yourself, but listen. Move your body and embrace what makes these women beautiful.

Beyonce telling us.You go, Beyoncé. That’s a tall, sweet glass of lemonade I see you sipping. I know you weren’t intending for the white folk to be all sour and salty, but it’s up to them to make their own lemonade this time. XO
Beyonce runs this world as an independent woman.

Tomorrow’s news: the irreplaceable Prince rocking an Afro? Yeah, déjà vu, he’s black, too.

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Markers In Time

Entrance to Glenwood Cemetery in D.C.

Lincoln Road heading away from the Shrine curves around like an S up the hill and then curves to the next S–a reversed S that hugs the other side of the hill between the two cemeteries.  It’s a beautiful park on this sunny spring day.

A crabapple tree extends its branches over the iron fence and shades the road. The tree is starting to switch from flowers to leaves. The flowers are like pink painted orbs against the green that is barging in. Just before the first S there is a Japanese-styled garden with a bridge arching over most likely a rock river. This tribute is new. I remember them moving the earth around and creating some moguls before they constructed a pagoda and then the bridge. Mylar balloons tied to one side of the bridge are lurching toward the sky. It seems strange, attaching balloons to the bridge. There isn’t an obvious marker. I don’t think they were from a birthday party–unless it was marking the birthday of someone dead?

Lifesized cement angels herald visitors at the entrance at deepest part of the curve. Well, person-lifesized. I don’t know what the size of an actual angel would be. Anyway, if you were trying to enter the grounds from the north, you’d have to turn your car 270°. Funeral processions always enter from the south for ease and are guided around a large circle with more angels, some blaring trumpets others in thoughtful prayer poses.

This is an old cemetery. The sign says it was founded in 1854. The stones are all different shapes and sizes. There’s some tall ones that look like the Washington Monument. These obelisks are different heights. Is there some status here? There are some twin stones, maybe marking a couple. Some markers are big crosses. There are square crypts that hold families full of remains. There is an old azaela that sits in front of a gravestone and has just about overtaken it. There are tall trees throughout the winding roads of the cemetery. There are lots of low flowering plants.

Modern cemeteries are designed for efficiency. There are no trees and no above ground stones so the groundskeepers can easily cut the grass. The graves are lined up in rows and are navigated to using simple coordinates. Some modern cemeteries limit the types of homage family and friends can leave behind. There is a sameness.

Not at this old cemetery. The grave markings are as different as the people buried here. There are old trees and young ones, too. Somebody is taking care to ensure that there will always be some shade. The grass is mowed, at least from where you can see from the road. Maybe people have to pay a fee to maintain the plots, but none are overgrown.

The leaves on the trees sway slightly and the sun warms the garden. There isn’t a funeral today, but there are a few people coming to visit those who have left them. They have picked a good day to pay their respects and to walk through the garden.

 

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Power Play

WCAC wrestling match. Fierce!

If any of you are still wondering how the Catholic Church not only covered up but also supported pedophile priests for decades and generations, look here and here.

For those of you who didn’t click through, here’s the tl;dr. Sixty people sent letters defending the character of Denny Hastert to the Chicago judge sentencing Hastert in a money laundering case that exposed the former wrestling coach and U.S. Speaker of the House as a serial pedophile. His supporters had a chance to pull back their letters before they went public. Forty-one decided that they were okay with not only publicly supporting but, in some instances, minimizing the impact of Hastert’s crimes.

I can get the ones from family who can’t believe he is a monster who via his position of power and respect as a person in authority–a wrestling coach–identified and groomed boys for sexual abuse. Yeah. I would have a tough time reconciling my spouse or parent or sibling with that. Wrong, but I can see it.

But “former national and state politicians as well as local leaders, board members, police officers”?  State attorney generals? Members of Congress? Ex-CIA heads?

That’s how this crap happens. People in power supporting other people in power and systematically–yes systematically, methodically and deliberately–minimizing the humanity of those who are not powerful. People like the young, the poor, the differently-able, the non-white, the non-cis, the non-hetero, and, frequently, the women.

I don’t care if the old man is in poor health. It’s not like he stole a loaf of bread to feed his family and has been chased for a lifetime while doing good. He purposefully hurt kids and then hid those crimes behind more than a million dollars in hush money. Then, when it got too hot, he said he was sorry for transgressions of “a young man.”

What does it mean that he is a “god-fearing man”? Does claiming that give a pass for preying on people? It doesn’t make sense to me.

My Bear wrestled. It was the only sport that drew my tears–not for winning or losing, but for the fierceness of the competition. Fierce. Intense. Personal. We trust our sons and our daughters to coaches, teachers and other group and club leaders. That trust should be sacrosanct no matter the power differential.

The crimes against children must not be brushed aside as a minor “flaw.” Must. Not. We need to defend the survivors, not the abusers.

 

 

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Purple Reign

Prince, summoning the purple reign.

I would listen to the Electrifying Mojo religiously. He would land his mothership on WJLB and the members of the Midnight Funk Association would be brought to order. He would spin funk, R&B, rap, soul and even new wave from 10-2 every night. They say that Mojo broke Prince to the Detroit airwaves.

One night Mojo opened with the promise that he would play When Doves Cry for his entire show. And he did. I was in the car and listened for fifty miles, stopping only when I turned off the engine at my destination.

Mojo looped the song back on itself, reinserted the guitar intro and elongated the bridge. And did it all again in a different configuration. And again. It was seamless and beautiful. I didn’t think that I would listen for long, but I was bewitched by the tom tom, guitar, howls, falsetto and the telling and retelling of the story of the sad love birds.

I knew that the Electrifying Mojo took plenty of chances, playing full albums and mixing genres. But I almost thought that he would get fired for playing When Doves Cry for four hours. Four hours one continuous song. It was subversive. And it was art.

Like Prince, a most subversive artist. Prince sang about love, sex, sexuality and making love. He performed looking sexy in a ruffled shirt, high heeled boots and a purple satin frock coat. Men loved him. Women loved him. He wore eyeliner. He changed his name into a symbol over his rights to his music. He played an inspired Super Bowl halftime in the pouring rain. His tour bands always included women musicians. He made pancakes. He shredded on the guitar. He made us party like it’s 1999. He rocked, he rolled, he whispered, he screamed. He pretended we were married and that he was your girlfriend. He sang for Freddy Gray and for Baltimore. He was funky. He was a star. He left unexpectedly, and too early. I hope to a place where your horses run free.

Thanks, Prince, for being on the soundtrack of my life. Tonite I have you on loop. Game blouses.

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What you talkin ’bout Willis?

From Different Strokes, when Arnold'd look up and say, "what you talkin bout Willis??"

When I was growing up, I thought my name was roxgwemishDoc.

That’s what my mother called me. She would go through all the names in the credits before she finally got to mine. She’d do it quickly. It sounded like an ancient elvish language. Sometimes it might be Docrocksmish. Then I might be first. It wasn’t logical. Sometimes, in exasperation, she would just point and spit out, “You!”

I have spoken to The Spouse and got his attention by dropping the name of the dog.

For the record: I know that The Spouse is NOT The Beast.

I have seen The Spouse shudder at my error, but he knows it’s a mistake. Everyone knows. Even The Beast himself. He doesn’t move his head, cock an ear or raise an eyelid when I call The Spouse by The Beast’s name.

Sometimes, when I am speaking quickly, which is often, I say the wrong word. When it’s worth a laugh and could be misconstrued as a double entendre, we call it a Freudian Slip.

It could be calling a quarterback by the name of a point guard. It could be misnaming a river. Maybe I say rock when I mean sugar. It could be using the brand name of a cookie for a wine. I know, weird.

In each and every case, I am making a mistake.

Any day I might speak 10 thousand or 15 thousand words. I get some wrong for reasons of speed, laziness and the actual phenomenon of brain efficiency in which I autoinsert a word or phrase that doesn’t belong but could.

Like I might say 7-11 instead of 9-11. Where I am talking at length about how we came together after the terror attack and my brain subbed out the slurpee store on the way.

I know the difference. You do, too. So let’s talk about something else.

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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.

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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

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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.

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