It’s Time To Sleep
It’s time for bed little mouse, little mouse,
Darkness is falling all over the house.

My daughter is perched in my lap, smelling of Johnson’s Babywash and Babypowder. The sweet smell of clean baby wafts up. She’s wearing her blue pajamas. We’re reading one of the favorite night-time books, Time for Bed, by Mem Fox. It’s a story of various animal mothers (no fathers) persuading their little ones to go to sleep. She’s enjoying the last vestige of babyhood—the bottle before bedtime. Slurping happily while Daddy reads.

It’s time for bed, little goose little goose,
The stars are out and on the loose.

We’ve always read stories before going to bed, even before she knew the story lines. Back then, I think she just liked the cadence of my voice, the closeness, the kisses on her neck, sweet and clean from the recent tubby. I’ve always enjoyed our reading time, hamming up the voices of barnyard animals and little blue engines, making horse neighs and cow moos. These times are made even more special when she casually reaches up to feel the day’s stubble on my chin, the reverberation of my voice while telling the story.

It’s time to sleep little bee little bee,
Yes, I love you and you love me.

We read our stories and talk about them a lot. There’s the Little Blue Engine that we talk about while riding the small train at the zoo, the balloons like what lifted Curious George way up high over the city, or the dolphins swimming in the ocean like the little girl and her mother in the story where they swim out with their snorkels and play with them. On the rare occasions when she wakes up from a nightmare or is cranky and restless with a cold, I’ll tell her stories, made up on the fly. We’ve talked about the King and the Queen who lived in the tree house kingdom and had a little princess daughter with the same name as she does (what are the chances?) and who have a royal birdbath which one day attracts a large golden bird.

It’s time to sleep little deer, little deer,
The very last kiss is almost here.

I’m reading this page and she knows full well the story is almost over. I continue, but some small part of me is dwelling on that line; the very last kiss is almost here. I suspect a loving God views us as I view my daughter. I imagine him putting us down for the last time and we, clinging stubbornly to flesh and blood, resist. He is no doubt as amused as I and tells us softly, “It’s okay, tomorrow we’ll go out and play in the sun.” Yet we fight, unable to see past the shadows of night into the promise of morning.

The story is finished. We go outside to say good night to the moon; Tex, the dog down the street; the beach; Daddy’s big truck; and the garden sitting fallow and awash in the moonlight. Back inside, we walk to her little girl room and I place her into the crib, telling her good night. Her mother fusses over blankets; I walk out after blowing a few more kisses.

Sleep well my little one; and tomorrow we’ll play.

irony n., pl. -nies. 1.a. The use of words to convey the opposite of their literal meaning. b. An expression or utterance marked by such a deliberate contrast between apparent and intended meaning. c. A literary style employing ironic contrasts for humorous or rhetorical effect.

Does it have a Hemi?

Doodling With Daddy
My daughter and I doodle. In church pews, grocery store lines, or anywhere when we're stuck waiting and have pen and paper. We doodle in the sand along the bay with sticks, drawing giraffes, whales, lions, dogs and fish. We draw numbers and letters (she can count to twenty and knows all the alphabet--not bad for a two year old).

Last night, we waited patiently for a Sesame Street production we were attending. All the usual suspects were there: Big Bird, Elmo, Grover and Oscar (along with some Daddy is not familiar with). My daughter was ping-ponging between her mother and I and excitedly watching all the other little kids.

I love my daughter. Anyone who has read any of my scribblings is well aware of that fact. I love her so much it shocks me sometimes. I even love her enough to sit through an hour and a half of Sesame Street, watching oversized, brightly colored muppets prance around singing about letters (the letter of the day was Y), numbers (the number of the day was 2) and generally getting along with each other in this multi-cultural world.

What I didn't expect was a fifteen minute intermission during the show. Intermission? Are you kidding me? As the lights came up, I saw my little girl's lip curling up, "No, no, more Elmo, more Big Bird." She touched her little fingers together in the sign language we taught her long ago--as if to bolster her request in case Mommy and Daddy weren't clear. The lights came on and two hucksters walked to the front of the theatre to sell Elmo balloons.

Are you guys telling me you stopped this production just to sell some balloons? Meanwhile, parents throughout were dealing with these questions:

"Why's Big Bird leaving?"

"What happened to Cookie Monster?"

"Did they fix the spaceship?"

Fifteen minutes is a long time to wait after getting a taste. I think the producers of the show should have to entertain a 2 year old during intermission. Then it would be bye-bye intermission....

In case you're wondering--(and I don't want to spoil it for anyone so read no further if you're planning on going sometime)--everyone returned and there was singing and dancing and the spaceship was lifted off by collective "sneezing" by the entire audience, thereby insuring a good mixing of germs among the throngs of little ones.

Now I'm looking for some echinacea.

Notable People I’ve Met*
This is the night, of the expanding man,
I take one last drag, as I approach the stand.
Steely Dan

1) Elliot Spitzer, Attorney General for New York, gubernatorial candidate for 2008.
I hope he runs for president one day. He was wearing one of those Ironman watches and on his way to go skiing but made time for me and my colleauges.

2) Roy Jones, Jr., prizefighter.
Shorter than me and not really impressive in street clothes. Just goes to show you can't judge a book by its cover.

3) Bob Riley, Governor of Alabama.
Wore cowboy boots to our meeting...with a suit.

4) Robert Kennedy, Jr., environmental activist.
Says he drives a Prius. Sure Bobby, when you're not in a limo.

5) Arriana Huffington, commentator.

6) Charlie Crist, Attorney General of Florida, gubernatorial candidate for 2006.
This guy makes George Hamilton look pale.

7) Don King, promoter.

8) Jack Kemp, NFL standout and previous vice-presidential candidate.
Don King gave a rambling 30 minute talk that was extremely entertaining. Jack Kemp gave a rambling, 30 minute talk that made me thank God he wasn't a heartbeat away from the Presidency.

9) Johnny Cochran, attorney.

10) Morris Dees, founder, Southern Poverty Law Center.
Genuinely decent man.

11) Bob Graham, former Senator and Governor of Florida.

12) Bill Nelson, Senator from Florida and former astronaut

13) Adam Duritz, musician, lead singer, Counting Crows
I couldn't help but keep thinking--Sideshow Bob, Sideshow Bob.

14) Jim White, musician
Dead-ringer for David Byrne.

15) Patrick J.A. Kiley, notable only in his own mind but I’m feeling expansive…

* By met, I mean being in the same room with and talking to, not people I’ve seen at various functions; people I’ve gotten to look in the eye….

The Quickening
Walking along the bay, I can see schools of fish breaking the water, chased by some unknown aggressor. It is the quickening. Least that's what Calamity Jane (my wife) and I decided to call it. It's the end of fat summer and the beginning of the long dark passage through winter to the other side of light. Some won't make it. The grasshopper is still singing but the ants will surely turn him out soon as he comes around panhandling. Even in the children's story the merry, music-making, loafing grasshopper is put out to his fate.

I haven't read this story to my daughter because I'm not ready to tell her about the savagery of man (or ants--a metaphor for us). She'll learn soon enough.

The quick and the dead. As a little child, I remember sitting in church, freshly scrubbed, listening. The quick and the dead. To me, at that young age, it meant those who were fast enough to elude their pursuers were "quick;" those who couldn't wound up as highlights on Marlin Perkins' Wild Kingdom. It's the fly struggling in the web, the bird plucking the worm: the big bad wolf blow, blow, bloooooowing your house down. At my house, it's the garishly singing birds falling silent and the squirrels moaning plaintive pleas as the hawk swoops in, all business like a mob enforcer ready to exact the fealty of nature. It's the bigger kid taking your lunch money. It's the young cashier at the convenience store silently crying while taking my money.

What was troubling her? I suspect the same thing that troubles everyone at the margins: survival.

Used to be survival was easily defined. Either you had enough firewood to get you through the winter or you didn't. You had put up enough stores for winter or you were in trouble. No longer. Now, we get fresh fruit year round, we don't care where it comes from; grocery stores are supposed to have these things. We're silly billies. We can't face the fact that we are living in a construct of illusion: a house of cards. I've seen that house shake and rattle; I've seen people in a panic lose it over a bag of ice or a gallon of gas. I've seen the panic in their eyes when the bottled water is running out, the grocery store doesn't have what they want and the big storm is roaring in. Don't mind me folks; I'm just passin' through. I'm gonna climb in my hybrid and leave. Detroit (or really Madison Avenue) sold you these Hummers, Escalades, Navigators, Suburbans or (my favorite), Sequoias. Let them tell you how to find gas. You drank the Kool-Aide; you listened to the grasshopper singin' "Don't Worry, Be Happy."

I'm not unsympathetic (right schoolboy?) to your plight. I just don't see how you could be so wasteful. You've been sold a lemon by the boomers, a generation who were given everything and expected even more. They talked a good game when they were kids, marchin' and protesting. But they were co-opted. Integrated into Halliburton; seduced by material things. They now go to their dotage ostensibly thinking they changed the world when all they did was use it up. The same technology that propels me past the gas pump while you all wait has been around for a while, but the sexy, cool thing was speed, power, and (most importantly) comfort.

Everyone loves a good come-uppance on reality TV. No one is ready to admit they are due. Oh baby, we're due. I'm planting my winter garden. Used to be in times of war everyone planted a victory garden. Now we cut taxes and cluck at the TV while the numbers (not the pictures mind you--that would be inflammatory) of dead climb.

So I'm tilling and planting. Anyone want greens? Beets? Cabbage or lettuce? Don't come around here panhandling. I got a little one to protect now. Remember what I did to the moccasin. Let it be a warning.

Of Cigars, Cars, and the End of the World
Do me a favor would you? Check out my man at http://www.sigcar.blogspot.com. His site is called Smell My Finger. It’s a guy smoking and reviewing cigars (when he’s not working on raising a 15 month old son). I came across the site totally by accident; I had just logged off after entering a post and the Blogger homepage was scrolling through various blogs. I saw Smell My Finger come up…yeah…what would you do? I’m just glad I didn’t grow up in a cold climate because I think I would’ve been that kid with his tongue stuck to the pump handle.

So I start reading this blog and his reviews are thoughtful and the child-rearing challenges sounded very familiar. Then I noticed his comment on the last post about no one but the Spiders from Mars reading. I’m old enough to know a David Bowie reference when I hear it (that’s right kids…and Paul McCartney was in a band before Wings too). So I had to enter a comment. No one should be that thorough and not be appreciated. If you’re looking for that perfect stogie for the weekend, drop by and read his reviews. When I figure out this link crap, I’m putting it up here too (although, as I told him—that aint exactly gonna open the flood gates). I’ve sort of elbowed my way into a group of funny and thought-provoking bloggers who are nice enough to say kind things from time to time. That’s all that it takes, isn’t it? Like a smart philosopher said recently…it’s the little things…hope you’re okay Fuzzball.

Memo to the guy driving behind me the other day: this is not NASCAR. How do I know? Well, we’ve made some RIGHT turns and neither you nor I have decals all over our cars. Stop drafting. And yes, I can see you got the Dodge Neon tricked out but really, I got a baby seat in the back of my car, I got a mortgage and life insurance payments—I’m not gonna swap paint with you.

Finally, I was speaking with a colleague today who lives in Birmingham, Alabama. She asked how we fared through the last hurricane and we talked about the monster buzzsaw in the gulf right now. The she said something interesting:

“jemison,” she asked, “do you think it’s the end of the world?”

I’m pretty sure she was joking but I know what she means. There is this general malaise hanging over everyone these days like the stale smell of cigars after closing time. War, natural disasters, evacuees, destruction and a government spending money like a drunken sailor—money my daughter will have to pay back to China someday. What can we do to turn things around? My modest suggestions: vote; volunteer; be creative; be generous; play nice with everyone else—even the punk kid tailgating you in traffic. Be that person your pet thinks you are—or your two year old thinks you are. Show self-control. Because like that eminent philosopher Sir Paul McCartney said:

And in the end, the love you take,
Is equal to the love you make.

[UPDATE] Imagine my suprise when I opened the NY Times this morning and found Paul Krugman talking about the same thing. Not cigars or a punk kid tailing him but the state of the American psyche. Only difference: he calls it the loss of confidence. Hmmmmm. Paul Krugman and little ole me writing about the same thing on the same day. Maybe it is endtimes...

When the world is running down,
you make the best of what's still around.
The Police

My Great-great Grandfather Jemison (1834-1891)
The first of the family line with my name. As you can tell from the uniform, he was a major in the Confederate Army. He was wounded in the battle of Chickamagua.

On the other side of my family, I can trace all the way back to a woman named Nancy Greyhawk. She was the niece of the king of the Natchez Creek Indian tribe. A full-blooded Creek Indian woman. I don't have a picture of her, but I bet she was one tough momma. In the 70's, I received some money from the federal government for treaties broken with the Creek nation. It wasn't much.

So my family has deep roots in the South. My ancestors ran half-naked through these woods many years ago. It shouldn't surprise anyone that the tradition continues...


Now that I put these two pictures up, I can see the connection; the genetic thread spanning the years from horse and buggy to spacesuits. It's the eyes. The eyes of my great-great grandfather that saw the gore and horror of the Civil War. The eyes of my daughter that shine with total innocence and promise of new life. Actors on the stage of life--some playing bit roles until the cast changes and the children become the adults and the adults become dust. The characters change but the play continues...

Dateline: Key West
"I don't think the really heavy stuff is gonna come down for quite some time yet..."
Bill Murray, Caddyshack

Radio
I have a radio station I can pick up...sometimes. Othertimes there's interference with a religious station. So I either get BBC news or some vacuous band singin' the praises to our Lord and Savior in 4/4 time.

Oh dear Lord deliver me! Not too long ago, that was the Devil's music...are you really telling me that now it's okay because you mention the resurrection?

The BBC? Please? I can get MTV anytime.

This blending of stations does sometimes lead to interesting listening.

"And so Jesus says...[static]...the consumer price index appears unchanged by the latest hikes in oil prices...[static]...and so we as faithful Christians should...[static]...purchase illegal weapons-grade plutonium."

"And what's more, God says to all who are faithful and abide by his laws...[static]...tax cuts should be made permanent."

We all find our amusement where we can.

Why Federal Help After Katrina Was Late

Is that Tony Blair's picture in the background? Wouldn't that be a little weird?

My Wife

Juliet, when we made love you used to cry
You said, 'I love you like the stars above; I love you 'till I die.'
Dire Straits

Hey Calamity Jane:

Remember gliding over the grass flats in your little sailboat and up onto the white sands of the island when you said "I wanna do something funner" and we broke out the Moet?

Remember when we snuck up into the tower and spent all night on our backs watchin' the lunar eclipse?

Remember fryin' up speckled trout with ho cakes and buttery scallops caught behind Black's Island?

Remember when I played that song for you under the magnolia tree in Ferdinand Plaza?

Remember when I cast so hard I tipped over the canoe?

Remember laughing when the jackass got loose and ran through the lot across from us while we were having morning coffee? Remember how you yelled, "run Jackass run!" and I 'bout spit coffee across the room?

Remember snorkeling for lobsters in the keys and the fin you saw next to me as I swam out to that island? Remember the steady breeze pushing in over the water while we grilled our catch over the campfire?

Remember the mongoose at St. John's on New Year's eve? The cat that took up residence with us in the Monkeypod treehouse at Waipea Valley? The geckos that used to feast on the mosquitoes on the lee side of the beach house?

Remember hiking from Phantom ranch all the way up Bright Angel to the south rim? Remember how the day tourists walking a few yards down eyeballed us, dusty and plodding out from the canyon.

Remember canoeing back to the dock at Crystal River after swimming with the manatees and that Tampa Tribune photographer snapping our silhouettes?

Remember stopping on that Nevada Road in the middle of the night, turning off the lights and looking around? It was so dark you could see the tendrils of the Andromeda galaxy.

Remember bobbing in the clear Gulf water Sunday afternoon with the little booglet? Makin' a tunnel in our sand castle by digging until our hands met sandy and salty on the beach?

Remember the "fall spring" trip? Nipper key? King Pokie Lickie? Rocky and Mugsy ("never catch me alive copper!")

There's so much now isn't there? We could talk our inside jokes for hours like another language only husband and wife can translate. We've created our own universe. Now we've populated it with one 30 pound inhabitant.

I know exactly what you're saying, "Hey Yacky! What's your point?"

Remember what Van Morrison said?

"The best is yet to come."

Swimming
The Downtown YMCA. Lunchtime. Judges, stockbrokers and computer repair guys all roll in to take out their frustrations. Everyone has their favorite routine. I swim.

I remember learning how to swim in a public pool, taking lessons with my older sister, T. Years later I found out she hated the experience. To me it was magical, like someone was letting me in on a great secret--how to move through the water gracefully and efficiently.

I remember blowing bubbles and learning to turn my head to breathe. Just rotate you head, not your entire body. Kick your legs, pull with your arms; I was entranced. After I learned the basics, there was no deep end I feared or distance I wouldn't go.

The Y's pool is old. It has only 4 lanes and is 23 yards long. 44 laps equal 1 mile. Down and back is a lap. Even though the lanes are limited, arrive just before the lunch crowd and it's usually okay.

I jump in, knifing down and pushing off the pool bottom. Adjust goggles, set the watch and start...1, 2, 3. I break up the laps into 4 groups of ten.

Maybe it's because swimming reminds me of summer and my grandfather's place (that's where we were when I took lessons). So all tied up with it are memories of moss-draped trees, warm nights hiding and seeking in his huge, lush yard, watermelon and truck rides through the woods. And I especially remember swimming in Blue Springs, where cold clear water bubbled up from forty feet below and the cave entrance, visible from the limestone ledges, lurked menacingly. Much later, I would don my SCUBA gear and enter that cave, exploring the great room and the five passageways leading off to further, more dangerous locales. One shaft led straight down into darkness. I didn't follow it.

The first 10 laps go easy; breathing becomes measured and the strokes automatic. The mind relaxes as the body toils. Swimming is all about endurance, being able to stretch out your arm again and again and pull it through the resistance of the water. It's also about not fighting the water but gliding through it. Surrender to the water; embrace the liquid environment you are passing through.

I reach 20 laps. The arms now feel heavy but the pace is steady. Fatigue is the enemy of a good stroke. Weariness causes sloppiness in the water. The mind wanders. Where's my second wind?

After learning how to swim, I was lucky enough to get to participate in swim teams. Swimming is really an individual sport. Whatever noise is there on the starting block disappears once you hit the water. Then, there's no other sound but the rush of water and your breaths. No teammate can save you in an individual race. There are no chance hops and bounces. It's just you. How hard can you push? How much pain can you stand? How long, as the race nears the end, can you bury your head and pull, ignoring your lungs screaming for air? What are you capable of doing? No one else can answer that question.

After high school, I no longer swam competitively. I still swam though. In pools at universities, gyms, and, when I was a lifeguard, out in the Gulf of Mexico. I swam with sea turtles (Caretta caretta), manatees (Trichechus manatos ), sharks (Ginglymostoma cirratum), barracudas (Sphyraena barracuda) and jack crevalle (Caranx hippos). Once, while out past the second sandbar, I came across a school of jack crevalle. They were moseying down the island in a loose-knit group of about half a dozen. They seemed somewhat amused to encounter this air-breathing land dweller, so obviously not suited to their environment. I looked at them, silvery nomads heading to points beyond my reach. It was a moment I'll never forget. You get to see things like that if you venture out past the shore's safe edge; if you are not afraid to swim in deep waters.

After lap 30, my mind returns to the business at hand. I become mindful that my time in the water is drawing to an end. As lap 40 approaches, I push, like a sprinter at the end of a run. The last 4 laps are leisurely, a warm down. I'm now thinking about leaving this pool and its solace and returning to the world of telephones and faxes. The faint smell of chlorine lingers in my nose for the rest of the day, reminding me of who I am.

Of iPods, Lovebugs and Gators
Songs on my iPod while grilling blackened Grouper (recipe later):

1) Hasten Down the Wind, Warren Zevon
2) Bodhisattva, Steely Dan
3) I'm Cryin, Stevie Ray Vaughn
4) The Way Young Lovers Do, Van Morrison
5) Tell Me What You Puttin' Down, Jimmy Reed
6) Rough Mix, Pete Townshend and Ronnie Lane
7) The Nightfly, Donald Fagan
8) Baba O'Riley, The Who
9) Canary in a Coal Mine, Police
10) All Shook Up, Elvis
11) Show Biz Kids, Steely Dan
12) 10 Miles to go on a 9 Mile Road, Jim White
13) Sharks, Morphine
14) LookingOut My Back Door, Creedence Clearwater Revival
15) It Takes a lot to Laugh, it Takes a Train to Cry, Bob Dylan

Sweet. The Grouper was good too...here's a hint, marinate the Grouper in lemon and pepper--just those two--any other spice is persona non grata. Then let Paul Prudhomme take over. Well there, that's the recipe--if you know how to grill.

Love bugs (Plecia nearctica) are here. En Masse. There's a myth that they came from The University of Florida. I'm here to dispell that. Check out Urbanmyths.com or something like that. I can't let the Gators get any blame tonight while they stand up tall to Tennessee. I know JLA and Zack are both enjoying it...

Home
Home.
Home again.
I like to be here when I can.
When I come home cold and tired,
It's good to warm my bones beside the fire.
Pink Floyd

It's early morning. The coffee machine is chunkin' away. Chester's been given his morning treat and is out on the porch surveying his domain. A red morning sun is poking its nose over the rise across the bay, refracting into thousands of prisms like shattered red-stained glass over the water. On the monitor, I can hear the little booglet stirring in her crib. She's swimming up from sleep, stirring in her cocoon of soft blankies and stuffed animals.

I peek in; her hair is tussled wild and beautiful.

"Daddy!"

I open the window shades. Hell, open the window. The mornings are cool now and the birds are going full tilt.

"Hey Sugar Bear." I turn from the window and walk to the crib. We look at each other. She's smiling. I'm smiling so hard my face hurts.

"Daaaaaaddy." She stretches luxuriously and kicks off her favorite blanket. In the crib are the usual suspects: Mr. Fat Giraffe, Skinny Bunny, Po and Huckleberry Hound. Daddy, with his usual Jonathan Winters mannerisms, has voices for all of them.

Huckleberry Hound used to sing her a song:

Huckleberry Hound, coolest dawg around,
See my ears go floppin', floppin' up and down,
Got all my shots, no rabies
I just sing for the little babies
Cuz I'm Huckleberry, HUC-KLE-BER-RY H O U N D! Yeah!
(The Huckster's got some Elvis in him.)

I'm standing over the crib looking at her looking at me. This has happened before. Sometimes, when we're playing and Papa Bear's gettin' sugar from his little Sugar Bear she'll stop and stare. Looking into my daughter's eyes is like looking into the mirror. On some level I think she must feel the same. We're so obviously related. When I stare into her eyes I get vertigo. It's like an infinity mirror, you and me, me and you. Your Momma's got some sparklin' blue eyes but yours came from Daddy. Your Momma wears contacts but you got Daddy's good vision--I know because you can see the monkeys at the zoo from our special perch on the boardwalk. Working on our orange pieces and watchin the Silly Billy monkeys. Papa Bear and his little Sugar Bear. I'm home again.

"Come and see me." I pick her up out of the crib, smell her hair, get some lovin'. "Did you miss Daddy?"

She nods her head way up and way down, "Yes."

Oh sweetheart--good answer. What do you want? Real estate? Diamonds? Or just a morning story? I'll get it. Please tell me there will never be any other men in your life.

I know, I know. There will be other men in your life, just like I came along and took your Momma away from her Daddy.

But it won't be today.

Politics
I told my buddy Zack I was thinking about posting a political entry. We both agreed there's nothing that hasn't been discussed yet. Still, I have some things I've been thinking about. I'm pretty plugged into politics, even though I don't get cable TV. Hey, I can read. Dylan said, "You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows." Besides, I think the 24 hour TV news cycle has become more entertainment than news. And I think these "news shows" add to the problem rather than clarify it.

I don't want to talk about Judge Roberts (he'll get confirmed--save your venom for that sawed-off little memo writer Gonzalez); Katrina (everybody is to blame--the city is below sea level); or the war (no smart quip here--it's just bad). I want to talk about the game itself: politics.

How much does it cost to run for political office? Thousands of dollars for local races, millions for national ones.

Aggregate costs of House and Senate campaigns increased eightfold between 1976 and 2000, from $115 million to $1.007 billion, while the cost of living rose threefold."

Congressional Research Service, 2003. How that money is raised has become a major bone of contention among politicians and the media and so therefore is thrust upon the electorate. The simple fact remains, those with the money find a way to contribute to these increasingly expensive campaigns. What do they want?

The same thing anyone who makes an investment wants...a return on their money.

Everyone has lined up neatly into two camps--donkeys or elephants, Coke or Pepsi. Two choices. We're a nation of over 295 million and we get two major political parties. Vanilla or chocolate, fer us or again us. Black or red on the political roulette wheel. Nobody should be happier than the people stroking the checks; if you only have two real candidates with a snowball's chance in hell of winning, your expenditures are going to be much less than if there are 3, 5, or (gasp!) 10 political parties with viable candidates.

So with these two parties controlling the game, what do we get? Predictably, issues get boiled down to two sides for every debate. Packaged and sold by the same ad agencies that try to convince you that this shaving cream is better than the rest. It becomes "branding;" so the estate tax is no longer the estate tax, it's the death tax. Nevermind it only applies to 1.25 percent of all estates and its repeal will have no impact on the vast majority of the electorate, it's been branded.

Repeal [of the estate tax] will have no impact at all on the vast majority of people, but you wouldn't know that if you lived in a state with a wavering senator. There, advertising campaigns claim that small-business owners and family farms suffer from the estate tax. In fact, there are provisions in the law to ease the effect on both groups and an estate has to be large to face any tax at all. As a result of the 2001 tax act, which gradually phased out the estate tax, estates of those who die in 2005 will not be taxed on the first $1.5 million of assets, a figure that rises to $2 million next year and to $3.5 million in 2009.

The New York Times, September 13, 2005. This repeal will result in estimates of lost revenues of approximately $280 billion--just to keep the richest of the rich from paying. They will still use public roads and will still require the military to keep them safe--but the truly wealthy, those with income generated by stock dividends, will pay no taxes.

But no one wants to deal with the details, least of all a well-fed, well-entertained electorate. All they want to know is which side are you on.

Meanwhile, the politicians attach themselves to such nonsense issues as flag burning and gay marriage, issues which no party is really going to address but which "energize the base." So we the electorate get dragged into these media created issues and are forced to take a side. What does it matter that the flag is being burned if our schools are crumbling? Who cares if gays are getting married when children are being born into homes where they are neither wanted nor cared for? But these are the difficult issues that require something more than platitudes and our politicians don't want to wade into these issues for fear of losing their office. So the politicians give the 98.75% of the body politic without estates of $1.5 million juicy issues we can all get excited about (and which will never have any impact on our lives) and to the real power they give the real reward--wealth accumulation without taxation (again--stock dividends are not taxed) and the promise to pass it along to the next generation--again without paying taxes. Wages will continue to be taxed, thereby making it more difficult for a wage earner (most of us) to get ahead whereas someone inheriting wealth can structure this so as to avoid taxes.

Thus the aristocracy is born. Suprisingly enough, it's called the "ownership society." Eliminate the defined benefit programs (i.e. pensions) and replace them with defined contribution plans (your 401K if you have one). Even now there is the call to eliminate the biggest defined benefit plan, social security. By the way, Congress has the best pension plan in the country. But let's make sure no gays are getting married and no flags are being burned.

[I do believe that the flag stands for a country great enough to tolerate all speech--even including speech critical of this country.]

Okay, I'm done. Talk amongst yourselves...

Travel Day II
Another day, another trip. Over the past few years I've collected refrigerator magnets as an informal journal of my travels. They hold family snapshots and the various watercolor creations my daughter churns out. Denver, Cincinnati, Kansas City, New York, Seattle, Chicago, Phoenix, Washington D.C., New Orleans, Palm Springs, Albany, Tampa... Sometimes the gods smile on these trips, like when I found out Steely Dan was playing fifteen miles away while on a trip to West Palm Beach. Twenty bucks snagged a scalper's ticket and I sat in the grass and listened to Donald Fagan promise never to go back to his old school. Sweet. Usually though, the fare is much more bland.

Every city has it's own character but every hotel is exactly the same. Same TV, bed, little shampoo containers: anonymous and sterile. If I'm staying long, I take some pictures and put them next to the bed. It's a small attempt to recreate what cannot be moved, that sense of home.

Two days and I'll be back on the porch with Chester, watching the bay.

Who's bado anyway?
When I was "on the way" my sister (who had already been around for two years) explained excitedly to her mother about when "my babos comes, I'm gonna wash him and rock him and..." You get the idea. To her, I was basically a dolly being promised.

Later she would be caught "riding" me in the crib--I think it was an attempt to regain her position as the only child. No charges were filed and I am happy to report no permanent scars resulted... My big sister went on to become the Homecoming Queen and I got to ride to school as a freshman with her friends, the hotties of the senior class. So thanks for that T.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah. bado. I think I had a speech impediment. To hear my parents, I had "special" words for things. I still check the dictionary. So it shouldn't strain credulity to imagine I translated "babos" into"bado." Stuff happens. I think I see the world differently, like the view into the Riddler's liar, skewed and disjointed, out of kilter--crazy and stuff. In any event, the name stuck.

One big advantage about having this nickname is with children, not my child of course. The two syllable name is easily captured by little mouths. I was quickly identified by my nieces and nephews...bado. I still am.

All in all, it's a good trade-off. I'm the clown uncle, the monkey, the tick-tick clock swinger ( a move wherein you secure the feet of the child in question, invert him or her, and count off "ticks" as they swing back and forth). The kids love it. Even now, my little booglet has grown to love it, swinging back and forth, her wild hair flying just a touch behind the rest of her.

I'd like to think of it as astronaut training. At least, that's how I describe it to my little one. Reach for the stars kids; experience zero "G" with uncle bado.

And this is my world, badosworld. Here, it's a vision of the universe unfiltered by mass media, other than the obvious influence TV had on me. Notice in both of these pictures I'm apparently watching TV. That may be a problem. I miss Gilligan. And certainly this universe is viewed through my filters, my experiences, my ghosts and my demons.

So that's who bado is. It's more a caricature than anything else.



But it's me.

12:18
It's 12:18, and I'm the luckiest guy I know. It's 12:18, and we stop, for just a moment, to smile at Mommy. It's 12:18 and just a few precious minutes ago you and I were strolling down the shore; you were a little afraid of the new beach with the fish schooling and the wind blowing, but I held your hand and you came along with me. I'll always hold your hand. Your plump little fingers are soft; your hand wraps around one of my fingers. It's 12:18. I'm the strongest boy you know, able to pluck you away at the slightest hint of danger. I can pick you up and throw you in the air at the merest warning of "liftoff!" I'll do that as long as I can sweetheart, and when I can't, I hope you're big enough not to notice the changing of the guard. It's 12:18. You and I and Mommy are big explorers, we went all the way across the bay in our little boat heading for the point where old Indian shell mounds whisper to us. Your Mommy showed me how to appreciate these things: the live oaks guarding this point, the little blue crabs running sideways along the shore, the osprey hunting for dinner. It's 12:18, later, we'll all sit down under the umbrella and eat our special lunches packed with great anticipation back at the house. We'll get sand on our "boots" and rinse it off in the cool shallows of the bay.

It's 12:18 and every time I blink my eyes it's a new reality.

The Little Red Book
Quotations from Chairman Mao Tsu Tung, also known as "The Little Red Book." This copy was bought for me by my good friend Bobalouie when he was in China about two months ago (on "bidness"). According to Bobalouie, many Chinese will hold this book when posing for pictures.

"Yes Sir! Toting the Party line Sir!"

I was hoping (in what would be the height of irony) that the book was printed in the USA but that appears not to be the case. The binding is of poor quality and the thing is literally falling apart already.

I will be checking in on the good Chairman for little nuggets of wisdom from time to time. I promise to be faithful to the book, including the misspellings in the English translation.

And now, Chairman, take it away...

If the U.S. monopoly capitalist groups persist in pushing their policies of aggression and war, the day is bound to come when they will be hanged by the people of the whole world. The same fate awaits the accomplices of the United States.

Speech at the Supreme State Conference (September 8, 1958).

Yikes Chairman! Couldn't you have started us off with something a little less apocalyptic?

Okay, how 'bout this...I keep a fortune cookie message taped to the back of my nameplate in my office. It says:

"You will always be successful in your professional career."

That's a little more cheery don't you think?

Cottonmouth Water Moccasin
The South has a snake like no other: the Moccasin (Agkistrodon piscivorus). It is a snake ideally suited for live oaks and swamps. Silent and aggressive; it is a mean snake. It embodies what Faulkner said about the South, which is basically it's a land with a violent heritage.

Rattlesnakes are certainly dangerous but you're going to hear an agitated rattlesnake from a good twenty feet away. Trust me on this--you will. The coral snake is deadly too but I've lived in the South all my life and I've never seen a coral snake in the wild. Besides, a coral snake isn't a pit viper, it literally has to chew on you to enter its poison. The coral snake is also small--like a poisonous worm its so small. I can't get too worked up about a little snake that's going to have to munch on me for a while before it does any damage.

However, a moccasin will sit quietly, curled up hidden, ready to strike. It gives no warning. Everywhere in the South people fear stepping on them, sitting on them, (or worse yet) having them fall from trees onto you. They're excellent climbers. Did I also mention they swim?

So in general, the Water Moccasin is a great snake for the South. Sneaky, dangerous and aggressive--like a drunk redneck with a knife.

Around my house we see moccasins from time to time. About three years ago I was in the yard when I came across a small one, less than eight inches long and still sporting some color on his tail. I'm not inclined to kill just for the sake of killing. I grabbed a shovel, scooped him up and deposited him in the wooded lot away from the house. A year later he came back.

It was early summer and my mother was visiting along with my in-laws. The garden was going strong and my wife was plumping up with my still unknown daughter. All was good. Earlier that day I had had an hour long flight in the sailplane out at the club, bouncing from thermal to thermal and getting as high as 6,000 feet, where even on a hot day the air is cool. Everything looks better from the air.

Anyway, as I'm tooling around the yard feeling that sense of serenity that comes from manicured lawns and growing vegetables, my wife comes out onto the balcony and announces, "Honey, there's a big water moccasin in the yard and Dad's getting your gun to shoot him."

Man, that's a lot to process in one sentence.

First, there's a big snake in the yard. Okay, that's happened before. Second, my father-in-law is planning to shoot him. Two problems there, actually three. First, my father-in-law is a man who doesn't hesitate, so time is limited. Second, he's apparently planning on using my 12 gauge shotgun I inherited from my grandfather and which hasn't been fired in over twenty years. Third, I only have one shell...and frankly I don't know how old that shell is; it's been sitting in my closet for some time, a silent reservist getting a little long in the tooth.

I'm processing all this down below the balcony when I see the snake. Oh baby, he is big and well-fed. He's down on the lawn and stands out against the verdant landscape like a sore thumb. As I'm watching him watch me my father-in-law comes down the stairs (with my shotgun) and walks toward the snake. He pauses near me, "You wanna to do this?"

Well, it's my house, my yard, my shotgun and my shell.

"Sure," I answer. I really don't. I gave the little guy the benefit of the doubt last time. With an audience now I can't very well shoo him off again.

I close the distance, load my one shell into the right side barrel. I'm thinking I'd really hate to wing him (a strange thought since he has no wings) and piss him off without further ammo. He's in the yard with his head sticking up. A few more steps. We're about twenty feet from each other. Now I'm trying to remember when the last time I fired this gun was. I have visions of the barrel curling up like a flower and me sitting black-faced like Elmer Fudd out on a bad hunting trip. Was it duck hunting back in the eighties? Good Lord, where does time go?

I steady myself, raise the gun, site the snake's head and gently start to squeeze the trigger. Gently, gently---and then the shot, the ringing in my ears, the smell of gunpowder and the kick. Damn, I'd forgotten how strong the kick on this gun was; it used to bruise my shoulder.

Clean shot...one headless moccasin. Okay, the terror level can now be reduced to green. I'm the big protector of my one acre kingdom, slayer of dragons and defender of the queen and the nascent little princess on her way.

Later that afternoon, I took Bubba up the road to stretch his legs. The sun set over the cypress stands and everything took on that reddish tinge. That night I felt my daughter kick inside her Mommy's tummy.

It was one of the best days of my life.

Not so good for the moccasin though.

Travel Day
The world of Grups calls me today. However, I should have time, while sitting in an anonymous hotel room, to address some issues I've been promising.

Anyone who ever said they enjoyed traveling for work never really did that much.

They're Back!
Ruby-Throated Hummingbirds (Archilochus colubris), shuckin' and jivin' all around the three feeders placed strategically throughout the yard. There's been a lone scout for weeks but it looks like the whole posse is back now.

For some reason, the fall migration is always better attended around my house. These birds offer hours of entertainment for just a few cups of sugar water. And try as we might, we've never been able to come even close to their flight capabilities.

Bubba
My Bubba truck. Ford F250, 1986. Add some rust to this picture and you get the idea. Bubba's strong; he waits neglected until the boat needs hauling or debris needs removing. He's helped friends move, loaded concrete blocks, and served as the official hurricane vehicle when trees are down and the water is high. Bubba's not fuel efficient, but when he's called in, no one's worrying about fuel, they're wanting Big Bubba's eight cylinders of power.

Bubba's companions in our family fleet are both little Japanese jobs; one uses a combination of gas and electricity. Bubba sneers at them, prissy little shuttles, and takes a deep swig of petro. Like James Brown said, "If you need me why don't you call me."

I usually drive Bubba once a week, just to keep the gaskets from drying out. It is part of my on-going effort to become a full-fledged redneck (more on that later). The response I get driving him is always interesting. People are so materialistic, they make assumptions based on light waves bouncing off their retinas and travelling up to their brain. Often their assumptions are wrong. Bubba and I just laugh. We laugh and laugh.

Nothing's better than driving in an old pick-up down a country road as the sun sets. Nothing.

Grown Ups
Ben Stein had an article in the New York Times a few days ago about clothes. Sort of. He was bemoaning the decline in dress standards that has crept into all aspects of life these days. Remember when Dad sat down to dinner in his suit? I think that just happened on TV. Anyway, he made the statement that wearing a suit makes you feel like a grown up. Today I'm wearing a suit. Makes me think about grups.*

1) You know you're a grup when you say "get down before you fall."

2) Grups are always talking about the S&P 500 and insurance but can rarely tell you when the moon will rise or whether it's waxing or waning.

3) You know you're a grup when you go out with your family and you're going to get the check. You are.

4) Grups go to funerals. They wear dark cothes.

5) Grups are always too busy to play, even the grups who aren't busy.

6) Grups buy their own shaving cream, toilet paper, antacids and Prozac.

7) Grups rarely sing. They can't dance anymore either.

8) You know you're a grup when you are worried about what you eat and how much you make.

9) Grups are always worried about making a mess.

10) Grups are always trying to figure out the endgame. They've forgotten the fun is the game.

Also, when a grup asks you what you do, he or she isn't asking about for fun. They want to know what your job is so they can make assumptions about things like your education, societal status and income. They don't really care about what you like to do. Try this sometime at a cocktail party:

GRUP: "So, what do you do?"

jemison: "Oh I like to view the Cassini division on Saturn, fish and play guitar. How 'bout you?"

GRUP:...... [blinking]......... "No, what's your job?"

So today I'm wearing a suit and looking for all the world like a grup. But I'm a grup insurgent.

*Grups; noun,--grown ups. Star Trek, original series, episode 12, "Miri"