Monday, October 31, 2005


Happy Halloween
Phil Specter is scaring me worse than anything I can imagine. Dude--YOU'RE ON TRIAL FOR MURDER! YOU'RE NOT HELPING YOUR CASE ANY!

Saturday, October 29, 2005















In My Spare Time...
I'm on the board of directors for an organization which takes in injured wildlife and rehabilitates them, hopefully for release back into the wild. Today we are having an open house, it's a fund-raising event. This morning, I helped get things set up and then got some pictures of the current "guests." Barred Owl,Strix Varia

These guys are all around where we live (i.e. "the sticks"). I had one run along the road in front of me several months ago, bounding back and forth in obvious play. I slowed down and watched him zip from side to side of the narrow country road before darting into the cover of the marsh brush. Sadly, a number get injured from run-ins with cars.
Gray Fox, Urocyon cinereoargenteus
It was cool this morning so everyone was moving about. Once the people start showing up, some of the more shy guys will hole up in their dens but I caught this fellow while taking a break from raking and setting up tables. Bobcat, Lynx rufus
We generate money from bake sales, raffles, and donations. One of our most popular attractions is on the back deck where, for one dollar (one dollar), you can buy fish to feed to the locals--a combination of rehabs and regulars on the bayou behind the main office.Brown Pelican, Pelecanus occidentalis
Some wildlife can never be returned. These animals become good will ambassadors.Bald Eagle, Haliaeetus leucophalus
I'm going to bring the booglet back by after her nap.

Friday, October 28, 2005

WHEEEEE!
Hijacked by the girls last night from work to go on the merry-go-round. Took these pictures with the new camera. I'm still trying to figure out the bells and whistles.

We walked around the fairgrounds (I haven't been in 15 years I bet) watching the lights. The little one is a daredevil who looked at some rides and wanted to go but it's not gonna happen for a while. Seeing the "You Must Be This Tall To Ride" signs brought back memories long dusted over in my brain.

Thursday, October 27, 2005

The Midnight Rambler
And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack
And you may find yourself in another part of the world
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house,
with a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself-Well...How did I get here?
Talking Heads

Or you may find yourself up at wee hours of the morning pouring over work while your two favorite girls are sleeping and your crazy dog is demanding attention. That was me last night, keeping one eye on the World Series (National League--look at the pitifulness of yo-self!) and preparing for a long day.

It's times like this that I begin to wonder how I did get here. In my life, I've certainly made a number of mistakes and regret a fair number of things--things done and left undone--but lately I can't help but accept that this path has led me to this point, again, with my two girls sleeping soundly--being Daddy. All the missteps, all the blunders, all look okay when I realize that but for them, I wouldn't have either of these two here with me now. I can't imagine my life any other way.

That has a way of easing the lament of lost opportunities. Life is a journey in which you are only allowed to look in the rearview mirror. It can only be understood looking at where you've been. And when you do that, it all makes perfect sense.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Questions?
You may one day ask, "Daddy, if our universes are like soft drink bubbles, what is the soft drink itself?"

Oh my little one, my budding astronomer, my petite philosopher, good question. If the universes are the little bubbles that tickle your nose, then the soft drink itself is the firmament in which we live and move and have our being...

I suppose next you'll want to know why the sky is blue? It's all about light waves traveling through the atmosphere. I'll explain later.

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

I’m Drifting

Every now and then the things I lean on lose their meaning,
And I find myself careening,
In places where I should not let me go….
James Taylor

So here I sit, in my car at bay’s edge, late at night and knowing everyone’s tucked into slumber at the house just behind me. Perseus is rising in the east; I always thought of the constellation as a “pi” sign rather than some heroic warrior. I’m thinkin’…

I roll back the sunroof…Mars is rising in the east as well, becoming reddish over the haze close to the horizon. Its polar ice caps are gonna be showing soon through the scope to young eyes that haven’t seen them before.* The wind is blowing restless, and it's cool late at night. And I’m thinking…

What’s bothering you?

I’m thinking.

I don’t feel right complaining:

I’ve got a house on the hill,
I got money in the bank,
cars in the driveway,
color TVs and mobile phones,
computer programs.
Baby tell me…
tell me baby,
How come?
We’re still on the chain gang..
Van Morrison

I’ll leave it at that.

No I can't. I can only ask this question, as I did walking down the windy lane to Bobalouie's place for a visit. How did we go from a country who's ideals were lauded in Tianamen Square to being attacked as an occupying force and despised for our unilateral aggression? Our leaders would have us believe the world changed. It did--but we did more.

Paul Kennedy wrote a book in 1987 called The Rise and Fall of the Great Powers. It tracked dominant civilizations from the Hapsburg Dynasty through the English Empire and beyond, positing a similar arc for each hegemon: create wealth through economic success, translate that wealth to military power to artifically maintain influence when no longer able to compete globally, and finally go bankrupt trying to fund the military as it becomes more and more engaged in simply maintaining the empire.

Sound familiar?

Our government's debt (over $7 trillion) is almost one quarter owned by foreign interests. Our savings rate is 0%--do you know what the credit card company calls you if you pay off your bill every month? A deadbeat... Seems like every available electron is trying to get us to buy something we probably don't need...

When exactly did we cross the line between being the shining example of restrained government, which primarily is concerned with the freedom and protection of its citizens, to the snarling, threatening, industrial-military complex we have become--worried about what our neighbors are thinking because we never talk to them, because we are afraid they're not like us.

How did we go from a people escaping religious persecution to a country froathing at the mouth over whether a nominee for Supreme Court, one of the three equal pillars our Founders envisioned, is an evangelical Christain--not just a Christian--that's not good enough anymore...an evangelical Christian. Muslims, Buddhists or others need not even apply...we have a national religion, thank you.

I'm just askin'. I guess it happened sometime on my shift...

I'm gonna show my daughter Mars, the beautiful ice caps, the play of dark red on the lighter, rusty planet. I'm gonna tell her one day to read Ray Bradbury, not just for that story but hoping she likes it enough to read Farenheit 451, where future TV's call unwitting consumers to the cocoon of fantasy while "firemen" burn books. I'm gonna teach her to question what's being pushed on her--I can't shut the pitch off; but I can damn sure teach her about snake-oil salesmen.

I'm gonna show my daughter Mars and tell her that maybe, three billion years ago, there were rivers flowing over its surface--that I'm just guessing like a lot smarter people--but that her or her daughter will find out--will go there. How is that any more fantastic than my parents reading Buck Rogers and imagining how far-fetched? Come to think of it, why shoot low? Why not tell her that we will discover how to manipulate space and time and go anywhere in the universe? That we will understand how our universe fits into a lerger multiplex of universes, each separate like bubbles in a soft drink. Each its own miraculous blessing.

Those are the things I want her to hope for--not whether or not the entire world will be happily consuming the latest product and all bowing in unison. I want her to look forward to something really uplifting. Even Paul walked away from Athens--he didn't go back in with a Humvee--he lead by preaching the Beatitudes and eventually the empire came around.

Does our country still appeal to the world as a place where anyone can come and pursue a peaceful life and aspire for better prospects? I'm gonna try to tell my daughter it does--I'm gonna tell her this is what she should expect from her government.

I bet she likes the astronomy lessons better...

Maybe I think too much...
________________________
* Best view until 2018... Get out--take a look. Some of you may not live to see the next visit.

Monday, October 24, 2005

bado's Daydream
Dylan put out an autobiography called Chronicles. Interesting stuff--seems though like it was always winter in Greenwich Village back in the early 60s.

I wonder how many wandering souls will look for Dylan if he winds up in a nursing home, like he found Woody Guthrie in Greystone Hospital in New Jersey. To hear Dylan, Woody had been largely forgotten by then. My guess is that Bob Dylan will be well-stocked in his dotage. (Dylan claims to have snuck in cigarettes to Woody; for you enterprising young kids, I think he smokes Kool Filter Kings. At least that's what it looked like when I saw him several years ago, standing pasted to the stage watching.)

In one of the best parts, Dylan writes about a meeting with Bono in which Daniel Lanois is suggested to produce his next album, Oh Mercy.

Dude--to be a fly on that wall...

[The setting, a large Victorian Home in the Garden District of New Orleans. A shortish man with black swept-back hair wanders through the shaows of live oaks along the well worn sidewalk. He turns abruptly and bounds up the stairs to the house and raps on the door. After several moments, and a few swipes of the hand through his hair, the door opens. Framed in the doorway is an American icon, tussled hair, scruffy beard, nice boots though.]

DYLAN: "Bono!"

BONO: "Bobby!"

DYLAN: "Long time no see!"

BONO: "Yeah, hey appreciate the invite to the crib."

DYLAN: "The what?"

BONO: "Your place man, sweet." Bono looking around, "you gonna let me in?"

DYLAN: "Yeah, sorry, come on in."

The two men walk down a narrow, heart of pine hallway with etchings framed on either side. The pictues are esoteric, a mule stubbornly resisting his master's tug, a young girl turning in a party dress, caught twisted and off balance. Bono stares at each frame thoughtfully."

BONO: "These are nice. Who did 'em?"

DYLAN: "Me."

BONO: "Cool."

They arrive at a great room with scattered newspapers, cigarette packs and coffee cups. Dylan pushes aside a few piles and offers a chair. A tabby cat scatters noiselessly.

DYLAN: "Have a seat." Bono collapses into the chair.

DYLAN: "So I heard the last concert in Dublin, good stuff."

BONO: "Yeah, hey sorry 'bout butcherin' Maggie's Farm so bad...it's just, it seemed so perfect, what with the Orwell reference and bossman." [Starts singing earnestly] "He hands you a nickel, he hands you a d--"

DYLAN: "Yeah, that's...that's great. You didn't butcher it too bad."

BONO: "Well, that was all I could remember. That and the, you know, Maggie's farm part."

DYLAN: "Yeah, well, you did go on about Nelson Mandela some."

Both men stare at their shoes.

BONO: Nice shoes. Are they rattlesnake hide?"

DYLAN: "No man, that's just the song."

BONO: "Really?"

DYLAN: "Yeah, rattlesnake skin gets all crusty and nasty. Wanna drink?"

BONO: "Bourbon!"

DYLAN: "I got a Pinot Noir..."

BONO: "Pinot Noir!"

DYLAN: [pouring wine] "So how's it going?"

At this point, Bono mentions his work with Daniel Lanois [Danny].

BONO: "Danny's been makin' me learn chords, you know, the real thing." He swooshes the air with his right hand while concentrating on his left. His hands drop to his side, then advance to each hip.

DYLAN: "What was that? B sustain?"

BONO: "Be whatever I sing to the little zit factories."

DYLAN: "No, the chord."

BONO: "What's a chord?"

DYLAN: "Nevermind. You got Danny's number?"

Saturday, October 22, 2005

Of Pups, Sippy Cups, and a Box Full of Memories
Chester is a damn fine good one. He can't he'p it. He's tryin' to he'p it right now...

We don't know exactly when he was born; all we know is he showed up, courtesy of Bobalouie, sometime around Christmas 1997. It was a cold and rainy winter and Chester was hanging around the industrial park where Bobalouie worked, a stray. He was perfectly happy with the cold weather and very friendly. But he was alone. Either he was abandoned or he escaped. I'd like to think he escaped some bad situation and cast his fate to the winds. He's a trusting old soul like that. Maybe he knew he'd find us. Maybe he trusted if he was that good, somebody would surely rise to the occasion.

We had two cats at the time, inherited from my wife's single years. Damn Calamity, I don't even think we were married yet. Chester went from a chain to the invisible fence to inside the little cottage in no time, all on charm and good looks. Make no mistake, Chester is one handsome dawg. Half lab, half chow (we guess--he doesn't talk about 'the early days'), all hound. Jowly, but in a good way. Some would say even majestic (Chester among them).

He quickly became "Chief of Security," the post he continues to occupy today. He sits on the porch, scouring the landscape and lookin' for "monsters." Monsters can include just about anything that's not a treat or in his dogfood bowl.

Chester gets walked everyday. That's an exaggeration, there are some days he doesn't go walking--like when there's a storm. A big storm. Used to be just the three of us (now four); and he covers more ground now after learning how to walk beside the bike.

We were worried how Chester, already then a "mature" dog, would deal with the new baby. He's done great, showing patience while the little one pawed at him and now being rewarded as she learns her way to the treat bowl. My wife described him slowly and gently taking treats from her the other day. He's very smart. He can't he'p it.

Ethel and James Memorial Gardens, Stinkville, the Nile: all owe their names to Chester, who took us there with his love of walking. He's a Walkin' Dawg alright. We owe him a lot for taking us out so much, walking us. Maybe this old soul knows something we don't. Maybe he's made his ascensions to a higher level and decided this is the ultimate existence before becoming pure love without matter. Does he live for anything else but belly rubbin's, naps and swims in the bay? The better question is: 'is there anything better to live for?'

Good boy! Chaser of sticks, eater of sushi, howler at "Old McDonald's Farm," you're such a damn fine good one Pup-a-roni, Pup-a-linni, Pup-a-razzi. You've earned your retirement home where you can sleep on the porch, chase 'coons, and walk along the bay. You've gone from a homeless pup to one who got a whole house designed around you--and no one is happier about than we are.

My daughter is officially off the bottle now. No more washing empty bottles and rubber nipples. No more pouring milk into them and stocking up the refrigerator. Still, just like toys she's outgrown, there's a tinge of sadness as another baby relic falls by the wayside.

Her mother rounded up all the bottles recently and explained to the little booglet we had to give those to a "little tiny baby" who needed them more. Smooth transition and good parenting on her part. Now she goes to the refrigerator and picks out milk from a rainbow of colored sippy cups.

Finally, my wife was organizing her "hurricane drawer"--pictures we shouldn't leave behind in case of the worst. Man, we came across some good ones--pre and post--baby--of our adventures. Oh Calamity, the things we've done. The adventures we've been on. I'm gonna scan some of them for future posts, they're priceless.

Friday, October 21, 2005

I'm So Disappointed In You
Thank God for the Blackberry. Really: you may never hear me say it again but thank God for the Blackberry. Here's why...

I'm sitting in the foyer of a restaurant waiting for my order (blackened shrimp and New York strip) when a young mother comes past. I'm playing Brickbreaker on my Blackberry...when I don't have the little one with me I find I'm just passing time. Anyway, this woman comes through the foyer with a small child in her arms. The little girl is about my daughter's age...

"I'm so disappointed in you!" she hissed. Whispering, but fiercely like a hissing air leak.

Man, I'm playing Brickbreaker like a fiend now. I'm saying to myself, "don't look up, don't look up." But I do, and she looks at me and passes on...

Hey lady--she's not trying out to be your daughter. It's late at night; what do you expect dragging a kid in here with all this going on? Are you expecting her to be an adult? That's your job. It starts with not putting your kids in these situations...they can smell pressure.

Of course I didn't say any of that. It's...not...my...place. I know that. I just wonder what today's parents expect from their children. When I was a child, I was allowed to be a child. We didn't go out to dinner much. Maybe that's the difference, now that I think about it. I remember a lot of family dinners at home and few dinners out. That's certainly changed in the past thirty years.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

Down By the River
Daddy likes his new camera.
Along the Bay
Where we saw Moon jellies...
Okay. Daddy will now put away his new toy.

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

They Might Be Giants
When I was in the 2nd grade, I found myself at home alone late one afternoon. I don't recall why. I heard the sound of repeated booms off in the distance, like pilings being hammered into the ground. That's the best way I know how to describe it now; back then, I thought it was a giant robot making its way down the street. I don't know why a giant seemed the only answer, maybe because there was no one else around to say any different and my imagination was running wild. As a child, I had an active imagination. Some say I still do, but leaving childhood takes its toll.

I pictured this juggernaut advancing closer with each lumbering destructive step. I was scared, unable to reason that such monsters didn't exist. Surely here was proof, the sound of its footsteps; what more evidence did you need, bado?

I decided to wait outside, where I would be able to see anything closing in for a good distance in either direction. I remember thinking this would at the very least give me an opportunity to get out of the way, as opposed to being caught by surprise inside and getting squashed under its no doubt massive metal feet. The street we lived on was a broad avenue with a median separating the opposing lanes of traffic. I sat on the front doorstep listening to the sound, banging over and over. I'm pretty sure I was outside on the doorstep when someone got home.

I don't recall telling either of my parents what I had feared. I don't think I ever told anyone about it but I've remembered that time for over thirty years now. It's strange what we take with us through our lives.

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

Just Dropping By...
Why, hello Senator! Oh, you know, just in the neighborhood and thought I'd...cameramen, what cameramen? Oh, I'd hardly noticed! You're right! Cool! But that shouldn't stop us from having a lovely little chat. You know, just between us girls...

I don't think they're even listening. Lean in close Senator, I'll tell you what I really think about Roe v. Wade...

Old Man and the Sea
So I'm out fishing on the flats last Sunday. Mommy's home watching the booglet and Bobalouie and I squeeze in a rare expedition. I'm casting with my favorite "lucky" top water lure--slayer of many a redfish (Sciaenops ocellatus) and speckled trout (Cynoscion nebulosus). The sun is bright, the sky is sharp blue, and the north wind that brought a chop to the bay when we took off has settled into a pleasant Zephyr, calming the water around us in this little cove. Fishing, feeling the tug on the other end of your line, the primal hunter gatherer fix.

I cast out and slowly drag the lure back, watching it's ripple over the clear water. Then comes the fin. Leisurely he's following my lure, a four foot black tip shark (Charcharchinus limbatus). Bobalouie and I watch him until he's right up near the boat. The shark makes a move toward my lure, a slight tilting of his head. I snatch the lure out of the water--he would have made short work of my ten pound test line, not to mention my lucky lure.

Bobalouie and I exchange glances like "did you just see that shark cruising through these waters? These waters we routinely jump into and swim when it gets too hot?" We laughed for ten minutes thinking about actually trying to wrestle with that fish, me saying it would have been an "Old Man and the Sea" moment, and Bobalouie noting we could just as well wait outside the boat while he flopped around in it rather than jump and dodge a pissed off shark taken from his element. Oh man we laughed!

Later that night, Mommy, Daddy, my daughter and Chester went back down to the water, out to the gazebo where a man and his two young sons were packing up after an afternoon of fishing. They had caught a nice redfish. My daughter looked at it and said "redfish." I hadn't had such luck--a fact which my wife readily pointed out for me--but just seeing the shark made the trip worth it.

And laughing with Bobalouie.

L is for the Way You Look at Me
"They say love conquers all,
you can't start it like a car,
you can't stop it with a gun."
The Late Great Warren Zevon, Searchin' for a Heart

The home stretch...literally. The last stop light to my house. Now just me and the full moon bouncin' off the water. The cool breeze, the stars, the phone rings...it's JLA. A conversation shortly thereafter...

JLA is gettin' married...

I'm walking in the house, still crazy with the news; I know Mommy and my daughter are hiding from me, so I cruise the house looking in all the nooks. Ah ha! Found in the playroom. A quick transfer of the booglet so she and I can catch up--I need some grounding--besides; my wife has got to hear this.

My boys are so scattered and few... They've always been few, now just scattered. But now, the chance to bring the band back together, and for such a festive occasion. I've got to get the Hummingbird out and practice. Cloggin' anyone?

I've known JLA 20 years. He's my best friend; a man described as "blond, straight teeth, athletic build--what more could you ask for?" (and that was by a woman). Oh my...what would Millie think? J-nine? I say these only because only JLA and I are now here to remember them. And I aint tellin'. So much from your past is now mine, my brother, ours; know what? They would be happy for the same reason I am. I'm happy you've found love. I congratulate your new bride to be...*

Now on with the party...

*I did offer my services to draft a prenuptial...



I kid, I kid...




I kid because I love.



Monday, October 17, 2005

Tubby Time
7:30 to 7:45pm. Any night. It’s time. Tubby time. For a long time now, I have been in charge of Tubby Time, unless I’m either out of town or working late. It’s time for me and the little booglet to catch up and play. The play goes as follows:

Nemo Bubbles or Not? To bubble or not to bubble. That is the question…

Can I wash your pretty neck? Standard answer, “noooooo,” in such a cute demure way that I laugh everytime as I’m washing that pretty neck. By now, I’ve used the cup to wet her wild hair, and soaped up the wash rag, looking for extremities to knock off quickly, hands otherwise occupied with the myriad floating toys in the tubby. Toes and little feet to scrub. Sooner or later all spots are covered. Which leads to…

Blowing bubbles; Kick, kick kicking; or Whale squirting. Dealer’s choice here. Depends on the little one.

You just never know. Flexibility is the key. Sometimes you go with the flow and wind up laughing over something you hadn’t even expected, and Mommy comes in asking what you two silly billlies are doing. We don’t know; it’s tubby time. We’re splashin’ and laughin’. Daddy’s askin’ questions, scrubbing as he goes, workin’ on the alphabet or planets, drilling his little pupil. The pupil is performing her own hydo experiments, sometimes squirting the teacher with the whale—which seems unfair since I taught her how to fill him up with water, “Squeeze him and hold his tail underwater.” All that just to get a stream of warm bathwater jetted at me.

Citrus and Rosemary. It’s just a shampoo. But when huckster Daddy pitches it as “Citrus and Rosemary,” in a TV announcer’s tone, somehow for the little one, it becomes special, worthy of her long, luxurious hair. We smell it together, “Oh! Smells so good!” Just a little dab for her, and now, show me how big girls tilt their hair back to get it rinsed out. “Oh, so big.”

Boo Boo check.Usually this is brought to your attention. Sometimes it’s hard to find them. Sometimes you follow the boo boos from visibility until they are microscopic. Either way, a kiss makes them better.

Once we're done, Mommy comes in for the second shift, brushing hair, teeth and putting on pajamas. Daddy prepares for the book reading, because after tubby time comes story time.

Saturday, October 15, 2005

Of Grillin', Bob Dylan, and Going Down to the River
Grilling out last night in the cool of the night. Fall is truly in swing now; the best time on the Gulf Coast. Cool north winds with low humidity. The hummingbirds are gone, replaced by the raptors passing through en route on their way along the Mississippi Flyway. My wife and daughter watched a bald eagle (Haliaeetus leucocephalus ) down by the bay two days ago.

Climbing out of her mother's car, my daughter told me today she had been listening to Bob Dylan. I had planted a CD in her mother's car on a trip with it last week. They've been listening to Bringing It All Back Home, specifically Subterranean Homesick Blues.

I'm so proud. Wait till she hears Daddy playing those songs for her.

Today, we all went down to the river, clear, cold and swift running. I got some good pictures with the new camera I'll have to put up. Chester chased sticks and waded into the cold water chest high. The sun was bright and the sky was an impossible blue.

My daughter and I traded high fives all the way back home in Daddy's "big truck," Bubba.

Friday, October 14, 2005

Morning
The sun is coming up through the picture windows facing the bay. My wife and I are stirring, getting coffee, checking the newspaper, waiting for the little one to rise. Mornings are well-scripted around the house. Mommy crawls in bed with my daughter while Daddy gets ready for work. Then Daddy is called in to "find" them hiding underneath the covers.

"Where did everybody go?" Giggles.

"Poppa Bear smells his little Sugary Bear," more giggles.

Later, while she's eating her blueberry muffin at the table, Daddy makes one last pass through the kitchen to the breakfast nook, gathering his glasses, Blackberry, laptop, keys and all other armament for the day's battle.

"Okay sweetheart, Daddy's gotta go to work; gimme some lovin'."

"Daddy going to work?" she asks.

"Yes, Daddy's gotta go to work to make the money to feed the babies." I answer, kissing her neck and check as she munches her breakfast.

"Daddy go feed babies?"

My daughter thinks my job is feeding babies.

I guess it kind of is...

Thursday, October 13, 2005

My Great Grandfather: Jemison II
I know much less about Jemison the second than I do the first. Still, because of the closer proximity in time, I have an artifact with his careful handwriting, given to me by my father, Jemison IV.

Given to my father June 16, 1954, "with love and best wishes", a small book, now on my bedside table, with 365 daily meditations.

In his, and my father's honor, a quote from the only connection I have to my long departed ancestor from the meditation for October 13:

["I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety." Psalms 4:8.

I heard him singing early in the morning. It was hardly light! I could not understand that song; it was fairly a lilt of joy. It had been a portentous night for me, full of dreams that did disturb me. Old things that I had hoped to forget and new things that I had prayed would never come, trouped through my dreams all grinning like little bare-faced imps. Certainly I was in no humor to sing. What could possess that fellow out yonder to be telling the whole township how joyous he was? He was perched on the old rail fence by the spring run. He was drenched. It had rained in the night and evidently he had been poorly housed. I pitied him. What comfort could he have had through that night bathed in storm? He never thought of comfort. His song was not bought by any such duplicity. It was in his heart. He could do no other. Then I shook myself. The shame that a lark had finer poise than a man!
Rev. G. A. Leichliter]

Now my Great Grandfather and I have both read this meditation (for I assume from it's well-worn cover he knew it inside and out). I wonder what troubles this man my father, in playing his role and passing it along, described to me as "the kind old man who gave this book to me", endured. All lost to time. I need to ask my father, sooner rather than later.

It also makes me a little melancholy to realize that, despite four generations of men persevering, I will be the last Jemison in this line. I won't have a son.

I suppose there's a reason for that too.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

TV
"Television man....I'm watchin' everything."
Talking Heads

Lord knows I've watched my fair share of television. But since 1989...are you ready for this?...I haven't lived in a house that had cable television.

It's okay, I'll wait while you recover.

Really. Now, this is not to say I'm not aware of popular programs (I read after all), I just don't watch them. I know that "Lost" is popular and...well, maybe I don't know that much. Anyway, I can't say that I miss it.

Now, when I go visit my good friend Bobalouie, he has a big screen TV with 600 channels. And when I travel I'll watch TV in the hotel. But at home, there's not a lot going on other than Teletubby and Baby Einstein videos. TV has a way of making children restless for entertainment: fast, jerky, spastic entertainment that playing my guitar or reading a story isn't going to compete with well. Sweetheart, the world just isn't like that. But you know what? It's better. Instead of watching reality TV, we're going to go outside and create our own reality

Walking through the neighborhood at night, I'm always fascinated with the number of houses bathed in the blue glow of television. What are they watching? How is that affecting them? Who controls the airwaves?

That last question is the most intriguing. The short answer is, a very small number of companies control a very large amount of what gets served up night after night to the public. Does that concern anyone? I think it should. What better way to effect social control than to portray, every night, to millions of citizens what is "normal" behavior--styles, attitudes (why are fathers the baffoons of so many shows these days?), and consumer behaviors.

Consumer purchases make up 70% of our economic activity. You can bet the same companies that produce sitcoms and dramas also are trying to sell you something.

Shoot. Your. TV. You want a reality show? Go outside.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

Soaring
I'm soaring over the Alps with Karl Striedieck. We're in a sleek ASK21 and obviously in some strong wave. The altimeter is steadily climbing and the variometer is pegged out. The wave is created by the wind moving over the mountains, channeling upward to heights in excess of 40,000 feet. One characteristic of wave is the smoothness of the ascent. It's been compared to riding an elevator up into the firmament. I'm watching the altimeter go past 27,000 feet and enjoying the spectacular view when I begin to wonder why we haven't put our oxygen masks on yet. At this altitude, hypoxia is certain to set in soon. The ASK21 is one bad ass glider but it's not pressurized.

Then I hear the alarm. It sounds odd, but audio variometers come in all different noises and I've never been in this glider before. Still, the alarm sounds unusual: out of place in this setting. It's a cheap sounding series of notes with a verbal message at the end I'm having difficulty understanding. I'm worried it may be in a foreign language and I'm missing something very important. The instruments look fine and at this altitude there's little to worry about like stalling or spinning; we could spin for thousands of feet and still recover with room to spare. Altitude is your friend in a glider.

There it is again, a series of oddly cheery notes. I think to myself this is a stupid warning tone. I check the landing gear--it's up. Spoilers are in, although I'd be able to tell even in this lift if they weren't. Something is wrong and it's bugging me. Mistakes in the air are not forgiven; I wait for the verbal message that's been coming after it. It is crucial I understand it this time--I'm starting to think maybe life or death. I strain to understand:

"Thanks for learning with Leapfrog!"

I pad barefoot from the bedroom into the playroom. The little purple caterpillar alphabet toy has gone berserk as the batteries drained. I fumble in the dark to turn this multi-legged spelling insect off before it speaks again.

My life these days. So full of danger.

Monday, October 10, 2005

“Why Do You Write?”
The sun has set. The moon is slowly sliding into the west and darkening reddish as it goes down. It’s now officially low enough for a cow to jump over. Mars is coming up in the east, bright, but still too low to get the telescope on with any real view. It’s 68 degrees on the porch with a north wind that I know will drive away the last remaining hummingbird I saw this morning. They’ve all left except him; maybe he booked a cheap flight and was waiting on stand-by. In any event, I know even this little straggler will be gone by tomorrow or the next day. Chester is playing chase and nip with the raccoon in the shadows of the yard.

I’ve set up the laptop on the porch with a view to the east, hoping the lights across the bay will bring some inspiration. The radio is playing some non-descript jazz: busy jazz—but I don’t mind. It’s a beautiful fall evening and the little one is tucked into bed leaving Daddy and Mommy with some time to indulge.

“Why do you write?”

One of my friends who’s read badosworld asked me that—actually, the question was two-fold: why do you write and why do you write about that stuff?

About two months ago I saw an article in the New York Times about Stephanie Klein. I knew blogs were out there but had never read one until I picked up the link to hers. It’s not my cup of tea, her blog, although I believe she has a talent for saying a lot without saying anything. Still, the idea intrigued me. I asked some of the computer geeks at the office about it and shazam, here I am.

I write what I see; I write what I think about what I saw. Sometimes, I write about what I think, but I’m careful there because like what Bob Dylan said, “If my thought dreams could be seen, they’d probably put my head in a guillotine.” I’m a tax and spend liberal who’s benefited nicely by the current administration’s policies but I still believe we’re heading in the wrong direction—driven by the twin evils of fear and greed. Taxes are the price we pay for civilization and those most able to pay them are getting a free pass while all around suffering increases. The framework for an aristocracy is being laid and no one seems too concerned. My wife comes out on the porch to remind me I digress.

“Why do you write?”

I’m speaking past all you readers--no offense--to a little girl who’s asleep right now and who has no idea what a blog is: a little girl who is uncommonly beautiful, smart, and sweet. I say this partly out of fatherly pride but still, we are approached every day with compliments about how precious, cute or, like today, darling she is. Her mother worries about this, but I tell her our daughter will have to deal with it, and it’s a damn sight better than being homely.

I write so that someday she will read this. Maybe I’ll be gone then, maybe not. I started my family much later than most of my contemporaries. If I'm not around when she reads this, I want my daughter to know how crazy I am about her, how she has focused my life like a laser, how much I’ve enjoyed seeing the world again through a child’s eyes, how happy she’s made me just by her laugh when I kiss under her neck like the hungry Poppa Bear lookin’ for his little Sugar Bear. That’s why I write. Don’t ever forget me sweetheart. Always remember, wherever you go in your life, that your Daddy loved you so much he thought his heart would burst.

On another level, I have to say—I enjoy it. I started this on a lark, not really knowing what I would write about. But I must confess, I enjoy it. Things bubble up from within all the time: the stories from long ago; the revelations of this life I lead now, so different than what I ever dreamed; the world as seen through a two year old’s eyes, with everything new and exciting—it re-invigorates me.

“Why do you write about that stuff though?”

My job is filled with sadness. People don’t some to me when things are going good. They come to me when they are in trouble, hurt, and in need. I don’t regret my career path, but I don’t want to dwell on it. It is, after all, what I do to pay the bills and do the things I really enjoy. Besides, I’m convinced everyday has that special moment, that little thing you see that lifts you out of the ordinary, everyday trudge to pick up the slack in the line. It’s that moment I choose to remember, to pass along to my little Sugary Bear.

Also, I would be lying if I didn’t say I enjoyed getting the feedback. I do. Anyone who says they’re not vain is, in my humble opinion, lying. And so I ask you—why do you write?

And while you’re thinking about your answer, I have to go peel my dog off a ‘coon…

Sunday, October 09, 2005

Lookin’ Out My Backdoor
I sit on the balcony as daylight succumbs to the evening, slowly like a melodramatic Western stuntman faking a bad death. The bay turns metallic blue and the south breeze gives up, going out with a whimper. Seagulls scurry on last minute errands as light fades from truth to shadows, interrupting only for a garish red display on clouds no one would believe anyway.

The moon is first quarter, growing more dominant. It's scattered light bounces on the fading ripples of water. Walt Anderson called this time "the magic hour." Framed now only in silhouettes I watch the hummingbirds enjoy last call. The frogs start in earnest:

"Come on baby, come on baby. I'm all that"

My wife and I designed this house. I insisted on the big porch. My Mom sat on it after it was built and said, “Your Granddaddy would have liked this porch.”

Having spent many a magic hour with my Grandfather on his porch, I agreed. Mom, why do you think I built it this way?

Friday, October 07, 2005

FLY GUY
This is the internet at its very best.


More Words of Wisdom From Chairman Mao Tse-Tung
Full schedule today so, Chairman, take it away...

One-sidedness means thinking in terms of absolutes, that is, a metaphysical app roach [sic] to problems. In the appraisal of our work, it is one-sided to regard everything either as all positive or as all negative... To regard everything as positive is to, see only the good and not the had [sic], and tolerate only praise and no criticism...

Huh? Chairman, are you BUI (Blogging Under the Influence)?

How 'bout this--I got a fortune cookie once that said "Beauty, is [sic] its various forms, appeals to you."

I like that better. No offense Chairman, no offense at all.

Thursday, October 06, 2005

Terror in 2005
"The United States makes no distinction between those who commit acts of terror and those who support and harbor them..."
George W. Bush, October 6, 2005

"Uh--Mr. President. Saudi Arabia?"
jemison

I wouldn't last five minutes in the White House Press Corps, would I?

Eddie the Raccoon
Eddie the Raccoon steals eggs, throws dirt on Big Chicken, gets his nose stuck in the jam jar, and gets chased by Little Skunk. My daughter loves it. Go figure.

Chester says he'll tear that 'coon a brand spanking new one. But then again, he's a dog who's wound up on the wrong side of a 'coon...I gotta write that story. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie--what are we gonna do with you?

Wednesday, October 05, 2005


How the Anthropic Principle Defeats Intelligent Design
There’s a lot of talk these days about a “theory” called Intelligent Design. It’s the latest ploy by those who want Creationism taught on par with Evolution. There’s currently a case in federal district court in Pennsylvania deciding whether teaching it as an alternative to Evolution is constitutional; asking essentially whether Of Pandas and People should be on the same intellectual footing as Darwin’s writings or whether that is injecting religion into the mix in violation of the Establishment Clause of the U.S. Constitution.

I have no problem with religion; I am an active member in my church and respect everyone’s right to worship (or not) as they see fit—provided of course that their religion doesn’t encroach upon my freedoms. I mean, I don’t want the Church of the Holy Firecracker practicing outside my bedroom window early on Saturday morning.

Where we depart is when the Intelligent Design folks insist it be taught with Evolution as a theory—noting (correctly) that evolution has some defects to it. This aside, Intelligent Design is not a theory in that it cannot make predictions or be shown through quantifiable evidence.

As I understand it, Intelligent Design is essentially noting the complexity of the universe and extrapolating that such intricate workings must be the hand of a higher power—they don’t say God because that would tip their hand as to their true intentions—but you get the idea.

This is not to say that the existence of life—intelligent life that can contemplate its navel (or blog for that matter—same difference) is not miraculous. It is. It is astounding that our planet is the Goldilocks porridge of the solar system (not to hot, not too cold); protected by a large planet (Jupiter) from incoming Kuiper Belt Objects (read, comets); that the moon creates the rise and fall of the tides; that there’s water and oxygen; or that we’re not so close to the center of our galaxy that we’re bathed in deadly gamma rays. I wouldn’t want to bet on those odds.

Trouble is, there’s time. Stay with me here. The universe is old—fourteen billion and change according to our best estimates. And current cosmology (particularly String Theory and Inflation) seems to indicate that universes can just happen from time to time; that in fact there may be numerous other dimensions floating around outside our observable universe (O-region) with totally different properties. In the lingo—the universes are infinite because space is flat, or continually expanding, but the histories are finite. These are scientific observations made by satellites such as the COBE (Cosmic Background Explorer)—not some fanciful declarations. In some other universe you got the girl, won the lottery, or had that shiny, bouncy hair you always wanted. Or, in some other universe, all those factors above which conspired to create the perfect milieu for life to take off didn’t happen. No T-rex, no dogs, no people, no navel gazing.

This is the Anthropic Principle—we see the universe the way it is because if it were different, we wouldn’t be here to see it. It’s the tree falling in the woods argument on steroids. Philosophers call it a truism.

I like this theory because I would like to think that God doesn’t really want to micro manage everything—he’s got better things to do. He’s God after all. If I were going to play God through say, creating an ant farm, I’d like to watch the ants build it themselves, rather than set it up and just watch them wander around in it. Jesus said this,

A sower went out to sow his seed; and as he sowed, some fell along the path, and was trodden under foot, and the birds of the air devoured it. And some fell on the rock; and as it grew up it withered away, because it had no moisture. And some fell among thorns; and the thorns grew with it and choked it. And some fell into good soil and grew, and yielded a hundredfold.

Luke 8:5-8, Harper Study Bible, Revised Standard Version, 1962. Can’t this parable be about the different universes in God’s creation, some of which will wither but some of which will grow and prosper?

Another problem I have with Intelligent Design is the notion that we were created perfect. Anyone who has seen a herniated disk knows the spinal column, while working great for a four-legged creature, is not the best of designs for walking upright. And consider this, what has your appendix done for you lately? Your tonsils? These vestigial organs are obviously relicts from some past human design that didn’t make it. And did God not love the Neanderthals?

Why does this bother me then? I got my public education and later went on to obtain three degrees. I’m bothered because this may be the environment where my little girl has to be educated. Everywhere in the world there is strife over religious fundamentalism. I humbly suggest our country is encountering the same tug-o-war. Trying to force a religious viewpoint upon students with no recourse is bad—it’s worse when that viewpoint has no redeeming scientific value. Intelligent Design is not going to lead to the breakthroughs that modern medicine has brought us—it’s not science. It’s dogma. Those that promote it aren’t concerned about the advancement of science, they want to promote God. They just can’t own up to it. Or, as Jesus said,
Why do you see the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye?
Matthew 7:3, Harper Study Bible, Revised Standard Version, 1962

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

The Things I Saw Sunday
The nimble, tiny Chickadee (Poecile carolinensis) coming to the feeder and singing for his morning breakfast…

Driving along the bluff shortly after 8 am, watching a hawk cross the road, forty feet above, clutching a squirrel in its talons. The squirrel was lifeless, having lost the struggle, but its tail fluttered behind. After the first hawk was another, skimming the treetops, heading for Sunday morning brunch.

Holding the old woman’s gnarled and twisted hands, paper-thin and showing delicate veins and taunt tendons.

“How long have you been here?” I asked, “the last time I came to visit, you were at Margaret’s house.”

“I’m at Margaret’s house,” she replied.

I smiled, “Let’s say the Lord’s Prayer together. Our Father, who art in heaven…”

The woman who came up to me at the restaurant and introduced herself as Gail “from way back.” I didn’t recognize her. Not at all…

Watching my daughter in the rear-view mirror falling asleep in her seat. Her eyes were getting so heavy after supper and a big morning. The drone of the highway carried her off and she napped all the way home, out of the car like a limp doll over my shoulder and up into the house and her new ‘big girl’ bed. The gentle rise and fall of her chest under her favorite blanket.

The heat lightning illuminating the towering clouds over the Gulf.

Mars, getting redder and brighter in the east over Zack’s new home…

The old and the young, the quick and the dead, the gaudy and the sublime: I saw them all on Sunday. Sometimes it overwhelms you, the magnitude of life. The seriousness, the silliness: it’s all there. Sometimes, while sitting on the porch overlooking the bay, eavesdropping via baby monitor on my little one’s sleepy, nonsensical baby talk, I stop to wonder where I fit in. I am a father, a husband: I am a man who wants to live a life worthy of the unbelievably good fortune I have been given.

I am not a man of constant sorrow. I am a man of constant amazement.

Monday, October 03, 2005

Proofread
Because even the most legitimate of excuses can be twisted. In other words, sometimes Spellcheck isn't enough.I know it's hard to read but it's worth the effort. Double click on the image to blow it up a little more and save your eyes the strain.

And no, it's not me this motion was drafted for.....

Saturday, October 01, 2005

Of Roy Jones, Cellphones and a Day at the Beach
Roy Jones Jr. Squaring off against Antonio Tarver tonight. Hey Roy, we've all enjoyed watching you but, regardless of what happens tonight, retire. And I write this before the fight starts, noting I advocated retiring after the last fight. That's the problem with celebrity--it's hard to walk away from. I repeat: win or lose, retire...

Seems everyone has a cellphone these days--and they're all ringing. I remember my first cellphone; the battery was weak, it was big, and I only turned it on while I was in my car--which was a lot--plugging it into the cigarette lighter outlet. Now, I carry around this Blackberry, calling, receiving e-mails, and surfing the net day or night. I suppose it's good and bad--I'm in touch but find myself sending work-related e-mails at 11 pm sometimes.

Cellphones used to be a status symbol. Now they're leashes; signs that someone, somewhere can find you no matter where you are. My Dad said, reminiscing not too long ago, that he remembered a time when you could be "out of pocket" for the afternoon. No longer, and I think we're not, all in all, better off for it. Everyone should have a place to go away from the world: a repose for the soul--timeout for the mind to consider the wind through the pines or the water making designs in collusion with the sun.

But about these ringtones, I think they're getting out of control. Hearing Bach in a Nintendo sounding way is, I don't know, cheap? I'm weird in that way, I set my phone to vibrate--always. I also can't hold a conversation in public--even the most innocuous. I have to excuse myself. Others apparently can talk about all sorts of intimate things around total strangers--I sat in the Atlanta airport once and listened (I had no choice) to the details of a rather convoluted weekend some guy apparently had and was now trying to explain to his girlfriend. Unbelievable.

Late this afternoon, my daughter, her mother and I went out along the sound and played in the water. We watched the great blue herons (Ardea herodias)and osprey (Pandion healiaetus) flying, and the mullet (Mugil cephalus )jumping. Wading into the cool, clear water, we bounced and splashed, dipping our heads and watching the minnows play. I held my breath and looked straight up from the sandy bottom--watching the blue sky shimmer and shimmy above a few feet of water, feeling the gentle sting of salt in my eyes, cleansing.

A comb jellyfish (Ctenophora beroe) floated by; I picked it up in my hands and showed it to my daughter. She absolutely squealed in fascination, running her hands along its soft, slimy sides, looking at the inner workings through its clear body, and holding it between her cupped little hands. My little marine biologist--everyday, let's look at something new, okay?

Okay...