Sun - August 17, 2008
FROM SLE WITH LOVE
to her mom. and for all of us.
While poking around the Google a couple of nights
ago, I happened upon a raw and honest and especially moving comment over at The
Burgh Blog. It appeared in a comment thread that unfolded in the wake of
PittGirl's note on the passing of Professor Randy Pausch. At the end of a
discussion that saw one commenter refer to me as a self-righteous asshole
and another wish that I had died instead -- you can see how truly moved and
inspired that fucking idiot was by Professor Pausch's call to embrace and value
life; I must have missed the part of the Last Lecture that urged us to will pain
and suffering upon people with whom we disagree -- came a reaction that
articulated, with far more emotional resonance than I could muster on the
subject, some of what I've been saying and feeling all
along.
It's from a commenter named Sle, and it deserves a far wider and more thoughtful reading than it no doubt received at the bottom of that nearly concluded thread. I reproduce it here, unaltered and unedited, for your consideration:
My mother died after fighting Pancreatic Cancer for 5 1/2 months nine years ago.
I am frankly offended by: “I realize there are those that say that Randy Pausch is no different than anyone else that dies of pancreatic cancer, but I disagree. He didn’t go quietly into the night. He spoke out about it and the need for research. He fought it publicly. He tried to leave lessons not only for his young children, but also for us.”
Dr. Pauch also had a worldwide network. He also had the talent and access to international technology.
My mother wrote us letters. She participated in research trials. She planned on beating the cancer and going on speaking tours.
My mom was a single parent who raised her two daughters -- one born just two weeks after my father died -- on her own at a time when single parents were looked down. She worked odd jobs to be home with her kids. She put two girls to college. She had just started back to college herself and had started dating again for the first time in 21 years when she turned yellow.
If she had the ability, she would have done what Dr. Pauch did. At least as much. Nine years ago.
I am greatful for what he was able to do, but don’t for one minute think my mom wouldn’t have done the same.
I don't think that at all, Sle. Not for one second. (Failing to do so, you will note, has earned me insults and death wishes; I hope you were spared the same.)
Thanks for sharing your thoughts. They contained a host of beauty and sadness, and a great big dose of gut-wrenching perspective from which an awful lot of people could, but probably will not, benefit.
It's from a commenter named Sle, and it deserves a far wider and more thoughtful reading than it no doubt received at the bottom of that nearly concluded thread. I reproduce it here, unaltered and unedited, for your consideration:
My mother died after fighting Pancreatic Cancer for 5 1/2 months nine years ago.
I am frankly offended by: “I realize there are those that say that Randy Pausch is no different than anyone else that dies of pancreatic cancer, but I disagree. He didn’t go quietly into the night. He spoke out about it and the need for research. He fought it publicly. He tried to leave lessons not only for his young children, but also for us.”
Dr. Pauch also had a worldwide network. He also had the talent and access to international technology.
My mother wrote us letters. She participated in research trials. She planned on beating the cancer and going on speaking tours.
My mom was a single parent who raised her two daughters -- one born just two weeks after my father died -- on her own at a time when single parents were looked down. She worked odd jobs to be home with her kids. She put two girls to college. She had just started back to college herself and had started dating again for the first time in 21 years when she turned yellow.
If she had the ability, she would have done what Dr. Pauch did. At least as much. Nine years ago.
I am greatful for what he was able to do, but don’t for one minute think my mom wouldn’t have done the same.
I don't think that at all, Sle. Not for one second. (Failing to do so, you will note, has earned me insults and death wishes; I hope you were spared the same.)
Thanks for sharing your thoughts. They contained a host of beauty and sadness, and a great big dose of gut-wrenching perspective from which an awful lot of people could, but probably will not, benefit.
Posted at 10:02 AM
Thu - August 7, 2008
FAMOUS LAST WORDS
some final thoughts on the end of
days.
Sprinkled among the angry, insulting emails I
received in the wake of two posts about the reaction to Professor Randy
Pausch's death came a few that thanked me for articulating what their writers
had been thinking and feeling. By far the strongest and boldest of those --
from a reader we'll call Mr. P. -- arrived this past Monday. It's thoughtful
and provocative stuff. And it's sure to piss off, or at least to challenge, a
whole lot of readers. All of which makes it, I think, the very definition of
something I should post for your consideration:
Thank heavens I found someone else who shares similar feelings about Randy Pausch. I too find the pimping by the media to be well over the top, but I'll take my analysis one step further. I have just finished reading The Last Lecture and I couldn't help having two thoughts.
First of all, a very deep sense of sorrow for Mr. Pausch's wife and children. Nobody deserves to have their spouse or father taken from them at such an early stage in life. No matter the support system, his children will suffer from the lack of a father while growing up.
But secondly, I am actually quite ashamed to say that I found Mr. Pausch to be a profound egotist who managed to maintain this trait in the face of death. Early in his book he speaks of his wife urging him not to do this lecture in order to spend his limited time with her and the children. He ignored her pleas and was relentless in doing this until she gave in and supported him. If you watched all the media coverage it is easy to see how much time he actually did take away from his family. But I think that was his drive. In the end it was all about him. It was a lifelong quest to be noticed and truly in the spotlight.
I do admire his courage, but not for facing death. I admire his ability to remain so self-involved and egotistical to the very end. Some may argue that is a good posture. I really don't know but I think most people in his situation would have forgotten about all the clichés and taken their wives' advice.
I'm fascinated by Mr. P.'s insights from the book. I have not read the book, nor do I intend to; as a father and a husband whose senses of empathy and melodrama often get the best of him, I try to avoid tales like that whenever possible. And I refuse, of course, to contribute one more cent or one more moment to the media frenzy. But living in Pittsburgh and consuming local and national media and therefore not being able to escape the updates on the developments of the details of the inspirations of Professor Pausch's last year, I had begun to feel much the same way.
I hadn't written about it, and I hadn't even talked about it much. But Mr. P's email got me to thinking about it again. I don't know that I agree with all of his conclusions, or at least the severity with which he states some of them, but I admit at times to thinking -- especially when reading about Professor Pausch's exploits just before or after I'd spent some nice, quiet, family time with Wendy and the boys -- a lot of the same things. And I couldn't help thinking then, just as I've been again thinking this week, about what I would do, or about what anyone should do, in a terrible, unwinnable situation like that.
I cannot say for sure how I would respond — and I pray to God I never find out — but I’m fairly certain I would want to spend every last precious second with my wife and my sons and, along the way, with other family and close friends. I'm pretty sure I would not be jetting to talk to Oprah (or, say, Bill Maher), or sit down for a couple of interviews with Diane Sawyer (or Jake Tapper), or shoot a small role in the next Star Trek (or Harry Potter) movie. I would probably testify before Congress to help people (and their families) who would suffer from the same illness affecting me (and mine). But I can safely say I would not spend untold hours with a Wall Street Journal reporter, or allow Good Morning America crews into my backyard to watch me play with my kids for the sake of their ratings, or show up to speak at a graduation ceremony even if my former employer had paid almost two-and-a-half times the market value for my old house and then begged me to come by one last time for the good PR hit.
I'm pretty damned sure I'd spend all that time at home, or at my parents' house, or maybe one last time at the beach, and always with Wendy and the boys, smiling and laughing and trying like hell not to cry every time I looked at them and imagined not growing old(er) with them. I might, I suppose, grant myself a few indulgences along the way -- you can be sure I’d eat every last piece of cheesecake I could find and keep down -- but I would spend all of my time in slavish devotion to Wendy and the boys and their wishes, not to the feeding of my own ego, nor to the cementing of my legacy anywhere but in their lasting, loving memories.
Am I judging Randy Pausch? Perhaps. Perhaps not. I suppose it depends on your perspective. From mine, it feels like I'm just being honest. Like I'm looking and thinking and, one husband and father and former CMU professor to another, having a considerable difference of opinion. And of strategy. And maybe even of self.
I didn't know the man, and so, fawning media coverage and second-hand news and third-hand email reports aside, I can't begin to say I knew what he was thinking or feeling. I certainly don't know what he was going through. Maybe some of that turning outward was just a way to balance the scales of his own emotions, to achieve some sort of emotional balance and spiritual stability, to build outward enough that he did not collapse inward, under what must have been the crushing weight of his own imminent mortality.
He did it his way. I like to think, at least, that I'd do it mine. Whether one is better, or more noble, or more selfless, or more smart, I'll leave for you to decide. Because in the end, I think, it all comes down to your disposition. To what you can handle and what you can't. And to the wisdom, or maybe just the good fortune, to know which is which.
From what little fortune or wisdom or wishful intuition I have right now, sitting here alone on a quiet Thursday morning, with Wendy at work and Ethan at camp and Adam upstairs still asleep, I'll say that, even in the face of death, I would do my best to put myself and my fame and my attention and my writing and my lectures last -- and my family first. And then, just as I do every day in the face of life, hope and pray that my best was at least somewhere close to good enough.
Thank heavens I found someone else who shares similar feelings about Randy Pausch. I too find the pimping by the media to be well over the top, but I'll take my analysis one step further. I have just finished reading The Last Lecture and I couldn't help having two thoughts.
First of all, a very deep sense of sorrow for Mr. Pausch's wife and children. Nobody deserves to have their spouse or father taken from them at such an early stage in life. No matter the support system, his children will suffer from the lack of a father while growing up.
But secondly, I am actually quite ashamed to say that I found Mr. Pausch to be a profound egotist who managed to maintain this trait in the face of death. Early in his book he speaks of his wife urging him not to do this lecture in order to spend his limited time with her and the children. He ignored her pleas and was relentless in doing this until she gave in and supported him. If you watched all the media coverage it is easy to see how much time he actually did take away from his family. But I think that was his drive. In the end it was all about him. It was a lifelong quest to be noticed and truly in the spotlight.
I do admire his courage, but not for facing death. I admire his ability to remain so self-involved and egotistical to the very end. Some may argue that is a good posture. I really don't know but I think most people in his situation would have forgotten about all the clichés and taken their wives' advice.
I'm fascinated by Mr. P.'s insights from the book. I have not read the book, nor do I intend to; as a father and a husband whose senses of empathy and melodrama often get the best of him, I try to avoid tales like that whenever possible. And I refuse, of course, to contribute one more cent or one more moment to the media frenzy. But living in Pittsburgh and consuming local and national media and therefore not being able to escape the updates on the developments of the details of the inspirations of Professor Pausch's last year, I had begun to feel much the same way.
I hadn't written about it, and I hadn't even talked about it much. But Mr. P's email got me to thinking about it again. I don't know that I agree with all of his conclusions, or at least the severity with which he states some of them, but I admit at times to thinking -- especially when reading about Professor Pausch's exploits just before or after I'd spent some nice, quiet, family time with Wendy and the boys -- a lot of the same things. And I couldn't help thinking then, just as I've been again thinking this week, about what I would do, or about what anyone should do, in a terrible, unwinnable situation like that.
I cannot say for sure how I would respond — and I pray to God I never find out — but I’m fairly certain I would want to spend every last precious second with my wife and my sons and, along the way, with other family and close friends. I'm pretty sure I would not be jetting to talk to Oprah (or, say, Bill Maher), or sit down for a couple of interviews with Diane Sawyer (or Jake Tapper), or shoot a small role in the next Star Trek (or Harry Potter) movie. I would probably testify before Congress to help people (and their families) who would suffer from the same illness affecting me (and mine). But I can safely say I would not spend untold hours with a Wall Street Journal reporter, or allow Good Morning America crews into my backyard to watch me play with my kids for the sake of their ratings, or show up to speak at a graduation ceremony even if my former employer had paid almost two-and-a-half times the market value for my old house and then begged me to come by one last time for the good PR hit.
I'm pretty damned sure I'd spend all that time at home, or at my parents' house, or maybe one last time at the beach, and always with Wendy and the boys, smiling and laughing and trying like hell not to cry every time I looked at them and imagined not growing old(er) with them. I might, I suppose, grant myself a few indulgences along the way -- you can be sure I’d eat every last piece of cheesecake I could find and keep down -- but I would spend all of my time in slavish devotion to Wendy and the boys and their wishes, not to the feeding of my own ego, nor to the cementing of my legacy anywhere but in their lasting, loving memories.
Am I judging Randy Pausch? Perhaps. Perhaps not. I suppose it depends on your perspective. From mine, it feels like I'm just being honest. Like I'm looking and thinking and, one husband and father and former CMU professor to another, having a considerable difference of opinion. And of strategy. And maybe even of self.
I didn't know the man, and so, fawning media coverage and second-hand news and third-hand email reports aside, I can't begin to say I knew what he was thinking or feeling. I certainly don't know what he was going through. Maybe some of that turning outward was just a way to balance the scales of his own emotions, to achieve some sort of emotional balance and spiritual stability, to build outward enough that he did not collapse inward, under what must have been the crushing weight of his own imminent mortality.
He did it his way. I like to think, at least, that I'd do it mine. Whether one is better, or more noble, or more selfless, or more smart, I'll leave for you to decide. Because in the end, I think, it all comes down to your disposition. To what you can handle and what you can't. And to the wisdom, or maybe just the good fortune, to know which is which.
From what little fortune or wisdom or wishful intuition I have right now, sitting here alone on a quiet Thursday morning, with Wendy at work and Ethan at camp and Adam upstairs still asleep, I'll say that, even in the face of death, I would do my best to put myself and my fame and my attention and my writing and my lectures last -- and my family first. And then, just as I do every day in the face of life, hope and pray that my best was at least somewhere close to good enough.
Posted at 10:26 AM
Wed - July 23, 2008
THE TRUTH WILL HAVE TO WAIT
again.
I am not foolish enough to think that most of you
are waiting, with breath baited and fingers a-twitter, to read yet another post
about Senator Breath of Fresh Air. And yet many of you have inquired about it,
one of you is owed it, and all of you, I'm afraid, will have to wait a few more
days for it. (Methinks I hear the sighs and cheers -- and probably the jeers --
of Obama supporters echoing in the
distance.)
It's been one of those weeks. And one of those posts. And now, it's one of those little breaks I need to take from time to time. I'll be back on Friday, with The Wall and The Notes, and then on Saturday, one week after the original post and so somehow fitting, with a set of clarifications I'm struggling to write, if only because I'm still not sure why I need to write them at all.
It's been one of those weeks. And one of those posts. And now, it's one of those little breaks I need to take from time to time. I'll be back on Friday, with The Wall and The Notes, and then on Saturday, one week after the original post and so somehow fitting, with a set of clarifications I'm struggling to write, if only because I'm still not sure why I need to write them at all.
Posted at 07:18 AM
Sun - July 13, 2008
R & K B-DAYS
happy, happy.
TWM takes a moment and makes a post to celebrate
the birthdays of two of its favorite people in all the
world:
Ralph Moeslein, totally rockin' husband, father, grandfather, and father-in-law extraordinaire, and
Keyana Farkondepay, totally rockin' TA, friend, former student, and communicator extraordinaire.
Other than their loves of football and good beer, it's difficult to imagine, besides one fateful date on the calendar, that they have too much in common. Except, of course, for the great pleasure I take from having both of them in my life.
Happy Birthday, Dad. Happy Birthday, Keyana. May your days be as vital and as vibrant as you.
Ralph Moeslein, totally rockin' husband, father, grandfather, and father-in-law extraordinaire, and
Keyana Farkondepay, totally rockin' TA, friend, former student, and communicator extraordinaire.
Other than their loves of football and good beer, it's difficult to imagine, besides one fateful date on the calendar, that they have too much in common. Except, of course, for the great pleasure I take from having both of them in my life.
Happy Birthday, Dad. Happy Birthday, Keyana. May your days be as vital and as vibrant as you.
Posted at 01:50 PM
Tue - July 8, 2008
(A DAY TO REMEMBER) DRINK SPECIALS
tbey do. they will.
With permission from, and nostalgia for, The
Barmaid...
LOVE: Early morning emails, early morning phone calls, and late-night, book-making, guitar-playing marriage proposals.
HATERADE: On a day like this? (...with the possible exception of those damned seizure signs...) Absolutely nothing.
LOVE: Early morning emails, early morning phone calls, and late-night, book-making, guitar-playing marriage proposals.
HATERADE: On a day like this? (...with the possible exception of those damned seizure signs...) Absolutely nothing.
Posted at 02:03 PM
Thu - July 3, 2008
THIS ONE GOES OUT TO RON
the day before his birthday.
A little tune that reminds me of summer nights
with the windows down and the volume up, of Pennsylvania Turnpike drives and
Berkshire Mall walks and Mann Music Center concerts, of games and movies and
miniature golf, of lawnmowers and stone donuts and not-so-subtle subtlety, of
Dunkball and street hockey and Friendly's and Chi-Chi's and a thousand other
memories you make in your teens and twenties that, like a truly great song or
artist or friendship, grow richer and stronger with every rocking, rolling year
gone by...
HEY HEY, MY MY (INTO THE BLACK)
Neil Young & Crazy Horse
Hey hey, my my
Rock and roll can never die
There's more to the picture
Than meets the eye
Hey hey, my my
Out of the blue and into the black
You pay for this, but they give you that
And once you're gone, you can't come back
When you're out of the blue and into the black.
The king is gone, but he's not forgotten
Is this the story of Johnny Rotten?
It's better to burn out, 'cause rust never sleeps
The king is gone, but he's not forgotten.
Hey hey, my my
Rock and roll can never die
There's more to the picture
Than meets the eye.
HEY HEY, MY MY (INTO THE BLACK)
Neil Young & Crazy Horse
Hey hey, my my
Rock and roll can never die
There's more to the picture
Than meets the eye
Hey hey, my my
Out of the blue and into the black
You pay for this, but they give you that
And once you're gone, you can't come back
When you're out of the blue and into the black.
The king is gone, but he's not forgotten
Is this the story of Johnny Rotten?
It's better to burn out, 'cause rust never sleeps
The king is gone, but he's not forgotten.
Hey hey, my my
Rock and roll can never die
There's more to the picture
Than meets the eye.
Posted at 03:57 PM
Thu - June 19, 2008
THIS ONE GOES OUT TO JIM
one week before his birthday.
A little tune that reminds me of the warm
austerities of the 13th and 14th floors of St. Martin's Hall, of reading John
Milton and listening to Roger Waters and soaking in Akira Kurosawa, of
Nightbreeding parties and East Coast Satan Tours and all the crazy, creative
collaborations that two best friends could find when, for one wonderful year,
they were loving life together on The Bluff...
WISH YOU WERE HERE
Pink Floyd
So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell,
Blue skys from pain.
Can you tell a green field
From a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade
Your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange
A walk on part in the war
For a lead role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls
Swimming in a fish bowl,
Year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears.
Wish you were here.
WISH YOU WERE HERE
Pink Floyd
So, so you think you can tell
Heaven from Hell,
Blue skys from pain.
Can you tell a green field
From a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade
Your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange
A walk on part in the war
For a lead role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here.
We're just two lost souls
Swimming in a fish bowl,
Year after year,
Running over the same old ground.
What have we found?
The same old fears.
Wish you were here.
Posted at 09:43 AM
Tue - June 17, 2008
TUESDAY MORNING MELODY
on shady avenue.
A guy sitting at his desk. Looking east.
Listening to his elder son, upstairs, strumming his guitar and noodling along
with Wilco. Then listening to his younger son, downstairs, cranking up his iPod
and singing along with Crowded House. Smiling madly all the
while.
With a whole symphony of love in his heart.
With a whole symphony of love in his heart.
Posted at 11:17 AM
Sun - June 15, 2008
Sun - June 8, 2008
THIS ONE GOES OUT TO MOM
on her birthday.
A little tune that reminds me of long talks and
short drives, of old cassettes and new CDs, of classic concerts at the Mann and
the Tower, of time spent laughing and sharing and shopping and just plain having
fun together (especially during those Lincoln Avenue Hibernation Years), of the
deep and always profound connection between a mother and a son who, finding so
many lovely pieces of common ground together, found one of their favorites in
the good music and great lyrics of one artist in
particular...
THE ONLY CHILD
Jackson Browne
Boy of mine
As your fortune comes to carry you down the line
And you watch while the changes unfold
And you sort among the stories you've been told
If some pieces of the picture are hard to find
And the answers to your questions are hard to hold
Take good care of your mother
When you're making up your mind
Should one thing or another take you from behind
Though the world may make you hard and wild
And determine how your life is styled
When you've come to feel that you're the only child
Take good care of your brother
Let the disappointments pass
Let the laughter fill your glass
Let your illusions last until they shatter
Whatever you might hope to find
Among the thoughts that crowd your mind
There won't be many that ever really matter
But take good care of your mother
And remember to be kind
When the pain of another will serve you to remind
That there are those who feel themselves exiled
On whom the fortune never smiled
And upon whose lives the heartache has been piled
They're just looking for another
Lonely child
And when you've found another soul
Who sees into your own
Take good care of each other...
THE ONLY CHILD
Jackson Browne
Boy of mine
As your fortune comes to carry you down the line
And you watch while the changes unfold
And you sort among the stories you've been told
If some pieces of the picture are hard to find
And the answers to your questions are hard to hold
Take good care of your mother
When you're making up your mind
Should one thing or another take you from behind
Though the world may make you hard and wild
And determine how your life is styled
When you've come to feel that you're the only child
Take good care of your brother
Let the disappointments pass
Let the laughter fill your glass
Let your illusions last until they shatter
Whatever you might hope to find
Among the thoughts that crowd your mind
There won't be many that ever really matter
But take good care of your mother
And remember to be kind
When the pain of another will serve you to remind
That there are those who feel themselves exiled
On whom the fortune never smiled
And upon whose lives the heartache has been piled
They're just looking for another
Lonely child
And when you've found another soul
Who sees into your own
Take good care of each other...
Posted at 10:05 AM
Thu - May 29, 2008
(THURSDAY AFTERNOON) DRINK SPECIALS
from the unexpected to the
guaranteed.
With permission from, and nostalgia for, The
Barmaid...
LOVE: Fourth-liners who score game-winning goals.
HATERADE: Educrats who don't know what the hell they're doing.
LOVE: Fourth-liners who score game-winning goals.
HATERADE: Educrats who don't know what the hell they're doing.
Posted at 03:57 PM
Sat - May 17, 2008
THIS ONE GOES OUT TO ADAM
on his birthday.
A little tune that reminds me of being fourteen,
of letting loose and having fun and discovering great new bands, of starting to
feel grown up and knowing that I had a whole hell of a lot of growing to do and
realizing there was a whole, wonderful world out there that I'd only just begun
to explore... and that also reminds me of being thirty-one, and being the proud
father of a six-year-old who'd discovered this band and this song much earlier
than I had, and who, though he would probably never admit it now, used to love
to dance around the house whenever he heard it...
SLIPPERY PEOPLE
Talking Heads
What about the time you were fallin' over
Fell on your face, you must be having fun
Walk lightly! Think of a time
You'd best believe this thing is real
Put away that gun, this part is simple
Try to recognize what is in your mind
God help us! Help us lose our minds
These slippery people help us understand
What's the matter with him? (He's alright!)
How do ya know? (The lord won't mind..)
Don't know no games (He's alright!)
Love from the bottom to the top!
Turn like a wheel! (He's alright!)
See for yourself! (The lord won't mind..)
We're gonna move! (Right now!)
Turn like a wheel inside a wheel!
I remember when, sittin' in the tub
Pulled out the plug, the water was runnin' out
Cool down! Stop acting crazy
They're gonna leave, and we'll be on our own
Seven times five, they were living creatures
Watch 'em come to life right before your eyes
Backsliding! How do you do?
These slippery people gonna see you through
What's the matter with him? (He's alright!)
How do ya know? (The lord won't mind..)
Don't know no games (He's alright!)
Love from the bottom to the top!
Turn like a wheel! (He's alright!)
See for yourself! (The lord won't mind..)
We're gonna move! (Right now!)
Turn like a wheel inside a wheel!
He's alright! The lord won't mind...
Alright! Love from the bottom to the top!
Alright! The lord won't mind...
Right now! Turn like a wheel inside a wheel!...
SLIPPERY PEOPLE
Talking Heads
What about the time you were fallin' over
Fell on your face, you must be having fun
Walk lightly! Think of a time
You'd best believe this thing is real
Put away that gun, this part is simple
Try to recognize what is in your mind
God help us! Help us lose our minds
These slippery people help us understand
What's the matter with him? (He's alright!)
How do ya know? (The lord won't mind..)
Don't know no games (He's alright!)
Love from the bottom to the top!
Turn like a wheel! (He's alright!)
See for yourself! (The lord won't mind..)
We're gonna move! (Right now!)
Turn like a wheel inside a wheel!
I remember when, sittin' in the tub
Pulled out the plug, the water was runnin' out
Cool down! Stop acting crazy
They're gonna leave, and we'll be on our own
Seven times five, they were living creatures
Watch 'em come to life right before your eyes
Backsliding! How do you do?
These slippery people gonna see you through
What's the matter with him? (He's alright!)
How do ya know? (The lord won't mind..)
Don't know no games (He's alright!)
Love from the bottom to the top!
Turn like a wheel! (He's alright!)
See for yourself! (The lord won't mind..)
We're gonna move! (Right now!)
Turn like a wheel inside a wheel!
He's alright! The lord won't mind...
Alright! Love from the bottom to the top!
Alright! The lord won't mind...
Right now! Turn like a wheel inside a wheel!...
Posted at 08:17 AM
Mon - April 28, 2008
ALL THE WAY INTO THAT EMPTY NET
the penguins shoot; we score.
A TWM fan, friend, and regular correspondent sent a
little dispatch that I would say got my week off to a good start, if it had not
also done such a fine job of finishing off my weekend:
I was visiting my oldest son and granddaughter and watched that second goal roll like a beer can in a Kansas crosswind all the way into that empty net and it was all I could do to keep from tossing a five-month old into the air like a graduation cap.
I know the feeling. And I imagine all of Penguin Fandom does too.
My seats are down at that end of the rink, just along the goal line, and as I watched Adam Hall's sweet clear bounce off those boards and roll oh-so-achingly slowly down the ice, I wanted to launch myself over the glass, lie down behind it, and blow. When that puck finally hit the back of the net, after almost sixty minutes of play and nearly 150 of whipsawing tension, I wanted to laugh and cry and sing all at once. I was so full of joy that, for a moment at least, I think I may have levitated.
Friday night, when Sid one-timed that sweet Ryan Whitney pass off Geno's shin pads and into the net to win Game 1, an exuberant Ethan leapt into my arms, I lifted him into the air, and at least some small part of me wanted to toss him, hat-trick-like, down on to the ice, so he could join in the celebration himself.
These are exciting times to be a hockey fan in Pittsburgh. And this is an exciting team of fine young players and, by all accounts, even finer young men who deserve every last ounce of this city's abundant, if occasionally misdirected, sporting passion.
In our house, with all due respect to the football teams at both ends of the commonwealth, hockey is what baseball used to be to America: an all-consuming passion, a unifying, electrifying pastime around which, from October through April, and especially come playoff time, everything else must fit, revolve, or fade away. (Our neighbors three houses over told us last night that they could follow the progress of yesterday's game by listening for Wendy's and Adam's and Ethan's reactions to echo through the yards and down the street.) Penguins hockey is part sport, part religion; it's shared values and family tradition. And this year, so far, feels like we're making memories to last our lifetimes.
Some of you understand this. Many of you do not. But I imagine that, without too much trouble, most of you who do not can at least imagine it, or maybe substitute something from your own lives and loves -- yesterday or today, now or forever -- that brought you, your family, and a great, rising swell of your community together.
The next time some humorless, utilitarian economist (yes, I know that's redundant) wants to whine about the opportunity costs and negative externalities of using a little casino money to pay for a new multi-purpose arena that also helps keep this hockey team -- and along with it, these marvelous emotions -- in town, or the next time some self-obsessed, self-important community activist (yes, I know that too) who loves jazz or theater or football wants to know what's in this for her, I'd like to invite them both to our seats at the arena, or to our sofa at home, or to that house with my emailer, his son, and his almost-cap-tossed granddaughter, or to any of the tens of thousands of other homes in this region just like it, during a Penguins playoff game. And I'd like them, if only for a moment, to calculate the sustainable growth, or perhaps the community benefit, of living and sharing and carrying those moments within you, of waking up with an extra bounce in your step and a rally towel still fluttering in your chest, knowing that everything you do, every last bit of work or stress you face between now and Tuesday night at 7:00, will come a little easier, will carry a hop and a smile and a little extra energy because those kids just keep on working and winning and making you feel, even on this most gray and rainy of Mondays, that you, your family, and your wonderful little corner of the world have one more thing to look forward to, and to be thankful for, together.
I was visiting my oldest son and granddaughter and watched that second goal roll like a beer can in a Kansas crosswind all the way into that empty net and it was all I could do to keep from tossing a five-month old into the air like a graduation cap.
I know the feeling. And I imagine all of Penguin Fandom does too.
My seats are down at that end of the rink, just along the goal line, and as I watched Adam Hall's sweet clear bounce off those boards and roll oh-so-achingly slowly down the ice, I wanted to launch myself over the glass, lie down behind it, and blow. When that puck finally hit the back of the net, after almost sixty minutes of play and nearly 150 of whipsawing tension, I wanted to laugh and cry and sing all at once. I was so full of joy that, for a moment at least, I think I may have levitated.
Friday night, when Sid one-timed that sweet Ryan Whitney pass off Geno's shin pads and into the net to win Game 1, an exuberant Ethan leapt into my arms, I lifted him into the air, and at least some small part of me wanted to toss him, hat-trick-like, down on to the ice, so he could join in the celebration himself.
These are exciting times to be a hockey fan in Pittsburgh. And this is an exciting team of fine young players and, by all accounts, even finer young men who deserve every last ounce of this city's abundant, if occasionally misdirected, sporting passion.
In our house, with all due respect to the football teams at both ends of the commonwealth, hockey is what baseball used to be to America: an all-consuming passion, a unifying, electrifying pastime around which, from October through April, and especially come playoff time, everything else must fit, revolve, or fade away. (Our neighbors three houses over told us last night that they could follow the progress of yesterday's game by listening for Wendy's and Adam's and Ethan's reactions to echo through the yards and down the street.) Penguins hockey is part sport, part religion; it's shared values and family tradition. And this year, so far, feels like we're making memories to last our lifetimes.
Some of you understand this. Many of you do not. But I imagine that, without too much trouble, most of you who do not can at least imagine it, or maybe substitute something from your own lives and loves -- yesterday or today, now or forever -- that brought you, your family, and a great, rising swell of your community together.
The next time some humorless, utilitarian economist (yes, I know that's redundant) wants to whine about the opportunity costs and negative externalities of using a little casino money to pay for a new multi-purpose arena that also helps keep this hockey team -- and along with it, these marvelous emotions -- in town, or the next time some self-obsessed, self-important community activist (yes, I know that too) who loves jazz or theater or football wants to know what's in this for her, I'd like to invite them both to our seats at the arena, or to our sofa at home, or to that house with my emailer, his son, and his almost-cap-tossed granddaughter, or to any of the tens of thousands of other homes in this region just like it, during a Penguins playoff game. And I'd like them, if only for a moment, to calculate the sustainable growth, or perhaps the community benefit, of living and sharing and carrying those moments within you, of waking up with an extra bounce in your step and a rally towel still fluttering in your chest, knowing that everything you do, every last bit of work or stress you face between now and Tuesday night at 7:00, will come a little easier, will carry a hop and a smile and a little extra energy because those kids just keep on working and winning and making you feel, even on this most gray and rainy of Mondays, that you, your family, and your wonderful little corner of the world have one more thing to look forward to, and to be thankful for, together.
Posted at 10:21 AM
Mon - April 14, 2008
THIS ONE GOES OUT TO NITYA
the day after her birthday.
A little tune that reminds me of being young and
in love, of living below the Mason-Dixon line and still trying to find your way
but knowing, more than you've ever known anything, that you'd found the one
person with whom the hope and the search and every, crazy thing else would
always make sense...
REAL WORLD
Bruce Springsteen
Mister Trouble come walkin' this way
Year gone past feel like one long day
But I'm alive, and I'm feelin' all right
Well, I rode that hard road outta heartbreak city
Built a roadside carnival out of hurt and self-pity
It was all wrong, yeah, but now I'm moving on
Ain't no church bells ringing, ain't no flags unfurled
It's just me, you, and the love we're bringing into the real world
Into the real world
I built a shrine in my heart, wasn't pretty to see
Made out of fool's gold, memory, and tears cried
Now I'm headin' over the rise
I'm searchin' for one clear moment of love and truth
I still got a little faith, but what I need is some proof tonight
I'm lookin' for it in your eyes
Ain't no church bells ringing, ain't no flags unfurled
Just me, you and the faith we're bringing into the real world
Into the real world
Well, tonight I just wanna shout
I feel my soul waist deep and sinkin'
Into this black river of doubt
Well, I just wanna rise and walk along the riverside
And when the morning comes, baby, I don't wanna hide
Yeah, I'll stand right at your side with my arms open wide
Well, tonight I just wanna shout
I feel my soul waist deep and sinkin'
Into this black river of doubt
Well, I just wanna rise and walk
Along the riverside 'til the morning comes
When I'll stand right by your side
Oh, I wanna find some answers, I wanna ask for some help
I'm tired of running scared, baby,
Now let's get our bags packed
We'll take it here to hell and heaven and back
And if love is hopeless, hopeless at best
Come on put on your party dress
It's ours tonight
And we're goin' with the tumblin' dice
Ain't no church bells ringing, ain't no flags unfurled
It's just me, you and the hope we're bringing into the real world
Baby, into the real world
Oh, into the real world...
REAL WORLD
Bruce Springsteen
Mister Trouble come walkin' this way
Year gone past feel like one long day
But I'm alive, and I'm feelin' all right
Well, I rode that hard road outta heartbreak city
Built a roadside carnival out of hurt and self-pity
It was all wrong, yeah, but now I'm moving on
Ain't no church bells ringing, ain't no flags unfurled
It's just me, you, and the love we're bringing into the real world
Into the real world
I built a shrine in my heart, wasn't pretty to see
Made out of fool's gold, memory, and tears cried
Now I'm headin' over the rise
I'm searchin' for one clear moment of love and truth
I still got a little faith, but what I need is some proof tonight
I'm lookin' for it in your eyes
Ain't no church bells ringing, ain't no flags unfurled
Just me, you and the faith we're bringing into the real world
Into the real world
Well, tonight I just wanna shout
I feel my soul waist deep and sinkin'
Into this black river of doubt
Well, I just wanna rise and walk along the riverside
And when the morning comes, baby, I don't wanna hide
Yeah, I'll stand right at your side with my arms open wide
Well, tonight I just wanna shout
I feel my soul waist deep and sinkin'
Into this black river of doubt
Well, I just wanna rise and walk
Along the riverside 'til the morning comes
When I'll stand right by your side
Oh, I wanna find some answers, I wanna ask for some help
I'm tired of running scared, baby,
Now let's get our bags packed
We'll take it here to hell and heaven and back
And if love is hopeless, hopeless at best
Come on put on your party dress
It's ours tonight
And we're goin' with the tumblin' dice
Ain't no church bells ringing, ain't no flags unfurled
It's just me, you and the hope we're bringing into the real world
Baby, into the real world
Oh, into the real world...
Posted at 10:10 AM
Sun - April 13, 2008
THANKS, MR. PRESIDENT
for protecting us.
If this AP Photo by Joseph Kaczmarek -- of Kathy
Fendelman hugging her children, Samantha and Benjamin, while their father leaves
for his second deployment to Iraq -- doesn't break your heart and tear at what's
left of your
soul...
...you must be named George W. Bush.
...you must be named George W. Bush.
Posted at 10:25 AM
Sat - April 5, 2008
THIS ONE GOES OUT TO ETHAN
on his birthday.
A little tune that was one of the first ever to
inspire him to sing along from the back seat, and that, like him, always makes
me smile...
WAITIN' ON A SUNNY DAY
Bruce Springsteen
It's rainin', but there ain't a cloud in the sky
Musta been a tear from your eye
Everything'll be okay
It's funny, I thought I felt a sweet summer breeze
Musta been you sighin' so deep
Don't worry, we're gonna find a way
I'm waitin', waitin' on a sunny day
Gonna chase the clouds away
Yeah, I'm waitin' on a sunny day
Without you, I'm workin' with the rain fallin' down
I'm half a party in a one-dog town
I need you to chase these blues away
Without you, I'm a drummer, girl, that can't keep a beat
An ice cream truck on a deserted street
I hope that you're coming to stay
I'm waitin', waitin' on a sunny day
Gonna chase the clouds away
Waitin' on a sunny day
Hard times, baby, well they come to us all
Sure as the tickin' of the clock on the wall
Sure as the turnin' of the night into day
Your smile, girl, brings the mornin' light to my eyes
Lifts away the blues when I rise
I hope that you're coming to stay
'Cause I'm waitin', waitin' on a sunny day
Gonna chase the clouds away
Waitin' on a sunny day...
WAITIN' ON A SUNNY DAY
Bruce Springsteen
It's rainin', but there ain't a cloud in the sky
Musta been a tear from your eye
Everything'll be okay
It's funny, I thought I felt a sweet summer breeze
Musta been you sighin' so deep
Don't worry, we're gonna find a way
I'm waitin', waitin' on a sunny day
Gonna chase the clouds away
Yeah, I'm waitin' on a sunny day
Without you, I'm workin' with the rain fallin' down
I'm half a party in a one-dog town
I need you to chase these blues away
Without you, I'm a drummer, girl, that can't keep a beat
An ice cream truck on a deserted street
I hope that you're coming to stay
I'm waitin', waitin' on a sunny day
Gonna chase the clouds away
Waitin' on a sunny day
Hard times, baby, well they come to us all
Sure as the tickin' of the clock on the wall
Sure as the turnin' of the night into day
Your smile, girl, brings the mornin' light to my eyes
Lifts away the blues when I rise
I hope that you're coming to stay
'Cause I'm waitin', waitin' on a sunny day
Gonna chase the clouds away
Waitin' on a sunny day...
Posted at 10:13 AM
Sun - March 23, 2008
HE IS WRITTEN
a lutheran, home alone, yet
again.
The world is bright and cold and beautiful this
morning -- at least in this little, Southwestern Pennsylvania pocket of it --
calm and quiet beneath a sun that has risen today to save us from another gray
dawn of our own unmet expectations. It is Easter as Christmas, twenty-nine
degrees of late December masquerading as late March, with blue skies and still
winds and easy silences enough to remind us that there are powers far greater
than our own to which we are called. And to which we must answer.
These are, I suppose, profoundly Lutheran things to think, to feel, to know in your soul: that on a Sunday morning, when your wife and your boys are at church, settled in among so many sinners pretending to be saints, ignoring the cries of other wives and boys who do not want to be there, listening to the Gospel of a Lord Who loves us recounted by men who often make it sound as if He does not, singing hymns of joy that come out sounding like the sorrowful dirges of a too-heavy heart, you can be home alone, with a spiritual experience all your own. Nestling into a soft couch in a big, sunny room, simply to sit and think and write, while fresh rays of light descend through the blinds and resurrect the day again. Watching a squirrel scramble up a tree, alighting on a limb then leaping off again, as if inspired, and perhaps elevated, by some unseen, delicate hand. Listening to the gentle exhalations of your laptop, warm embraces pecked out in plaintive rhythms, ebbing and flowing in effortless streams, a gift that comes from somewhere you can not know or see, and for which you can never be thankful enough, except with the ready strokes of your own supplicating fingers.
Lost and lingering in yet another reverie, you embrace these earthly pleasures, soothed by their simple joys and strengthened by their solemn testimony to a peace and a faith that you feel most fully when you are alone, thinking of the ones you love and knowing that yours life's most bountiful blessing is their love in return. Happy disciple of all ninety-five theses, you rejoice especially in the weekly revelations of your favorite two: the one that proclaims the priesthood of all believers, and the one that proclaims you need not go anywhere, at any pre-ordained time, in the company of any ordained men, to know and feel and find the presence of your most merciful God, who is nowhere and anywhere and everywhere at once, and so ever and always with you, in the warm and simple graces of your quiet, joyful life.
These are, I suppose, profoundly Lutheran things to think, to feel, to know in your soul: that on a Sunday morning, when your wife and your boys are at church, settled in among so many sinners pretending to be saints, ignoring the cries of other wives and boys who do not want to be there, listening to the Gospel of a Lord Who loves us recounted by men who often make it sound as if He does not, singing hymns of joy that come out sounding like the sorrowful dirges of a too-heavy heart, you can be home alone, with a spiritual experience all your own. Nestling into a soft couch in a big, sunny room, simply to sit and think and write, while fresh rays of light descend through the blinds and resurrect the day again. Watching a squirrel scramble up a tree, alighting on a limb then leaping off again, as if inspired, and perhaps elevated, by some unseen, delicate hand. Listening to the gentle exhalations of your laptop, warm embraces pecked out in plaintive rhythms, ebbing and flowing in effortless streams, a gift that comes from somewhere you can not know or see, and for which you can never be thankful enough, except with the ready strokes of your own supplicating fingers.
Lost and lingering in yet another reverie, you embrace these earthly pleasures, soothed by their simple joys and strengthened by their solemn testimony to a peace and a faith that you feel most fully when you are alone, thinking of the ones you love and knowing that yours life's most bountiful blessing is their love in return. Happy disciple of all ninety-five theses, you rejoice especially in the weekly revelations of your favorite two: the one that proclaims the priesthood of all believers, and the one that proclaims you need not go anywhere, at any pre-ordained time, in the company of any ordained men, to know and feel and find the presence of your most merciful God, who is nowhere and anywhere and everywhere at once, and so ever and always with you, in the warm and simple graces of your quiet, joyful life.
Posted at 10:39 AM
Wed - March 19, 2008
THURSDAY EVENING OBSERVATION
from a table at max &
erma's.
There are few things in the world less interesting
to hear than a workout described.
Posted at 07:11 PM
Sun - March 16, 2008
WHAT WOULD JESUS DO?
not what you're doing.
I would like to think that parishioners arriving
for Palm Sunday Mass at Sacred Heart Catholic Church in Shadyside would not be
parking their minivans and SUVs in the lot of a privately owned business across
the street. And that they would not be running red lights and stop signs to try
to beat each other to a couple of remaining parking spaces. And that they would
not be creating their own spaces by parking along the curb and through the
crosswalk, thus totally blocking all the wheelchair-accessible curb ramps on the
corners. But I would be wrong.
I know Jesus loves you, people, but I gotta think he'd be pretty pissed about that shit.
I know Jesus loves you, people, but I gotta think he'd be pretty pissed about that shit.
Posted at 09:34 AM
Sun - February 24, 2008
IS BIG BROTHER WATCHING?
is the death star monitoring?
Perhaps you remember BD, the happily repatriated
Pittsburgher whose husband lost his hearing, and whose insurance carrier twice
found a way to refuse his pre-approved, specialist-prescribed cochlear implant.
I'm sorry to report that she and her husband have made little progress toward
getting him the operation he so desperately and obviously needs, but I'm pleased
to report that at least one problem BD addressed in her email has now been
solved:
Your TWM entry outlining my husband's dilemma, and concluding with our joint barbs aimed at those best-beloved UPMC Minutes, was posted on Monday, February 11. Now, less than two weeks later, the UPMC Minutes have suddenly become closed-captioned... all across the board, every Minute on every channel.
Coincidence?
Oh, we think not.
(Well, okay. We highly doubt it. But we're gonna claim credit for it anyway.)
After all, TWM has been a consistent, persistent source of UPMC commentary and criticism. Eight days before BD's email appeared here, my Opinion 250 piece, in which I took a couple of shots at UPMC, its excess margins, and its bankrupt leadership, ran on the front page of the Post-Gazette's Sunday Forum section. So it's not all that unreasonable to assume, in this (hyper)linked-in age of hyper-cyber-awareness, that Big Brother is watching or the Death Star is monitoring. The only surprise here would be that, having heard, the UMPC powers-that-be actually listened, and then did the right thing.
So, Minute-men and women, if you are watching and monitoring -- and you know you are -- let me just say, for the first time ever: well done. It was a small step, but significant. Now all you have to is keep putting one corporate foot in front of the other, over and over and over again, and follow that same path of actually giving a damn about more than your own bottom line. If you do, it might not be long before you actually live up to the images of your own incessant marketing.
Your TWM entry outlining my husband's dilemma, and concluding with our joint barbs aimed at those best-beloved UPMC Minutes, was posted on Monday, February 11. Now, less than two weeks later, the UPMC Minutes have suddenly become closed-captioned... all across the board, every Minute on every channel.
Coincidence?
Oh, we think not.
(Well, okay. We highly doubt it. But we're gonna claim credit for it anyway.)
After all, TWM has been a consistent, persistent source of UPMC commentary and criticism. Eight days before BD's email appeared here, my Opinion 250 piece, in which I took a couple of shots at UPMC, its excess margins, and its bankrupt leadership, ran on the front page of the Post-Gazette's Sunday Forum section. So it's not all that unreasonable to assume, in this (hyper)linked-in age of hyper-cyber-awareness, that Big Brother is watching or the Death Star is monitoring. The only surprise here would be that, having heard, the UMPC powers-that-be actually listened, and then did the right thing.
So, Minute-men and women, if you are watching and monitoring -- and you know you are -- let me just say, for the first time ever: well done. It was a small step, but significant. Now all you have to is keep putting one corporate foot in front of the other, over and over and over again, and follow that same path of actually giving a damn about more than your own bottom line. If you do, it might not be long before you actually live up to the images of your own incessant marketing.
Posted at 11:59 AM
Thu - February 21, 2008
HAIKU AT THE END OF A BUSY DAY
because i have to post
something.
Long day. Lot of
work.
Nice problem to have when you
Know you're doing good.
Nice problem to have when you
Know you're doing good.
Posted at 10:42 PM
Wed - February 20, 2008
THIS ONE GOES OUT TO DAD
on his birthday.
A little tune that reminds me of my hunting trips
and hot chocolate, 8-tracks and jukeboxes, roadside diners and family truckster
sing-a-longs, the simple pleasures of a father and son finding a lovely little
piece of common ground in the hooks and grooves of a three-minute rock song...
OLD TIME ROCK 'N' ROLL
Bob Seger
Just take those old records off the shelf
I'll sit and listen to 'em by myself
Today's music ain't got the same soul
I like that old time rock 'n' roll
Don't try to take me to a disco
You'll never even get me out on the floor
In ten minutes I'll be late for the door
I like that old time rock 'n' roll
Still like that old time rock 'n' roll
That kind of music just soothes the soul
I reminisce about the days of old
With that old time rock 'n' roll
Won't go to hear 'em play a tango
I'd rather hear some blues or funky old soul
There's only one sure way to get me to go
Start playing old time rock 'n' roll
Call me a relic, call me what you will
Say I'm old-fashioned, say I'm over the hill
Today's music ain't got the same soul
I like that old time rock 'n' roll
Still like that old time rock 'n' roll
That kind of music just soothes the soul
I reminisce about the days of old
With that old time rock 'n' roll...
OLD TIME ROCK 'N' ROLL
Bob Seger
Just take those old records off the shelf
I'll sit and listen to 'em by myself
Today's music ain't got the same soul
I like that old time rock 'n' roll
Don't try to take me to a disco
You'll never even get me out on the floor
In ten minutes I'll be late for the door
I like that old time rock 'n' roll
Still like that old time rock 'n' roll
That kind of music just soothes the soul
I reminisce about the days of old
With that old time rock 'n' roll
Won't go to hear 'em play a tango
I'd rather hear some blues or funky old soul
There's only one sure way to get me to go
Start playing old time rock 'n' roll
Call me a relic, call me what you will
Say I'm old-fashioned, say I'm over the hill
Today's music ain't got the same soul
I like that old time rock 'n' roll
Still like that old time rock 'n' roll
That kind of music just soothes the soul
I reminisce about the days of old
With that old time rock 'n' roll...
Posted at 08:15 AM
Thu - February 14, 2008
BACK AGAIN, BLACK AGAIN
every year, every day is today.
Regular readers of TWM know that I don't like to
repeat myself -- concepts, yes; full posts, no-- but if any occasion called for
it, then calls for it again and again, it's this awful day of arch-capitalist,
quasi-romantic reflux, the majesty and mystery and manufactured monstrosity of
Valentine's Day.
So, once more for tradition and by popular demand, I offer up a gently tweaked, slightly revised version of the annual TWM VD Screed for your blog-reading (and holiday-rebelling) pleasure...
BACK IN BLACK
Welcome to the day, devoted to love, that everyone hates.
Irony doesn't get much better or thicker than that, but we're all too busy to enjoy or even to notice it. We’re running around in search of the sweet and the cute and the red, white, and pink, scrambling for gifts and cards and flowers and chocolates and teddy bears and lingerie and little lacey things that earn a few oohs and aahs, then spend a couple of days on a night stand and the rest of the year cluttering up the back of a bedroom drawer. We're venturing into Victoria's, hauling ourselves to Hallmark, trying vainly and desperately to find that one pure and preciously overpriced gift that will, better than anything we could say or do, declare I love you. Or, at least I didn't know what else to get you, so I hope this is good enough.
All this business assumes, of course, that you're married or committed or at least casually dating. That you’re close enough to honor and commemorate and so not be thoroughly disgusted, depressed, or diseased by the sight of the attached and attaching. That you’re willing to accept the scuttling about to shops and kiosks and candle-lit corners of pretentious restaurants to celebrate this grand and glorious day of romantic hope and harmony that forces you to fully acknowledge the love, or lack thereof, in your life.
Bruce Springsteen once sang, when you're alone, you ain't nothin' but alone. But you ain't never more alone than when you're alone on Valentine's Day.
Oh, sure, you know it's a sham, a show, an artifice, the only day of the year that some spouses or partners or significant others would ever think to get or give a present that says they care enough to buy the very best. And only then because the retail-industrial complex tells them they must. You tell yourself you're above it all, or maybe beneath it, and that you're not going to get bitter or angry enough to wallow in the echoing silences of your own hollow heart. You know it all means nothing, but, like so many things when you're alone, it feels like it means everything.
Attached, unattached, being one and wanting to be the other -- it doesn't matter. Valentine’s Day is the ultimate no-win situation, the great lose-lose proposition in the name of love. If you're in love, you're a lover, and the pressures of the day make sure you do it. If you're not in love, you're a loser, and the oppression of the day makes sure you know it.
For years, I did my part to protest the compulsions and conventions of the day. I wore black instead of red. I bought a present for my wife and gave it to her on the 11th, the 12th, maybe the 15th. For a few years, I didn't buy her anything, and she bought me nothing in return. On our first Valentine's Day as a couple, we avoided romantic comedies and watched The Silence of the Lambs -- which, when you think about it, is really a dark and twisted love story at heart -- instead. On our first married Valentine's Day, we holed up in our Baltimore apartment and watched The Brood, a great low-budget horror flick about the brutal physical and psychological scars of a failed marriage that, thanks to radical techniques in psychotherapy, come to life in the murderous rampages of killer mutant dwarves. (Yes. Really.)
We protested, resisted, battled, and backpedaled. We waged our own little matrimonial war on the terror of the day, striking symbolic blows and arrows into the tiny, cupidian hearts of the rabid romantic fundamentalists hell-bent on winning their Hallmark jihad and shoving their saccharine, sugar-coated day down our throats. Not because we wanted to be different. And not because we wanted to be cool. We did it because we’ve always thought that this all-too-manufactured occasion forgets one all-too-natural notion: that you shouldn't need a special day to tell you who or when or how to love.
And that, if you're doing it right, every day is Valentine's Day.
So, once more for tradition and by popular demand, I offer up a gently tweaked, slightly revised version of the annual TWM VD Screed for your blog-reading (and holiday-rebelling) pleasure...
BACK IN BLACK
Welcome to the day, devoted to love, that everyone hates.
Irony doesn't get much better or thicker than that, but we're all too busy to enjoy or even to notice it. We’re running around in search of the sweet and the cute and the red, white, and pink, scrambling for gifts and cards and flowers and chocolates and teddy bears and lingerie and little lacey things that earn a few oohs and aahs, then spend a couple of days on a night stand and the rest of the year cluttering up the back of a bedroom drawer. We're venturing into Victoria's, hauling ourselves to Hallmark, trying vainly and desperately to find that one pure and preciously overpriced gift that will, better than anything we could say or do, declare I love you. Or, at least I didn't know what else to get you, so I hope this is good enough.
All this business assumes, of course, that you're married or committed or at least casually dating. That you’re close enough to honor and commemorate and so not be thoroughly disgusted, depressed, or diseased by the sight of the attached and attaching. That you’re willing to accept the scuttling about to shops and kiosks and candle-lit corners of pretentious restaurants to celebrate this grand and glorious day of romantic hope and harmony that forces you to fully acknowledge the love, or lack thereof, in your life.
Bruce Springsteen once sang, when you're alone, you ain't nothin' but alone. But you ain't never more alone than when you're alone on Valentine's Day.
Oh, sure, you know it's a sham, a show, an artifice, the only day of the year that some spouses or partners or significant others would ever think to get or give a present that says they care enough to buy the very best. And only then because the retail-industrial complex tells them they must. You tell yourself you're above it all, or maybe beneath it, and that you're not going to get bitter or angry enough to wallow in the echoing silences of your own hollow heart. You know it all means nothing, but, like so many things when you're alone, it feels like it means everything.
Attached, unattached, being one and wanting to be the other -- it doesn't matter. Valentine’s Day is the ultimate no-win situation, the great lose-lose proposition in the name of love. If you're in love, you're a lover, and the pressures of the day make sure you do it. If you're not in love, you're a loser, and the oppression of the day makes sure you know it.
For years, I did my part to protest the compulsions and conventions of the day. I wore black instead of red. I bought a present for my wife and gave it to her on the 11th, the 12th, maybe the 15th. For a few years, I didn't buy her anything, and she bought me nothing in return. On our first Valentine's Day as a couple, we avoided romantic comedies and watched The Silence of the Lambs -- which, when you think about it, is really a dark and twisted love story at heart -- instead. On our first married Valentine's Day, we holed up in our Baltimore apartment and watched The Brood, a great low-budget horror flick about the brutal physical and psychological scars of a failed marriage that, thanks to radical techniques in psychotherapy, come to life in the murderous rampages of killer mutant dwarves. (Yes. Really.)
We protested, resisted, battled, and backpedaled. We waged our own little matrimonial war on the terror of the day, striking symbolic blows and arrows into the tiny, cupidian hearts of the rabid romantic fundamentalists hell-bent on winning their Hallmark jihad and shoving their saccharine, sugar-coated day down our throats. Not because we wanted to be different. And not because we wanted to be cool. We did it because we’ve always thought that this all-too-manufactured occasion forgets one all-too-natural notion: that you shouldn't need a special day to tell you who or when or how to love.
And that, if you're doing it right, every day is Valentine's Day.
Posted at 08:46 AM
Wed - February 13, 2008
A QUICK FRUSTRATION FOR A SNOWY WEDNESDAY MORNING
because i saw it on shady.
Though I will admit to raging at a few oblivious
drivers and even to honking at a few obnoxious drivers, I am proud of the
restraint I showed this morning when, climbing Shady Avenue en route to
Aylseboro, I saw a young woman park her car and, holding a coffee tumbler in one
hand while dialing a cell phone with the other, step out into the street and
start walking right toward me. She made no effort to move tight to the other
parked cars. She certainly made no effort to move between them. She just kept
walking, straight down Shady as if she were on the sidewalk, happy and -- at
least in her mind -- perfectly safe and even more perfectly entitled to stride
toward an oncoming vehicle.
I could have run her down. I probably should have run her down. But I didn't. I braked hard and, when I realized she wasn't going to change course, I stopped. She kept coming, dialing or texting or menuing away, until she was no more than two feet from the front of my big, green, impossible-to-miss SUV. She stopped. And then, without ever taking her eyes off the cell phone screen, took three steps to her left and kept walking, squeezing between my 4Runner and the parked cars beside me, along on her merry way.
I sat transfixed. I watched her pass and even craned my neck to watch her go, no doubt looking like some idiot tourist on one of those drive-thru safari exhibitions, mouth agape at some strange species of creature he's never seen before and is still sort of shocked to see so close to the window of his own car and the relative normalcy of his own life. She kept going. She never looked back, beyond that simple side-step, even acknowledged my existence. The last I saw her, when I finally decided I should get back home, she was still walking down Shady, toward Forbes Avenue, in the northbound lane.
If, later today, you read about a young woman struck by a car somewhere in Squirrel Hill, you can bet dollars to donuts -- or at least cell phones to coffee tumblers -- that it was her. You can bet that the driver wasn't at fault. And you can be sure that no accident victim ever deserved it more.
I could have run her down. I probably should have run her down. But I didn't. I braked hard and, when I realized she wasn't going to change course, I stopped. She kept coming, dialing or texting or menuing away, until she was no more than two feet from the front of my big, green, impossible-to-miss SUV. She stopped. And then, without ever taking her eyes off the cell phone screen, took three steps to her left and kept walking, squeezing between my 4Runner and the parked cars beside me, along on her merry way.
I sat transfixed. I watched her pass and even craned my neck to watch her go, no doubt looking like some idiot tourist on one of those drive-thru safari exhibitions, mouth agape at some strange species of creature he's never seen before and is still sort of shocked to see so close to the window of his own car and the relative normalcy of his own life. She kept going. She never looked back, beyond that simple side-step, even acknowledged my existence. The last I saw her, when I finally decided I should get back home, she was still walking down Shady, toward Forbes Avenue, in the northbound lane.
If, later today, you read about a young woman struck by a car somewhere in Squirrel Hill, you can bet dollars to donuts -- or at least cell phones to coffee tumblers -- that it was her. You can bet that the driver wasn't at fault. And you can be sure that no accident victim ever deserved it more.
Posted at 09:52 AM
Mon - February 11, 2008
TOTALLY DEAF
and completely unable to
comprehend.
I've lately exchanged a few emails with a happily
repatriated Pittsburgher -- we'll call her BD -- who's been reading TWM and
enjoying the Patriots' Super Bowl loss and otherwise trying to reacclimate
herself to a city she loves. But a few days ago, after reading about rising
waters and reassigning genders, she wrote again to ask if I could answer a
simple, nagging question. I could not. And I doubt you can either. But her
question is worth asking again, and her story, as maddening and infuriating as
it is, needs to be told in more than just my inbox:
Could you clarify something for me?
Today's Post-Gazette states that the person rescued yesterday from a tunnel beneath the Convention Center, Rebecca Hare, was homeless and in the process of undergoing a sex change. So, let me understand this. Ms. Hare is apparently so destitute that she is compelled to live inside a maintenance tunnel, yet is able to cover an extensive, extended medical procedure costing, according to a University of Michigan website, between $30-$40K.
PLEASE, can you find out what kind of medical insurance Ms. Hare has?
I have just returned to Pittsburgh after a 30-year exile and pay over $1000 per month for COBRA coverage while I am searching for employment. Shortly after our arrival here, my husband lost his hearing entirely and was recommended as a cochlear implant candidate by one of the area's top specialists. His preapproval for the surgery was denied by our insurance carrier -- twice -- and we were firmly told that this was not a covered procedure. So my husband remains totally deaf and completely unable to communicate with anybody as he attempts to adjust to new experiences in a new state. (Trying to purchase a bottle of his favorite wine was a real eye opener for him.)
I was thinking if my family could get the same kind of insurance as Ms. Hare, it might cover his implant, or at least he would qualify for some reconstructive procedures, and I might be able to convince a surgical team to pop an implant in his head while they're fussing around with other parts of his body. It's certainly worth a try.
So, if you could find out more about such a medical insurance plan, I would be most grateful. Or maybe I could just wait until it's tabled on an upcoming UPMC Minute. (They really need to close-caption those things, you know.)
BD is right, of course: they should close-caption those things, if only so her husband and everyone else left in the dark or the silence (or both) by their friendly neighborhood health care providers might better understand how a minute can change their lives. And how want of a few dollars can destroy them.
Could you clarify something for me?
Today's Post-Gazette states that the person rescued yesterday from a tunnel beneath the Convention Center, Rebecca Hare, was homeless and in the process of undergoing a sex change. So, let me understand this. Ms. Hare is apparently so destitute that she is compelled to live inside a maintenance tunnel, yet is able to cover an extensive, extended medical procedure costing, according to a University of Michigan website, between $30-$40K.
PLEASE, can you find out what kind of medical insurance Ms. Hare has?
I have just returned to Pittsburgh after a 30-year exile and pay over $1000 per month for COBRA coverage while I am searching for employment. Shortly after our arrival here, my husband lost his hearing entirely and was recommended as a cochlear implant candidate by one of the area's top specialists. His preapproval for the surgery was denied by our insurance carrier -- twice -- and we were firmly told that this was not a covered procedure. So my husband remains totally deaf and completely unable to communicate with anybody as he attempts to adjust to new experiences in a new state. (Trying to purchase a bottle of his favorite wine was a real eye opener for him.)
I was thinking if my family could get the same kind of insurance as Ms. Hare, it might cover his implant, or at least he would qualify for some reconstructive procedures, and I might be able to convince a surgical team to pop an implant in his head while they're fussing around with other parts of his body. It's certainly worth a try.
So, if you could find out more about such a medical insurance plan, I would be most grateful. Or maybe I could just wait until it's tabled on an upcoming UPMC Minute. (They really need to close-caption those things, you know.)
BD is right, of course: they should close-caption those things, if only so her husband and everyone else left in the dark or the silence (or both) by their friendly neighborhood health care providers might better understand how a minute can change their lives. And how want of a few dollars can destroy them.
Posted at 02:05 PM
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Published On: Jan 16, 2009 04:51 PM
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Published On: Jan 16, 2009 04:51 PM