If my Dad had not died almost 32 years ago, but was still alive today, he most certainly would have:
1. Given my Mom a good morning kiss over 11,000 times more.
2. Given my Mom a good night kiss over 11,000 times more.
3. Held 3 more grandchildren in his arms.
4. Changed dirty diapers, read bedtime stories and been there in every moment that mattered in all our lives.
5. Marveled at the athletic prowess of his grandchildren and never connected the dots back to himself.
6. Marveled at the academic achievements of his grandchildren and never connected the dots back to himself.
7. Continued to provide the best legal services any client could hope for, while always being concerned that he wasn't doing enough.
8. Retired on his terms, at the time of his choosing, and turned over a lifetime of goodwill and good work to his son, to carry on.
9. Been amazed at how well his daughter had managed life, with warmth, grace, dignity and class, and never connected the dots back to himself.
10. Broken 80 at least a few more times, and maybe gotten that first hole in one.
11. Searched for berries in the woods and always come out with a smile and a reward for his efforts
12. Moved to Florida in the winters to be with friends, but never to be more than a plane ride or a phone call away from family.
13. Body surfed in the waves with his children and grandchildren.
14. Read voraciously.
15. Mastered the web.
16. Become a great bridge player, or a great writer, or been great in anything and everything he devoted his attention to.
17. Guided all of us with his words and with his deeds.
18. Never considered himself exceptional.
19. Never been anything less than exceptional.
20. Gotten sick, but then gotten better.
21. Watched in sadness as many of his friends passed away
22. Worried about my Mom.
23. Walked my Mom through the maze from which she now finds no way out
24. Been here.
25. But he's not. And for that, our lives will always be diminished.
Happy Father's Day, Dad. We all miss you in more ways than we can count.
--
Sunday, June 20, 2010
One Sunday in June
Marc and I headed to the first tee. Like every other day out here in California, it was picture perfect. Like every other year over the past 15, a trip across the country to golf with this very old friend was a given. It was a Sunday in June.
The starter asked us if we would mind playing with 2 gentlemen, both around our age. The course was crowded, so it would make the play seem less slow if we were a foursome. We both mumbled our assent.
We saw the cart coming towards us from the distance. While we couldn't make out faces, it was clear that the occupants were enjoying each other's company. You could hear the laughter, and see the men gesticulating in an animated fashion. Best buddies, that much was certain.
The cart, and it's occupants, drew nearer to the first tee. I was too distracted by my previous day's bad play, and the thought of another disaster, to pay them much attention. Marc was practicing his swing, trying to duplicate the rhythm from the day before.
I walked over to the tee and waited for the rest of the group. Marc wandered over moments later. The 2 gentlemen were getting out of the cart, with their backs turned towards us.
Almost in unison, they turned around and headed to meet us to begin the day's play.
My dad looked just as I remembered him before the disease took control of his body and took his life, over 3 decades before, at age 61. He had the same lines in his forehead. The toupee sat perfectly on his head. He was still lean, for a man in his late 50's, and he walked with a purpose.
Marc's dad, Mickey, had been overtaken by illness and died almost 20 years ago, at 71. Now he appeared tall and handsome. He was maybe 54 or 55, and he could turn heads.
"No questions of why or how. Let's play," my dad said. His slightly crooked smile was directed at me.
I had been waiting for this match for more than half of my lifetime.
And so it began. Marc and I memorized everything.
Every fairway, each blade of grass. Every good shot. Every bad one. Every touch of the hand. Every thought. Every second. Everything had a purpose. Everything had a place. Everything mattered.
We spoke of things big and small. Of dreams realized and some that were not. Of times past and those to come. Of how it was and how it should have been. Of memories we had and those we were never allowed. Of the pain and of the joy. Of who we had become and who we hoped to be. Of what we missed along the way and what we found. Of how we still saw them in our minds. Of the questions we still asked them. Of the moments where they still came to our rescue. Of how they still shaped our lives. Of the ache we still carried in our hearts. And most of all, of the love we still felt.
It all cascaded out. All the words, all the emotions. With each passing hole there was a wish to stop time, but a fevered desire to continue this journey. We were in its grasp and in its spell.
I only now realize that Marc and I were the ones doing all the talking. Our dads absorbed. They took to their cart between shots, and spoke quietly and happily to each other. They just gave us their presence. It was everything.
For 18 holes, we all breathed the same air, filled with the sounds and smells of life. As we headed down the last fairway, and saw the clubhouse beckoning, a sadness overwhelmed Marc and me.
When the last putt fell into the cup, we all embraced as one. My dad whispered to me, "Say hello to your mother and tell her she still looks beautiful. I miss her every day." I watched that slightly crooked smile for one last time. Then he and Mickey were gone.
The starter came over to Marc and me. He said "I'm sorry that other twosome never showed up to join you." He asked whether the round was enjoyable anyway. Marc and I just turned to one another and smiled.
Happy Father's Day, Dad and Mickey. Same time, same place next year. We'll be waiting.
The starter asked us if we would mind playing with 2 gentlemen, both around our age. The course was crowded, so it would make the play seem less slow if we were a foursome. We both mumbled our assent.
We saw the cart coming towards us from the distance. While we couldn't make out faces, it was clear that the occupants were enjoying each other's company. You could hear the laughter, and see the men gesticulating in an animated fashion. Best buddies, that much was certain.
The cart, and it's occupants, drew nearer to the first tee. I was too distracted by my previous day's bad play, and the thought of another disaster, to pay them much attention. Marc was practicing his swing, trying to duplicate the rhythm from the day before.
I walked over to the tee and waited for the rest of the group. Marc wandered over moments later. The 2 gentlemen were getting out of the cart, with their backs turned towards us.
Almost in unison, they turned around and headed to meet us to begin the day's play.
My dad looked just as I remembered him before the disease took control of his body and took his life, over 3 decades before, at age 61. He had the same lines in his forehead. The toupee sat perfectly on his head. He was still lean, for a man in his late 50's, and he walked with a purpose.
Marc's dad, Mickey, had been overtaken by illness and died almost 20 years ago, at 71. Now he appeared tall and handsome. He was maybe 54 or 55, and he could turn heads.
"No questions of why or how. Let's play," my dad said. His slightly crooked smile was directed at me.
I had been waiting for this match for more than half of my lifetime.
And so it began. Marc and I memorized everything.
Every fairway, each blade of grass. Every good shot. Every bad one. Every touch of the hand. Every thought. Every second. Everything had a purpose. Everything had a place. Everything mattered.
We spoke of things big and small. Of dreams realized and some that were not. Of times past and those to come. Of how it was and how it should have been. Of memories we had and those we were never allowed. Of the pain and of the joy. Of who we had become and who we hoped to be. Of what we missed along the way and what we found. Of how we still saw them in our minds. Of the questions we still asked them. Of the moments where they still came to our rescue. Of how they still shaped our lives. Of the ache we still carried in our hearts. And most of all, of the love we still felt.
It all cascaded out. All the words, all the emotions. With each passing hole there was a wish to stop time, but a fevered desire to continue this journey. We were in its grasp and in its spell.
I only now realize that Marc and I were the ones doing all the talking. Our dads absorbed. They took to their cart between shots, and spoke quietly and happily to each other. They just gave us their presence. It was everything.
For 18 holes, we all breathed the same air, filled with the sounds and smells of life. As we headed down the last fairway, and saw the clubhouse beckoning, a sadness overwhelmed Marc and me.
When the last putt fell into the cup, we all embraced as one. My dad whispered to me, "Say hello to your mother and tell her she still looks beautiful. I miss her every day." I watched that slightly crooked smile for one last time. Then he and Mickey were gone.
The starter came over to Marc and me. He said "I'm sorry that other twosome never showed up to join you." He asked whether the round was enjoyable anyway. Marc and I just turned to one another and smiled.
Happy Father's Day, Dad and Mickey. Same time, same place next year. We'll be waiting.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
No Escape
We were held hostage. Joanne and I had no chance to escape, at least no rational chance. There was the fleeting thought of trying to jump out of a moving car, but the possibility of survival was small at the speed we were traveling. At least we knew it would all be over soon. With any luck, in less than an hour, our ordeal would be ended.
We were exhausted from taking a red-eye home from the West coast. Sleep had not come easily on the flight. We knew that a full day's work lay ahead. We would get into the cab that was awaiting our arrival, rest on the short trip, throw our bags down in our apartment and get into the office.
Our local cab company had proved a reliable companion to ferry us to and from our journeys over the past years. The drivers' stories of life, and their perceptions of humanity, were many times the centerpiece of our rides. We often heard colorful, sometimes unique perspectives on existence. This one would prove the most unique of all.
No sooner had we gotten into our seats then it began. It did not come slowly or gently. Within seconds, we were being told about the depraved condition of man and how the end of the world was upon us. We were carried back to Noah and his warnings to those around him, of the impending great flood. Dire projections were ignored and Noah was ridiculed. Those who did not share in the vision were signing their own death certificates. Next, we were informed of Abraham and the lessons to be learned from him.
All attempts to deflect, or ignore, were cast aside like bugs on a windshield. This was a force of nature in the front seat. Discussions about the traffic on the Van Wyck, the weather or anything other than the chosen sermon proved wholly inadequate against the tidal wave that was descending upon us. Jo and I glanced at one another briefly, but with no resolution in our eyes.
From the Van Wyck to the Grand Central and from there to the East Side Drive. Finally to the George Washington bridge and then into New Jersey. It never ended.
In retrospect, our mentor was not angry or cruel in his words. It was not his fault that he was preaching, but mine. I had allowed this to happen, even fostered it. By my politeness towards him, I had created an environment where he felt a freedom to espouse. I hold no ill will towards our captor. (Is this what they refer to as the Stockholm Syndrome?)
As we were finally released from custody at our destination, we thanked our transporter and wished him well. His parting words to me were to give me the website where I could go to be further indoctrinated, I mean informed, as to the core beliefs of his religion.
I thank the cab company for providing us with much more than just a ride to and from our destination. Next time, however, can you please make sure the driver is an atheist?
We were exhausted from taking a red-eye home from the West coast. Sleep had not come easily on the flight. We knew that a full day's work lay ahead. We would get into the cab that was awaiting our arrival, rest on the short trip, throw our bags down in our apartment and get into the office.
Our local cab company had proved a reliable companion to ferry us to and from our journeys over the past years. The drivers' stories of life, and their perceptions of humanity, were many times the centerpiece of our rides. We often heard colorful, sometimes unique perspectives on existence. This one would prove the most unique of all.
No sooner had we gotten into our seats then it began. It did not come slowly or gently. Within seconds, we were being told about the depraved condition of man and how the end of the world was upon us. We were carried back to Noah and his warnings to those around him, of the impending great flood. Dire projections were ignored and Noah was ridiculed. Those who did not share in the vision were signing their own death certificates. Next, we were informed of Abraham and the lessons to be learned from him.
All attempts to deflect, or ignore, were cast aside like bugs on a windshield. This was a force of nature in the front seat. Discussions about the traffic on the Van Wyck, the weather or anything other than the chosen sermon proved wholly inadequate against the tidal wave that was descending upon us. Jo and I glanced at one another briefly, but with no resolution in our eyes.
From the Van Wyck to the Grand Central and from there to the East Side Drive. Finally to the George Washington bridge and then into New Jersey. It never ended.
In retrospect, our mentor was not angry or cruel in his words. It was not his fault that he was preaching, but mine. I had allowed this to happen, even fostered it. By my politeness towards him, I had created an environment where he felt a freedom to espouse. I hold no ill will towards our captor. (Is this what they refer to as the Stockholm Syndrome?)
As we were finally released from custody at our destination, we thanked our transporter and wished him well. His parting words to me were to give me the website where I could go to be further indoctrinated, I mean informed, as to the core beliefs of his religion.
I thank the cab company for providing us with much more than just a ride to and from our destination. Next time, however, can you please make sure the driver is an atheist?
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
The Landon Boys
This is about much more than just an attitude toward girls ("Their Dangerous Swagger"). Everything, for these children is a commodity, to be used and abused at their (in)discretion.
The Landon boys are an outlandish cartoon of the attitudes of the privileged. It is how we view their adult counterparts on Wall Street who have exhibited the same lack of care in their abuses of us and our system. Anything, and anyone in their way, is in danger. We can picture the Landon boys of today being the Wall Street leaders of tomorrow.
Our society, like these unsuspecting girls, deserves better, much better.
The Landon boys are an outlandish cartoon of the attitudes of the privileged. It is how we view their adult counterparts on Wall Street who have exhibited the same lack of care in their abuses of us and our system. Anything, and anyone in their way, is in danger. We can picture the Landon boys of today being the Wall Street leaders of tomorrow.
Our society, like these unsuspecting girls, deserves better, much better.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Too Early to Call
When Cassius Marcellus Clay arrived on the scene, he was a wonder to behold. Full of power of word and spirit, he could float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. He could outtalk you, outrun you, outhit you and outthink you. He was pretty and he was untouchable.
When Muhammad Ali confronted a country asking him to fight in a war he did not believe in and could not defend, the system began to attack him. It sapped him of some of his bravado, took away not only his livelihood but threatened to take away his liberty. The war in a foreign land changed him in ways no opponent in the ring could.
When an older Ali returned to the ring, some of the speed had disappeared and some of the skill had faded. While he still had the gift of gab, he could not summon up the energy of his youth. After a series of bouts with Joe Frazier, Ali emerged victorious but battered. He survived a brutal near death battle, wounded in ways that he could not understand.
Barack Obama arrived as the young Clay of this generation. He possessed a gifted intellect and exuded a spirit of drive and determination.He too could capture with the poetry of his voice and his heart . But the enormous weight of forces combined to create a presidency of unimaginable complications, slowing down our leader Like an Ali who had to face foes at every turn, Obama has been beset by both domestic and foreign enemies, bent on opposing him and everything he stands for.
We wonder why he is not the same person we first saw. We wonder why he does not have the same energy or ability to draw us in. Much like the Ali who could no longer win his battles with the strength of his personality or the punch in his arms, he has been forced to do the hard work. He can no longer enter and exit the ring with untouched face, beauty intact. For each punch he throws, he now takes one, and sometimes more in return.
The Presidency, for Obama, has been an exercise in learning to take punishment. He has thrown his haymaker, in health care reform, but it took much out of him. Like the older Ali, Obama is no longer up on his toes between rounds, dancing and waiting for the next bell. He must gather himself and take the time to regain strength and focus.
Governing, like boxing, is not for the faint of heart. Obama, much like Ali, shows evidence of an extraordinary resolve. Don't judge him as failing because he is no longer standing over his fallen foe, with arms extended, grinning broadly. Let's stop dealing in fantasy. Cassius Clay is gone forever, but Muhammad Ali, with all that time did to diminish him, emerged in the end as one of the greatest champions ever. Give Obama a chance to become like the Ali we respected as much for being able to adapt to changing circumstances, as for the innate abilities he brought to the stage in his youth.
When Muhammad Ali confronted a country asking him to fight in a war he did not believe in and could not defend, the system began to attack him. It sapped him of some of his bravado, took away not only his livelihood but threatened to take away his liberty. The war in a foreign land changed him in ways no opponent in the ring could.
When an older Ali returned to the ring, some of the speed had disappeared and some of the skill had faded. While he still had the gift of gab, he could not summon up the energy of his youth. After a series of bouts with Joe Frazier, Ali emerged victorious but battered. He survived a brutal near death battle, wounded in ways that he could not understand.
Barack Obama arrived as the young Clay of this generation. He possessed a gifted intellect and exuded a spirit of drive and determination.He too could capture with the poetry of his voice and his heart . But the enormous weight of forces combined to create a presidency of unimaginable complications, slowing down our leader Like an Ali who had to face foes at every turn, Obama has been beset by both domestic and foreign enemies, bent on opposing him and everything he stands for.
We wonder why he is not the same person we first saw. We wonder why he does not have the same energy or ability to draw us in. Much like the Ali who could no longer win his battles with the strength of his personality or the punch in his arms, he has been forced to do the hard work. He can no longer enter and exit the ring with untouched face, beauty intact. For each punch he throws, he now takes one, and sometimes more in return.
The Presidency, for Obama, has been an exercise in learning to take punishment. He has thrown his haymaker, in health care reform, but it took much out of him. Like the older Ali, Obama is no longer up on his toes between rounds, dancing and waiting for the next bell. He must gather himself and take the time to regain strength and focus.
Governing, like boxing, is not for the faint of heart. Obama, much like Ali, shows evidence of an extraordinary resolve. Don't judge him as failing because he is no longer standing over his fallen foe, with arms extended, grinning broadly. Let's stop dealing in fantasy. Cassius Clay is gone forever, but Muhammad Ali, with all that time did to diminish him, emerged in the end as one of the greatest champions ever. Give Obama a chance to become like the Ali we respected as much for being able to adapt to changing circumstances, as for the innate abilities he brought to the stage in his youth.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Kill The Ump - On Second Thought, Don't Kill the Ump
Harvey Haddix Jr. Somewhere, the family of Harvey Haddix Jr. may be secretly unhappy this morning. There is a new king in town. His name is Armando Galarraga and he may now have thrown the most famous non-perfect, perfect game in baseball history.
When the asterisk was invented, it could well have been intended for no better purpose than Haddix and Galarraga's achievements. Haddix hurled 12 perfect innings, before losing not only his chance at the ultimate in perfection, but the game itself, in the 13th inning. Galarraga has now, without dispute, thrown the first 28 out perfect game the sport has ever seen.
Quick, for all of you who profess to be baseball lovers, name as many pitchers as you can who have thrown perfect games since Abner Doubleday invented steroids. There are 20 to be precise, and if you can remember the names of more than the Yankee pitchers (Larsen, Cone and Wells), the 2 from this year (the fabulous Doc Halladay and that kid from Oakland who is in a feud with A-Rod over the "don't step on my rubbers", or something like that) and 1 or 2 more, you qualify to go on some 3 AM sports trivia show.
But now, the name of Galarraga will become part of one of the most famous non-moments in baseball lore. He will be forever attached to Jim Joyce, the bearer of the bad news at the first base bag, like white on rice. Couples bound together by circumstance, much as Ralph Branca and Bobby Thompson who have had a 60 year 2nd career as the good and the bad of "the Giants win the pennant" home run, Galarraga/Joyce will live on for many tomorrows. Like Yin and Yang, I see a long time pairing of this odd couple.
So, hold your head up high Mr. Joyce. Do not fret your error in judgment. In the long run, you may have done more for Mr. Galarraga then if you had made the right call. If your vision had been clear, and your call correct, this perfect game would have merely been 1 of 3 to have occurred in the last few weeks. Not now. We salute you Mr. Joyce on a job badly done.
When the asterisk was invented, it could well have been intended for no better purpose than Haddix and Galarraga's achievements. Haddix hurled 12 perfect innings, before losing not only his chance at the ultimate in perfection, but the game itself, in the 13th inning. Galarraga has now, without dispute, thrown the first 28 out perfect game the sport has ever seen.
Quick, for all of you who profess to be baseball lovers, name as many pitchers as you can who have thrown perfect games since Abner Doubleday invented steroids. There are 20 to be precise, and if you can remember the names of more than the Yankee pitchers (Larsen, Cone and Wells), the 2 from this year (the fabulous Doc Halladay and that kid from Oakland who is in a feud with A-Rod over the "don't step on my rubbers", or something like that) and 1 or 2 more, you qualify to go on some 3 AM sports trivia show.
But now, the name of Galarraga will become part of one of the most famous non-moments in baseball lore. He will be forever attached to Jim Joyce, the bearer of the bad news at the first base bag, like white on rice. Couples bound together by circumstance, much as Ralph Branca and Bobby Thompson who have had a 60 year 2nd career as the good and the bad of "the Giants win the pennant" home run, Galarraga/Joyce will live on for many tomorrows. Like Yin and Yang, I see a long time pairing of this odd couple.
So, hold your head up high Mr. Joyce. Do not fret your error in judgment. In the long run, you may have done more for Mr. Galarraga then if you had made the right call. If your vision had been clear, and your call correct, this perfect game would have merely been 1 of 3 to have occurred in the last few weeks. Not now. We salute you Mr. Joyce on a job badly done.
Oops!
While the NY Times continues its obstinate refusal to publish my pithy comments, I have managed to inflict some collateral damage on this venerable paper. My notice to them earlier this week of an egregious math error in one of their editorials (see below) resulted in the following correction notice (see below below) in this morning's edition of the Times.
MY COMMENT: 'The Great Unknowns' (5/31/10) contains a math error of significance. Mr. Poole writes of the Civil War having an astounding number of more than 2 in 5 who went to their graves without being identified. The accompanying Rumors chart shows 622,000 deaths of which more than 150,000 were unknown soldiers, and lists this as 'approximately 41%' of the total amount.
Either the chart is wrong, or the math is inaccurate. If the unidentified was about 250,000 (not 150,000) then the calculations would be closer to matching. If the Rumors figure is right, then this is more like 1 in 4, (or 25%) not 2 in 5. Please let us know where the truth lies, as these numbers are the central focus of this piece. This calculation should not be your Great Unknown.
THE CORRECTION: 'An Op-Chart on Monday, about the number of service members who died in American wars and whose bodies were unidentified, referred imprecisely to the number of unknown soldiers in the Civil War. The number of Union unknowns is 150,000 or 41 percent of the Union dead and 25 percent of the total dead: the figure does not include Confederate unknowns, whose number is a matter of dispute'.
MY COMMENT TO THE CORRECTION- "Imprecisely". Even this correction needs a correction. Is "imprecisely" double-talk for "we made a mistake"? The editorial was inaccurate and the attempt to admit it was not much better. If I cannot be a contributing writer, I can at least serve as an unofficial public editor. I am watching.
MY COMMENT: 'The Great Unknowns' (5/31/10) contains a math error of significance. Mr. Poole writes of the Civil War having an astounding number of more than 2 in 5 who went to their graves without being identified. The accompanying Rumors chart shows 622,000 deaths of which more than 150,000 were unknown soldiers, and lists this as 'approximately 41%' of the total amount.
Either the chart is wrong, or the math is inaccurate. If the unidentified was about 250,000 (not 150,000) then the calculations would be closer to matching. If the Rumors figure is right, then this is more like 1 in 4, (or 25%) not 2 in 5. Please let us know where the truth lies, as these numbers are the central focus of this piece. This calculation should not be your Great Unknown.
THE CORRECTION: 'An Op-Chart on Monday, about the number of service members who died in American wars and whose bodies were unidentified, referred imprecisely to the number of unknown soldiers in the Civil War. The number of Union unknowns is 150,000 or 41 percent of the Union dead and 25 percent of the total dead: the figure does not include Confederate unknowns, whose number is a matter of dispute'.
MY COMMENT TO THE CORRECTION- "Imprecisely". Even this correction needs a correction. Is "imprecisely" double-talk for "we made a mistake"? The editorial was inaccurate and the attempt to admit it was not much better. If I cannot be a contributing writer, I can at least serve as an unofficial public editor. I am watching.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Deepwater Still Runs
As we move deep into the second month of the Deepwater disaster, we watch with increasing horror. It is as though we are witnessing the sins of the industry washing up not just on our shores, but on us. We are like wildlife in its path, being covered, head to toe, with slime. It makes it hard for us to breathe, and endangers our way of life.
The worst part of what has occurred is the feeling of helplessness to eradicate the problems that continue to move relentlessly forward. Can anyone suggest that the financial giants, whether they control the flow of money on Wall Street, or the flow of oil in the Gulf, are going to fade from power? While we spout words of anger and condemnation, they serve only as dispersants on the surface. Underneath we know that there are massive plumes that remain unaffected.
We have a government that appears capable of only being reactive to the problems that come pouring out. Following an era of deregulation and lack of oversight, we are now trying to reign in the lords of industry with tires and mud. One day soon we hope that a solution to this latest crisis emerges. But, while we may cement over the well, and breathe easier for the moment, we still sense that the next eruption may come gushing forth without warning.
The worst part of what has occurred is the feeling of helplessness to eradicate the problems that continue to move relentlessly forward. Can anyone suggest that the financial giants, whether they control the flow of money on Wall Street, or the flow of oil in the Gulf, are going to fade from power? While we spout words of anger and condemnation, they serve only as dispersants on the surface. Underneath we know that there are massive plumes that remain unaffected.
We have a government that appears capable of only being reactive to the problems that come pouring out. Following an era of deregulation and lack of oversight, we are now trying to reign in the lords of industry with tires and mud. One day soon we hope that a solution to this latest crisis emerges. But, while we may cement over the well, and breathe easier for the moment, we still sense that the next eruption may come gushing forth without warning.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Jack Bauer
He left not with a whimper but with a bang, many bangs to be exact. Jack Bauer had spent most of a decade in our homes asking the same basic questions about our moral compass in moments of extraordinary stress. In the end, he may have outstayed his welcome, but the questions he posed unfortunately never lost their relevance.
It proved almost impossible for the show to be a one trick pony for 192 hours (24 x8). Plot lines became repetitive, often outlandish, and cartoonish. Who knew that one afternoon of good sex could prove to be the Kryptonite for Jack's fragile psyche? After years of teetering on the brink of madness, once Renee Walker was ripped from his arms, Jack went into a killing frenzy worthy of the best, or worst, of the vigilante sprees of old. "Make my day" had nothing on the final hours of the final year.
In a world where "R" ratings may well attach to movies for showing characters smoking cigarettes, it is hard to fathom how the gutting of an enemy is not deemed just a wee bit excessive for viewing in prime time. The television universe that made a national crisis over the half- second exposure of a breast, had no trouble reconciling this with its acceptance of the depiction of this level of violence. But that is a story for another day. For now, let me get back to Jack.
Like other stories that have left the small screen, what remains is an uncertain future for our protagonist. Tony Soprano faded to a blank screen, his life hanging in limbo. Jack Bauer was seen fleeing from virtually the entire world, given a head start on a movie version of himself. Much like the Fugitive, he will now make a run and try to lay low, likely to appear in some future world with long hair a beard and a fierce determination to leave the stewardship of the world to others.
But, we won't let Jack alone. Like the Godfather, we will drag him back to confront his demons and ours. I did not say goodbye to Jack Bauer last night, only "until we meet again". I will be waiting for you in the theater, with my bag of popcorn and my soda. 24 will soon become 2, and I will one day settle into my seat to welcome an old acquaintance back into my life. Until then, get a little rest. You need it.
It proved almost impossible for the show to be a one trick pony for 192 hours (24 x8). Plot lines became repetitive, often outlandish, and cartoonish. Who knew that one afternoon of good sex could prove to be the Kryptonite for Jack's fragile psyche? After years of teetering on the brink of madness, once Renee Walker was ripped from his arms, Jack went into a killing frenzy worthy of the best, or worst, of the vigilante sprees of old. "Make my day" had nothing on the final hours of the final year.
In a world where "R" ratings may well attach to movies for showing characters smoking cigarettes, it is hard to fathom how the gutting of an enemy is not deemed just a wee bit excessive for viewing in prime time. The television universe that made a national crisis over the half- second exposure of a breast, had no trouble reconciling this with its acceptance of the depiction of this level of violence. But that is a story for another day. For now, let me get back to Jack.
Like other stories that have left the small screen, what remains is an uncertain future for our protagonist. Tony Soprano faded to a blank screen, his life hanging in limbo. Jack Bauer was seen fleeing from virtually the entire world, given a head start on a movie version of himself. Much like the Fugitive, he will now make a run and try to lay low, likely to appear in some future world with long hair a beard and a fierce determination to leave the stewardship of the world to others.
But, we won't let Jack alone. Like the Godfather, we will drag him back to confront his demons and ours. I did not say goodbye to Jack Bauer last night, only "until we meet again". I will be waiting for you in the theater, with my bag of popcorn and my soda. 24 will soon become 2, and I will one day settle into my seat to welcome an old acquaintance back into my life. Until then, get a little rest. You need it.
Friday, May 21, 2010
The Story of Ben, Revised
David Brooks creates a very touching character in his gentle Ben, the angry voter. But let us, for a moment, take Ben's life down a different path.
In early 2001, Ben watched as Al Gore raised his arms in triumph. The hanging chads were unhung, the Florida miscount was recounted and the 8 years of Bush never happened. Gore and the Democrats did not lead us into disasters in Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan. Wall Street was not allowed to run unfettered, and we were not misled down a path to near depression. Government was not the problem, but the solution.
It is not governing that is the issue. It is bad governing that precipitated our decline. Bad choices and bad motives left the world that Barack Obama inherited a nightmare in plain sight.
Ben may have a short memory as to why the Republicans were left for dead in the 2008 elections. The Ben we encounter today, had the Democrat taken the Presidency in 2001, is not an angry young man, but one in support of a government that protected him throughout the first decade of the new millenium, in ways he hardly could imagine.
To the Ben of Mr. Brooks' creation, be angry, but direct that anger at those who cared little for you, who failed to protect your interests, and who left you disillusioned and distressed. Cast that vote with your head, and do not respond as George Bush did, from your gut.
In early 2001, Ben watched as Al Gore raised his arms in triumph. The hanging chads were unhung, the Florida miscount was recounted and the 8 years of Bush never happened. Gore and the Democrats did not lead us into disasters in Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan. Wall Street was not allowed to run unfettered, and we were not misled down a path to near depression. Government was not the problem, but the solution.
It is not governing that is the issue. It is bad governing that precipitated our decline. Bad choices and bad motives left the world that Barack Obama inherited a nightmare in plain sight.
Ben may have a short memory as to why the Republicans were left for dead in the 2008 elections. The Ben we encounter today, had the Democrat taken the Presidency in 2001, is not an angry young man, but one in support of a government that protected him throughout the first decade of the new millenium, in ways he hardly could imagine.
To the Ben of Mr. Brooks' creation, be angry, but direct that anger at those who cared little for you, who failed to protect your interests, and who left you disillusioned and distressed. Cast that vote with your head, and do not respond as George Bush did, from your gut.
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