Where the hell is everybody?
Suddenly, I'm alone with my thoughts. I'm looking at the buddy list of the IM program on the left side of my screen; everybody's offline. What are the chances of that happening? I'm looking at the list window of the IM program on the right side of my screen; "mdgradyfl," a co-worker, is online, but "Away." I try her anyway, and the cyber-brushoff comes back, "Auto-reply: I am away from my computer right now."
The kids are asleep. The wife is in bed with a head cold. It's 9:50 p.m. EDT and everybody who I might call is in bed or headed that way soon. I'm not a big phone guy anyway, so I'd only resort to that as a last option.
But I'm suddenly having a night where I don't really want to be alone with my thoughts. I don't have anything particularly profound to share, really; I'm frankly a hell of a lot more interested in what you're thinking. I know what I think, although it helps me sometimes to bounce it off a few other people to make sure I really think it.
But I'm inspired by knowing what you think. My thoughts are more complete when they're enhanced by the thoughts of other people.
I've been seriously considering the idea of launching another forum, a collaborative in which people can expound on their places in the world through any medium necessary: words, shapes, colors, sounds, photography. I know an awful lot of people all across the country who are incredibly creative, but who are getting paid for something other than their creativity. I'm one of those people. I need an outlet, but more important, I need to know it's not just going into a vacuum.
If you'd be interested in contributing to such a thing, let me know. There's nothing in it for you but the chance to share your thoughts and feelings and skills with a few other people who would be incredibly supportive. I'm sure there's some value in that.
Monday, June 28, 2004
Wherever I go, there I am
The idea goes something like this: Write a little bit about your place in the world. How you got there, why you're there, why you won't leave, why you would leave.
I've been thinking about this sort of thing quite a bit lately. I've had a run of "How did I get here?" moments in the last month or so. How did I come to be driving a Lincoln Town Car down Washington Highway 16 with Mount Rainier looming in the sunrise? How did I come to be getting out of that Lincoln Town Car and into a first-class seat on a cross-country flight? How did I come to be eating on the roof of the Hotel Washington, looking down at the snipers (at least we thought they were the snipers) perched atop the White House? How did I come to be speaking Danish while drinking Czech beer in a bar in Washington, D.C.? How did I come to be living in a 2,400-square-foot house with a tall, beautiful, fun wife and three kids who are already smarter and funnier than me?
See, this story started out to be a story about geography; how a guy from Anytown, USA, could wind up on the west coast of Florida via Cincinnati, Orlando, Texas and Orlando again. How a guy who didn't cross the Missouri state line until he was 12 and who didn't own a home computer until 1999 could find himself jetting all over the country, telling people how to use their computer systems.
It's been a strange run, and I'm wondering how I got here.
For the first time in my entire life, I'm not wondering what's next.
This could be because I'm fast approaching my 36th birthday. The line marking "old" is now behind me, at least by my standards.
This could be because I actually enjoy what I'm doing now, something new and fun and challenging (and at the same time frustrating and frightening). I'm learning a lot about a subject in which I'm intensely interested, and I'm getting paid. Kind of feels like I'm beating the system.
This could be because I don't really care what's next; because I'm trying to milk the very most out of right now.
This could be because what's next kind of scares me. I'm closer to 40 than I am to 30. Like it or not, the clock is ticking. Forty years from now, there's a very good chance I'll be dead.
Yeah, that's kind of a blunt way to put it. But that's kind of my point. The end comes eventually. When my end comes, I'll be ready to answer the question, "What did you do with your life?" in the following way:
I did whatever I wanted to do.
They say happiness is wanting what you have, not having what you want, or something like that. I don't claim to know what happiness is. That's for greater minds than mine to decide. But right now, I'm doing what I want to do. I'm living the life I want to live with the people with whom I want to live it.
How did I get here?
It doesn't really matter, as long as I'm where I want to be. And I am.
The idea goes something like this: Write a little bit about your place in the world. How you got there, why you're there, why you won't leave, why you would leave.
I've been thinking about this sort of thing quite a bit lately. I've had a run of "How did I get here?" moments in the last month or so. How did I come to be driving a Lincoln Town Car down Washington Highway 16 with Mount Rainier looming in the sunrise? How did I come to be getting out of that Lincoln Town Car and into a first-class seat on a cross-country flight? How did I come to be eating on the roof of the Hotel Washington, looking down at the snipers (at least we thought they were the snipers) perched atop the White House? How did I come to be speaking Danish while drinking Czech beer in a bar in Washington, D.C.? How did I come to be living in a 2,400-square-foot house with a tall, beautiful, fun wife and three kids who are already smarter and funnier than me?
See, this story started out to be a story about geography; how a guy from Anytown, USA, could wind up on the west coast of Florida via Cincinnati, Orlando, Texas and Orlando again. How a guy who didn't cross the Missouri state line until he was 12 and who didn't own a home computer until 1999 could find himself jetting all over the country, telling people how to use their computer systems.
It's been a strange run, and I'm wondering how I got here.
For the first time in my entire life, I'm not wondering what's next.
This could be because I'm fast approaching my 36th birthday. The line marking "old" is now behind me, at least by my standards.
This could be because I actually enjoy what I'm doing now, something new and fun and challenging (and at the same time frustrating and frightening). I'm learning a lot about a subject in which I'm intensely interested, and I'm getting paid. Kind of feels like I'm beating the system.
This could be because I don't really care what's next; because I'm trying to milk the very most out of right now.
This could be because what's next kind of scares me. I'm closer to 40 than I am to 30. Like it or not, the clock is ticking. Forty years from now, there's a very good chance I'll be dead.
Yeah, that's kind of a blunt way to put it. But that's kind of my point. The end comes eventually. When my end comes, I'll be ready to answer the question, "What did you do with your life?" in the following way:
I did whatever I wanted to do.
They say happiness is wanting what you have, not having what you want, or something like that. I don't claim to know what happiness is. That's for greater minds than mine to decide. But right now, I'm doing what I want to do. I'm living the life I want to live with the people with whom I want to live it.
How did I get here?
It doesn't really matter, as long as I'm where I want to be. And I am.
Friday, June 25, 2004
Thursday, June 17, 2004
The best songs ever
Some of these probably don't appear on too many others' lists of "best songs ever." Some of them you've probably never heard. Some of them are not even on my usual list of favorite songs. But, my memory having been jogged by having heard one of these songs yesterday for the first time in a long time, I offer you a list, not ranked in any order, of what I believe to be the greatest pieces of modern songwriting.
"Don't Stand So Close To Me," The Police: You know this girl. And this man. Every time I hear this song, I get a really clear mental picture of a cold, rainy day in the mid-1980s at Central High School in my hometown. The girl is standing in the rain on Benton Avenue, waiting for the teacher to stop and pick her up. His car, after all, is warm and dry.
"Downstream," The Rainmakers: One of the best second verses of all time can be found in this song.
Well, we picked up Harry Truman
floating down from Indepedence
We said "What about the War?"
He said, "Good riddance"
We said, "What about the bomb?
Are you sorry that you did it?"
He said, "Pass me that bottle
and mind your own bidness"
The song weaves 20th-century history through a float trip down the Mississippi with Missouri historical heroes Mark Twain, Truman and Chuck Berry. You're not going to find many songs with Mark Twain, Truman and Chuck Berry playing starring roles. Plus, I love songs that are musically simple, and it doesn't get much more simple than F-sharp, F-sharp (rest) B-F-sharp. And, this band's drummer has my e-mail address. Nobody else who appeared on MTV in the 1980s has ever sent me e-mail.
"Freebird," Lynyrd Skynyrd. Go ahead, laugh at me. And then go find me a song that connects better with its intended audience.
"Where Were You When the World Stopped Turning," Alan Jackson. Major tragic historical events are fertile breeding grounds for maudlin or jingoistic tunes, sappy songs about heroes and Go-America-Kick-Some-Ass rockers that instantly vault to No. 1 despite being complete crap. This song was the exception: A song that captured what all of us thought at one time or another in the immediate aftermath of Sept. 11, 2001, and did so without being overdramatic. I love a song that tugs at the heartstrings without intending to do so.
"Seminole Wind," John Anderson. You have to 1/have lived in Florida and 2/know that John Anderson was born in Florida to fully appreciate this love song to his home state.
Your turn.
Some of these probably don't appear on too many others' lists of "best songs ever." Some of them you've probably never heard. Some of them are not even on my usual list of favorite songs. But, my memory having been jogged by having heard one of these songs yesterday for the first time in a long time, I offer you a list, not ranked in any order, of what I believe to be the greatest pieces of modern songwriting.
Well, we picked up Harry Truman
floating down from Indepedence
We said "What about the War?"
He said, "Good riddance"
We said, "What about the bomb?
Are you sorry that you did it?"
He said, "Pass me that bottle
and mind your own bidness"
The song weaves 20th-century history through a float trip down the Mississippi with Missouri historical heroes Mark Twain, Truman and Chuck Berry. You're not going to find many songs with Mark Twain, Truman and Chuck Berry playing starring roles. Plus, I love songs that are musically simple, and it doesn't get much more simple than F-sharp, F-sharp (rest) B-F-sharp. And, this band's drummer has my e-mail address. Nobody else who appeared on MTV in the 1980s has ever sent me e-mail.
Your turn.
Tuesday, June 15, 2004
May you have a day as good as this one
It started ominously, late Monday night, with a call from the wife at 11 p.m. PDT, which was 2 a.m. at the computer screen at which she was sitting. She was calling to tell me about the wonders of online shopping, in which, at 2 a.m., one could decide to send flowers to one's grandmother and nobody batted an eye.
Well, American Express batted an eye. American Express wouldn't let her send flowers at 2 a.m.
This did not bode well for me, because I was 2,600 miles from home with our American Express as my only financial instrument.
A glitch between our bank and American Express had rendered my only financial instrument temporarily useless. The problem would be fixed, but it couldn't be fixed until the American Express offices opened at 5 a.m. PDT. My problem was that I had to check out of my hotel room at 4:30 a.m., drive 63 miles from our customer site to Seattle, and return a rental car on which the trip computer read, "47 MILES TO EMPTY" in time to catch my 7 a.m. flight.
But, of course, I had nothing to worry about.
I checked out of the hotel promptly at 4:30 a.m., ready to try to explain away the American Express issue. The desk clerk said, "We're in the process of our night audit ... can we just mail you a receipt?" Why, yes, you can.
At the gas station, I managed to find $3 in singles and change at the bottom of my bag. In my wallet, however, I found a credit card that I thought I had forgotten to bring. It doesn't have much on it, but it had enough to get me enough gas to get to Seattle.
At the airport, I was prepared to deal with Hertz and the American Express. Instead, I got, "Our computers are down. Can we mail you a receipt?" Why, yes, you can.
Along the way, I saw Mount Rainier at sunrise, a sight that was too beautiful to put into words.
Along the way, Delta Air Lines' computers gave me my first free first-class upgrade as a Medallion member.
And at the end of my journey, The Wife was looking as beautiful as ever, the mini-humans were as loud and as fun as ever, and I am home.
It started ominously, late Monday night, with a call from the wife at 11 p.m. PDT, which was 2 a.m. at the computer screen at which she was sitting. She was calling to tell me about the wonders of online shopping, in which, at 2 a.m., one could decide to send flowers to one's grandmother and nobody batted an eye.
Well, American Express batted an eye. American Express wouldn't let her send flowers at 2 a.m.
This did not bode well for me, because I was 2,600 miles from home with our American Express as my only financial instrument.
A glitch between our bank and American Express had rendered my only financial instrument temporarily useless. The problem would be fixed, but it couldn't be fixed until the American Express offices opened at 5 a.m. PDT. My problem was that I had to check out of my hotel room at 4:30 a.m., drive 63 miles from our customer site to Seattle, and return a rental car on which the trip computer read, "47 MILES TO EMPTY" in time to catch my 7 a.m. flight.
But, of course, I had nothing to worry about.
Along the way, I saw Mount Rainier at sunrise, a sight that was too beautiful to put into words.
Along the way, Delta Air Lines' computers gave me my first free first-class upgrade as a Medallion member.
And at the end of my journey, The Wife was looking as beautiful as ever, the mini-humans were as loud and as fun as ever, and I am home.
Friday, June 11, 2004
Long time gone
The worst thing about letting this forum go stale for too long is trying to re-start it again. Not because there's nothing happening; far from it, in fact. The problem is: Where the hell do I start? So many topics:
We've moved -- one more time -- in pursuit of Home. We like where we've landed, certainly. We're now sharing a city with the Stanley Cup Champions, for what that's worth ...
My new job -- which by this time is not so new anymore -- both fascinates and stymies me. It's a lot more like the real world than my newspaper jobs ever were, which is both bad and good. I'm learning a lot and getting from it what I want to get from it, both in knowledge and in fringe benefits (for instance, I just qualified for Silver Medallion status on Delta. First class, here I come.) ...
I'm in the Pacific Northwest one more time, fine-tuning a project that didn't get off to the flying start the company hoped it would have. It wasn't a disaster, but we were looking for better; so I'm here with a Danish co-worker (meeting yet another Danish co-worker) trying to make it better. At this point, I'm actually capable of helping. That's a good thing.
I'm going to have to miss the Party of the Year (I refer you to the link to A Night in South Carolina in the links list at right, because I'm too lazy to add the link here) because I'll be at a trade show next weekend in Washington, D.C.
I miss my wife and kids and house. I enjoy the travel part of traveling; it's the not-being-at-home part that sucks.
But really, the question is: Do you have any real interest in hearing any more about any of that stuff? Probably not.
So I search for something instead in which you might be interested. The search so far is proving futile. I can't imagine you care about what I think about Ronald Reagan's death (enough coverage, already!) or the NBA Finals (maybe a 12-second shot clock might be a better idea, not that it would help the Lakers any) or the current state of the media industry (I'm certainly enjoying the hell out of looking at it from the outsider's point of view; it's a lot less scary.)
Then, it occurs to me that this is my forum, not yours. I'm not supposed to care what you think. I'm supposed to articulate my thoughts and present them in the written word as a catharsis for myself, not as some sort of weak source of entertainment for you. This is supposed to be All About Me.
But there's something empty and selfish in that, and I certainly don't want to be empty and selfish, especially not on your time.
Now you see my quandary. Help me through it.
The worst thing about letting this forum go stale for too long is trying to re-start it again. Not because there's nothing happening; far from it, in fact. The problem is: Where the hell do I start? So many topics:
But really, the question is: Do you have any real interest in hearing any more about any of that stuff? Probably not.
So I search for something instead in which you might be interested. The search so far is proving futile. I can't imagine you care about what I think about Ronald Reagan's death (enough coverage, already!) or the NBA Finals (maybe a 12-second shot clock might be a better idea, not that it would help the Lakers any) or the current state of the media industry (I'm certainly enjoying the hell out of looking at it from the outsider's point of view; it's a lot less scary.)
Then, it occurs to me that this is my forum, not yours. I'm not supposed to care what you think. I'm supposed to articulate my thoughts and present them in the written word as a catharsis for myself, not as some sort of weak source of entertainment for you. This is supposed to be All About Me.
But there's something empty and selfish in that, and I certainly don't want to be empty and selfish, especially not on your time.
Now you see my quandary. Help me through it.
Monday, May 10, 2004
Tuesday, May 04, 2004
It does too smear the entire effort
Warning: Hard left turn ahead. Hang on, or jump off now.
As a visual journalist, I've looked at a lot of really disturbing images, and have been party to decisions whether to run those images or not. The incoming photo wire shows us everything, and it's up to the editors to decide what to show you. In a run of really disturbing images from the last three years of my journalism career, one sticks out in my mind. It was from the Liberia scuffle last year, the mini-civil war that erupted. It was a picture of a skinny black man, clad only in his underwear, being worked over by uniformed members of the opposition. His face showed the fear and the humiliation in clear detail. I was very shaken up by what I saw -- I saw pictures of wars overseas every day, but this one had particular impact. They weren't just trying to hurt this guy. They were cutting him down to his very soul, and then slashing through it. It chilled me to the bone to believe that people could be that evil to other people, here in our supposedly enlightened age.
But that was Liberia. Thankfully, I live in a country that's above performing such humiliation to its enemies.
Right?
Condoleeza Rice, one of the few remaining members of the Bush Administration for whom I still have a great deal of respect -- and yeah, it's waning, too -- said this of the atrocities allegedly committed by U.S. military officials minding the Abu Ghraib internment camp in Iraq: "The actions of a few should not overshadow the many good works that are being done."
I'm sorry, Ms. Rice. I've been a strong defender of yours for nearly three years now. But you could not be more wrong.
These actions do overshadow whatever good we've allegedly done in Iraq. These actions lower us to the level of Saddam Hussein himself. We were on shaky ground, anyway, frankly. Our job was to go over there and depose Saddam and find those elusive weapons of mass destruction. We should be happy with our 1-for-2 and get the hell out. We shoudl leave so we don't waste any more American lives, and we should leave before any more crap like Abu Ghraib happens again.
High-ranking U.S. officials have been quick and strong in decrying the alleged abuses. But is that message getting through to the Arab world? You think they're broadcasting that part on al-Jazeera? Let's say the message is getting through (the Arab press is known for its objectivity and fairness, right?); one has to guess that probably something is being lost in the translation. I doubt know if there's an Arabic word for "isolated incident,"
especially not when something of this gravity is involved.
I was very much in favor of getting the job done, getting some sort of stable government set up in Iraq and getting out by June 30. Of course, I keep hearing this "June 30" date being bandied about, and I can't help but notice nobody's specifying June 30 of what year. Screw June 30. It's time to get out now, before any more stupidity occurs, before any more people die.
Look at it this way: If a few hundred thousand Iraqis swooped in and took over our shores and installed some benevolent white guy who was sympathetic to the cause as president, and then they decided to hang around for a while after that and break a few more things just to make sure we got the message that a Muslim theocracy was the best form of government ever invented, would you pick up arms against them? You'd be an "insurgent," of course, if you did. And let's say a few thousand Mexicans and Canadians decided to come in and help you out against those occupiers. Surely you'd welcome their help. But they'd be "insurgents" too, and their presence would be used as an argument that "well, we've got the Americans under control; it's these damn Mexicans and Canadians who are coming in here causing problems. The Americans welcome us with open arms."
And let's say that, despite all the good they've done in convincing us that a Muslim theocracy was the best way, some renegade Iraqi unit decided to take a few American "insurgents" prisoner and strip them down to nothing and slap hoods over their heads, and then take pictures.
If they don't like us on the "Arab street," wherever that is, we've sure as hell earned it.
Please feel free to try to convince me I'm wrong on this one. I understand what I'm saying is extreme, and I understand what I'm saying undercuts my previously stated support for our troops. And for God's sake, don't give me any crap about how "they" killed 3,000 of our innocent souls on Sept. 11, 2001. "They," the Iraqis, didn't have a goddamn thing to do with the Sept. 11 attacks. Don't cheapen the deaths of the Sept. 11 victims by saying that gave us an excuse to invade a country just because we had to bomb somebody. And sure as hell don't cheapen the deaths of the Sept. 11 victims by suggesting it's OK for Americans to become terrorists themselves.
I do support the guys who are over there just following orders and trying to get a job done and trying to leave a good impression of the United States.
And I'm sure someone, years down the road, will say that the people who committed these atrocities were just "following orders."
If that's the case, whoever gave those orders should face the ultimate punishment.
War is indeed hell. And it apparently brings out the worst in military units which are being sold to the world as being virtuous and noble.
It's time to end it. Now.
Warning: Hard left turn ahead. Hang on, or jump off now.
As a visual journalist, I've looked at a lot of really disturbing images, and have been party to decisions whether to run those images or not. The incoming photo wire shows us everything, and it's up to the editors to decide what to show you. In a run of really disturbing images from the last three years of my journalism career, one sticks out in my mind. It was from the Liberia scuffle last year, the mini-civil war that erupted. It was a picture of a skinny black man, clad only in his underwear, being worked over by uniformed members of the opposition. His face showed the fear and the humiliation in clear detail. I was very shaken up by what I saw -- I saw pictures of wars overseas every day, but this one had particular impact. They weren't just trying to hurt this guy. They were cutting him down to his very soul, and then slashing through it. It chilled me to the bone to believe that people could be that evil to other people, here in our supposedly enlightened age.
But that was Liberia. Thankfully, I live in a country that's above performing such humiliation to its enemies.
Right?
Condoleeza Rice, one of the few remaining members of the Bush Administration for whom I still have a great deal of respect -- and yeah, it's waning, too -- said this of the atrocities allegedly committed by U.S. military officials minding the Abu Ghraib internment camp in Iraq: "The actions of a few should not overshadow the many good works that are being done."
I'm sorry, Ms. Rice. I've been a strong defender of yours for nearly three years now. But you could not be more wrong.
These actions do overshadow whatever good we've allegedly done in Iraq. These actions lower us to the level of Saddam Hussein himself. We were on shaky ground, anyway, frankly. Our job was to go over there and depose Saddam and find those elusive weapons of mass destruction. We should be happy with our 1-for-2 and get the hell out. We shoudl leave so we don't waste any more American lives, and we should leave before any more crap like Abu Ghraib happens again.
High-ranking U.S. officials have been quick and strong in decrying the alleged abuses. But is that message getting through to the Arab world? You think they're broadcasting that part on al-Jazeera? Let's say the message is getting through (the Arab press is known for its objectivity and fairness, right?); one has to guess that probably something is being lost in the translation. I doubt know if there's an Arabic word for "isolated incident,"
especially not when something of this gravity is involved.
I was very much in favor of getting the job done, getting some sort of stable government set up in Iraq and getting out by June 30. Of course, I keep hearing this "June 30" date being bandied about, and I can't help but notice nobody's specifying June 30 of what year. Screw June 30. It's time to get out now, before any more stupidity occurs, before any more people die.
Look at it this way: If a few hundred thousand Iraqis swooped in and took over our shores and installed some benevolent white guy who was sympathetic to the cause as president, and then they decided to hang around for a while after that and break a few more things just to make sure we got the message that a Muslim theocracy was the best form of government ever invented, would you pick up arms against them? You'd be an "insurgent," of course, if you did. And let's say a few thousand Mexicans and Canadians decided to come in and help you out against those occupiers. Surely you'd welcome their help. But they'd be "insurgents" too, and their presence would be used as an argument that "well, we've got the Americans under control; it's these damn Mexicans and Canadians who are coming in here causing problems. The Americans welcome us with open arms."
And let's say that, despite all the good they've done in convincing us that a Muslim theocracy was the best way, some renegade Iraqi unit decided to take a few American "insurgents" prisoner and strip them down to nothing and slap hoods over their heads, and then take pictures.
If they don't like us on the "Arab street," wherever that is, we've sure as hell earned it.
Please feel free to try to convince me I'm wrong on this one. I understand what I'm saying is extreme, and I understand what I'm saying undercuts my previously stated support for our troops. And for God's sake, don't give me any crap about how "they" killed 3,000 of our innocent souls on Sept. 11, 2001. "They," the Iraqis, didn't have a goddamn thing to do with the Sept. 11 attacks. Don't cheapen the deaths of the Sept. 11 victims by saying that gave us an excuse to invade a country just because we had to bomb somebody. And sure as hell don't cheapen the deaths of the Sept. 11 victims by suggesting it's OK for Americans to become terrorists themselves.
I do support the guys who are over there just following orders and trying to get a job done and trying to leave a good impression of the United States.
And I'm sure someone, years down the road, will say that the people who committed these atrocities were just "following orders."
If that's the case, whoever gave those orders should face the ultimate punishment.
War is indeed hell. And it apparently brings out the worst in military units which are being sold to the world as being virtuous and noble.
It's time to end it. Now.
Monday, April 26, 2004
The Man
Just after a Pacific Northwest dawn on Friday, I was sifting through pages of documentation I had written for software I don't know, with Soledad O'Brien giving me the morning's news in the background. Then her sidekick, Bill Hemmer, came on with his solemn, well-we've-got-breaking-news tone.
A book was on the nightstand next to my hotel-room bed. When Hemmer finished his sentence, I threw the book across the room in genuine anger. The sentence was punctuated by 200 pages of Random House hardcover flying into a hotel-room wall.
I was really hoping for a happy end to the Pat Tillman story. You know, guy gives up promising NFL career to join the Army after Sept. 11. Guy refuses all interviews, gives up his $3 million contract, leaves his new bride behind in Arizona to join the Rangers.
It wasn't just that, though. Pat Tillman was no dumb jock with an uncontrolled aggressive streak. He graduated summa cum laude from Arizona State in 3 1/2 years, while ascending from walk-on to starter on the football team. He was picked in the seventh round by his hometown Cardinals, who were willing to risk a low pick on an undersized defensive back. He had worked his way up to a starting spot, and then to a $5 million free-agent offer from the defending champion St. Louis Rams in 2001. Out of loyalty to the Cardinals, he turned it down and took $3 million from his hapless hometown team.
After Sept. 11, a lot of us were pissed, and wanted to go kick some Taliban butt. Most of us got over it. Tillman didn't. His brother joined the Rangers. Out of loyalty to his brother, he did the same.
Some -- many -- of us might question his decision-making skill. We might question the fact that he didn't capitalize on his status as an NFL player to make a splashy entry into the service, only to take some low-risk duty so he could make a triumphant return to the field in a couple of years. The Army would have been fine with that. Would have been a great morale booster. The NFL, of course, would have been fine with that too, in the age of Terrell Owens and no-names like Joe Horn pulling out cell phones in the end zone.
I had to question myself about why the news of Pat Tillman's death threw me into a book-throwing rage, while the other 700-some deaths have simply made me sigh deeply and say a little prayer for their families. It's selfish, really. I wanted the Pat Tillman story to have a happy ending. And it just makes me angry at the monsters who created this situation in the first place.
Even without the happy ending, though, the Pat Tillman story sure as hell has a beginning and a middle that we can all respect.
Rest in peace, Man.
And that capital "M" is not a typo. It's there for a reason.
Just after a Pacific Northwest dawn on Friday, I was sifting through pages of documentation I had written for software I don't know, with Soledad O'Brien giving me the morning's news in the background. Then her sidekick, Bill Hemmer, came on with his solemn, well-we've-got-breaking-news tone.
A book was on the nightstand next to my hotel-room bed. When Hemmer finished his sentence, I threw the book across the room in genuine anger. The sentence was punctuated by 200 pages of Random House hardcover flying into a hotel-room wall.
I was really hoping for a happy end to the Pat Tillman story. You know, guy gives up promising NFL career to join the Army after Sept. 11. Guy refuses all interviews, gives up his $3 million contract, leaves his new bride behind in Arizona to join the Rangers.
It wasn't just that, though. Pat Tillman was no dumb jock with an uncontrolled aggressive streak. He graduated summa cum laude from Arizona State in 3 1/2 years, while ascending from walk-on to starter on the football team. He was picked in the seventh round by his hometown Cardinals, who were willing to risk a low pick on an undersized defensive back. He had worked his way up to a starting spot, and then to a $5 million free-agent offer from the defending champion St. Louis Rams in 2001. Out of loyalty to the Cardinals, he turned it down and took $3 million from his hapless hometown team.
After Sept. 11, a lot of us were pissed, and wanted to go kick some Taliban butt. Most of us got over it. Tillman didn't. His brother joined the Rangers. Out of loyalty to his brother, he did the same.
Some -- many -- of us might question his decision-making skill. We might question the fact that he didn't capitalize on his status as an NFL player to make a splashy entry into the service, only to take some low-risk duty so he could make a triumphant return to the field in a couple of years. The Army would have been fine with that. Would have been a great morale booster. The NFL, of course, would have been fine with that too, in the age of Terrell Owens and no-names like Joe Horn pulling out cell phones in the end zone.
I had to question myself about why the news of Pat Tillman's death threw me into a book-throwing rage, while the other 700-some deaths have simply made me sigh deeply and say a little prayer for their families. It's selfish, really. I wanted the Pat Tillman story to have a happy ending. And it just makes me angry at the monsters who created this situation in the first place.
Even without the happy ending, though, the Pat Tillman story sure as hell has a beginning and a middle that we can all respect.
Rest in peace, Man.
And that capital "M" is not a typo. It's there for a reason.
Sunday, April 18, 2004
High in the sky
It's about 9 a.m. Saturday. I'm typing because I'm 35,000 feet over the Florida-Georgia border at present, and I have nothing else to do. Lucinda Williams is singing to me in my headphones. A delightful little girl with glasses, probably not quite 5, sits next to me with a book of animal stickers. She's from "Crystal Springs," she tells me. Her mom patiently explains that's the name of their subdivision. "He means, What state do you live in?" Mom said to the little girl. "Pennnnnn ... sylvania!" she said, very pleased with herself for having been able to get past that first syllable. The first syllable is, after all, the hardest part.
The little girl and her family are heading to Disney World, of course. Her name is Lauren. She explains that her little brother, Dominick, "puked all over me when he was, about, I think, 10 months old." Mom gives me an apologetic look. I explain that it's OK; I have three children, and I've been puked on plenty of times myself, and I wish I was cute enough to share that detail with a total stranger without fear of somebody looking at me like I was a candidate for the loony bin.
I've spent a lot of time lately at 35,000 feet, living my life three letters at a time. Last week, it was MCO-to-ATL-to-MCI and back for my grandmother's funeral. This week, it was MCO-to-ATL-to-EWR and back, with a two-hour drive from the gawdawful Newark airport to western Connecticut to lead some software training. I spent most of Friday night trying to get to the gawdawful Newark airport, caught in a traffic jam in the Bronx. It was my first time through New York, a city which clearly is going to require more careful examination in the future.
No time for that right now, though. I'm headed back to my MCO home base, then off tomorrow morning to SEA via IAH. A week in the Pacific Northwest, living life three hours behind the rest of you. A weekend and a couple of office days, then off to DCA for a whirlwind tour of some customer sites in the Washington area.
Half the fun is getting there, of course. "What's your favorite movie?" the delightful little girl asks. "Mine's The Lion King. I've seen it a million hundred times!" Mom smiles at me and says to her, "I think he's trying to read his book right now." That's OK. I can set aside the wild, savage life of Hunter S. Thompson for a delightful little girl. In a short while, I'll be with my delightful little girls -- and delightful little boy, and incredibly delightful wife -- again, for a little while. Half the fun is getting there, but that's only half the fun.
It's about 9 a.m. Saturday. I'm typing because I'm 35,000 feet over the Florida-Georgia border at present, and I have nothing else to do. Lucinda Williams is singing to me in my headphones. A delightful little girl with glasses, probably not quite 5, sits next to me with a book of animal stickers. She's from "Crystal Springs," she tells me. Her mom patiently explains that's the name of their subdivision. "He means, What state do you live in?" Mom said to the little girl. "Pennnnnn ... sylvania!" she said, very pleased with herself for having been able to get past that first syllable. The first syllable is, after all, the hardest part.
The little girl and her family are heading to Disney World, of course. Her name is Lauren. She explains that her little brother, Dominick, "puked all over me when he was, about, I think, 10 months old." Mom gives me an apologetic look. I explain that it's OK; I have three children, and I've been puked on plenty of times myself, and I wish I was cute enough to share that detail with a total stranger without fear of somebody looking at me like I was a candidate for the loony bin.
I've spent a lot of time lately at 35,000 feet, living my life three letters at a time. Last week, it was MCO-to-ATL-to-MCI and back for my grandmother's funeral. This week, it was MCO-to-ATL-to-EWR and back, with a two-hour drive from the gawdawful Newark airport to western Connecticut to lead some software training. I spent most of Friday night trying to get to the gawdawful Newark airport, caught in a traffic jam in the Bronx. It was my first time through New York, a city which clearly is going to require more careful examination in the future.
No time for that right now, though. I'm headed back to my MCO home base, then off tomorrow morning to SEA via IAH. A week in the Pacific Northwest, living life three hours behind the rest of you. A weekend and a couple of office days, then off to DCA for a whirlwind tour of some customer sites in the Washington area.
Half the fun is getting there, of course. "What's your favorite movie?" the delightful little girl asks. "Mine's The Lion King. I've seen it a million hundred times!" Mom smiles at me and says to her, "I think he's trying to read his book right now." That's OK. I can set aside the wild, savage life of Hunter S. Thompson for a delightful little girl. In a short while, I'll be with my delightful little girls -- and delightful little boy, and incredibly delightful wife -- again, for a little while. Half the fun is getting there, but that's only half the fun.
Thursday, April 15, 2004
Grandma, 1921-2004
I have many, many cousins, products of my grandparents' eight children. Most of those cousins have been blessed with some sort of special talent. For a few of them, that talent is a beautiful singing voice.
The story goes that it was the voice of one of those cousins who sang my grandmother to sleep shortly before April 4 became April 5. As 20-year-old Rachel sang "Amazing Grace," a small smile crossed my grandmother's lips, and, while she was tapping along with the time of the song, went to be with her Lord.
My grandmother has earned her rest. She put in 82 pretty hard years on this earth. She was born to migrant-worker parents in a small town in north Texas. They weren't prosperous people even before the stock market crashed, when my grandmother was 7, and the Depression didn't help. My grandmother quit school when she was 11 to help raise her eight siblings. She got married five years later and gave birth to nine children of her own.
Her first child died very young, of some sort of childhood disease that doesn't kill people any more. Shortly thereafter, her oldest brother died in World War II. There are those who say she would have recovered from the death of her son -- childhood diseases were hard to avoid back then -- but that the death of her brother left a void that was never filled.
She went on, however -- "The sun will come up tomorrow," she often told me, "whether you want it to or not" -- and left an impression upon everybody with whom she came into contact. You often hear at funerals, "Nobody had a bad word to say about (the deceased)," but in my grandmother's case, it was true. Testament to the effect she had on members of her family: Four of her sons' ex-wives attended her funeral service. Once you were a member of Grandma's family, you were always a member.
She had a unique ability to view everybody through a totally objective prism. She didn't fail to acknowledge people's faults; she merely accepted them as a part of being human. She knew that many of the people she loved were flawed, and she accepted them just the same -- although she would deliver a scolding when she felt it was appropriate, and when she did, you knew she meant it.
She had a special love for children; it was one of the crowning moments of my life when she picked up my oldest daughter for the first time.
She had been in declining health for several years; I am reminded of this from a couple of years ago.
I wasn't particularly sad when I received the news of her death; I was more relieved that, after many scares, she had finally been allowed to move on. She leaves behind my grandfather, who is 86 and in poor health of his own. She leaves behind a bunch of people who are better people for having been a part of her family.
I wasn't there for the anecdote with which I led; that's the story as it was related to me. I was there, however, for her final trip through Springfield, Mo., the town which she called home for more than 50 years (while secretly and not-so-secretly pining for her beloved Texas).
As she got older, Grandma had a tendency to, shall we say, think out loud. She would say things that she clearly didn't intend to be heard, but because she wasn't hearing anything well -- including herself -- she wasn't aware she was saying them. One time we were sitting in her house, and a white Coupe de Ville pulled up at the house across the street. "That's going to be him sometime," she said of me, "pulling up here to see me in a white Caddy."
As she was driven through Springfield one last time -- in a white Cadillac -- traffic stopped on both sides of every major street in town as her family followed behind, in a procession more than half a mile long.
Had she been an observer of that scene, as my favorite aunt pointed out, she would have said, "That must be some high-falutin dude to stop traffic like that."
And she would have been extremely upset that all these people were making such a fuss over her -- outwardly, at least.
She would have admitted, in an unguarded moment, that it was pretty cool.
A better obit for her can be found here. I'm proud to have known her, and a better person for it. Goodbye, Grandma, and peace to you. Keep an eye on me up there.
I have many, many cousins, products of my grandparents' eight children. Most of those cousins have been blessed with some sort of special talent. For a few of them, that talent is a beautiful singing voice.
The story goes that it was the voice of one of those cousins who sang my grandmother to sleep shortly before April 4 became April 5. As 20-year-old Rachel sang "Amazing Grace," a small smile crossed my grandmother's lips, and, while she was tapping along with the time of the song, went to be with her Lord.
My grandmother has earned her rest. She put in 82 pretty hard years on this earth. She was born to migrant-worker parents in a small town in north Texas. They weren't prosperous people even before the stock market crashed, when my grandmother was 7, and the Depression didn't help. My grandmother quit school when she was 11 to help raise her eight siblings. She got married five years later and gave birth to nine children of her own.
Her first child died very young, of some sort of childhood disease that doesn't kill people any more. Shortly thereafter, her oldest brother died in World War II. There are those who say she would have recovered from the death of her son -- childhood diseases were hard to avoid back then -- but that the death of her brother left a void that was never filled.
She went on, however -- "The sun will come up tomorrow," she often told me, "whether you want it to or not" -- and left an impression upon everybody with whom she came into contact. You often hear at funerals, "Nobody had a bad word to say about (the deceased)," but in my grandmother's case, it was true. Testament to the effect she had on members of her family: Four of her sons' ex-wives attended her funeral service. Once you were a member of Grandma's family, you were always a member.
She had a unique ability to view everybody through a totally objective prism. She didn't fail to acknowledge people's faults; she merely accepted them as a part of being human. She knew that many of the people she loved were flawed, and she accepted them just the same -- although she would deliver a scolding when she felt it was appropriate, and when she did, you knew she meant it.
She had a special love for children; it was one of the crowning moments of my life when she picked up my oldest daughter for the first time.
She had been in declining health for several years; I am reminded of this from a couple of years ago.
I wasn't particularly sad when I received the news of her death; I was more relieved that, after many scares, she had finally been allowed to move on. She leaves behind my grandfather, who is 86 and in poor health of his own. She leaves behind a bunch of people who are better people for having been a part of her family.
I wasn't there for the anecdote with which I led; that's the story as it was related to me. I was there, however, for her final trip through Springfield, Mo., the town which she called home for more than 50 years (while secretly and not-so-secretly pining for her beloved Texas).
As she got older, Grandma had a tendency to, shall we say, think out loud. She would say things that she clearly didn't intend to be heard, but because she wasn't hearing anything well -- including herself -- she wasn't aware she was saying them. One time we were sitting in her house, and a white Coupe de Ville pulled up at the house across the street. "That's going to be him sometime," she said of me, "pulling up here to see me in a white Caddy."
As she was driven through Springfield one last time -- in a white Cadillac -- traffic stopped on both sides of every major street in town as her family followed behind, in a procession more than half a mile long.
Had she been an observer of that scene, as my favorite aunt pointed out, she would have said, "That must be some high-falutin dude to stop traffic like that."
And she would have been extremely upset that all these people were making such a fuss over her -- outwardly, at least.
She would have admitted, in an unguarded moment, that it was pretty cool.
A better obit for her can be found here. I'm proud to have known her, and a better person for it. Goodbye, Grandma, and peace to you. Keep an eye on me up there.
Wednesday, March 31, 2004
Tuesday, March 30, 2004
Worth a look
Because he said it better than I would have, I'll send you over here this evening. Share his relief, remind yourself you've been there (and you have; and I sure as hell have) and remember to please be careful, for yourself and for those around you.
And, another quick trip elsewhere: Run over here and drop Mrs. Otis a line telling her how beautiful she looks. New life is the coolest thing ever, and it's always worth celebrating.
Because he said it better than I would have, I'll send you over here this evening. Share his relief, remind yourself you've been there (and you have; and I sure as hell have) and remember to please be careful, for yourself and for those around you.
And, another quick trip elsewhere: Run over here and drop Mrs. Otis a line telling her how beautiful she looks. New life is the coolest thing ever, and it's always worth celebrating.
Man, it sure is dark at this hour
For no good reason, I'm starting my day at 4:48 a.m. I have no earthly idea why, and I doubt I'll receive any benefit by doing so. But my body has told me in no uncertain terms, "Hey, it's time to get up." So, I'm up.
Back to the office today after essentially two full weeks on the road. I vaguely remember how to get there (point car westbound on the interstate and wake up in an hour and a half, is how I recall it).
From the Things that Don't Really Matter file:
One of the, um, great things about working for a company that's based in Europe is that when I wake up in the wee hours, I already have lots of e-mail. The latest involves some sort of controversy in which I find myself squarely in the middle. This is a lot of fun for me, as the new guy. New people generally just do what they're asked to do. As somebody who's been the new person -- and who's had to work with lots of new people -- I think it generally helps when, if the new person is asked to do something, the existing people know from where the order came. Nothing worse around the office than a lone-wolf new person. Apparently I've been asked to do something which has strongly offended at least one Existing Person, an Existing Person who happens to be in a time zone six hours ahead of mine. But in my string of correspondence regarding the situation, I have been careful to document exactly what I have been asked to do and why I've been asked to do it -- not in an effort to duck responsibility, but in an effort to let people six time zones away know what I'm doing.
Apparently that wasn't good enough. So, I have no idea what I'm going to walk into at the western terminus of my Temporary Long Commute in a few hours. This is the life I've chosen.
Things that do matter:
The Boy turns 5 today. We took advantage of my day off yesterday to celebrate. One of our stops was a go-kart track, which has some vehicles specially built for kids his age. To say he took to it quickly would be the understatement of this or any century. The kid is a natural behind the wheel, which, frankly, doesn't bode well for his parents' future sanity. It took him about two laps to figure out he could keep Dad from passing him by simply driving in front of him. He almost pinched me into the wall, Earnhardt-style, four times. After the fun, of course, comes the presents. He received a pirate ship, a pirate castle, a book about pirates ... you get the picture. The Boy likes his pirate stuff.
It's fun to celebrate The Boy, because he's a lot of fun, and because he was in many ways a triumph. Astute mathematicians will note there are a lot of numbers between the ages of our first and second children. We didn't really intend for it to happen that way, but nature deals the cards, and she dealt us a few really bad hands between 1997 and 1999. You never really forget an experience like that. But days like yesterday remind you why you put yourself through it.
For no good reason, I'm starting my day at 4:48 a.m. I have no earthly idea why, and I doubt I'll receive any benefit by doing so. But my body has told me in no uncertain terms, "Hey, it's time to get up." So, I'm up.
Back to the office today after essentially two full weeks on the road. I vaguely remember how to get there (point car westbound on the interstate and wake up in an hour and a half, is how I recall it).
From the Things that Don't Really Matter file:
Apparently that wasn't good enough. So, I have no idea what I'm going to walk into at the western terminus of my Temporary Long Commute in a few hours. This is the life I've chosen.
Things that do matter:
It's fun to celebrate The Boy, because he's a lot of fun, and because he was in many ways a triumph. Astute mathematicians will note there are a lot of numbers between the ages of our first and second children. We didn't really intend for it to happen that way, but nature deals the cards, and she dealt us a few really bad hands between 1997 and 1999. You never really forget an experience like that. But days like yesterday remind you why you put yourself through it.
Sunday, March 28, 2004
The mystery of me
It has been noted that I've been away for a while. That's because, well, I've been away for a while. I've been to the Lehigh Valley, I've been to a nondescript small town in South Carolina, I've been to the middle of Connecticut and I've had my breath stolen by the beauty of the Pacific Northwest. I've been to towns that barely exist, and to towns that probably shouldn't exist. It's been a wild ride, and if I tried to tell you I've enjoyed every minute of it, I'd be lying through my teeth.
But I've enjoyed a lot of it, and I'm certainly learning a lot about the country into which I've been born. It's fascinating to travel the United States during an election year, certainly. I'm still trying to figure out the differences between each different part of the nation I've seen. So far, all I can see is what's the same. You can pick up CNN and Rush Limbaugh no matter where you are. I wake up with Soledad O'Brien in the red states and in the blue states. People in Connecticut are just as likely as people in Washington state to think Bill Clinton was a sex fiend and nothing else. George W. Bush will probably win South Carolina, and Pennsylvania, and Florida, and every other state I've visited, and most of the states I haven't. I'm not sure what to think about that, other than that being president of the United States shouldn't be as easy as George W. Bush makes it look.
I miss my family when I'm on the road. I miss them a lot, and it makes me question why the hell I made this particular career choice. But I enjoy the work I do when I'm on the road, and it beats the crap out of sitting behind the same desk and dealing with the same people day after day after day. I enjoy the work I do when I'm on the road much more than I enjoy the work I do when I commute an hour and a half to the home office. But I'm not sure it's worth the price I'm paying in time lost with my wife and children. This is the battle that wages inside my head, minute after minute of every day.
I wonder what I'm going to be doing with my life this time next year. George W. Bush knows what he's going to be doing this time next year; he's going to be president, whether anybody wants him to be or not, and he'll likely be contemplating yet another invasion of Iraq because the last one felt so damn good. Osama bin Laden will still be incognito somewhere near Peshawar or Poughkeepsie, there might or might not have been another terrorist attack somewhere (and how quickly we've forgotten about Madrid! Always take the under on Americans' attention span) and I'll still be wondering why the hell I'm doing whatever I'm doing with my life, no matter what it is. (By way of weak explanation, and as perhaps a crucial setup, I refer you back to this, which I batted out long, long before I had any idea I'd be doing what I'm doing now.)
The company for which I work sells software to newspapers, mostly small newspapers. I've seen newsrooms far smaller than any I've ever seen before. I feel like a major-league player who rose fast through the ranks and retired too young, now checking out locker rooms in Class A for the first time and wondering why the hell anybody would be there voluntarily. These newsrooms, like most Class A teams, are populated by two kinds of people: the ones who are trying to get the hell out and the ones who never will. The upside: They're also largely populated by people who believe deeply in what they're doing. The managing editor of the small paper in South Carolina genuinely loves being the managing editor of a small paper in his Palmetto hometown. I think that's every bit as cool as working for the eighth-largest newspaper in the country, as I did. I probably never enjoyed that job as much as he enjoys his.
I'm learning a lot on this journey. I'm learning a lot about my country. I'm learning a lot about my capacity to endure. And I'm learning a lot about myself. Somewhere in there, I need to install some software. I'll get to that. Right now, the other stuff might very well be more important.
It has been noted that I've been away for a while. That's because, well, I've been away for a while. I've been to the Lehigh Valley, I've been to a nondescript small town in South Carolina, I've been to the middle of Connecticut and I've had my breath stolen by the beauty of the Pacific Northwest. I've been to towns that barely exist, and to towns that probably shouldn't exist. It's been a wild ride, and if I tried to tell you I've enjoyed every minute of it, I'd be lying through my teeth.
But I've enjoyed a lot of it, and I'm certainly learning a lot about the country into which I've been born. It's fascinating to travel the United States during an election year, certainly. I'm still trying to figure out the differences between each different part of the nation I've seen. So far, all I can see is what's the same. You can pick up CNN and Rush Limbaugh no matter where you are. I wake up with Soledad O'Brien in the red states and in the blue states. People in Connecticut are just as likely as people in Washington state to think Bill Clinton was a sex fiend and nothing else. George W. Bush will probably win South Carolina, and Pennsylvania, and Florida, and every other state I've visited, and most of the states I haven't. I'm not sure what to think about that, other than that being president of the United States shouldn't be as easy as George W. Bush makes it look.
I miss my family when I'm on the road. I miss them a lot, and it makes me question why the hell I made this particular career choice. But I enjoy the work I do when I'm on the road, and it beats the crap out of sitting behind the same desk and dealing with the same people day after day after day. I enjoy the work I do when I'm on the road much more than I enjoy the work I do when I commute an hour and a half to the home office. But I'm not sure it's worth the price I'm paying in time lost with my wife and children. This is the battle that wages inside my head, minute after minute of every day.
I wonder what I'm going to be doing with my life this time next year. George W. Bush knows what he's going to be doing this time next year; he's going to be president, whether anybody wants him to be or not, and he'll likely be contemplating yet another invasion of Iraq because the last one felt so damn good. Osama bin Laden will still be incognito somewhere near Peshawar or Poughkeepsie, there might or might not have been another terrorist attack somewhere (and how quickly we've forgotten about Madrid! Always take the under on Americans' attention span) and I'll still be wondering why the hell I'm doing whatever I'm doing with my life, no matter what it is. (By way of weak explanation, and as perhaps a crucial setup, I refer you back to this, which I batted out long, long before I had any idea I'd be doing what I'm doing now.)
The company for which I work sells software to newspapers, mostly small newspapers. I've seen newsrooms far smaller than any I've ever seen before. I feel like a major-league player who rose fast through the ranks and retired too young, now checking out locker rooms in Class A for the first time and wondering why the hell anybody would be there voluntarily. These newsrooms, like most Class A teams, are populated by two kinds of people: the ones who are trying to get the hell out and the ones who never will. The upside: They're also largely populated by people who believe deeply in what they're doing. The managing editor of the small paper in South Carolina genuinely loves being the managing editor of a small paper in his Palmetto hometown. I think that's every bit as cool as working for the eighth-largest newspaper in the country, as I did. I probably never enjoyed that job as much as he enjoys his.
I'm learning a lot on this journey. I'm learning a lot about my country. I'm learning a lot about my capacity to endure. And I'm learning a lot about myself. Somewhere in there, I need to install some software. I'll get to that. Right now, the other stuff might very well be more important.
Friday, March 26, 2004
Another idea, stolen
Many thanks to RER and, by extension, Up for Anything. This requires I fill in some blanks:
I AM: Sitting in Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, waiting for a flight that leaves at 11:15 p.m. PST, alternately excited and frightened by the career choice I have made which has caused me to question my intelligence, caused me to wonder if I've led my family down the wrong path and is currently causing me to be sitting on my ass in Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.
I WANT: My children to never lose the ability to be shocked, my wife to be happy and content and fulfilled in the home she has built, and a black Corvette convertible.
I HAVE: A teddy bear that my wife gave to me 17 years ago, long before she was my wife. She gave it to me when I was a sportswriter spending a lot of time on the road (although back then, I was much more likely to be stuck in a cafe in Stockton, Mo., than in Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.) The bear fit very nicely between the front seats of my truck. It is a small, light brown bear, with a little medal dangling from its neck which reads, "Take Me Home."
I WISH: I wasn't sitting in a middle seat on this overnight flight from Seattle to the other Edge of America.
I HATE: That I have to question everything I do to the point of creating this mental inertia that turns all of my fears and neuroses into prophecies which very efficently fulfill themselves.
I FEAR: Having to do something I don't want to do.
I HEAR: People having a conversation in an Asian language ... a young child screaming ... the voices inside my head ... a girl talking on her cell phone to her friend back in Georgia about how much she drank over spring break ... the CNN Airport Network.
I WONDER: Why I can't just be happy in the moment.
I REGRET: Nothing, really, although one could certainly argue that I should. I've learned a hell of a lot from the myriad mistakes I have made. Occasionally, I even apply that knowledge.
I LOVE: My wife's awful morning breath, the Young Daughter's 100-decibel voice, the Old Daughter's never-ending inquisitiveness, the Boy's full-speed approach to being almost 5, the sight of the ocean, the sight of the mountains, my wife's never-ending support even when I've done nothing to deserve it.
I ALWAYS: Think I should have done more.
I AM NOT: Bound by tradition, dogma, doctrine or superstition.
I DANCE: With my daughters.
I SING: ... but really, I shouldn't.
I CRY: when I read sad news stories, when I hear beautiful songs, when somebody does something nice for me.
Many thanks to RER and, by extension, Up for Anything. This requires I fill in some blanks:
I AM: Sitting in Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, waiting for a flight that leaves at 11:15 p.m. PST, alternately excited and frightened by the career choice I have made which has caused me to question my intelligence, caused me to wonder if I've led my family down the wrong path and is currently causing me to be sitting on my ass in Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.
I WANT: My children to never lose the ability to be shocked, my wife to be happy and content and fulfilled in the home she has built, and a black Corvette convertible.
I HAVE: A teddy bear that my wife gave to me 17 years ago, long before she was my wife. She gave it to me when I was a sportswriter spending a lot of time on the road (although back then, I was much more likely to be stuck in a cafe in Stockton, Mo., than in Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.) The bear fit very nicely between the front seats of my truck. It is a small, light brown bear, with a little medal dangling from its neck which reads, "Take Me Home."
I WISH: I wasn't sitting in a middle seat on this overnight flight from Seattle to the other Edge of America.
I HATE: That I have to question everything I do to the point of creating this mental inertia that turns all of my fears and neuroses into prophecies which very efficently fulfill themselves.
I FEAR: Having to do something I don't want to do.
I HEAR: People having a conversation in an Asian language ... a young child screaming ... the voices inside my head ... a girl talking on her cell phone to her friend back in Georgia about how much she drank over spring break ... the CNN Airport Network.
I WONDER: Why I can't just be happy in the moment.
I REGRET: Nothing, really, although one could certainly argue that I should. I've learned a hell of a lot from the myriad mistakes I have made. Occasionally, I even apply that knowledge.
I LOVE: My wife's awful morning breath, the Young Daughter's 100-decibel voice, the Old Daughter's never-ending inquisitiveness, the Boy's full-speed approach to being almost 5, the sight of the ocean, the sight of the mountains, my wife's never-ending support even when I've done nothing to deserve it.
I ALWAYS: Think I should have done more.
I AM NOT: Bound by tradition, dogma, doctrine or superstition.
I DANCE: With my daughters.
I SING: ... but really, I shouldn't.
I CRY: when I read sad news stories, when I hear beautiful songs, when somebody does something nice for me.
Saturday, March 13, 2004
Thursday, March 11, 2004
Datelines
Today: Sumter, S.C.
Two days ago: Lehighton, Pa. (Stayed at a very cool Victorian hotel that I'd highly recommend if you ever find yourself in the foothills of the Poconos.)
Week after next: Bremerton, Wash.
I already have qualified for a free ticket on US Airways. I saw the Manhattan skyline from the window of the Newark airport. I've learned a lot about all kinds of stuff I didn't know.
And yeah, I'm kind of wondering how the hell I got here and whether I made the right decision. That little speck disappearing from sight below is my comfort zone. That's a good thing. I think.
Tomorrow night: Home. Looking forward to it, for so many reasons.
Today: Sumter, S.C.
Two days ago: Lehighton, Pa. (Stayed at a very cool Victorian hotel that I'd highly recommend if you ever find yourself in the foothills of the Poconos.)
Week after next: Bremerton, Wash.
I already have qualified for a free ticket on US Airways. I saw the Manhattan skyline from the window of the Newark airport. I've learned a lot about all kinds of stuff I didn't know.
And yeah, I'm kind of wondering how the hell I got here and whether I made the right decision. That little speck disappearing from sight below is my comfort zone. That's a good thing. I think.
Tomorrow night: Home. Looking forward to it, for so many reasons.