BlessedUnworthy

Sci-Fi outta control

2010-03-02T15:18:00.001-08:00

I have officially lost control of my curently science fiction kick. I'm reading Asimov's Second Foundation, have A Clockwork Orange on CD in my car, Robert Heinlein's Stranger in a Strange Land on my iPhone, and Orson Scott Card's Empire on CD in the wife's car.

Utterly ridiculous.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Passing loved ones

2010-02-19T11:26:00.001-08:00

I've had two friends lose grandfathers this week. It's a difficult situation for me.

I am, of course, sorry that they lost loved ones, but I find it impossible to become truly sad at the passing. I was the same with the losses of my various grandparents. It's terrible to say, but grandparents are supposed to die: that's how life is.

God willing, the young learn about death by losing Grandma or Grandpa. That is the best possible scenario. After a full life, a loved one makes their final journey. We all have to someday. As it turns out, both of these friends recently had sons of their own. A pair of proud great-grandfathers died. I'm sorry they passed, but I'm not sad about it.

I know it's tough on my friends right now, but it's really a sign of how very fortunate we are that we've never become accustomed to death. Very few people are lucky enough to more or less escape it's impact until they near 30.

Later, I'll post the speech I gave at my grandma's funeral. I'm not cold about the losses of others and then a drama queen about the death of our family's matriarch. I miss her, but she lived a life to be envied. And what I said at her funeral basically stated as much.

My love, condolences, and friendship to my friends, but not my sadness. There's nothing to be sad about. May I live to see grandchildren walk down the aisle. Anything after that is all gravy.

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Avatar reviewed

2010-02-17T22:10:00.000-08:00

Last week the wife and I finally got around to seeing Avatar.

Disclaimer: we enjoyed the film, or at least the experience of seeing it. Then mocking it. Avatar was visually stunning. The computer animated Nabuli (or whatever) looked real in a way no CGI ever has, Gollum from the LOTR trilogy included. The cinematography was arresting it was so beautiful--my jaw actually dropped at moments.

All this said, it was a terrible film. Not "okay", not "subpar"; this is an activley bad film. Possibly Transformers 2 bad.

The plot was trash. It was nothing that hasn't been done multiple times. Big picture, it was Dances with Wolves/Pocahontas with blue natives. Small picture, I'm pretty sure scenes were lifted directly from Ferngully. I've read the English find it amusing that we Americans show up in droves for films that are anti-imperialist in "un-American" way. I find it amusing that there are people in the world who could be insulted by such a dumb movie.

The greatest irony of all is that while Avatar is three-dimensional, not one of the characters is. Virtually all of the people are flat cliches. There's the (literally) grizzled sergeant who get's obsessed with the mission. "Youre not in Kansas any more," he actually says. The we have the altruistic scientist, dedicated to the end, who falls in love with the beings she studies. Her literal dying words wish for a sample. Then we have the conflicted, corporate pawn, who ultimately chooses mission before mercy, then, naturally, regrets it. They even have a few roided out, thick-necked killers who look like the rejects from Gears of War, the dedicated nerd who manages to find his stones at the end, and the ultra-tough chick who really has a heart deep inside her obsidian-hard exterior. Of course, she's played by the ever-versatile Michelle Rogriguez.

The blue critters are almost as unanimously brought to us in the tiny squares that pop out of the cliche icecube maker. The valiant (and best) warrior who would be chief. The noble chief, who will die. His shaman wife. Their daughter, the "local tail" that brings about the change in the protagonist.

Question: has any female lead in this type of story NOT bought the daughter of the chief/king/leader? Even once? Can we get one female who is, on her own merit, intriguing enough to be the love interest? Does she ALWAYS need the royal pedigree? James Cameron, could you be any lazier?

I'd go back to continuing the to line up the stereotypes of native peoples, but that's all there are. After that Hollywood says they all have to be noble but completely interchangeable. That's how we (figuratively) paint American Indians, even when they are (literally) painted blue. Speaking of American Indians, it's time to address how offensive these cliches really are.

Dear Hollywood: Native Americans were human. They had wars. They killed. They murdered, raped, plundered and acted like, well, savages. Just like people on every other continent. Humans were and are creatures of evolution: we've treated each other very badly for a very long time. American Indians were and are the same species as the rest of us. Please stop pretending they were anything more, as it inherently means they were also less. Thank you.

Back to the film, would it have been impossible to get a single surprise along the way? The second we saw the giant pterodactyl, we knew Sully was going to ride it. That wasn't enough. Later Cameron felt in necessary to tell us only five had ever ridden Big Bird. How much would I have bet on who would be number six? Oh, everything I own. When Sigourney Weaver was dying, the shaman said it was up to the planet whether or not the transfer would work. At that second I would have honestly bet my life Sully was going to successfully transfer at the end. I mean that.

In the end, when he was attempting the transfer, I was silently begging the film to have him not survive it. Not because I wanted him dead, but just because I really wanted just one curveball in the film. It was THAT predictible from start to finish.

If Avatar wins best picture it will be the most pathetic selection in the history of the Academy. Worse than Shakespeare in Love over Saving Private Ryan. Worse than Crash over A History of Violence (which wasn't nominated). The fact that this film is even nominated, much less the fact that it's a front-runner, is offensive. I can understand why this film made a lot of money. It was worth my cash to see the beautiful CGI on an 80 ft screen. But make no mistake, this is a very bad movie.

New School

2010-02-08T23:51:00.000-08:00

A gent in my company has been in petroleum, quite literally, longer than I’ve been alive. He’s argued to me that none of his experience prior to the last seven years even helps him any more. He has a point.

On a random day early this spring, he asked me if the market was up huge that day. I said no, only about two bucks. He paused, then muttered to himself about how the game has changed when someone can look at a $2 dollar jump in crude and not think of it as worth writing home about.

Prior to ten years ago, it would have been among the all-time biggest movement days. Prior to last year, it would have been quite a noteworthy day. Such days barely catch my eye any more. I’ve only been in petroleum 3.5 years, so I know crude moves of over $4 per barrel are amazing. Time alters perceptions, and the oil markets have fundamentally changed in the last 3 years.

Everyone needs to get their feet wet. My generation is doing so in a hurricane

Mitch Albom is a punk

2010-02-03T21:48:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I admire him as a writer. And his books are touching in a personal, meaningful way, without being overly preachy. So there are life lessons aplenty to be learned from his books, ones that could really help provide clarity and priority to those of us who are a little lost.

I accept and freely admit all these things.

Time to vent. I finished "For One More Day," his life-after-death view of a man's goal of suicide and how he was saved. Mitch, if I see ever see you in public I'm gonna throw you a beating. Frickin rip my heart out, why don't you? You bum.

If you ever want to be more appreciative for your parent(s), read this book. You'll regret every injustice you've ever done your mom and/or think of your dad as Superman.

Unless, of course, you're parental relationships were actually worse than his, in which case, God bless you.

iLetDown

2010-01-27T16:52:00.000-08:00

Steve Jobs called it "revolutionary and magical." I'm guessing he doesn't know the definition of either word.

The iPad is a large iPod Touch. That's what it is. So it's not revolutionary. At all. Making old technology bigger does not impress. Note to Apple: every tablet ever has been a failure. The iPad's hope for success? The Cult of Apple. That's it. Suckers, err, people, so obsessed with the brand they can't think logically about it.

Let's breakdown the iPad. What is it technologically? Improved semiconductor (read: processor speed and efficiency), not Apple's thing; and LED technology (read: LG or Samsung or Sony -powered), not Apple's thing. So, we're looking at a non-Apple Apple Revolution? Pass.

As for magical, really Jobs? You kidding me? It transforms life? It's your computer, then you "dock it and it becomes your alarm clock." Like my cell phone since 2001?

My iPhone is magical, I believe that. It's this amazing computer that makes phone calls and fits in my pocket. ... ... Why do I need a bigger one? That won't make phone calls?

The iPad takes the iPhone and kills what makes it awesome. Way not to over-hype an XXL-iTouch.

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So long, "Sword"

2010-01-26T13:03:00.000-08:00

Last night I finally gave up reading "Sword of Shannarah," as I just couldn't take it any more. It's easy to see how Terry Brooks grew into a solid author, as there are flashes of brilliance, but on the whole it's just bad writing.
When the word choice is so poor it's distracting, there needs to be an intervention. The worst part is you can see what he does right so clearly that the weaknesses are tragic for what they ruin. Brooks has some incredibly original thoughts, and some very clever views of human history. Then he shrouds them in cliches.
I currently have Elizabeth Kostova's "The Historian" in my car, and listen to it while I drive. I've read it before, but I'll still fund myself shaking my head at her astonishing word selection. It's humbling, to say the least. Combining her diction with the multiple interweaving storylines, we have a modern classic.
Then I go home and see where Brooks named the bad guys "the Skull Kingdom" and their leader "the Warlock King" and I want to slap him all the way back to "Rainbow Lake."
Ugh.
There are too many good books in the world to force yourself to read something anywhere below top quality.

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Embarassing

2010-01-25T16:37:00.001-08:00

What's worse than having a crappy day? Complaining about it.
Today is one of those days of zero motivation and frequent irritability. Basically, I'm being a baby.
God forbid I look at how great my life is. A loving, caring wife; a family so perfect it's almost funny; more friends than I can see regularly, a great dog, and even a good job in a bad economy.
If you're reading this, feel bad for me. Or know I'm an ungrateful ass today. One or the other.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

8 long months...

2010-01-14T05:59:00.000-08:00

Since I've last posted...
Cinder's put on 30 pounds and has become a truly good dog. I know he's lucky to have left the pound, but we're just as luck to have him.
My wife became pregnant, and 3 months later no longer was. I've been boycotting this subject. I don't feel ready now either. I suppose the good news is that I'm not officially Cronus, as was looking like the case for a while there. So I got that going for me.
I have a Godson. He's a happy, healthy, huge baby. Just a blessing on us, and we're so lucky to get to share him. I'm chalking him and Cin up as the two good things from 09. There are others (other friends had kids as well), but those are the two I see a lot.
I now have a beard. Chinstrap and goatee. Surprisingly decent since it's my first foray into facial hair.
Life continues to treat me better than I have any right to expect or even hope for.

Don't call it a comeback

2009-04-20T22:18:00.000-07:00

Cinder is not an aggressive dog. I have never seen him pick a fight with any animal, unless you count the birds and rabbits he chases around the backyard. Thankfully, he hasn’t managed to successfully catch any of them. Yet.

My dog, though, is far from perfect. While Cinder is never the instigator, he is always ready to play finisher. He approaches other dog encounters from a very guarded stance, ready to respond to any threat, real or perceived. This is unacceptable dog behavior, especially when the dog is 130 and growing. I was beginning to worry his development toward “good dog” status had completely stalled. This weekend, however, he made huge progress.

First, on a walk on Saturday, he avoided a fight outright. Coming around a bend, two ladies were enjoying the beautiful day, sitting in lawn chairs with their small dogs, probably 25 and 40 pounds apiece, sitting near them, off leash. Upon seeing Cinder, both women grabbed their dogs by the collars, just to avoid a clash of the dogs. They both managed to grab the collars, but the little one slipped his and made straight for Cinder and I. Of course, I’m fearing the worst.

With the little mutt, fur on end, bristling at my giant, Cin lunged forward…to sniff his rear. Sniffing Cinder back, naturally afraid, he gave a growl. The moment I feared came…and passed. Instead of responding in kind, Cinder sat back on his haunches, head tilted sideways, yellow eyes inquisitive. When the owner reached the little guy, he was cautiously sniffing Cin. It was a complete and total success for dog greetings and Cinder development alike.

The next win came Sunday. My yard backs up to a rocky, incredibly steep hill that reaches toward a neighbors metal rail back fence. Cin likes to sit atop this hill and look over our yard and neighborhood. Our neighbor on top is a sweet, little old lady with a sweet, little old golden retriever. As neither dog spends much time in their respective backyards, they had never met until yesterday.

Digging at the base of the hill, I had a perfect view of the proceedings. Cinder, standing next to their fence, spotted the old girl and froze, eyes locked on her, his stance ready. Looking at him, she paused, seemingly at the edge of the invisible barrier of his presence, then almost melted through it. It was if she crossed under and around the planes of his emotion, and approached him completely without fear or unease. His head and shoulders softened, almost imperceptibly, and he was instantly disarmed. There they stood, gently sniffing each other, until her owner called her in.

As I went back to digging, Cinder stared after her. Clearly confused at the impact she had, and at her lack of trepidation, he watched, almost longingly, as she walked away. Just when I start to worry that he’s no longer developing, I get a reminder that he’s just a puppy, and that yes, he’s coming along nicely.

Two complete victories for Cinder in less than 24 hours, and once again I am hopeful. Don’t call it a comeback.

Just a puppy

2009-03-16T21:10:00.000-07:00

Cinder may be huge, but he is still a puppy. If you know dogs well, you can tell by looking at him. He is still gangly, for one, not a phrase often used to describe mastiffs. Additionally, his paws, ears, and head are all still far too big for his body. Just comically oversized for his already significant torso. His floppy ears are literally the size of crow wings. His paws leave tea-saucer size imprints in the dirt, and lead to his constant slipping and tumbling around. As for his head? He has put his mouth around the entire heads of other dogs, including two labs. Not in violence, as he wasn’t biting, rather placing his maw in dominance, but the feat is ridiculous. He put…a head…in his mouth. Cin, I think they can figure out the domination part by looking at you.

Of course, if his appearance is goofy/scary then his antics are both inane and insane, with a silliness exponentially magnified by his size. You know how dogs, especially puppies, pick up sticks and run around with them? Well, so does Cinder, except he picks up big sticks. Brooms, rakes, and shovels are his playthings, all full-sized, and scattered around the yard at a puppy’s whim. As are 6 ft. fence boards, which Cin picks up and runs around with, just a dog playing fetch…or a Force of Nature in level four hurricane mode.

Funny thing is he’s only in the 110-120 range. While that sounds big to people not used to big dogs, it’s really quite a normal weight for any large breed. Big labs and German Shepherds can push that range easily, to say nothing of the very large dogs, like St. Bernards, the various mastiffs, Great Danes and Newfoundlands. While he is clearly not in those weight classes yet, he just as clearly will be.

Allow me to illustrate. A ditch runs behind my parents’ house, and it serves as one of many causeways between their neighborhood and the hills that surround them. He was making his presence known to some passerby’s, standing on two back paws, with his front paws hanging over the top of the 6 ft. fence. His frame is ridiculous. As a disclaimer, we feed him exactly what both his prior kennel and our vet recommend, plus treats, but one can still count every rib in his body. His shoulder blades look positively bony. He’s all legs, and folds up in ridiculous tangles when he lays down.

He is giant, loveable, terrifying, and above all, just a puppy.

The easy job

2009-03-04T21:44:00.000-08:00

My job is awesome. Sure the petroleum scene can be high-stress, the hours can be long, and working till seven every night can be limiting, but I’m grateful for it. It’s interesting, virtually never dull, and, most importantly, where I work, no babies die.

My wife’s job is not so wonderful. Rather it is quite dreadful. I can’t tell you how much I’d rather shovel human refuse or process Soylent Green than hang around in her nursing unit for a living. I’ve long said that I couldn’t handle her work for a half hour. Last Saturday I got first hand proof of just how true that is, when I joined her to attend the funeral of one of her patients, a little guy who fought like a tiger but didn’t make the 20 day mark.

Now I’m not stupid. I knew full well going into it that a funeral for a baby was going to be terrible in every way. I prepared myself for boundless depression. Unfortunately my focus was on the macro view of the situation, where, as in life, it was the little details that made all the difference. I was okay pulling up to a funeral home, seeing the dozens of friends and relatives of the unlucky couple, gathered under the cloudy gray sky, passing along sincere condolences. I could handle the Biblical readings and candle lightings, classic funeral hallmarks that were as surprising as passing on third and long. I was not ready, however, to hear the baby’s two year-old “big sister” calling his name during the slide show of him.

That’s the kind of thing that kills you. My wife, of course, was destroyed by it, as were most of the attendees. She had cared for this baby, she’d spent hours with him, trying to keep him alive. I didn’t know single person in the room other than my wife, but even my eyes brimmed. By the end of the PowerPoint, I had pulled off the one-teardrop-down-cheek movie cliché. Maybe 40 minutes in, and I had already technically cried for a complete stranger.

Unbelievably, that wasn’t the toughest part of the afternoon, as that bar was placed pretty darn high later. It wasn’t even set when the baby’s dad thanked people, including my wife, by name, for all they did for his forever resting son. Nor was it when he then thanked his baby son for what he had done to bring so many together, both that day and beyond. (Side note, go ahead and chalk up “burying my 17 day-old son” right above “beating up Fedor” and “outrunning Usain Bolt” on the list of things I know I could never be man enough to handle) No, the most devastating moment of the afternoon and of 09 thus far was watching the parents throw dirt on their baby’s briefcase-sized casket.

I know few people have seen less of the infinite skies of tragedy than I have, but I’m willing to bet a mother’s wails for her baby compete with any of the worst sounds ever heard. It was the song of abject despair, the soundtrack for rock bottom. As we released the baby blue balloons, several never made it past the tall evergreens around the cemetery. Not all hopes make it. Not all dreams come true.

But some do. Driven by the wind, blowing from the East for the maybe the second time in my recollection, the remaining multitude idled far less than balloons tend to. Soaring into the sky, they reached up into the first azure break in the clouds in two full days, inexplicably directly in front of the sun, blue towards blue, light towards light, and hope towards hope.

There was none of that “one teardrop” fortitude this time around.

No Country for Old Men

2009-02-27T06:57:00.000-08:00

It easy to expect I would enjoy the book behind such an incredible film, but the experience of Cormac McCarthy’s No Country for Old Men as a whole was different then anything I expected. As a warning now, do not continue reading this post unless you have seen the film or read the book. There are spoilers aplenty, and I implore you not to do anything to ruin this movie for yourself. Yes, it is that good.

Right off the bat, it is clear that the author is well familiarized with the West. Like the movie spawned from it, the book captures the sound, the feel, the essence of the open desert. This is not as easy as it sounds, for it goes far beyond the colloquialisms and dialects of the people, but has more to do with the pace. No, not the salsa. McCarthy’s words fall in a steady tempo. The speech patters are simple but rarely simplistic. In the same manner, No Country comes up short on big words but not at all on big meanings, and it is all far too masterfully executed to be on accident.

McCarthy is also very detail oriented, for good and for ill. Someone doesn’t just get “shot in the face” as the author captures every facet of every scene, leaving nothing to the imagination. You’ll know the entry and exit points of the bullet. You’ll read how the blood drips down the wall, or how the brain matter covered the pillow. The Cohen Brothers also left little to the mind’s eye.

The titular theme of the novel is further carried in the book. More conversations describe the changes in our nation, and more of those changes are associated with drugs. More introspection by Sheriff Bell both delves into his reaction to those changes and cements his status as the main focus of the story. Bell, representing Justice, finds himself more and more outdated. His pursuit of Llewelyn Moss, symbolizing Greed, tells the old tale: a criminal commits a crime, and the law eventually catches up.

Or does it? Can the law ever keep up? When the law isn’t justice any more, it is only the law, a collection of words and practices, ill-matched for the escalation to come.

Sheriff Bell has a bigger problem than the changing nature of the American legal system and that is the change of the American society; namely, it’s gravitation to Violence, epitomized by Anton Chigur. Chigur is a killer, but not a normal one. It is not the drive to due damage or cause pain that fuels him, but rather an inability to conceive of the world in a manner different than the one he sees. Violence is something to be accepted. It isn’t his choice; it just is.

So much is captured between the lines in this novel; it could never be shared in some hastily written post, jotted down by a fan. Screw it; here goes.

Our parents’ grandparents could never imagine the world as it is today, or even as it was for our parents. Beyond the changes in technology, it is the graphic nature of our very lives. Movie war heroes in the 50’s would shoot, and a Nazi would fall to the ground, clutching his chest. They didn’t blow people’s legs off or split their skulls open. Our heroes do.

Because our villains do. Escalation. When two losers shoot up a school, we blame violence in the media. Art reflects societies’ values, not the other way around. Steven Spielberg didn't make war more violent, he just took off the filter. We shouldn’t condemn Michael Bay for selling us explosions; we should condemn ourselves for buying them.

But buying is what we do best. We guzzle fuel, and food, and get all we can, experience all we can. Bigger TV’s, faster cars, trips to theme parks, tripping on drugs.

Drugs, defended by half the country, condemned by the rest. I remember when that commercial came out relating marijuana use to helping terrorism, and all these hippies decried it. I wish the hippies had been right, but a trip to Youtube will show you otherwise. Over the past couple of years, Mexican drug lords have used the site as a forum and scorecard. Torture a rival? Post it on Youtube. Decapitate a cop? Put it online. Then leave the head outside a barracks for the Mexican army. Tough not to call it terrorism.

Drugs epitomize the attitude of consumption. So what if it's illegal, immoral, and wrecks your body? It's a way to spend money on a one time rush. Sign us all up.

I don't know if we can keep up, with the economy or the violence. In the long run, of course we can't. Everything ends eventually, and our society may be too rich, too violent, too much. When you put that much energy in a box, something has to give. Senior citizens always see these changes coming first, with the strength of experience and the weakness of the lens of human mortality, which always warps further towards the end.

Or does it finally get it right? Our society views youth as a virtue, but there's something to be said for those cultures on the other side, such as China, where age is resource of value, the more the better. In all of human history, this is the best time to be alive, and arguably the best place to be living. That said, this is no country for old men.

Welcome home, Cinder

2009-02-24T07:54:00.000-08:00

German shepherds, Dobermans, pit bulls and Rotts are scary, but partially because you know their stereotypes. They have a rep for being tough, either as dog fighters or threats to humans or both. Neapolitan mastiffs don’t share this fame. I’ve seen them in pictures and film, but it simply does no justice to this beautiful mastiff. That’s not fair: the beauty you pick up on immediately. It’s their prowess at instilling fear that you miss.

I had never seen a Neo (nickname for the breed) in the flesh before. I’d done the homework, read the stories and tips. I know the Neapolitan mastiff is stubborn and territorial. I know they were bred first to fight alongside gladiators in the Coliseum and then later to guard the estates of rich Romans. Still, I was unprepared. In all seriousness, Cinder is the most terrifying canine I have ever seen. By nature I trust dogs, almost to a fault. While Parker was 80 pounds, 75 at his leanest, and by far the smallest dog I’ve ever had, he still was intimidating.

The fear inspired by his appearance was nothing compared to gazing at our new, well, kinda-puppy. My heart literally jumped in my chest when I first laid eyes on him. In trepidation. The head is massive, as are the jaws. The brow is so prominent that the eyes are difficult to read. With irises of blue-gray, coupled with his shadowy fur, he looks ethereal, a phantom beast. It gives him the look of being cold, cruel. He looks, for lack of a better word, like a murderer.

Fortunately, he’s not; he’s a lover. He’s a big, dumb baby. He still has the playful, frolicsome prance of a puppy, not the lumbering, intimidating gait of a grown mastiff. He wants to play like a four month old dog, pawing and nibbling and jumping up on you. It’s a problem, and it will change. When you are the size of a human adult, you need to be well behaved, and his aggressive play was actively dangerous. You feel his tail thwacks. His playful paw swipes could easily knock over children. A playful jump up can result in a feet-to-the-chest knockdown of a grownup. He is a powerful animal. His growl and bark are deep and menacing, despite his teenager status.

I’d guess Cinder weighs in around 110. He is only 15 months old, yet already he is longer, taller, and unbelievably, he already has a bigger chest than old Parker at his strongest. He’s basically the human equivalent of a 9 year-old, yet larger than easily 90% of dogs. Dogs start early, but he won't fill out fully for at least another year, and mastiffs typically grow later than other breeds. I sincerely doubt he'll finish below 150, and he might push the 2 bills mark.

As for the interesting name, we got him from a shelter, and his name was Sinner. While “Ole Sinner” isn’t the worst possible name, it’s certainly not one we’d choose for a family pet. We didn’t want to start fresh either, figuring a pound puppy moving homes, cities, and climates didn’t need any more change than was coming anyway. “Cinder” just came to me. As a blue brindle Neo (that’s gray with other gray stripes), kind of ash colored, it worked perfectly.

It even fits him beyond that level however, and this one’s for you, Bear. Big, dark-colored dogs are the least likely to be picked up from kennels. They look scary, and they appear old faster, neither being traits people line up for with new dogs. His dad had already been euthanized at the previous shelter, from where they obtained our boy, and frankly, the odds weren’t great for a giant, terrifying hound with no etiquette whatsoever. The women from the rescue knew his odds were as bleak as his brown-grey eyes. The last glowing ember of a dying fire, no one can tell how long he had to smolder.

Yet, through the long odds, that Cinder caught a spark. He found a home, and he is already becoming the pet we knew he could be. Man’s best friends may not get a fair shot at life as often as they deserve, but this one shows why you have to take the chance. As I write this, he sleeps peacefully at the feet of my wife. There’s a long road left with Cinder, one paved with obedience, rewards, and love.

Well deserved, Coach Dungy

2008-12-20T10:27:00.000-08:00

With their comeback win over the Jacksonville Jaguars last night the Indianapolis Colts locked up one of the two AFC Wildcard spots. By clinching, Tony Dungy became the first coach to ever lead a team to the playoffs for 10 straight seasons. Their win the previous week tied the record for most 10-win seasons in a row, at 7, and a victory next week would set a new record for most straight 12-win seasons by any head coach. He’d set the new bar at 5.

Even more impressively, none of the coaches Dungy has passed achieved what they did during the salary cap era. To reach these pinnacles and to stay there for so long in the parity era is nearly inconceivable. It’s one thing to dominate in the manner of the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox, buying your way to victory, but to do so playing the same cards everyone else is dealt is entirely different.

Most impressively of all is how Coach Dungy coaches. In a world dominated by hard-nosed, red-faced men with blood-pressure problems, Dungy never raises his voice in anger. He is a firm believer in doing things “the right way, the Lord’s way.” His words, not mine. Coach Dungy does not use profanity. In his spare time (NFL coaches have nearly none) he volunteers as a grief counselor for parents who lose children to suicide, having lost a son that way himself. He treats his players like men, like they deserve to be treated, and they respond by giving him their absolute all.

Beyond his coaching, in his spare time (NFL coaches have nearly none) Dungy volunteers as a grief counselor for parents who lose children to suicide, having lost a son that way himself. The grief of that loss still plagues him, and it probably always will. A desire to spend more time with his family is the primary reason there are huge rumors of his impending retirement after this season. A pity. I’d like to see so worthy a man set some of those records a little higher, to make them truly untouchable. Just as he already is.

An empty wishing well

2008-12-09T21:21:00.000-08:00

Come Thursday night, Parker will be all better. No more pain, no more aches, no more bleeding.

It’s time. The chemotherapy bought us eight more months to love him. He spent that time as happy as possible. He got an extra summer of playing hose. He picked up an autumn of trotting in leaves and chasing small woodland creatures. When both Manda and I worked he spent days at my parents, pursuing Bounder in the hills, splashing in the creek running through the canyon. He ate treats and was petted and hugged and kissed countless times, by me, by Manda, by family and friends.

But the time has come to let go. Parker doesn’t chase bunnies any more; he can only jog across the house. He doesn’t fly over or through sagebrush these days; I lift him into the car. His claws have grown longer, no longer worn down by the asphalt and dirt passing beneath his paws. His fur is more sparse, thinned by drugs and his system responding to those prescriptions. In the last two years, Parker lived a perfect dog life. In the last eight months he squeezed every drop of life from his time and body. But those wells have run dry. There’s only so much to give, and only so much for which to live.

“I love you” means being willing to say good bye. “I love you” is keeping him alive in happiness and health, not in agony and defeat. It's tough to do the right thing, but his happiness is fading. It's about 9:30, and I'd guess his time at 44 hours from now. He'll be loved every second of it, and he won't go alone. Our vet, wonderfully, is coming to our house to let him go to sleep at home. Don't worry, we'll hold him until all the pain is gone.

Anticipation

2008-11-06T19:32:00.000-08:00

Manda and I are leaving for Europe in less than 21 hours. I am so excited I can’t stand it. Now that the moment is here, there is no focus.

At work, I was a waste. The internet offers far too many distractions for the traveler, from the Louvre and the Vatican to Disneyland Paris and European sports bars. Oh, yeah, I looked up their sports bars. It might be bad, but I still have to try a French beer; chalk another nation off the list of brews I’ve sampled. I’ve had enough Italian beer to be covered there, thank you very much, and I look forward to their wines and German imports. Ick.

As amazing as I’m sure Paris will be, I’m positive Rome will torch it. Rome was the most important city in the world for 1,000 years. I don’t know what else I need to say about it. It was New York combined with Washington, D.C., for four times as long as America has existed. The Coliseum, Vatican City, the Pantheon, the museums and churches and temples and statues…. My only regret is that I have only one week to spend there. I’m sure I could leave a month of my life behind there without regretting a second of it. The Italians have the love for life of the French without the quasi-fascist levels of nationalism. That’s a helluva one-two punch for enjoyablity.

I’ll be back in roughly 16 days. Make sure the country doesn’t fall apart without me here to hold it together.

Ciao and adieu.

Homecoming

2008-10-14T04:55:00.000-07:00

Returning home after getting away for a long weekend at Lake Tahoe, the dogs made it pretty clear that they were not happy about the separation, and they were quite glad at the reunion.

Their jubilations were so emphatically ‘dog’ as to be nearly stereotypical, but the sincerity of it all nearly brought tears to my eyes. No matter how much you love your dog, chances are it’s one of many parts of your life. An important part, certainly, but still just one piece in a very full life. On the reverse side, our dogs literally live for us. I was happy to see my dogs, and thrilled to pet and wrestle them immediately upon entering the house, but their reactions were of another sort altogether.

A cyclone of mutt enveloped me as I opened the back door. Tails were wagging, and tongues were hanging out in that incredibly refined manner that is the hallmark of a happy canine. Having knelt to repay their affections, it was literally seconds before my work clothes were more hair than not. In addition, every inch of available skin had been met with wet noses and doggy kisses time and time again.

It never ceases to amaze me that I could be so loved. I think we all know a little too much about ourselves to really love everything inside. We know our weaknesses, and our failings, and so to apply unconditional love, whether from a beast or a human, to such an imperfect object runs contrary to everything fair in the world.

Still, ours dogs love us so.

The Kite Runner

2008-06-29T17:21:00.000-07:00

Posting again on the subject of gratitude, allow me to bring up another book I finished recently, The Kite Runner. Author Khaled Hosseini was born in Afghanistan, and his novel is set there prior to the rise of communism. This incredible story traces a first person account of Amir’s wealthy childhood there and his transition to an immigrant life in the United States.

Beyond the view of another culture, the story is particularly noteworthy for how it captures the magic of moments that are of great importance to those partaking in them and to no one else. An engagement of a couple is a wonderful thing, but outside of friends and family, it doesn’t matter. It does not impact the world. It is not difficult to believe because it is equally simple to achieve. But to the man and the woman, it is everything, a moment of everyday wonder. Hosseini grabs every drop of enchantment in such flashes of life, and it reminds you that these are what make life worth living.

While the story is beautiful and riveting, I recommend the book partially because of the view it provides of how “the other half lives”. While that statement is typically used in America referring to the lifestyles of the rich and famous, we fail to understand that we are the rich and the glamorous. You, me, all of us. In further adjustment to the adage, “half” doesn’t cover it either. To understand who we are and how we live, realize that 90% of Americans are richer than 90% of the rest of the world. Basically, if you are above the poverty line here, you are wealthier than 90% of the planet. That’s rich.

Food is not an issue in the US. Granted, ethanol and oil have driven up prices, and there are some homeless who hunger, and a few others in horrific situations that do as well, but these are, in a world view, statistically insignificant. Poor Americans are even fatter than the upper and middle class. How many Ethiopians would love to have the “problem” of being overweight? Most of our poor here also have cable, and many have air conditioning. We do not understand poverty in this nation. As a concept it is something studied in history books in the chapters on the Great Depression and the Gilded Age. Or on commercials for foreign children that interrupt our programs, 30 seconds at a time. As a people, we have forgotten how it feels to hunger. Perhaps I’m wrong, as, fortunately, Americans are by far the most generous givers in the world, both in total dollars and as a percentage of our incomes. Maybe we do still remember, and we do appreciate what we have.

A particularly captivating scene occurs as Amir describes life in America to a friend from his childhood. He talks of grocery stores, where the shelves are always filled, and how there is every type of bread he could imagine, how the milk and eggs are always cold and never spoiled. He describes a TV in every home, with a minimum of dozens of channels, sometimes hundreds. Amir tells him that children don’t work here, but go to school. Every family has a car, and most have more than one. The juxtaposition of the life of an incredibly rich Afghan family and of a poor immigrant American one is as startling for the similarities in lifestyle as it is for the differences.

While the title character was not, Afghanis are poor. Poor back in the monarchy prior to communism, worse yet under Soviet control, and poorer still under the Taliban. The Kite Runner takes us to pieces of each of them; unforgettable moments, most of which contain suffering that is anything but everyday.

Well, not everyday for this rich American. This is another reason to be grateful. We all won the genetic lottery, where the ticket is being born and the prize is birthing in Canada, Oceania, Western Europe or America. We had better all hope that Matthew 19:24, Mark 10:25, Luke 18:25 are all mistaken, and that it is in fact easier for a rich man to enter Heaven than for a camel to pass through the eye of the needle. If not, we are all going to Hell.

You know, where the rest of the world has been all along.

Angela's Ashes

2008-06-19T22:07:00.000-07:00

Since the greatest purpose of this blog is to catalog the things for which I am grateful (yes, I'm easily distracted) I think I'll hop back on track for a post. Of course, it's easy to be grateful for what I have after reading about life in Ireland during the Great Depression.

Angela's Ashes is Frank McCourt's memoir of his childhood. While very funny in parts, courtesy of McCourt's dry wit and terrific phrasing, this book is not a real fun read. Hearing how he lived in near-starving conditions, it was great when he described the Friday's when his dad would bring home a paycheck. He painted a picture of the family having eggs (no meat for Catholics on Friday), everything getting cleaned, and, basically, fundamental human needs were being met. I took no pleasure knowing that most Fridays his dad would take his paycheck and blow it all at the pub.

At the beginning of the book, McCourt says it is terrible to have a poor childhood, but infinitely worse to have a poor Irish childhood. Alcoholism is always a blight upon the families it infects, but its cultural epidemic upon the Irish working class was more of a holocaust.

In addition to the value of the book for purely literary purposes, it was a blinding reminder to be grateful for my childhood and, in particular, my father. Seeing the destruction alcoholism causes in the lives of Frankie and his family, I feel pretty blessed having a dad who was never drunk. Ever. Dad never stumbled home, angry or depressed. He came home and then took us to whichever sport team we were on -and he was coaching. I suppose instead of hitting his kids, he just us that he was proud of us and loved us. Instead of declaring the cruelties of life over a drink, he consistently referred to himself as the luckiest man in the world. Most of my weekend mornings were started hearing my dad singing at the top of his lungs: Al Jolsen, Nat King Cole, Bing Crosby.

To be fair, I do remember the first time I saw my dad drunk. I was in college, and we were playing beer pong together at my fraternity's father-son tournament. Seriously. It was a great night. Much to my embarrassment at the time, I learned my dad is the EXACT same kind of drunk I am: cheerful, friendly, and overly affectionate in that mortifying "I-love-you-maaaan" kind of way. God. anyway, looking back, I don't have a lot to complain about. If my experiences read like a storybook, it's probably because that's where tales such as mine usually are found.

My dad isn't perfect but not a lot of people are. To be sure though, he has always loved and cared for his wife and children, and that is about the greatest measure of a man. To summarize this review and homage, I leave you with a piece from Angela's Ashes. Just try and view my life as one where nothing like this could ever happen, and you'll do a decent job of figuring me out.

At one point, little Frankie steals fish and chips, still in wrapper, that a drunken man has let fall to the floor in a pub. Realizing he’d go to Hell if he were to die that night, he finds a church to confess in while on the way home. Here is that conversation.

Frankie: “Bless me father for I have sinned, it’s a fortnight since my last confession.” I tell him the usual sins and then, “I stole fish from a drunken man.”

Father: “Why, my child?”

“I was hungry, Father.”

“Why were you hungry?”

“There was nothing in my belly, Father.” He says nothing, and even though it’s dark I know he’s shaking his head.

“My child, why can’t you go home and ask your mother for something?”

“Cause she sent me out looking for my father in the pubs, Father, and I couldn’t find him. And she hasn’t a scrap in the house cause he’s drinking the five pounds Grandpa sent from the North for the new baby, and she’s raging by the fire because I can’t find my father.”

I wonder if this priest is asleep. Cause he’s very quiet till he says, “My child, I sit here, I hear the sins of the poor, I assign the penance, I bestow absolution, I should be on my knees, washing their feet. Do you understand me, my child?”

I tell him I do, but I don’t.

“Go home child, pray for me.”

“No penance, Father?”

“No, my child.”

“I stole the fish and chips, I’m doomed!”

“You’re forgiven. Go. Pray for me.”

He blesses me in Latin, talks to himself in English. I wonder what I did to him.

The Parent Dog

2008-05-30T07:40:00.000-07:00

As you have probably gathered by now, my dog Parker is a special creature. Creatures with his capacity to love are truly rare and incredibly invaluable to those lucky enough to know them. Last week, I was reminded of another facet of his, well, love.

Parker is a parent to all puppies. I first experienced this first hand when my wife's sister brought over her new bulldog pup, Murphy. Or as my sister calls it, "the fat one". Now this animal is your classic English bulldog, in that it is so ugly it is cute. Seriously, it looks like someone bashed in the poor dog’s face with a flat shovel. Now my parents have a wonderful mutt named Bounder, who also came equipped with a capacity to love that is infinite. But he does get a tad jealous every now and then. With a new puppy at the house, and that pup being, shall we say, un-snipped, Bounder came awful close to putting the hurt down on Murphy. Parker and Bounder are steadfast friends, yet when Bounder strode towards Murphy, with intentions fully bared, Parker intercepted, and walked shoulder to shoulder with Bounder, guiding him away from the pup.

It was no accident, and the scenario replayed in similar form several times that night. Gentle but steadfast, Parker didn't let the pup get what it arguably deserved. My family and I were in awe.

A couple weekends ago, we brought Parker to my wife's brother's house to meet their new puppy. As Parker's former owner, my brother in law was thrilled to see him (who wouldn't be?), and it was a homecoming party and puppy introduction in one. Not lost in the human interactions, however, were the dog ones. Their new puppy Katie is also an American bulldog, virtually all-white to Parker's tiger-stripe brindle. A sweet dog (what puppy isn't?), she was terrified of Parker, and sat literally shaking in the lap of my sister in law. Parker seemed to understand the poor dog's fear, and he set about teaching her dog interactions.

When he approached, at first she would growl, and he would walk on. Obviously not intimidated, Parker just didn't want to scare her. As the night progressed, every fifteen minutes or so, he would pause by her, wait till she would tremor or growl, and then continue on. There was no pressure, just the option. Then he'd go and lie somewhere else, enjoying all the attention from his former owners.

At the end of the night, as we got up to leave, he walked past her one last time. No growl. Longer pause. Katie nervously stretched forward to sniff him. Statues move more than Parker in that moment. He then turned, slowly and softly, every move deliberate, and gave her a small sniff. She then stepped forward, out of the lap of a human, to meet this non-threatening entity. As they sniffed we couldn't help but laugh. He had taught her rule #1 in canine etiquette, and in a way so clear and effective it couldn't have been real. As we walked away, she half-followed, going to the door to watch Parker go.

I can't tell you how blessed I am to have this dog. I swear he teaches me new things every week. Oh, and if you were wondering, he's still whipping some cancer butt.

Beautiful Day

2008-05-03T11:01:00.000-07:00

First, some back story. Shortly after my first post on this blog, we learned my dog Parker had lymphoma. The weeks since then have been tough, to say the least. From chemo to his weight loss, incontinence, and exhaustion, I really haven't felt like writing about it, so I didn't.

But throughout the process, there has been hope. The swollen lymph nodes in his neck that originally got me to take him to the vet immediately shrank back down. His white blood cell count has remained high enough that we have been able to pursue chemotherapy in a fully aggressive manner. For a while he just didn't know he needed to go bathroom, but that, too, has passed.

About the only issue left has been his exhaustion. From a dog that would sprint up and down hills non-stop for an hour to one who couldn't match my walking pace, it has been devastating to witness his weakening. He was still happy, but he just couldn't do what he loves to do. No matter how loving he was, and how happy I thought he still was, I couldn't help but question if I was making him suffer for selfish reasons.

Today, Parker struck back. With a week and a half since his most recent chemo appointment, Parker has gotten stronger and stronger, more and more like his old self. Taking him up into the hills for a bathroom stroll this morning, he was his old self. After over a month of only walking, we had running. He was jumping over bushes, traversing hillsides and sending birds flying from every bush and tree. Instead of me slowing down my walk so he could keep up, it was me jogging and yelling for him stay in my line of sight.

So maybe he still didn't have 100% of his explosive power back, maybe not even 80. And the hike only lasted about 20 minutes, instead of our old hour long treks. I don't care. Because for the first time in over a month I had my dog back, and I got to see that making him fight the cancer was the right choice, with absolute evidence. He's been hanging tough the entire time, and we've done everything possible to keep him strong and healthy and, finally, I saw the tide turn. Yes, today is a beautiful day.

Women Through the Ages

2008-04-12T09:24:00.000-07:00

http://www.saatchi-gallery.co.uk/blogon/mtvideobox.php?video_id=78

I thought this was beautiful. Just breathtaking. I thought it was incredible how often I could see the faces of my Beloved and other women I love. Fashions, hair styles, and "ideal bodies" may all change but true beauty is forever.

The Blue Remains

2008-04-10T00:28:00.000-07:00

(Please note, this is the full version of the story I wrote for my local "alternative newspaper." They were kind enough to allow me to edit my own piece down to column length)

Nevada sports fans have been a little spoiled in recent years. Members of the Reno/Sparks community have looked forward to the end of winter every year as the spring equinox brought with it an invitation to the NCAA Tournament.

But the success of our men’s basketball team became about more than a game of hoops. For the few hours spent watching our team take the court, there were countless more treasuring the sense of community they brought us. Pride in their accomplishments, and hoping for just one more win, gave each and every one of us something in common with all our neighbors.

Even those who aren’t sports fans found themselves swept up in the tide. Posters in windows, banners streaming from cars, even the Reno skyline bathing the city in the reflections of the casinos’ Wolf Pack spotlights. Everywhere you looked, you saw blue. It was so much bigger than basketball, bigger than players, coaches or fans. It was about us, a group greater and happier as a sum of our parts than we could ever be alone. It taught us to celebrate and rejoice as one.

This year, however, there is no light. With no invitation to the Big Dance, the banners will remain in closets. With no trip to the NIT, no blue-and-gray flags will unfurl. And after the heartbreaking loss to Houston, our little strip shined its customary neon rainbow, leaving the blue glow in storage and memory until bowl season.

Yet, wherever you go in our community, the blue remains. As you drive across town, flashes of it catch your eye. Anywhere you walk, pieces of sky snap in the wind. Perhaps it is fitting, in this year we have no triumph to unify us, that we have ribbons to remind us of the ties of community.

This winter we learned how to hurt and to mourn as one. A community daughter was taken, by a coward in the night, and we all felt the hollow carved by her absence. If any silver lining can be found on the dark cloud of our tragedy, it is a reminder of how tight we really are, or really can be. Thousands volunteered time. Hundred of thousands of dollars were raised. The entire community reached forth with a unified effort to find the missing simply because she was one of our own. We failed, and we wept as one.

The weight of this tragedy sits upon all of us. Our hearts were collectively broken and our hopes universally crushed. While we can’t forget what makes us so, perhaps Brianna Denison’s sad fate will make us all a little more careful with our lives and a little less careful with our love, a small memorial, certainly, but perhaps one fitting for who we lost.

Having had our community hurt in such a way, it’s all too easy to forget how we celebrated together every March for the last four years, but it’s vital that we remember. Not because of a few games, but because of how we felt and how we responded. Whether the devastating shock of a murder or the comparatively small joys of a game, we responded together, and that is worth something.

Under the eclipse of this tragedy it is clear; there is no light. But at least the blue remains.

Easter Day

2008-04-07T06:52:00.000-07:00

I think my family stumbled upon a new Easter tradition this year. While my wife had to work, I headed over the the parents and, with them, the sister and the dogs, we took a morning hike.

Well, quick addendum. After the Easter egg hunt we took a hike. Yeah, half way through my 20's, my sister graduating HS, and we did an Easter egg hunt. No coffee/energy drink to boot. Back to the story.

So I was not looking forward to a hike at dawn in March in a climate that, frankly, isn't too warm this time of year. But my mom really wanted to take this family jaunt, appreciating the symbolism of the "Son rising" as we hiked. I had been a little surly about the whole thing until my wife and friends pointed out how awesome an idea it was. In my defense, I was being a real doubter about the whole thing well prior to the incredible Easter Vigil the night before. That's where those friends put me in my place with their their admiration and envy. Not much of a defense, thanks. I'm aware.

And they couldn't have been more right. The morning was beautiful. The sky might have been the bluest I had ever seen it. The dogs romped and played, running and grinning from ear to ear. The day was so warm, by a third of the way up the mountain the sweatshirts were off, to be reclaimed on the return home. Warm, entertaining conversations with my wonderful parents and perfect sister, all while basking in the Sonrise. It could not have been better.

Well, that's not entirely true. My beautiful wife and the two Big Leavers (my brothers) being there would have perfected it. But it was close.

My name says it all. I told you I was unworthy of my blessings.

Easter Vigil

2008-03-23T07:14:00.000-07:00

Last night I got literally everything out of a church service I could ever hope to receive. I think this mass more or less marked the end of my church-hopping ways. I have finally found a spiritual home.

My priest spoke about opening our doors, and how blessed and loved each of us are. It sounds simple enough, but I don't usually get exactly what I am looking for in a service, but he hit the nail on the head. A lot of us see our weaknesses, individual and communal, and start to doubt our futures, mortal and otherwise. But I left church feeling more uplifted and hopeful than I have been in as long as I can remember.

Here are some snippets from his sermon, pasted together as best as I can recall, though undoubtedly lacking the eloquence and fire with which Father Tony delivered them.

Back in 19XX (don't recall year) Pope John-Paul II was giving a televised sermon, and his message was to open the doors of ourselves and of the Church. And as John-Paul shuffled over to the doors, as he could barely move at the time, he went to push them open and struggled against them. There was a Bishop on the other side of the door who was going to pull it open for the Pope, kinda of making it look like the door finished opening alone. But the camera was a little too slow, and we saw the bishop helping open the door.

And this was perfect, because we can't open the doors alone. And God will help you the second you begin. What more could give you to convince you that you're worthy? He gave up his Son to save you. Who are you to doubt that you are loved? Who are you to doubt that you are saved? God gave his Son to the most painful death possible for your redemption! He let He Himself made flesh die for you! Who are you to doubt Him and what He did? There is literally nothing you could do to make you unworthy. Just open your doors and accept him.

"But I'm liberal, I'm conservative, I doubt." Open the doors.
"But I'm on drugs, I'm gay, I'm an immigrant." Open the doors!
"I'm weak, I'm a sinner, a criminal." OPEN THE DOORS

I don't know what else God could possibly do to convince you that you're worthy. If you asked someone to sacrifice themselves for you, and they did it, how can you doubt? What more can He do?

I know I butchered that bad boy pretty horrifically, but hopefully you get the gist. It was nice to see something so, well, hopeful. I can be a bit of a cynic, and it was nice to get a wake-up call like that.

Unconditional Love

2008-03-22T10:21:00.000-07:00

It's quite a concept. To love with absolutely no reservations or limitations. I am not sure humans are capable of it. I don't have kids yet, so I know I am missing some key information, but I'm just not sure it is possible for our species. I love my wife, but there are things either of us can do that would more or less force the other to terminate the marriage. God willing neither of us ever will ever do any them, and I don't believe we will, but these actions are conceivable from a scientific what-is-possible perspective.

I don't think that qualifies as unconditional love. I truly love her, as she does me, but their are conditions to our relationship. Such is not the case with our dog.

My dog unconditionally loves my wife. He loves me, and I love him, but he will just gaze into my Beloved's eyes for literally hours. He falls asleep as near to her as he can possibly get. He loves to collapse with his head on her shredded, dancers feet at every opportunity. She adores him, and loves him as much as one can love a non-human, but even if she didn't, I think he would live for her. She could abuse him in the most horrible ways imaginable, but I think he would keep coming back to her. There is simply no end to his love for my wife.

Given my jaded perspective of human nature, it gives me hope to see that kind of love. Hope for us as a whole. As if the mere fact that love like that can exist means that maybe, just maybe, we can make it in this cutthroat world without literally cutting each others throats. I'm usually pretty realistic, but it nice to know there are some things that are absolutely perfect, literally without flaw. Such is that kind of love. I'm glad it is possible.