PLUS YO! AND OTHER CHANTS FOR THE FUTURE

“I ruined my hat!”
The speaker was my daughter Lauren. The hat was her graduation cap.
“And I burned my leg!”

This was Thursday night; we would be leaving for her college graduation in twelve hours. She was sitting crossed legged on her bed finishing off the application of letters to the top of her cap. She was using her curling iron as the source of heat.

There were so many things wrong with this picture that I did not know where to start. The look on her face told me to say as little as possible. I choose,
“Let me see it.”

And this is what I saw.



Now maybe it was the placement of the button, but all I could focus on was the word “URE.” I kept staring at this half quote half math problem and I was unable to get past “URE.” As the night progressed and Lauren’s siblings and friends converged for dinner I was shown I had missed the boat.
“Plus Yo! It is the Plus Yo, that makes it art.”

The plus sign had been used in place of the word and or an ampersand. She had used from her education the earliest interpretation of the plus sign.

The quote is from Theodore Roosevelt, “Believe you can and you’re halfway there.” An understanding that a positive attitude was the foundation for success. Positive.

It made me think about this girl, this daughter, this woman. She had single handedly financed her education attending two colleges in three states all the while maintaining the goal of graduating in four years. She had believed she could and she succeeded.

I considered how during these years she had been a positive force for every company that had employed her, an addition to all the families that had embraced her as babysitter, confident and friend. How she had been a plus in all of our lives.

She had not ruined her hat. She had made herself the perfect graduation cap.

We sat as a family at the IZOD center watching, waiting to see her in the procession. Her bright eyes and brilliant smile signaled that she had seen us.

Unplanned and unrehearsed we all yelled “PLUS YO!” She couldn’t hear the shouting, it was for us. To serve as a reminder of how lucky we are to know her.

“Are these vampire teeth real?”

For the last three nights leading up to Halloween, I worked at a costume center. As my wife had been the prime procurer of our children’s holiday wear, this locale was new to me.

It was fun.
It was crazy.
It was odd.

Oddity broke new ground when a man in his forties approached me and asked,

“Are these male or female vampire fangs?”

“I’m sorry?”

“These fangs look feminine; do you sell men’s fangs?”

“We have adult and child, but not male or female.”

“Really, because they look like ladies’ fangs, don’t they.”

“No, I think a fang is a fang. Besides I think Anne Rice would tell you a vampire is androgynous.”

“What?”

“Those fangs are good, sir.”

I went back to the world of wigs and masks, no real questions other than, “Can I see that?” When another man this one in his thirties asked, “Are these vampire teeth real?”

“Yes, they are a hard type.”

“No, I mean are they authentic?”

At this point I was speechless. I have never been speechless in my life. I talk in my sleep… finally after staring into the man’s eyes looking for the hidden camera, I asked,

“How can I help you sir?”

“Are these teeth like the real vampire’s teeth?”

All I could muster was a weak, “Yes.”


Then this morning, as if the god of the undead had seen my plight, an article appeared in the Sunday paper. It was an interview with the aforementioned Anne Rice. To a question about people’s concerns over the portrayal of vampires in works such as Twilight and True Blood, she responded,

“I say, ‘Are you kidding? Vampires aren’t real. Keep that in mind.’”

Thanks Anne, I think from time to time it is important to remember this: Vampires are not real. Now, on the other hand, werewolves…

The Facebook Communication Generation Gap

In the 1960s, when the concept of the “generation gap” gained prominence, my parents straddled the line between their parents’ generation and their own. Married at 18 and 20, my mother and father held many of the same social and moral beliefs as my grandparents. Still, a quick marriage and fast family (two kids in the first four years of marriage) suggested a freewheeling live-your-own-life philosophy towards which the youth of America was moving. By the early '70s, television shows like “All in the Family” helped draw the line between the generations with the constant battle between Archie and his hippie son-in-law, Mike "Meathead" Stivic . My parents recognized Archie as a stereotype of their parents, but had no idea who Mike was supposed to represent. It certainly was not them.

Fast forward 40 years: My parents are now older than the Archie Bunker character, and my oldest is the age of Mike. The generation gap is now more about language then ideals. The Internet has made communication between the age groups easier. There is no question that my parents know more about my kids and their daily lives than my grandparents knew about my brothers and I.

Much of that knowledge has been supplied by Facebook. My mother is “friends” with both of my college-aged daughters. She will often make a comment like, “How come you didn’t tell me Beulah got that internship?”

“I didn’t know, Mom.”
For the record, I do not have a daughter named Beulah.

This is how the generations now communicate. A bit of information that domino-effects into a conversation.

The wildcard in this story is my wife. A modern woman, of the corporate managerial type: stockings,
heels,
glasses…sorry.

My wife spends all day on the computer, so when she is home she tries to stay screen-free. Subsequently, to the best of my knowledge, she has never read this blog…actually I’m not sure she even knows I write a blog…
it is over two years,
you would think she’d show a little interest…sorry.

So when my mother called my wife in a semi-hysterical state and yasked (i.e. yelled as she asked a question): “Beulah is sick?!” (See above)

My wife said, “I don’t think so.”

“Well, she posted it on her wall.”

“What wall?’

“Her Facebook wall.”

When my daughter got home, my wife asked, “Are you sick?”

“No.”

“Your grandmother said you posted that you were sick on Facebook."

“No, mom. ‘Sick’…it means ‘cool.’”

“Sick means cool?"


Now, to my credit, I knew that “sick” meant cool. But neither my wife nor my mother did.

This Facebook communication generation gap is making translators out of my generation. It forces us to answer questions from our parents that we were able to avoid when we were younger. “Who is the boy in that picture?”
“Who is the girl in that picture?”
“Is that a boy or a girl in that picture?”

My solution: Facebook should have a quiz that must be completed by both parties before a friendship can be made. Or if not an intergenerational compatibility exam, then how about an age range for friendship? A generation used to represent twenty-five years. I feel the Facebook Communication Generation should have a span of five years for friendship. If I am the only one who has had this issue, then there is one more thing I would like to suggest:

Girls, please de-friend your Grandma!

"It's great to be back here at Macy's"

I had a rough week.

Then yesterday, I walked in to Macy's with Mrs. Green Thumb and the oldest ping pong ball. Music was blasting. At first, it seemed that the system that piped the music into the store was broken, because IT WAS BLASTING. The song that was playing was Elvis Presley singing "Can't Help Falling In Love With You." My oldest turned to me and asked, "Can you do something about this?"

I had to think for a second. Was there a reason why she thought I worked at Macy's?
No, she was expressing her displeasure, and I was in the line of fire.

With no ability to stop or even lower the music, I did the only thing in my power. I started to sing along. That's when I heard Mrs. Green Thumb say, "Someone is singing over there."

My heartbeat quickened as I worked my way through the ladies casual section toward what could only be an...

Elvis Impersonator...
Elvis Evoker....
Elvis!

The King was in between Handbags and Juniors. He was wearing a powder blue jumpsuit, his belt riddled with rhinestones. I made my way directly in front of a speaker, my favorite place at any concert. He introduced his next number, "My Way," as a song that both Frank Sinatra and Elvis had recorded. I loved the fact that he spoke about himself in the third person.



He sang "Jailhouse Rock" and customers and Macy's employees alike danced. As Elvis sang, I thought about all the speculation about his life and death. I considered how thin he had gotten. He looked more like Screech from "Saved by the Bell" with a pompadour. And then Elvis spoke again, and he gave us the long awaited answer.

"It's great to be back here at Macy's"

He hadn't died, he hadn't been abducted by aliens; we had been looking for him in Vegas, in Graceland, in every kitchen in the land. But all this time, he had been at Macy's, and he liked it there.

When he finished and was available for pictures, I went to find my loved ones. I was reenergized. No longer did I feel like a Hound Dog. The King, he revived me.

Later in the afternoon, I thought about something I had known since I was very young: music is magical.

Thanks Macy's. Thanks Elvis.

This is the binding tie

If I am forbidden from burning my leaves…


If I am required to send them to an eco-friendly natural waste site…


If I am forced to buy and use biodegradable paper bags to dispose of the leaves…


Why are the companies that manufacture those bags permitted to bind them together with a non-recyclable plastic strip?

Sad But True

Today, my mother had an exploratory procedure at a central Jersey hospital. After a day in the OR and recovery, my baby brother and I helped our parents into their car before we headed back north. Mom turned to us and said, “Thanks…”

Wait, I forgot the first part.

A year ago, Dad had a quintuple bypass. It was by far the most intense, scary surgery anyone in our family had ever had. That morning, my middle brother and I met our parents outside the hospital. Both looked nervous and frightened out of their wits. My brother and I went into care mode. During the pre-op time one of us would stay with Mom while the other stayed with Dad.

That’s when the fighting started. Neither one of us wanted Mom. During the entire time Dad was completing the registration process, my brother and I were carrying on like…well, us. When my parents went into the prep room and we had said our goodbyes, a very stern looking nurse approached us and said:

“Follow me please.”

Halfway down a hallway, she unlocked a door and asked us to go in. As she walked away, she turned and said, “Please don’t close the door.”

Once she had left, I asked my brother: “Are we in trouble?”

He simply answered, “This may be a record for us.”

Two minutes later, a woman ten times sterner appeared at the door. She asked, “Do we have a problem?”

She may have asked this based on information that stern #1 had given her. Or perhaps it was that, in only two minutes, I had built a house of cards using prostate care pamphlets, while my brother had started an inappropriate relationship with a vibrating armchair.

I stood to answer partly because I am the oldest, but also because I was the only brother in the room not having sex with a piece of furniture.

“No problem, we’re sorry. Our Dad is having bypass surgery and we’re very nervous. If you want we can go to the waiting room.”

She answered quickly, “No, thank you, there are people in there. Please do not leave this room until your father has been brought to the OR. You can then go to the main waiting area.”

“I’m sorry, I will have to step out when I get a text, our brother will not be able to find us in here.”

All color ran from her face as she asked: “There‘s a third?!”

My brother, who by now was sharing a cigarette with the La-Z-Boy, looked up at her and said with not a note of whimsy in his voice, “Yeah. And he’s the crazy one.”

As she left, he turned to me and asked, “Are we in hospital jail?”

Five hours later, Dad was in recovery, as everyone breathed a sigh of relief. We shared with the family the reason for the armed escort leading us from one waiting room to the other earlier.

Mom was not amused. Baby brother relished the fact that he had not been involved and the middle and I blamed each other.

So back to today…

Today my mother had an exploratory procedure at a central Jersey hospital. After a day in the OR and recovery, my baby brother and I helped our parents into their car before we headed back north. Mom turned to us and said “Thanks. Thanks for being here, and thanks for not being arrested.”

Sure, Mom. Anytime.

Zen and the Art of Garage Cleaning

For fifteen years, I have wanted to build a Zen rock garden behind our house. My wife has said she would support this decision, but only after I clean the garage.

This seemed to me a reasonable request. So one Sunday morning, in the spring of 1995, I went into the garage with the intent of cleaning, organizing and sweeping the space. I figured I would be done by lunchtime. Then, off to the garden center to pick out the rocks that would be the base for my outdoor meditation room.

Fall of 2010, our backyard is still void of any river stones. I am still in the garage.

The Zen garden, the "dry landscape"--like its creator--is never complete. It is ever-moving and ever-changing. For me, it was to be a place to discover. Discover my thoughts, my visions, and ultimately the edge of my limits.

After fifteen years in the garage and nearly twenty-five years of marriage, I have awoken. The blinders have fallen from my eyes. I can see clearly now that my wife is my Zen master. Though she would deny the very idea, I know she sent me into the garage because it was to be my Zen garden. Never finished, always changing, forever making me redesign and rethink how I can use that space.

I am now content. No longer will I hide my face as the neighbors ask, "Still cleaning?"

My wife, on the other hand, will not be happy at this realization. For now, when she asks the same question she has asked for fifteen years: "When will you be done?"

I will be able to answer in the only way a student of Zen should...

“Never.”

Here is my Eddie Fisher Story

Yes, I have an Eddie Fisher story.

In 1989, I was asked to stage manage a fundraising show. The event benefitted a beautiful old church in the New York suburbs that both time and the diocese had forgotten. There were holes in the roof, and on rainy days there were puddles in front of the altar and down the center aisle.

I was asked by a friend to help pull off the event. He had called everyone he knew to ask them to reach out to anyone even remotely connected to anyone of note who might volunteer their talents. This call to charity was answered by radio, TV and film entertainers. Most had a connection with the area or a friend who did. One of the people who said, “Yes, how can I help?” was Eddie Fisher.

This show differed from your typical theatrical performance in many ways, the first of which was its staging before the altar of a needy church. More importantly, there was no rehearsal at all.

That evening, I met the entertainers upon their arrival, walked them to the “stage" and asked them about their needs, “Podium? Music stand? Microphone?” When I met Mr. Fisher, I introduced myself and took him though the paces. The "microphone" question was answered with a response that suggested he thought I was insane. “Yes, of course I want a microphone.”

Once the show began, I stayed off to the side. In between acts, when the lights went down, I would move whatever equipment the previous entertainer used while setting up for the next performer as each found their mark on stage in the dark.

Mr. Fisher was scheduled to sing "Ave Maria." The performer before him, a former Miss America, was to sing "God Bless America."

Her rendition of the song that Kate Smith made famous was stirring. No microphone, no accompaniment--only her voice filling the church. The audience, as well as those waiting to perform, had tears in their eyes. When she finished and the lights went down, I moved in the dark to the center of the stage to set up the microphone at the height that was prearranged for Mr. Fisher, who then met me frantically screaming in a whisper, “Get it out, take it off, take it off!”

I stopped dead in my tracks and turned, still holding the microphone stand, and moved back to where I began. Even in the eye-adusting half-light, it surely looked comical because there was a slight chuckle from the audience. The last face I saw as I moved out of view was my wife's, as she mouthed to me the question on everyone’s mind: “What are you doing?!”

Mr. Fisher sang and the rest of the show concluded without a hitch. The performers exited down the aisle to applause, followed by the audience. They were going into the first of two post-performance receptions. I was the last to leave the church.

I was anxious to find my wife and explain what happened. As I turned the corner to enter the reception, I was grabbed by the shoulders and turned to find an apologetic Eddie Fisher. “You have to forgive me, that was so unprofessional. I cannot believe I put you in that position, I am so sorry. But how could I use a microphone following that girl? I would have just looked stupid. Instead, I embarrassed you. I’m sorry.”

We shook hands. “Don’t worry about it, thanks for coming tonight,” I told him as we walked into the reception together.

When I heard about his passing, I thought it was time to add this tale to my story book.

Reading by Flashlight

Once again I find myself wanting to add a chapter to this story book.

Our local art museum opened an exhibit entitled "The Wyeths: Three Generations." Mr. Moose, Mrs. Green Thumb and the youngest ping pong ball all have an appreciation for the works of Andrew Wyeth. Andrew, the second of the aforementioned three generations, was an accomplished realist painter. Andrew died on January 16th of this year. One of his best known works, "Christina's World," is part of the permanent collection at Museum of Modern Art in New York.

The third Wyeth, Jamie, the son of Andrew, is still creating art today and has had a long successful career that began in his teens.

N. C. Wyeth, the patriarch, specialized in illustrations.

The exhibit holds a great blend of the three artists. It shows the individuality of these men, while the juxtaposition of works showed a commonality of themes, of palates and of views.

For my part, the illumination of this exhibit was the work of N.C. Wyeth. Newell Convers Wyeth created 3,000 paintings and illustrated112 books. Many of the books were on display next to the paintings they inspired.

These works: a title page from King Arthur (1917) and a scene from Treasure Island (1911), show the clarity and strength of image this illustrator used when transfering word to picture.

Each new example transported me back to the books I read as a child. Those volumes were never fully illustrated, so you were forced to turn back every few pages to catch a glimpse of the hero; the less-is-more approach that still left room for the imagination.

All this must sound hypocritical coming from a person who takes pride in the volume of television he watches. But long before 300 channels and 24-hour programing, I had a copy of Treasure Island and a flashlight next to my bed. I can still see the ten illustration plates. They weren't Wyeth, but they were magical.

It is said that off screen Zeppo was the funniest Marx Brother.

During a conversation with a Froose (a friend of moose) this week, I was accused of being "anti." The charge stated that I intentionally take up a contrary view on popular opinions for the sake of being difficult. I spoke to several Frooses and a couple of Rooses (relatives of moose). Some say they see an element of this in my personality, others were more kind.

Most of the problems revolved around different views of comedy. How can there be a side to be against? I thought either something is funny to you or not.

Does not laughing at a joke mean you are anti? Rather than anti, I feel it says your sense of humor has not been satisfied by the joke. This, it seems to me, is inherent in the experiencing of any art form. Your like or dislike doesn't nullify the work. It is just a matter of taste.

Here are three names that came up in the conversation:

Sasha Baron Cohen
Jerry Seinfeld
Eddie Izzard

Still, If not laughing makes you anti, then I'm anti. Two of the above comedians do not make me laugh.

I won't tell you which two, 'cause I don't want any more trouble.

Would love to hear your opinion, since I'm not entitled to my own.

Michael and Nala

On January 23, 2001, eight months before the tragedy of 9/11, we had a disaster in our own community. That morning, my friend and neighbor Michael left for Manhattan to work at his film editing machine. That machine and his incredible talent had won him an Emmy award.

Unfortunately, the ever present cigarette in one hand, and the constant cup of coffee in the other, in conjunction with the stress of a high pressure, sedentary job, were too much for his 48 year old heart. He never came home.

He had been a live action amalgamation of the cartoon, "Tennessee Tuxedo and his Tales." With the hair and the brains of Phineas J. Whoopee, a mustache that looked like Chumley's tusks, and the wit of Tennessee, Michael was unique.

He left behind a wife and five children, the oldest a freshman in college, the youngest a fourth grader, and finally, a dog, Nala.

Though Nala had been a Christmas gift for the kids in 1995, it was Michael who could be seen walking her late at night, cigarette and cup of coffee in one hand, leash in the other. Occasionally, they would stop by the house at night for "a viewing." His work schedule was so crazy, a "view" was all you could hope for. He would come in, and despite my mild protest about Nala, she would come in with him. I'm a pet person, but there was something about Nala that I didn't like. Perhaps she was too big, I'm a small dog person - I just don't know. Michael's answer to any complaint was simple: "Love me... Love my Dog."

For the first few weeks after he died, Nala would lie by the front door whimpering, crying for him to come home. Then she took up her position as a watchdog for Michael's widow, very protective, always alert. The two of them mourning, side by side.

Last Sunday, with a tumor the size of a grapefruit and her quality of life slipping away daily, Nala was put to sleep. She was thirteen years old.

Now - I think about Michael all the time- sharing stories with friends and family- but when Nala died, a flood of memories came back. These memories seemed to be universal on our block. As if Nala was a link to Michael and we were losing him all over again. There were lots of tears on Sunday, many for Nala, but strangely many more for Michael.

Since Sunday and Nala's passing I have started to look at our dog Sidney differently, wondering if he is a link to us. I ask myself "What does he know? What does he think?"

Michael would have made fun of this internal conversation of mine. But then again, he's the one who said "Love me... Love my Dog."

Sidney Augustus Torre

OCO3

A couple of years ago, I was sitting talking with my cousin. She was complaining about her two younger sisters. According to them, anything and everything that went wrong in the world was her fault.

Now, when speaking to this particular cousin, I am usually doing a good impersonation of someone listening. In reality, I am screaming in my head for her to shut up. Complaining is her default postion and there is only so much I can take. But this time something clicked, and I heard myself say, "Yeah, I have the same thing with my two younger brothers."

We spent the rest of the night comparing stories and shocking each other with the similarities in our existence. I thought it had more to do with birth order and family dynamics. She stayed with the theory that her sisters are just plain nasty. Before that night ended we had formed OCO3: the society for the Oldest Child Of Three. A place where the abused and over-blamed, first born come together, commiserate and comfort each other. We have four members in our chapter: my mother, myself, my cousin and my eldest. The problem, of course, is there are at least are eight people in our family who work against the organization. And sometimes the attack is so baseless and so unhinged, all you can do is remember what OCO3 has taught you.

I had one of those moments yesterday. While speaking to one of my brothers--a person I speak to on the average of four times a day--he informed me that I never listen to him. Nor do I "treat him like a human being." Under normal circumstances, I would have lost my temper. But the core rule of OCO3 stopped me from going crazy.

That rule simply says: Mom and Dad were older, clearly their genetic material was starting to degrade.

If anyone is interested in starting an OCO3 chapter, please let me know.

Also, Mr. Moose is making a Thanksgiving prediction: an uncomfortable time will be had by all.

Two Bros Rappin' in Beantown

In response to the question, "What's going on with your blog?" My answer was, "I don't want to keep writing about the election." That wasn't the purpose of the blog, I never want to read a single-focus work, so it stands to reason that I'd never want to write a single focus work.

As the final day to the endless campaign draws near I found a topic to share. And it has only a little bit to do with the election.

This past Saturday, I spent seven hours in Boston. The majority of the time was spent with my best friend and our time together centered in or around Trident Booksellers and Cafe.
If, as Sartre implies, "hell is other people," then for me , heaven is the Trident. It has books, great food, and a thousand different conversations all creating the soundtrack to whatever movie is showing on one of the flat screen TVs hanging over the counter. When I first went in City Lights was playing, a silent film classic. With no dialogue, the soundtrack of the store fought against the images on the screen. This was a bit disconcerting.

Then my friend came in and our conversation added to the mix. We spoke about the election, about "The West Wing." Off the air for two-and-a-half years, it still is the best education in both the power and powerlessness of the presidency. As always we touched upon events that are currently shaping both of our worlds. Work, money, family, a normal conversation between two people whose lives have be intertwined for almost thirty years.

The Trident was filled with flyers advertising the all-day election coverage that would be broadcasting on Tuesday,from the TVs currently showing Chaplin. The flyers were the best example of the home-grown mania that is gripping the nation. The main flyer featured a picture of Tina Fey as Sarah Palin. I hope the coverage on election night will be half as entertaining.
We left the Trident and, as we walked and talked, my friend a long time resident of the area, kept up his streak of being unable to identify any historic landmark in Boston. To any question, his response was the same. "How should I know?" or the annoyed "Take a tour!"

Hours and many conversations later, we returned to the Trident for coffee and dessert. We sat at the counter right in front of a TV. Ghostbusters was starting. No sound, just the thousand conversations. As our conversation a fairly intense one continued, we watched Bill Murray's smirks and looks of shock that made him famous. We laughed and remarked how everytime we saw Murray it made us think of our college friend Jim.

As our seventh hour was coming to a close it occured to me that the election that had occupied so many of our phone calls from "The Garden State" to "Beantown", had played only a minor part of our time together.

While driving home I felt that essense of our day was going to be a common one in America after next week. Certainly on Wednesday there will be a great cheer from one group and a cry of agony from another. One of the men running for president will begin the transition process toward taking office. While the other will begin the transition process of defining a new political future. But once the cheers and screams fade we will all be more focused on our conversations about work, money and family. No longer will we be distracted by the constant coverage, the unending verbal malstrom of point counter point; no matter how entertaining it can be. We will have a new president-elect. And everyone will be waiting for him to take over, waiting for him to make a difference. History suggests that that is not always possible. But we gotta believe.

That belief isn't baseless either. Men have picked up the reins of office and helped America refocus herself. And I think this is why we vote. We are always hopeful, always optimistic about tomorrow.

I still feel this entry is not about the election. It has more to do with us, and our best friends and our families and everyone sitting at the Trident and all the places like it across the nation.

Context, Content, Comedy

In our house the television show Scrubs is a favorite. We watch it in reruns, we watch it on DVD, we watch in prime time. For those not familiar, Scrubs is a half-hour situation comedy based in a hospital. After seven years on NBC, it will be moving to ABC this year. In reruns, it has been running on Comedy Central for years and in the NYC area on the local Fox affiliate in the early morning hours.

On Labor Day, Scrubs was added to the TV Land family of shows. This follows the current TV Land philosophy of running more modern shows in prime time, as opposed to old "classics."

As a lifetime rerun watcher, I am always scared of the edits a show goes through to fit a network's commercial sales package.

When the first episode started on Monday, it was in fact the first episode of the series, "My First Day."

Things were going along just fine. Then came a scene well-known to Scrubs fans. John C. McGinley (Dr. Cox) was explaining to Zach Braff (J.D.) the dos and don'ts of hospitals. During the scene, Cox is referring the problems of caring for the elderly in front of an old woman he has been pushing in a wheelchair.

J.D. is shocked at his behavior and finally suggests that the patient might overhear. Cox reassures him by saying the woman was dead. He ends by explaining "If you push around a stiff nobody will ask you to do anything."

He then leaves the room, the scene ends.

If you watched this on TV Land on Monday, you might have been confused and disturbed because this seems just plain wrong.

But that is not how the scene played out in prime time, on DVD or even on Comedy Central. In all the other versions, Cox exits, the woman opens her eyes and says "I'm not dead" to a shocked JD.

And that is the essence of the show. You can almost imagine Cox wheeling this woman down a corridor and saying , "Listen I need to make a point to a new intern, just sit in the chair like you are asleep."

Do editors watch the show they are cutting? How can you cut without seeing the impact on the content, the context or the comedy? For anyone seeing that show for the first time it must have seemed cruel and sick, not what the writers intended.

Syndicators: Please have someone watch and figure out where the extra 30 seconds you need for a commercial can come from. Don't just cut the ends of the scenes; quite often that is where the punch line lives.

Gotta Ask

On November 5, 1912, Woodrow Wilson was elected president. He beat out Teddy Roosevelt, who was running as the candidate of the Progressive party. Incumbent president William Howard Taft came in third place. As amazing as TR's showing as the only third-party candidate to come in second in a presidential election, the real story took place just over three weeks before. On October 14, 1912 on his way to make a campaign speech in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Theodore Roosevelt was shot in the chest. He gave the speech before getting medical attention.

Eight presidents and seven vice presidents have died during their terms in office, yet no one nominated has ever died before the election. Teddy was as close as we've come.

I bring this info to your attention as a preface to an important question:

By the end of this week both parties will have their nominees in place, with vice presidential candidates handpicked and nominated as well.

What would happened to the tickets if there was an untimely death? Are the political parties committed to the legacy of the candidates? In other words: If something were to happen to either Presidential candidate, would the vice president selection--a person who was not vetted by the primary system--be the new candidate?

Does that "heartbeat away" include the time before the election?

Would the voters feel comfortable with either of the VP candidates as their first choice for president?

Because it seems to me that if the answer is "no," if you are questioning the choice before the election, you had better question the choice before you vote.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation: The Confession of a Flip-flopper

I started the month of August with a plan.

Boycott the Olympics in China.

This was going to be tough for me, since the Olympics have always been a favorite of mine. Still, I have never gotten over Tiananmen Square. I have never been able to accept that George H. W. Bush and Bill Clinton deliberately and openly gave the Chinese totalitarian government the keys to our economy.

All of our bluster about human rights is just that, wind blowing through the tree tops. It finally occured to me what Paddy Chayefsky was talking about:

"You are an old man who thinks in terms of nations and peoples. There are no nations; there are no peoples. There are no Russians. There are no Arabs. There is no third world. There is no west. There is only one holistic system of systems; one vast interwoven, interacting, multivariate multinational dominion of dollars. Petrodollars, electrodollars, reichmarks, rubles, rin, pounds and shekels. It is the international system of currency that determines the totality of life on this planet. That is the natural order of things today."

And while my nuclear family marveled at the opening ceremonies, I sat in another room fueling my anger by immersing myself in the latest Martin Cruz Smith/Arkady Renko novel. Renko would agree with me. We would share some vodka and shake our heads comfortable in our righteousness.

Then the first race began.

For the next 20 days, I watched everything. It was great. The races, the contests of strength, of speed, of agility. It was a great Olympics, and I was thrilled to watch.

Then near the end, the men's marathon was run and in the middle of the race the runners passed Tiananmen Square. The NBC annoucer gave all the history: all the facts and figures about its size, both ancient Chinese as well as Communist names for the buildings. But not a word about 1989.

I waited. "Say something!" Would the Chinese cut the transmission? Had NBC agreed not to mention the event? Did no one remember? As the commentator told us how many football fields would fit into the square, I got sick to my stomach.


I was a sell out. I was the bluster.

I know that this is a temporary dip into self loathing. But I feel guilty.

Maybe the guilt is a good sign.


Before, I felt like Dr. Miles J. Bennell, screaming at the world, unable to get anyone to listen. Then I went to sleep and woke up just like everybody else. "Supporting the athletes," forgetting about all the realities behind the hypocrisy.

Then the marathon and the guilt.

Still, if no one cared about the Chinese, then no one cares about the guilt either.

Moose Droppings: Election, Part II

The election of 1964 was an anomaly. It was a referendum on the assassination of President Kennedy. Lyndon Johnson won 44 states and the District of Columbia (which was voting in its first-ever presidential election.)

Among those 44 states were Alaska, Idaho, Indiana, Kansas, Nebraska, North Dakota, Oklahoma, South Dakota, Utah, Virginia, and Wyoming. These eleven states have never again voted for the Democratic candidate for president.

Here is a more in depth look at the voting record of these states. In all cases the 1 represents the election of 1964.

Republican - Democrat

Alaska
1960-2004
12 elections, 11 - 1

Idaho
1952-2004
14 elections, 13 –1

Indiana
1940-2004
17 elections, 16 - 1

Kansas
1940-2004
17 elections, 16 – 1

Nebraska
1940-2004
17 elections, 16 – 1

North Dakota
1940-2004
17 elections, 16 – 1

Oklahoma
1952-2004
14 elections, 13 - 1

South Dakota
1940-2004
17 elections, 16 – 1

Utah
1952-2004
14 elections, 13 – 1

Virginia
1952-2004
14 elections, 13 – 1

Wyoming
1952-2004
14 elections, 13 – 1

If this current election does not have an "outside factor", as so many of the anomaly elections do (1992, 1964, 1948, 1932, 1912), will any of those eleven states break their streak?

It is an odd thing about these six elections I have just listed. Something outside the norm influenced the outcome, and in all cases, a Democrat won.

So the question I would ask the two parties leaders is this: "If all conditions are normal, why would you waste your money campaigning in these states?"

If history is our guide, McCain should win them all without spending a dollar--and Obama will lose them all no matter what he spends.

In the interest of full disclosure, Minnesota and the District of Columbia are lined up on the Democratic side.

Democrat - Republican

Minnesota
1960-2004 12
elections, 11 – 1

District of Columbia
1964-2004
11 elections, 11 -0

Does any of this sound possible in a land of free choice? Is it true that we are so set in our way of thinking that the ground has to shake for a change to occur?

Is either candidate really a man of difference and can people so entrenched in history respond to change?

I know this entry presents many questions, but the time to ask them is before we cast our votes.

Dear Batman...

Dear Batman,

With all due respect, you are not a superhero and you should never been confused with one. You are a crime fighter. Actually, you are a twisted, unhappy, brooding man who uses crime fighting as therapy. And your brand of crime fighting gets people killed. Fortunately for you, they are usually people you care about, and thus the cycle continues.

Thanks but no thanks. See a shrink. You are a billionaire, you can afford wall-to-wall therapists.

I for one am happy with Superman. Happy, friendly, invincible. Adoptive father died from a heart attack. No need to track down a bad guy, or even sulk. Shed a tear, give a donation to the Heart Fund, then try and be the kind of man your father would have been proud to know.

To the creative team of the The Dark Knight: thank you, thank you, and thank you for showing us a Batman with all of his warts on parade. I, for one, certainly prefer this look at the caped crusader-it is much more in line with both my and my Batman obsessed, holiday ruining brother’s understanding of the character.

As the credits started rolling on "The Empire Strikes Back II", I once again thought to myself, “Do I really have to feel sick for two years?” The answer, of course, is yes. 'Cause that’s how franchises get ya.

Signed,

C. Kent

June 1938

Ken, David and Shelby

This September will mark the 18th anniversary of the premiere of Ken Burns’ documentary masterpiece, The Civil War. If the “war between the states” was an interest of yours, everything you had ever read led up to this event. If your exposure to the subject was a chapter in a high school history book, then this was a real education. I had the pleasure of meeting Ken Burns two years ago at a media event in New York City. It was very hard not to act like Ethel Mertz when she met John Wayne. We spoke for about fifteen minutes and I was honored to be able to give him my thoughts on his contributions to history, education and the fulfillment of television's original promise.

My current viewing of this series was started by a piece I had read on Gettysburg. I wanted to see the episode of The Civil War that covered this historic battle, but I found it impossible not to start at the beginning. This was the first time I had watched the series since the death of Shelby Foote (1916-2005). Foote, a novelist and historian, played a major role in the documentary. Now, I saw what I had not noticed before, the structure of the narration. Ken Burns had brought together the perfect broadcast team to present this historic “sporting event”.

Author and historian David McCullough as narrator played the part of the play-by-play man, giving a detailed account of the events and the people we were seeing and learning about. Foote filled the position of the color commentator, sharing with the viewer the insights and stories that made these “ancient” names and events current and ever so human.

Each of these men has a distinct voice, a sound and a style that very quickly becomes familiar to the listener. After one episode you are so in tuned with their inflections that a change in tone sends your heart beating faster as you wait for the next story that will change your view on this pivotal moment in our nation’s history.

Normally I would use this topic to discuss the historic importance of this event or that. Today I just want to give you a different view of a fabulous resource. It harkens back to the dawn of civilization when our histories were passed down to the next generation orally. One can only imagine the storyteller possessing both a strong memory and a commanding voice. Burns's use of still photography took the place of cave paintings. The only real movement and life they had was with the accompanying words.

Last fall I sat in a lecture hall to hear David McCullough talk about Franco-American relations. I sat with my eyes closed. The voice of this story teller supplied the rest.

Watch the series again. Listen to the series again. Pay attention to this “historical tag-team” as they breakdown the battles, politics and humanity of the re-creation of the United Sates. And if you happen to run into Ken Burns, tell him Mr. Moose says, "Thanks again."

That's freakin' huge!

My oldest is not a morning person. So when she starts a conversation in the car at 7 a.m., I jump right on board.

“That new Target?”

“Yeah?”

“The last time I was there it was a hole in the ground, they had just started building.”

“It has been open, a couple months. “

“I pulled up and like WOW! It’s ginormous!”

“Ginormous?”

"It’s a combination of gigantic and enormous."

"Which is bigger?"

"It is gigantic, then enormous, then ginormous."

"So ginormous is the biggest?"

"Yeah."

"What about 'titanic'?"

She thought for a moment, and then said:

"Titanic is bigger than both gigantic and enormous, but not ginormous."

"So why wouldn’t you use a combination of titanic and enormous, 'tinormus.'"

"Because that sounds stupid, besides it is a building not a ship. Titanic works only for boats."

"Ah, so ginormous is simply a land measurement."

"Yes."


I left her at the bus stop and she went to work. I ran directly to the source. In generations past, the source could have been a religious leader, a parent, a teacher even a librarian. For me the source is Google.

I entered "ginormous."

Here is what I found. At http://www.unwords.com/unword/ginormous.html, the Unword Dictionary says:

Definition of ginormous :.
(jī-nôr'm s)
1. 1. (adj.) Used to describe something so large that it is additively gigantic and enormous.

Origins: The contraction of gigantic or giant and enormous. This word is very close to acceptance into today's vocabulary.

Example: "Millicent, that 32 pound cat of yours is ginormous!" "That's freakin' huge! That's ginormous!"

Freakin’! I know what freakin’ means but I needed the Unword Dictionary’s definition.

And guess what? They don’t have one. How can you use a word in a definition that doesn’t exist in your own dictionary? I found myself slowly slipping into the pit of confusion that makes up most of my waking hours. So I left the Unword Dictionary and returned to the Google home page where I once again saw my search for Ginormus, Where a second glance revealed this:

http://www.usatoday.com/life/books/2007-07-10-dictionary-new-words_N.htm

It seems that in 2007, Merriam-Webster, added Ginormus to their collegiate dictionary.

And the here is where my head started pounding.

gi·nor·mous
\jī-nor-ms\
Function: adjective
Etymology: gigantic + enormous
Date: circa 1948
: extremely large : humongous


1948? 1948! Come on! And what about humongous? How is ginormus bigger than humongous?

These are now the tasks infront of me.

1. Find the 1948 birthplace of ginormous;
2. Find humongous’ place in the “big word” list;
3. Find a dictionary that has "freakin’"

because Merriam Webster did not have it either. It did have freaking and I'm sure its the same thing! But still I need freakin'!

The worst thing about this is that when my daughter checks in to this blog, she will say, "See, I told ya."