Why not? A personal plug: Barack Obama

Family, friends, foes, funkadelic-fiends,

At the risk of conveying unearned (and unwanted) self-importance, I think this presidential election is too important to remain close-lipped. My influence is scarce, if existent, but I figure it's worth doing anything in my power to get out a couple votes.

If you favor a rigidly conservative agenda, you needn't read on. Our differences are likely unbridgeable right now, and we can chat later (plus, you can't vote in the primaries of interest, anyways...Correction, you CAN vote in a few states' democratic primaries if you forgo your vote in their respective Republican primary). On the other hand, if you're anywhere from moderate to liberal, Independent to Democrat, I urge you in the strongest words to vote for Barack Obama in your respective state's Democratic caucus/primary.

I don't consider myself a political expert, by any means. Some of you far outpace me in your obsession with these things. I have, however, followed the campaigns closer-than-most in the last 3 months. Before that, I read what the newspapers told me. We could argue about the almost imperceptible policy differences that separate Obama and Clinton (such as Health Care approaches, if illegal immigrants should get drivers licenses with their citizenship, what world leaders they'll converse with in the first 12 months of their administrations, etc.), but those aren't the distinguishing items between the two candidates.

I'll even spare you my heartfelt stump-speech that does explore the differences between the two: that sound judgement (ie. Clinton voted to authorize Iraq; Obama made an historical speech against doing so) and character (Obama's ability to galvanize the electorate is uncanny) eclipse #years of Washington/political involvement…that no (wo)man is an island, and any president will have legions of policy aides and advisers helping them make decisions, not to mention the legislative apparatuses that temper any executive's ruling fist.

I'll just say this:

IF IT'S CLINTON VS. MCCAIN, MCCAIN IS VIRTUALLY GUARANTEED TO WIN IN NOVEMBER. On a personal level, I can't even claim this would be Armageddon. I like McCain's candor and perseverance compared to Clinton's disingenuous political-persona-of-the

-moment. His policies, however, have gravitated dangerously to the conservative end of the spectrum that's devastated our country over the last 8 years. Although the Republican base has been hesitant to jump behind McCain, they're increasingly willing to do so. Unless Mitt Romney pulls some miracle out of his deep pockets on Tuesday, McCain will essentially secure himself the Republican nomination.

The crucial point is this: even with McCain's gravitation rightward, he maintains his maverick credentials and will likely sweep moderates and independents his way in a general election. Meanwhile, Hillary Clinton, and the unavoidable baggage that comes from her husband's administration, so inspires the ire of significant decisive voting blocs, that her polarizing effect will only catalyze the flood of votes going McCain's way.

On the other hand, Barack Obama has the personal appeal, demonstrated ability to sponsor legislation that bridges the left/right divide and, most importantly, a clear stance against the Iraq war, which will likely once again vie with the economy as the defining issue in the general election. IN EFFECT, OBAMA VS. MCCAIN ALMOST CERTAINLY GOES TO OBAMA. As a matter of fact, adding to the tally of high-profile endorsement for Obama is President Eisenhower's granddaughter (recall, he was a Republican president) in an op-ed piece published in today's Washington Post. And I quote: "If the Democratic Party chooses Obama as its candidate, this lifelong Republican will work to get him elected and encourage him to seek strategic solutions to meet America's greatest challenges. To be successful, our president will need bipartisan help." That's indicative of the kind of moderate support Obama is gathering.

I'm voting for Obama on his own merits. That decision was made before this race became so incredibly close and fluid. Never has a politician inspired me with such a potent combination of intellect, candor, and charisma as has Obama. But if that's not enough, or if you disagree, please atleast think strategically about your vote. Your vote for Clinton could ring the death knell for Democrats' chances in November. With every passing day, Obama closes the slight lead Clinton maintains in the polls, but Super Tuesday, and the subsequent round of states in early February, is closing in fast.

If you agree with this, GET OUT AND VOTE IN YOUR STATE'S DEMOCRATIC PRIMARY/CAUCUS! Talk to your friends and family too. I'm not personally spearheading any of this, I'm just playing my small part. I've been inspired by other people who've already played their small part and I want to keep this movement going.

The Pit: Part II

The Pit: Part I

Slam down the peanut butter and jelly, devour the banana, inhale the entire pack of fruit snacks in a single mouthful…it’s time to roll! Lunge to the backdoor, apologize to dad for running in the house, nudge the screen a couple times to awaken the black lab snoozing on the other side, wait for him to contemptuously move his restive dog-days bulk from the comfort of a shady and cool metallic screen door, and rush to the bike rack.

Ahh, the bike!

Now, few material possessions quite defined a nine year old like his dirt bike. First of all, did he have a dirt bike? Some kids chose ten-speeds, a few had only scooters or rollerblades, one or two were solely skateboarders, some denied the thrill of wheels and spent their summers in basketball and baseball camps. So the pool narrowed significantly right away. But let’s be honest with each other, the real crème de la summer’s crop--rich or poor--had a dirt bike. Now among us brave and noble souls who concentrated our attention on the world of the dirt bike, there were really two tiers.

The top tier had notable characteristics: these were the kids who had the pegs on the back and on the front tires. Instead of a web of spokes, you would only see the svelte blades of five chrome supports jutting from the central wheel to it’s rubber tire. So hot, so hot. These kids had frames that weighed an ounce, exhibited more fancy silver metal, and probably showcased the coolest dragon and skeleton designs a grade schooler could ever want. For them, the brakes weren’t even a question: hand-operated.

I found my place among the prosaic ranks of the simpler models. There were no pegs on my bike. I dealt with a forest of rusting spokes and my parents would have killed me had I removed the red reflectors that screamed “uncool”. My red huffy was a bit heavier than ideal and couldn’t claim much for design. And, of course, the brakes were foot-operated, so I wasn’t wooing any fans on that front. In short, it was a working man’s bike. It didn’t dazzle at the get-go, but it put me in the game and that’s all you really needed. I couldn’t flash it on the blacktop but it was sufficient to make me show up.

Besides, the real beauty came later because here was a world where merit competed vigorously with hardware to establish one’s rank. And maybe that was one of the core wonders of our dirt bike world: a first glimpse at the tug-of-war between having and earning. We learned that some who had still earned. We learned that some who didn’t have were afraid to earn. We learned that some who had couldn’t earn. We learned that to have a little was enough to let us earn alot. These were pivotal lessons that only the philosophy of adulthood can encapsulate in words, but maybe, just maybe, they impressed themselves upon a nascent and untamed thread of understanding that children surely develop earlier than they’re given credit.

But that’s all peripheral, so back to the important stuff...Grab the bike, pop the kickstand, open the back gate, make sure the dog doesn’t get out, close it, and you’re almost there.

One last obstacle: Mr. Krell (RIP), our septuagenarian once-and-future-lawyer neighbor was likely watering the northern half of our driveway and any cars that might be sitting there, so the exit down the side of the house had to be fast and furious. If you’ve ever imagined a bass-voiced crow with a bullhorn grinding away at his own vocal cords with a rusty chainsaw, then you’ve started to imagine Mr. Krell’s neighborhood-rattling throat-clearings. Good lord, those things came less from the bottom of his bowels and more from the bottom of a Rancour’s den! But the real problem lay less in his phlegmy effusions, and more in his loquacious ramblings and insistence on a fourth grader having determined the exact progression of his collegiate and graduate school training, combined with atleast a solid understanding of the economic state of various professions and how that should influence the early workplace maneuverings. So, needless to say, you had to tear at breakneck speed down the side of the house and across the driveway and allow Mr. Krell nothing more than a salute in-passing or you’d surely be roped in for an hour.

Now there was only one more stop before The Pit: Tim Snell’s house to rendezvous with your comrade in bikes.

A Challenger for Duct Tape?

This stuff is pretty cool and worth checking out. The artist is Mark Jenkins and the medium is packing tape.

The Pit (Part I)

If you awoke on a summer morning in my part of eastern Washington state in the late 80's, you were greeted by the warm, dry rays of a vibrant sun prebaking our sub-alpine heights. The air there carried a virginal quality as the putrid fumes of humidity wielded no power and the 2500 foot elevation thinned the molecules. Pine trees salted the air with their cleansing aromas and grasshoppers occasionally contended with the sparrows for a piece of the aural action.

For a fourth grader on summer vacation, this was perpetual bliss. The tetherball courts at the elementary school were empty and no yellow balls hung on the ends of those metal chains. The bells still rang in the school building because the principle forgot to turn them off for
the summer months. Times tables and cursive-writing disappeared into the hazy past. The water balloon fights during the last week of school were over which, unfathomably, the teachers had allowed and even encouraged. The classroom and recess world faded away into a distant memory as the present utopia of summer vacation blossomed before us.

For someone in my oppressed state, wrathful parents never ceased their tyranny so daily chores took precedence over an early start. First, their was laundry to fold in the cold basement where you could actually get goose bumps from the dark chill. Down in that hidden
world, green luminescent letters dotted the screen of our dual floppy-disk drive Macintosh computer in the next room where Below the Root, Snakebite, and Word Munchers capitalized upon their much needed respite from over-eager children and amused parents. If you glanced in there, you'd think Slimer was hiding behind a closet door.

So, there was laundry to fold, there were bathrooms to clean with buckets of hot water and pinesol, carpets needed vacuuming, lawns needed mowing, patios needed sweeping, dogpoop needed shoveling, and flourbeds needed weeding. Oh, the onerous weeds! Day in and day out
those weeds proliferated with a vengeance unrivaled by the ravaging Hun armies. Not only were the bigger ones sheathed in a coat of microscale razors, but the little ones refused to part with their roots and multiplied overnight like the beheaded Hydra.

But once these chores were done, there was nothing to stop a nine year old from reaching his promised land: The Pit.

The Pit: Part II

Sushi Guy

Walk into any inexpensive sushi bar in the city. Grab a table. Sit down. Imagine for a moment that you've avoided that nefarious soul who haunts your maki dreams; imagine that you're safe. But alas! Try as you might, he'll find you. Whether through karmic (in)justice or the premeditated viciousness of a sadist, this gentleman will slither into a booth within earshot and unveil his poisonous fangs.

You know, of course, that I'm talking about Sushi Guy.

Sushi Guys come in all sorts of exterior variations which makes them difficult to tag on a quick scan of the room. Among the most prevalent, however, are the ones I codename Marcus: seniors in college, normally some background in theatre, caucasian, undersexed, wearing short-sleeve button-ups that scream "just try to call me an engineer, you plebian who's utterly oblivious to meaning of the japanese symbol plastered on my undershirt!".

Marcus always brings 'friends' to sushi, but never another Marcus. When this man is in his element, the room's not big enough to share. With barely concealed contempt, he cringes as his novice underlings order their California and tuna rolls but he also knows that everything is proceeding perfectly according to his plan.

And now he's on. This is the moment he's been savoring for days: The Order. First, he sets the menu down. Who needs a superfluous piece of paper when you practically invented the cuisine (in your dormroom). Marcus then asks the waitress about her personal favorites in the restaurants. When she replies that everything is "really good" but she especially "prefers the eel and octopus" he gives the knowing answer that he "always enjoys the eel cuts" from this restaurant but can only savor the octopus with heavy-salt soysauce and his "doctor advised against" excess sodium. Sadly, he must "opt for low-sodium" soysauce and, therefore, couldn't "do justice to the octopus".

[Here he steals a smug glance at his friends who hide behind recurrent sips from water glasses that have skyrocketed in appeal. He interprets that as tacit fawning over his exhibition of expertise. He proceeds.]

Tonight, he declares, he will only dine on nigiri and carefully selects each of the following (all japanese terms have been translated into english, but Marcus has capitalized upon his two quarters of high-school japanese and the 'Japan in World War II' history class he took last year to deconstruct the Japanese language and reassemble it into something resembling an eastern-flavored spanish): salmon roe, spanish mackerel, halibut, two abalones and, of course, sea eel (through notable stealth, he managed to fetch the menu again). Actually, "since everyone else seems to think it a good idea", he decides that a tuna roll is necessary so "he doesn't feel out of place" but, if it's not too much trouble, could he ask for brown rice on the roll, because he heard "that was how it was traditionally served." Although the waitress is covertly drilling a hole through his appalling head with her flashing eyes, her face is serene and she offers a polite smile to the group, and another polite nod to Marcus as she departs. Marcus was too busy to notice her eyes.

His entire 'presentation' proceeds at a decibel-level just above arena rock and just below a jet engine from 15-feet.

Marcus basks in the glory of his victory. His friends sip the last of their water and start crunching ice. You, seated two booths away from Marcus, try to calm your fury with warm sake and continue the conversation you forgot you were having. That conversation, my friend, is gone forever.

Dotted lines

Listen to the brambles and gravel crunch underneath the tires as you pull away from the curb. Feel the engine spit and gurgle while it awakens from its nap. See familiarity slip away in your rearview mirror as you round the corner. Taste the gusts of air sneak in through an open window. Smell diesel and hot asphalt and oak trees and dry grasses blend into a perfume of motion.

The road opens its arms and welcomes you into its universe.

What outwardly lookes like escapism is, in reality, an avenue to real introspection. You get to it by getting away from it. This is widdling away the distracting minutiae and focusing on the bigger picture.

This is the crucial combination of meditation's repetition and adventure's novelty: Dotted lines and whitewater. Dotted lines and skylines. Dotted lines and diners. Dotted lines and rolling green hills. Dotted lines and pink semis. Dotted lines and old friends in new lives. Dotted lines and new friends. Dotted lines and revelations, large and small.

Connection from disconnection.

Let me engage in this world, but remind me why I'm doing what I'm doing. Yank me away from my world and let me see another existence. Strip away preconceptions and blase dismissals. Usher me back to my world refreshed and enlightened.

I never found in a church what I find on the road. Maybe our church just doesn't have a roof.

So, here's to you, Caretaker of Ruth.

4 notes

1. Those subway and sewer vents in downtown are veritable chasms whispering my siren song. I'm not convinced that I won't plummet to my demise some day walking over those evil grates but I'll be damned if i'm not gonna risk it. I've observed the plight of my chewing gum and it's not pretty. But that's why I carry around my Mary Poppins umbrella. Well, one of the reasons I carry around my Mary Poppins umbrella.
2. The NBA playoffs are no longer my friend. I had three teams that I was really excited about watching. All three lost last round. Not only that, they either played half-ass or suffered the pangs and arrows of outrageous officiating. The only thing I can fall back on now are my childhood sweethearts, the Utah Jazz, which captivated every soon-to-be-five-eleven-white-kid-from-spokane-washington back in the day. But Mr. Stockton and his crew broke my heart too many times in adolescence for me to lightly dig those pompoms out of storage.
3. I swallowed a bug while running today. That little bastard bee-lined straight for my non-existent tonsils and fulfilled his kamikaze pledge. Although I'm not convinced that dying in a violent phlegm tornado is really that honorable, I must commend him on his aim.
4. I didn't really have a fourth point. But, damn, the first three were really good. Really, really good.

Tip of the day: ovens and renting

If you're like me, you're still stuck on the final legs of renting as you prepare to invest in your own palatial estate. Here's one thing to watch:

When you move into a new place, open up that compartment below the main oven chamber where many people store baking sheets, etc. Maybe, just maybe, some creative folk inhabited the apartment before you and thought it might serve as a nice receptacle for a stack of papers. Really, who could blame them? Then maybe, just maybe, you'll turn on your gas stove for a few minutes and soon find your apartment engulfed in heavy smoke. Perhaps next you'll attempt, unsuccessfully, to control the smoke and see the pleasant warm glow of orange flames issue forth from underneath your gas stove. Ooooh, delicious! In a wild, wacky, cool-aid style twist of events, maybe you'll then get the opportunity to visit with the local firefighters as they isolate and quench this nifty fire.

I've heard these stories so, kids, always keep an eye out for those little practical jokes your lovable ex-tenants might have concocted.

Cicadas are coming!

Cicadas are coming! Cicadas are coming!
Hear them stomping their feet to battlecry drumming,
I fear bulbous red eyes; here’s a shiny doubloon,
Stop the swarms of doom from excavating my tomb!

The scientists lie and declare that they’re harmless,
Anxiety, stress; I’m becoming a Pharm mess!
They will steal young children and hold them for ransom,
They will devour your face, nomatter how handsome.

For seventeen years they have been hatching their plan,
But don’t let them eat me with their monstrous wingspan,
For seventeen years they have been plotting my death,
Give me electrocution or poison by meth.

Yeah, yeah, you prune the treetops and aerate my soil,
You claim to minimize bugs through ravenous toil,
Sing your own praises you contemporary plague,
Tell your all-male chorus it’s an onerous nag.

I dodged you back in DC and hail from the west,
So this will constitute my inaugural test,
Call me an alarmist, extremist, curmudgeon
But if need be I’ll slice ‘ya, dice ‘ya, and bludgeon.

Strategic walking: showdown on sedgwick street

I had a terrifying experience on the hard streets of Lincoln Park the other day. There I was, minding my own business while en route to the train. And that’s when I saw that two-bit jackal of a walker: me.

You see, I walk a lot. I live in cities, mostly rely on trains and buses for longer trips, then fill in whatever gaps this public transportation can’t cover by trekking on foot. I like walking. It’s how I learn about neighborhoods and see the underbelly of bridges and figure out what’s in all those stores with crowded signs that I couldn’t interpret at 30 mph.

So I’ve had a lot of practice and I take pride in having honed a pretty smooth walking style that maximizes my flow and the flow of those around me. Having diligently studied the art for years, I’m keenly aware of different walking styles and I’ve worked to adapt my own approach to any circumstances.

For instance, in the subway stations and streets of New York I was a darter: you’re dealing with a swarm of people who’re out for blood, so you can’t expect anyone to yield to you. Plus, there’s rarely room to forge your own path on the perimeter of the flow so you have to work in the same spaces as the masses. That means you take the openings when you find them. You move fast, often laterally, and always have your eyes two or three people ahead to gauge the plans of those in your vicinity.

In Washington, I played the perimeter game. It's a more conservative place, so although the sidewalks and subways might have pedestrians, you could normally squeeze a bit of space to yourself on slightly riskier terrain, i.e. streets and rumble strips next to the subway tracks. It was a little dangerous, but the rewards were plentiful so if you kept your head, you’d move swiftly and safely beyond the masses.

Here in Chicago, I haven’t quite developed my local style but I’ve performed relatively well by varying my approach with a given neighborhood. All was going swimmingly until the other day:

You see, I was playing the rumination card during a mid-morning stroll, so I had my head ducked a bit and hands tucked safely in the pockets. My pace was brisk, but not dangerously so. I snuck a surreptitious glance ahead on the sidewalk-which is a crucial element of this advanced walk style. Sure enough, I spotted somebody approaching me directly about 50 feet ahead.

No big deal. The alarms didn’t blare immediately because my sentinels didn’t sniff any trouble. They’ve since been replaced. So I resumed my downward glance but was startled a moment later by some shuffling gravel ahead.

This joker was moving faster than anticipated! My nerves tingled slightly as I quickly glanced upward, still trying not to make any direct eye contact. At this moment, I realized that I’d have to make the first move to prevent certain peril. If I did it now, this guy probably wouldn’t pay any attention to our awkward situation and we’d pass each other anonymously and safely. No harm done. We still had about 35 feet of separation at this point but were closing on each other rapidly. I mustered my courage and veered slightly to the right, thinking this would suffice for a close, but safe pass.

To my horror, I realized he had made the same veer to his left. Outrageous, I thought, as we raced directly at each other. Having faced this uncomfortable situation a few times before, I felt certain there was still time. 25 feet. Alright, we both made the early calculation that this scenario could be troublesome, I thought, so we’re both going to make an equally quick decision to take the second move. This dude’s legit, but If I play my cards right, I let him make this second dodge to his right to avoid the collision. It may give him the glory, but it lets us both walk another day.

So, thinking I was the better man, I sucked it up and maintained my course. But the fires of Hades burned for me that day because this half-wit refused to take the move that I handed him on a silver platter. Instead, through his gross negligence and brazen unwillingness to make the second sway, we were careening headlong towards each other with precious seconds ticking away.

My god, I thought, this could be it. I thought back to all the training I’d done the previous years to get to this elite level of walking. Could it really all be for naught?

12 feet. 12 feet separated me from this cold-blooded killer. He’ll probably take a swipe at my knee as he passes, level me with an elbow to the temple, or poke my eyes out with a fork and leave me writhing on the cold, hard cement to be put out of my misery by a passing Fed-Ex truck, I thought. Why, oh Why?!!

Knowing it was now or never, I dropped the act and faced this insufferable fool with straight eye contact. But oh no! Oh lord, those eyes! Those eyes burning with a manic expression of fury and fear; those eyes were my eyes. This fool wasn’t a ravenous blood-thirsty contract killer out for nothing but another obituary and a stack of cash. This was just a poor novice thrown into a walk-off he’d never dreamed could have such high stakes!

6 feet. I went even farther right, he went even farther to his left. 4 feet. A shriek, a holler, bystanders covering their children’s eyes to prevent permanent trauma. Hands out of pockets, a slide to the left on loose gravel followed by an unimaginable, pivot-foot-270-degree-hop-from-the-off-foot carried out in unison like a synchronized swimming pair performing for their lives in front of an otherwise bored shah looking for two additions to his head-on-a-pike collection for the terrace of the summer palace. Scheherazade, your spirit lived with us that day.

My heart skipped a beat as I felt the cold wind of his being pass within a centimeter of me. Breath held and senses numbed, we looked at each other as if in slow motion as we dusted off our shoes and backed away slowly. There were no laughs, there was only terror. A tragedy was averted by the tiniest of margins and we were shaken beyond comprehension. I’d lost my cool, my reputation was blown in this neighborhood and I’d never walk with the same bravado that turned heads on passing buses. I was done here.

That walk could have ended it all. The rumination strut is out for now. I’ll have to rethink my entire Chicago strategy. As for that poor fool, I can only hope that he has the sense to take a gift the next time it’s offered. Maybe, just maybe, it’ll save his walk and his life.