The Aerie
Okay, so a few days ago Classmates sends me its regular spam that I
have however-many new classmates. I run out there, and lo and behold I
actually see someone to whom I wish to speak. Stacy was a year younger
than me, and a girl (at the time) with a sense of what was right for
her, and what she wanted, which I always admired.
[P2270007.jpg] I had actually been closer to her older sister,
Christa, who was a junior when I was a freshman. Christa was extremely
kind to me, treating a callow freshman as an equal, and introducing me
to some of the social customs of high school. "You don't get invited
to parties, you just go," she told me one time. I was a dorky kid who
had only moved to Minnesota the year before, while she was an
attractive junior, but the reasons for her superior social status
weren't yet clear to me.
Anyway, the next party that she heard about, she invited me to come
along, and I discovered that, in St. Francis, "party" didn't mean what
I thought. I always thought of a "party" as an indoor affair, with
music, food, dancing, and whatnot. Instead I stood freezing in a field
in the October gloom, listening to the radio through the open windows
of a pickup truck (this was before the invention of the boombox). A
crowd of strange upperclassmen jostled for position around a large
bonfire, driking 3/2 beer and trying to balance cold, flame, beer, and
smoke while thinking of something clever to say to each other.
[P2270009.JPG] Next year Christa graduated and Stacy was a freshman.
We were involved in the theater crowd at school and worked a lot of
stage crew together.
Twenty-five years later I e-mail her a hello and I learn that since
last we spoke she's become a glassblower -- one of the few female
glassblowers in Minnesota (yes, I'm sure she's heard all the jokes).
And it just so happens that she has a show opening Thursday
(yesterday) at the College of St. Thomas just across the river from my
home.
So before my weekly roleplaying game, I grabbed my digital camera,and
headed off to see what kind of glassblower, and what kind of woman,
Stacy had turned out to be.
[P2270016.JPG] The show was very small, just a gathering with wine and
cheese and a guitarist around a pair of cases showing a few items of
glass in one, and pottery in another. I quickly spotted Stacy, who was
much as I recalled her except with gray hair, and she hugged me in
greeting.
But Stacy was balancing 25 years of catch-up with the duties of being
the cause celebre, so she eventually introduced me to her oldest
syster, Dana. We chatted about Stacy for a few moments, and then I
asked.
"So how is your middle sister, Christa?"
[P2270022.JPG] "Oh,", Dana said, "She died last week. Breast cancer."
"WHAT!?" I cried. It hit me like a bat to the forehead. Not again!
Only last year I broke down and JOINED Classmates.com because I
[1]couldn't locate Maria from fourth grade, only to learn she'd died a
month before of a brain aneurysm. Not again!
But unfortunately, it was so.
Stacy later confessed that Christa had died shortly before Stacy
joined classmates.com, but she hadn't wanted to tell me about her
sister via e-mail after reading about my father and about Moldy on
here.
"I don't want to, like, offend you by saying this," she said, "but
I've always thought of you as a, um, a FEELING kind of guy. I don't
want to use the term 'sensitive male'."
I accepted her categorization as a compliment. And I agreed with her
that e-mail is not the best way to communicate this kind of news.
[P2270026.JPG]
Well, I stayed till the end of the show (about half an hour), met her
husband and some friends, agreed to get together sometime, etc. I left
the show and went off to my weekly game feeling wholly drained of
energy.
"What the fuck is with the cancer?" I wondered. I stopped at a store
to get a snack, and there was an old lady in the aisle. "How do you do
it?" I wanted to ask her, "How do you survive watching your friends
die as you age?" I didn't though.
[P2270027.JPG] As I was walking up the drive to my game I finally
grasped a phrase from [2]The Flaming Lips' "Do You Realize?" The
longer I live, the chances increase to 100% that everyone I know will
die. I couldn't stand it anymore, and as a jet roared in overhead I
stood in the dark on his long driveway and yelled incoherently at the
top of my lungs in anger and frustration.
I will never see Christa again. This absolutely sucks. Or Dr. J. Or my
father. Or Mr. Rogers.
I hate cancer. I fucking hate fucking fucking cancer.
[3]Last
Honestly, as a child I found him boring.
I think it was only as an adult that I learned to appreciate Fred
Rogers. And of course a big part of that was the man-behind-the-image.
As part of a culture that seeks to raise and tear down icons, neither
I nor anybody else could get a claw into Fred Rogers' image. Maybe he
visisted hookers. Maybe he smoked crack. Maybe he kicked his dog.
Somehow I rather doubt it, but it's possible. If he did, it never made
the papers. No paparazzi managed to catch a photo of Mr. Rogers with a
snarl on his face.
And so he allowed me, allowed all of us really the chance to wonder if
maybe, just maybe, he was actually as nice a person as he seemed to
be.
A couple of years ago there was a segment of [1]This American Life
featuring a fellow who met Mr. Rogers both as a boy and, for the
interview, returned as an adult. If you listen to the piece, you can
almost hear the scrape of journalistic nails seeking purchase in Mr.
Rogers flawless good nature. The worst the cynically cheerful narrator
can do is stare in puzzlement at a man who, as an adult, is good, and
kind, and quiet, and able to play in a manner that most of us would
find embarassing because we're too worried about our image. Too
worried about shame.
And so Fred Rogers leaves us, and we are left with the very difficult
possibility that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't a flawed man who
successfully hid his foibles from the public eye. Maybe he was a
flawed man, as we all are flawed, but he simply overcame his
limitations and lived a good life. Maybe, just maybe, he was a nice,
kind, gentle man who was on screen exactly the way he was offscreen.
Maybe he was someone we can look up to. Maybe he was a role model.
Nothing sticks in the American craw worse than someone who really is
better than the rest of us.
I hope he was. I don't want to hear the posthumous revelations of
twisted puppet shows and trysts with Mr. McFeely. I don't even care
about the truth now that he's gone. The truth I'll keep is that he was
a nice, gentle man who devoted most of his life to speaking kindly to
children. And if he can live that life, then so can the rest of us if
we care to try.
He reached out of the screen to a nation of children raised on sugar
and video games and day care, and he said that he cared. He told them
that they were okay and that their feelings were okay, and that even
their fears were reasonable and bearable. And while he was teaching
children basic responsibility by example every time he remembered to
feed his fish, he was teaching us, his adult audience. By example he
was showing us that we can do everything it takes to be a parent
without raising our voices or shaming our children. He was reminding
us that what our children need isn't plastic or electronic, it's
emotional and temporal. And he was teaching, by example, that it's
possible to come home from work (as his show always started) and be a
good parent, even with very little energy.
Come home. Take off your shoes. Hang up your coat. Speak quietly to
your children as you go about your chores, showing them a good,
responsible life. And listen to them. For thirty years Fred Rogers
listened to children that he couldn't even see or hear. How hard can
it be for those of us with our kids right in front of us?
And if I found him boring as a child, well, that probably said more
about me, and us, than about him. He offered a quiet place, and I
chose the noise and excitement. That's what kids do. But for the sake
of all the kids who benefitted from Mr. Rogers' quiet Neighborhood, I
hope that he has now found his quiet, gentle place.
Bye Mr. Rogers. Thanks for being a quiet, kind, and loving presence
for so many children who otherwise might never have had one.
[2]Last
Moldy is out of the hospital, and apparently doing pretty well for a
man whose head is full of dead and living tumors, broken blood
vessels, and chemo drugs. Our buddy Avatar talked to him and said he
sounded tired but basically lucid. His wife, however, says he's
confused, having trouble with basic things like what a knife and fork
are for, and that his oncologist was very pessimistic that he'll ever
recover full use of his faculties.
This is just a little too similar to what happened to my dad three
months ago to be comfortable for me. Usually with flashbacks there's
some time between the initial event and the subsequent. This feels
more like the same thing continuing.
And I'm pissed at Moldy. His carelessness ("Gosh, I wonder if I should
see a doctor about this enlarged mole... naaah.") got him into this.
Two weeks ago everyone who cares for him gathered to show him they
support him... so he drives drunk to show how much he appreciates
their support. But of course there's not much I can do with this anger
(which is after all merely masking my despair).
So I don't know, I just gotta play it by ear for now. Hopefully he'll
bounce back. But according to his wife "His driving days are over,"
which is not an enthusiastic statement.
Bleah.
Okay, so last week I had to finish this big report, and Monday I
presented it. Fine, great. Everything went well.
And then I had... nothing. A week off or so. Normally, not good, since
work=money=life. But I have to finish [1]my book in a few days (March
1st), so I was looking forward to working on it this week.
Then the calls started to come. Clients, asking for work.
The human brain -- this human's brain anyway -- is a weird thing.
September of last year when a client called with work, I was on my
knees weeping with gratitude. Now I'm just annoyed.
So all week it's been do-the-first-thing-first. Set priorities, aim
for goals, get stuff done and out of the way and free up some time for
writing. And doing that, trying to FREE some time for writing, is
keeping me working solidly, efficiently, and very effectively, about
14 hours a day.
Today, which was open two days ago, is four hours of work at one
client in the morning, and four more in the afternoon at another.
This is GOOD! I want PAYING WORK! Then why am I so ANNOYED! Because I
want to get my book done, that's why. [2]Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs
as applied to privileged white male technogeek wannabe writers.
Okay, there, I vented that. Thank you for indulging me. I could have
bleeding brain tumors, a DUI and a wrecked car, and instead I have
people handing me paying work, and I'm complaining.
Must... maintain... perspective!
[3]Last
This time I'm referring to the weather. Man, it's gonna be NIPPY out
there tonight. Real Minnesota weather, the kind that builds character.
The kind that lends bragging rights. The kind that drives out the
riffraff. The criminal mindset is not one that finds spiritual value
in the endurance of hardship. No, the same process that finds it
easier to steal a dollar than earn a dollar finds it easier to move
south rather than endure the cold.
Besides, it's a lot harder to break into a house when opening any door
or window sends a torrent of bitterly cold air flooding across the
floor.
"Honey, I think someone's in the house!"
"What makes you say that?"
"The furnace just kicked in!"
So tonight is the night of Cold from Hell, probably the coldest night
of the year. It always strikes me as odd how the coldest weather comes
in February, a good two months after the daylight has resumed
increasing towards summer. Yes, it's just like August's 100-degree
days following June, I know, but that amazes me too, okay? I'm easily
amazed, and frequently astonished.
It's odd thinking about plus-100 degree weather when it's getting
colder than ten degrees below zero tonight. But it's in our future.
Makes me wish we could afford that central air this year, but it's not
in the cards: we're lucky we heard about the [1]Presto Bathroom on the
radio. That's where the refinancing money is going: new bathroom in
the basement. Amazingly affordable, too.
As for the Cold from Hell I and II, I'm finally over that bastard. Oy
vey, that was a nasty cold. I've had colds that were worse in the
"disgusting symptoms" category, including a sinus infection I can
still remember ten years after the fact. But this one was so friggin'
tiring. The whole time I had it I wanted to do nothing but sleep.
After my [2]last entry I fell back asleep, and by the time I woke up
on Thursday morning I'd been asleep for 28 of the latest 36 hours.
That shot my schedule to hell, missing two days of productivity. I'm
supposed to have [3]Mitlanyal finished by Saturday. Don't tell my
publisher, but that ain't gonna happen. I won't be too late, but I'm
still trying to get to-dos done that were due last week, so it'll be
Wednesday before I can even start on the damned thing. Sigh. Oh, I've
been working on it here and there, mostly proofreading and updating
some of the events and language, but the big stuff -- redoing the
calendars and rewriting some of the character sketches -- have been
piling up while illness and business kept me occupied.
All my whining is just that, whining. My eldest boy just had four
teeth pulled today in preparation for orthodontia, so really he holds
four cards that trump my complaints. "How was your day?" "Oh, I'm so
behind on my schedule, boo-hoo." "Oh, really, I just had four teeth
ripped out of my jaw by the roots..."
Ah, and then there's my buddy Moldy. The one from the [4]benefit
concert? Well, part of the benefit was to send him and his wife out to
L.A. to see the Rezillos. Well the Rezillos cancelled -- terrorism
scares kept them from being able to fly out of England, both Heathrow
and Gatwick shut down for the day.
So they had fun, but they didn't have fun at the Rezillos concert.
Then Moldy gets back last week, and on Sunday morning about 3:00 a.m.
he's driving home, he hits a couple of parked cars, and flips his car
over and lands on his roof.
Some acetylene torching later and a visit from the Jaws of Life, and
they get him to the ER to check him out. Bumps, bruises, nothing
serious except some bleeding on the brain, which they can't tell is
from the accident or from the cancer treatments. But they let him out
of the hospital under his own power, so hopefully that means that his
condition isn't as serious as the term "bleeding on the brain" might
indicate.
So now he's out a car, and possibly going to be out of a job if he
can't get to work on time.
So let's see... I had a bad cold, and now I have to work real hard.
My son had four teeth ripped out of his head.
Moldy has brain cancer, brain bleeding, misses his concert, a wrecks
his car, and now has various insurance and other hassles, and maybe
will have problems keeping his job.
Next time I start complaining, whether about colds or the weather,
somebody tell me to go stick my head in a bucket.
[5]Last
Hel-lo? Is this damn thing EVER going to let up?
I am still in the grip of the Cold from Hell. If I needed any evidence
that I'm aging, this would satisfy the demand. I don't think I've ever
had a cold hang on THIS long, and be THIS debilitating.
Of course, I haven't been the best patient. I took Saturday off very
deliberately, sacrificing one day as propitiation to Congestro, God of
Headcolds. Certainly one day of rest would make a difference?
But no. I managed to get some work done on Sunday, but had to sack out
in the afternoon with exhaustion. Then, Monday, well the report was
due and I hadn't gotten much done over the weekend, so I headed in to
the client site early and hustled my butt for eight hours. Lacking any
appetite or common sense, I barely ate or drank all day, as a result I
headed home dog tired.
Tuesday bright and early I was in downtown Minneapolis for the MLAA
conference, where my company was being a conference vendor for the
first time. This is like paying for the privilege of being a
wallflower at the school dance, but if the premise is ridiculous, at
least the territory was way familiar.
That was torture. My ears were ringing so that I couldn't hear
anything anyone said. Every word I spoke echoed in my head like a
gunshot in an empty oil tanker. And I kept having to stand and be
friendly and all I wanted to do was curl up and die someplace.
Fortunately I picked up some decongestant tablets, and they allowed me
to survive the final horrific moments of the conference with some
measure of dignity.
I headed home and crashed, missing dinner. Woke up for an hour around
8:00 p.m., and then crashed until 9:00 a.m. Moved around like a zombie
till noon, and crashed for another hour. Now it's coming up on
dinnertime, and I'm balancing the headache against the desire to lay
down again.
So today was another day of rest. Completely useless from the "Getting
anything done" point of view. Hopefully, however, my aging immune
system will have used the rest to get the upper hand on this cold.
We'll see what the morning brings (he types, yawning like an idiot
despite having been awake only eight hours in the last 24).
[1]Last
I'm host to the Cold from Hell today. Actually all week. I was sick
even at Moldy's benefit concert on Tuesday. Of course, Murphy's Law
being what it is, I'm as sick as hell during the week when I've got a
big report due, so I have no choice but to work. Particularly
yesterday: it was my last day for any significant testing, but I was
also sicker than I've been in years. Too bad, so sad, days like this
happen.
However I have to be realistic: there's no way I'm going to LIVE until
Monday's report presentation if I don't get some rest. So today is the
day off, with tomorrow being the big
writing-the-report-now-that-I've-rested day. That's the plan at least.
Hopefully writing my journal in bed with my computer on my lap counts
as "rest". I tried sleeping, but the headache wasn't having any of
that.
One thing I'd wanted to mention last week was playing chess with my
kids. The twins at eleven are now at my favorite age for kids.
Infants, fine, very nice: todders, sweet: little kids, cool, funny,
promising. But Tweens, these not-quite-kids-not-yet-adolescents, ah,
they're the greatest. You can talk with them, experience their growing
personalities, without the distraction of the raging hormones and
sullen indignations of full adolescence.
And you can play boardgames!
Now, my boy is the chess player. He amazes me in the ways he is and is
not like his father. Two of the things he does much better than I ever
could, or ever will, is assemble things according to instructions
(Legos, model planes, etc.) and also play chess.
Anyway, we've played chess many times. Usually I win, just because I'm
older and almost recklessly aggressive, while he is cautious and
conservative. Last Sunday was no different, I just kept picking off
his pieces until he couldn't prevent my replacing my queen (which he
had taken with proper strategy).
Then my daughter (who at the time was mad at me about something)
wanted to play. Now she's not a big chess player at all. But I
encouraged her to play in order to wreak her vengeance on me.
Now, I'm a complete shlub at chess. I have no idea what I'm doing. As
far as I know, my daugher is no more of a chess player than I am.
She's played it but only on request and has never shown great interest
in it.
So imagine my surprise -- and pride -- when after about six moves, she
checkmated me using the Fool's Mate.
As far as I know, she's never studied chess. I know that all I knew of
the Fool's Mate (which term I had to look up), was that there was a
quick-win trick to the game. As far as I knew, the victim practically
had to know what moves to make in order to allow the Fool's Mate to
happen.
But she just drew out her queen and bishop, and swept in to checkmate
me. When I asked her how she did it, she just said "Well, it looked
like you were weak because you opened up that hole."
That was the coolest feeling. The fact that I'd lost the game itself
was nothing. The fact that my daughter had displayed amazing
intelligence and strategy was tremendously rewarding.
[1]Last
Moldy is actually my oldest continuous friend (I've known my friends
from New York City longer, but we didn't have any contact for 30
years). He's the second friend I made after moving to Minnesota some
27 years ago (the first, his next-door neighbor, went insane and
dropped out of our lives).
He was a year ahead of me in high school and we were in a bunch of
plays together. At lunch one day I told a joke and he snorted a gummi
bear out his nose and we teased him unmercifully about that for years.
Once he was coming to pick me up to go see Vincent Price at the St.
Paul Student Center, and called to tell he he'd gotten not one, but
TWO flats. Blew out both right side tires racing over to my place (we
were out in the boondocks), and slid sideways off the road.
[1][P2110001.JPG] He's been in my car for two of my most major
accidents: the time I slid backwards through a telephone pole in my
RX-7, and the time I spun around on I-94 and ended up hung up on the
left guardrail. The latter time we finally had to do an emergency
blind U-turn into oncoming left-lane traffic off the guardrail, and
onto the opposite shoulder. Thirty seconds later a pickup truck hit
the same patch of ice and smashed into the place we'd just been.
Moldy and I shared an apartment from 1984-1986. Ah, those were the
good old days. Sitting in the living room with my girlfriend, watching
TV, and listening to Moldy have noisy sex with his girlfriend just on
the other side of the wall. (Here's a hint for all you roommates out
there: turning up the stereo real loud doesn't mask what's going on.)
Well, unfortunately a couple of years ago Moldy got skin cancer. He's
never been a rich man, and the treatments for skin, then brain, then
brain and now liver cancer have been hard for he and now his wife
Blondie to manage. So when I learned that some of the biggest punk
bands in town were gathering to hold a benefit concert for him, I knew
I had to be there. And Tuesday night's Punk Rock Benefit Concert for
Moldy Ramone was a hoot! [2][P2110029.JPG]
Now, walking into a punk club, I would normally feel nervous and out
of place. However Tuesday night I felt right at home. I was there for
Moldy, and I had as much of a right and responsibility to be there as
everyone else.
Guests of honor were Blondie (this evening with red hair!) and Moldy
Here they are with Emily and Ollie at the start of the evening. And
no, that's not Moldy's real hair! He looks puffier than he actually is
because of the treatments.
[3][P2110098.JPG] Emily, beside them in the picture, was lookin' sexy
in her punk schoolgirl outfit with saddle shoes and cigarettes tucked
in her bobby sox. Rrrowr!
She was also diligent and persistent in carrying around the donation
bucket for Moldy, so she's a good person, not just good-looking!
[4][P2110054.JPG] Ollie Stench, was emcee ("Hey you motherfuckers I
ain't gettin' paid to do this so shut the fuck up and put money in the
bucket for Moldy!!!"). At one point I yelled "Take it off!" and he
yelled back he'd take it off if I bought him a beer. So I bought him a
beer and sure enough, he took it off... < (And there's Emily, workin'
the donation bucket!)
[5][P2110059.JPG] Bernie the Trailer Park Queen earned my respect,
belting out not only a hilarious cover of "Only Women Bleed," but her
original songs [6]"I Don't Wanna Throw Up" (3.5M) and "TCPunk", an
anthem to a late-lamented punk website (covered [7]here)
[8][P2110067.JPG] Red Vendetta took the stage next. Mind you, during
this entire concert I could barely make out a single lyric (despite
the sound being loud enough to shake loose my kidney stones), but they
were everything a punk girl group should be, loud, angry, and spouting
obscenities. You can tell you're at a punk concert when "fuck"
replaces "love" as the most common word used.
[9][P2110078.JPG] The crowd was full of all sorts of interesting
characters, including the fellow on the right who I recognized from my
YWCA. And Moldy knew all of them and made sure to take a moment to
talk to everybody he could. [10][P2110092.JPG]
Finally it was time for Moldy to take the stage himself... but first,
Deanna and Molli stepped out to present Moldy and Blondie with a
special gift. Round-trip airfare, hotel, and rental for two to Los
Angeles to see the Rezillios reunion concert this coming weekend!
[11][P2110099.JPG] Deanna and Molli had never met Moldy and Blondie,
but they'd heard about his cancer through the punk grapefine and put
together the entire benefit!
[12][P2110048.JPG] Moldy accepted gratefully and took the microphone
to thank a bunch of people. It was funny watching a room full of
spike-and-leather hardcore punks get all verklempt when Moldy thanked
his wife Blondie, his "pillar of strength".
[13][P2110104.JPG] Finally Moldy took the stage with Plate-o-Shrimp,
and they really got the crowd going. At one point I got dragged out
onto the dance floor. Now, normally this would be all very cool, but a
punk rock dance floor is basically a tightly packed crowd of people
wearing metal spikes slamming each other around like pinballs. And I
had my enormous phallic Olympus 2100 [150046_l.gif] hanging around my
neck. So I kept my slamdancing to a minimum and quickly escaped to the
back of the bar.
Moldy was up on stage singing [14]"Hey Ho, Let's Go" (3Meg), and the
entire crowd who had shown up to support him was making enough noise
from the Seventh Street Entry annex that it was drowning out the
performers next door at First Avenue. It was time for me to go.
Moldy's got a tough and uncertain road ahead, but he's survived a lot
during the 27 years I've known him.. But I'll always remember him like
this: at the top of his form, surrounded by all his friends, rockin'
out at the top of his lungs in a punk rock bar.
I didn't know what to expect from a night of punk rock, but what I
witnessed was connection, caring, affection, strength and support.
[15]Last
Hah. I scooped Lileks. His [1]Bleat regarding the World Trade Center
designs came out after my journal entry on the topic.
On the other hand, hundreds and hundreds of thousands more people read
his Bleat than will ever read my journals.
Nonetheless, I'm savoring my meaningless accomplishment!
Otherwise, the latest fun was last night's Indigo Girls concert at the
State Theater -- excuse me, "The Historic State Theater" -- in
Minneapolis. A very nice show. The Girls were alone on stage, just the
two of them and their various guitars, banjos, harmonicas and lutes.
And they seemed to be having a really good time.
For those scoring at home, the setlist included:
* Become You
* Get Out the Map
* Jonas and Ezekiel
* Power of Two
* Yield
* Deconstruction of Love
* Devotion
* Wood Song
* Go
* Love's Recovery
* Gone Again
* Collecting You
* Shame on You
* Closer to Fine (with Kim Richie)
* [2]Take it in Stride (new song)
* Saving Me
* Starkville
* Least Complicated
* Chickenman/Bitterroot
Encore
* Galileo
* This Is My Song
We had a great time at the concert. Our seats were midway up the
balcony. Originally we'd gotten great seats on the main floor, but
when we hit "submit" on the web page, of course the server horked and
we lost our reservation. Thirty seconds later we were halfway up the
balcony and glad to get it. Nice thing about these seats, though, is
that they were just over the entranceway, meaning that we had no one
in front of us.
[3]Every concert that we've [4]been to lately has featured an
appearance by the Rabid Fan, an extremely tall and socially unskilled
person who usually ends up in the seat in front of us. Her main
characteristic is that she rocks or sways vigorously from side to side
for the duration of the concert, which combined with her height makes
enjoying the show rather challenging.
Last night as I went to get a drink (oddly, the Historic State Theater
lets you drink during the performance), I passed the Rabid Fan just
coming into the theater. New for this event: a banner. I could hardly
wait.
Returning to my seat, I scanned the main floor below and soon spotted
her seated in, of all things, the second row. Well, she was bound to
have a fantastic time, as were the people in the third and fourth
rows.
The Girls showed up and out came the banner, a one-by-four-foot flag
supported by poles on either end. Through the fabric I could read a
very large "MPLS" thickly painted, and then below it several more
words, trailing off in the "I didn't think this through" font running
up the side.
Well, that lasted all of about thirty seconds, the time it took an
usher to crawl across in front of the front row and shine her
flashlight in the Rabid Fan's face.
The concert proceeded without further incident, and afterwards I made
a point of speaking to the Rabid Fan for the first time. "How did
you," I didn't say "of all people", "manage to score second row
seats?"
I had long thought second row seats were reserved for two people: the
well-connected, and the radio winner.
"On Ebay," she said.
I think I fractured my skull pulling a "D'oh!".
I don't know why it never occurred to me that one of the two former
categories might sell their front-row tickets. Well, yeah, actually I
guess I know why, it's because I would never think of selling my front
row tickets!
Anyway, I guess that will be the plan for the next concert. Of course
I'll be in there bidding against the Rabid Fan...
This week a special treat for all my regular readers (and the two of
you know who you are), TWO count 'em TWO concert reviews. On Tuesday
night his friends are holding a [5]cancer benefit (scroll down to
"Tuesday" for my friend Steve. From lesbian folk to aging punk rock in
three days time: better purchase some earplugs!
[6]Last
The new designs for the World Trade Center reconstructions/memorials
[1]are in.
After review, my only question is, "You know, what would be wrong with
just putting up a building?"
[2][firme_sig2.jpg] Take the THINK towers: yeah, okay, so we're
memorializing the WTC by evoking the spirit of the lost buildings. But
are those latticeworks going to contain any usable space, or are they
just big terrorist death-traps? "Ha! Fly your planes into THESE you
farging bastiches, and all you'll kill is YOURSELVES. Well, and the
people on the planes. And whoever gets killed by the falling
wreckage..."
[3][firmd_sig1.jpg] The Libeskind proposal looks appropriately
new-agey that it at least would partically fulfill the promise of
flying cars and groundless skyscrapers offered by "The Jetsons." But
on the other hand it looks more like a giant letter-opener than a
piece of real estate.
[4][_38730365_gaudiagainwtc150ap.jpg] Now, those designs might look
futuristic, but they're nothing compared to those proposed by the
aptly named Spanish architect Antoni Gaudi. His rocketship-to-the-moon
proposal, as tall as the Empire State Building, has to be considered
even if only for its purely Dadaesque qualities. I mean, as an
anti-terrorism measure this is laudable: nobody's going to screw with
a city that appears to have a one-thousand-foot-tall rocketship parked
in its midst. Who knows what that thing can do? Maybe lasers shoot out
of gun ports! Maybe it takes off and blows up Paris! Maybe it belches
forth a master race of alien overlords when provoked. Nope, nope,
better leave that bad-boy alone...
So I say again, "What's wrong with just putting up a building?" You
know a BUILDING. Tall. Rectilinear. Windows, doors, that sort of
thing?
Put a nice plaza out front with a respectful memorial to the honored
dead. Fountain. Benches. Grass. Trees. And behind it, a big, strong,
broad-shouldered BUILDING, made of stuff like steel, granite, and like
that.
I mean, hey, I'm no architect... Maybe these guys know something about
buildings I don't. But in my old-fashioned, uneducated,
chewin'-straw-in-th'-corner-o'-mah-maouth world buildings looked like,
well, buildings. Not scaffolds, rocketships or letter openers...
"buildings."
Could we get one of those?
[5]Last
On Friday, the day before the space shuttle Columbia was to land in
Florida, mission specialist Laurel Clark sent an e-mail to friends and
family describing the awe-inspiring views of Earth from orbit. Here is
the full text of her message (thanks to John Light):
HELLO FROM ABOVE our magnificent planet Earth. The perspective is truly
awe-inspiring. This is a terrific mission and we are very busy doing science
round the clock. Just getting a moment to type e-mail is precious so this
will be short, and distributed to many who I know and love.
I have seen some incredible sights: lightning spreading over the Pacific,
the Aurora Australis lighting up the entire visible horizon with the
cityglow of Australia below, the crescent moon setting over the limb of the
Earth, the vast plains of Africa and the dunes on Cape Horn, rivers breaking
through tall mountain passes, the scars of humanity, the continuous line of
life extending from North America, through Central America and into South
America, a crescent moon setting over the limb of our blue planet. Mount
Fuji looks life a small bump from up here, but it does stand out as a very
distinct landmark
Magically, the very first day we flew over Lake Michigan and I saw Wind
Point (Wis.) clearly. Havent been so lucky since. Every orbit we go over a
slightly different part of the Earth. Of course, much of the time Im
working back in Spacehab and dont see any of it. Whenever I do get to look
out, it is glorious. Even the stars have a special brightness.
I have seen my friend Orion several times. Taking photos of the earth is a
real challenge, but a steep learning curve. I think I have finally gotten
some beautiful shots the last 2 days. Keeping my fingers crossed that
theyre in sharp focus.
My near vision has gotten a little worse up here so you may have seen
pics/video of me wearing glasses. I feel blessed to be here representing our
country and carrying out the research of scientists around the world. All of
the experiments have accomplished most of their goals despite the inevitable
hiccups that occur when such a complicated undertaking is undertaken. Some
experiments have even done extra science. A few are finished and one is just
getting started today.
The food is great and I am feeling very comfortable in this new, totally
different environment. It still takes a while to eat as gravity doesnt help
pull food down your esophagus. It is also a constant challenge to stay
adequately hydrated. Since our body fluids are shifted toward our heads our
sense of thirst is almost nonexistent.
Thanks to many of you who have supported me and my adventures throughout the
years. This was definitely one to beat all. I hope you could feel the
positive energy that beamed to the whole planet as we glided over our shared
planet.
Love to all, Laurel
[1]Last
I woke up this morning to a dread deja vu. I turned on my television
expecting to see vapid animation, and instead a man in a tie was
holding up model of the space shuttle. He gestured somberly at it with
a pen, pointing at one wing.
It's 1986, and I'm waiting on fourth avenue for my girlfriend at the
time to drop something off in a downtown building. I turn on the
radio.
The man on the TV says that the debris field could be quite extensive,
and that no one is to touch anything they find, since it might be
contaminated with toxic chemicals.
The first words out of the radio are "...pieces... settling slowly
into the water."
Oh no.
Oh no, not again.
I envied Christa McAuliffe so much my guts would clench up. Out of a
nation of teachers, she had won the grand prize, to be the first
teacher on the Space Shuttle. How I wished I was a teacher, that I
could have entered. Although riding the space shuttle is to my Star
Trek dreams of space travel as floating on a rubber raft is to an
ocean cruise, still I would have boarded that rubber raft eagerly.
The crew of the Columbia was unknown to me, except that the first
Israeli astronaut was on board. My guts clenched up at the pain that
the battered Israeli public would feel when they learned the news of
their national hero. The man in the tie mentioned that the Ilan Ramon
had been one of the pilots to bomb the Iraqi nuclear plant in 1981.
I am driving down University Avenue in a Ford Galaxy 500 with exhaust
fumes rolling back into the cabin. The Cold War is in full swing, and
I've lived my entire life expecting The Bomb to flash in my eyes and
end the World As We Know It. I turn on the radio, and the announcer
uses the words "nuclear" and "bombing" in the same sentence. It's like
ice is flowing through my veins, and my vision tunnels until I seem to
be driving the car while looking out through a long, dark tube. Then I
grasp that a nuclear POWER PLANT was struck with CONVENTIONAL bombs,
and life sputters, turns over, and resumes its normal course.
The video is astonishingly clear for something that a quick mental
calculation tells me is 40 miles or more from the camera. I see small
pieces splitting off to trail the larger star. Maybe there's hope? And
then a large piece spins off, and then a puff of an explosion and now
other large pieces break away, and the remaining main piece is
spinning in frame-by-frame slow motion. At Mach 8 or Mach 12 just
opening a cabin door would be impossible, and if accomplished would
shred the vehicle and its occupants.
The day is spent in my college apartment with close friends, watching
again and again as the smoke pillar bloats, splits, and the solid
booster rockets mindlessly arc in separate ways. Tiny pieces form
white parabolas as their linear path is bent relentlessly towards the
earth. Maybe someone could parachute?
I steel myself against hope. They are gone. I will not be lured into
the disappointment of seventeen years ago.
Whenever anyone talks about the possibility of the doomed Challenger
crew surviving the initial explosion, I turn away. I don't want to
know. There's nothing I can do. So I will pretend I know that in the
dire instant they were gone, snuffed out instantly in their triumphant
moment, unaware.
The telemetry makes it clear. The pilots knew. The pilots knew the
moment that they started losing left-side sensors. But I will pretend
that I know that they never said anything, never gave a sign. I will
pretend that with ice in their veins they silently and professionally
worked to salvage the situation. And when the dire instant came it
came fast, with a flash and a bang and no time for the triumphant crew
to realize.
There was no flash and bang of a nuclear bomb. Ilan Ramon flew back to
Israel and twenty two more years of life. I drove on to the U of M and
the world did not come to an end.
If my envy had been enough to put me in Christa McAuliffe's seat on
the Challenger, I'd be dead.
Tonight the families of the Columbia crew are grieving. I am helpless
to comfort them.
But if tomorrow a shuttle were ready for liftoff and I were offered
the opportunity to board it, I would do so without hesitation,
conscious of the risks. Not from courage or bravado, but because
that's where my dreams have always been pointed. A child of the
Sixties, Space has always been my legacy, up there waiting to be
seized. Life has never led that way, but if it did I would go there
willingly, because somehow I feel like that is where I'm supposed to
be.
If Christa McAuliffe felt that way, if Ilan Ramon did so, then I can
handle their deaths and those of their crewmates a little better.
Because it's out there. It's ours. We have to figure out a way to take
it, but it's right there: space, possibility, exploration, and
discovery. And it's going to kill some of us getting there. And you
just do it and hope you're not one of them. And if you are, you are,
but at least you were out there, at least you were on the edge. At
least you led the way.
I'd like to believe I'd still take that chance, even after what
happened today.
Because I saw the ones who led the way.
[1]Last