Look long into the abyss and the abyss looks into you.

In all three of his books author Gavin de Becker, who runs the world only risk assessment and management firm, tells the same story; whenever he finishes a lecture on how to be safe and survive in the world by listening to your instincts, he opens up the forum and takes questions from the audience. He is always asked one question. It doesn’t matter what socioeconomic group he is speaking to, it doesn’t matter if he is in a city or an affluent suburb, the question is always asked - it takes a few forms, “what can I do to stay safe?” what plans can I make to reassure myself that I will be OK?” “ how can I reduce my stress, fear, and anxiety?” the answer, according to de Becker, is simple, “don’t watch the news.” Most people respond with a blank stare - think for a moment then rephrase the question in a kind of, “no seriously how can I feel more empowered,” manner. de Becker explains that our addiction to news feeds our feelings of dread, anxiety, and helplessness, and that’s the point.

de Becker’s book “Fear Less” contains a chapter on how to “decode” the news, what phrases like, “developing story,” or, “an insider tells us,” really mean. de Becker is honest in his feelings about the news. They, or it, do more harm than good. What service is preformed when your local news station “breaks” the news that the largest and most modern medical facility in you area isn’t equipped to deal with casualties from a biological weapons attack? It’s that odd, a local hospital can’t handle the predicted thousands afflicted with hemorrhagic fever, anthrax, or plague? Is that really a news story or is it a construct meant to A) fill up air time and B) keep those watching at a heightened state of alertness and anxiety? It’s easy to think the word conspiracy is going to come next but it isn’t, it’s business. The news needs to seem indispensable they need to appear to be dragging stories into light to reveal some hidden truth. That a hospital isn’t equipped for bio warfare isn’t news - it’s obvious, yet we all spend hours sucking off Fox, MSNBC, CNN, or the BBC, looking for the latest “news” such as the example just given.

It’s true that we can’t put our heads in the sand, even de Becker agrees that people should be well informed, but one should be choosy in how much news they get (he suggest no more than an hour a day) and from which source we get it. One can watch Keith Olberman rail against “the worst person in the world,” or Glenn Beck prophesying from his “doom bunker,” it probably doesn’t matter all that much.

Serious journalism, if it isn’t already dead is being read its last rights, so why are we all so hooked on the news? I have been accused of being Luddite (which is partially true, I'm really a neo-luddite) but I personally don’t feel the need to be plugged in. With all the ways we can have the news presented to us, via, print, email blast, on line, pod cast, you name it, is it our need to feel part of the new technology? Or is it our need to feel that things aren’t worth doing because the world is going to hell anyway?

I’m asking this because I was at my parent’s house - the house I grew up in - for a week, and all my father does is read multiple news papers (that is if the New York Post can be included in that category) and then watch The Situation Room: With Wolf Blitzer on CNN. CNN is OK they have more time to devote to analysis and because they are 24 hours don’t need to rely on sensationalism as much. But The Situation Room is like two solid hours of “a developing story, and “insiders tell us.” It’s maddening, it’s exhausting, it’s like eating a bag of chips, your need to be full has been met but you didn’t get any nourishment out of it. You will need to go back for more because maybe that “developing story” about a coolant leak in a factory on Saipan could effect your morning commute. Or that a tribal war in Zaire is flaring up and will have “international repercussions.”

There is a Chinese curse, “may you live in interesting times,” and I think right now in the 21st century we live in interesting times. There are many unknowns. Much is changing and much more is poised to change. Political ideas and ideals that are 30 years old and dug in like the Western Front are being challenged by the need for action, the need to adapt. Control, a feeling central to our lives, feels like it is slipping away from us and into a control sucking hope crushing black hole. We feel like we are trying to climb a greased pole toward the unattainable goal of security, happiness, and control.

Or are we? Hypothetically speaking if civilization was at 994 and the best we could do was 1,000 the news, pundits, advocates, talking heads, spin doctors, and reporters of all kind would say that civilization is speeding into a new Dark Age, something will always be wrong. How often does one come away from the news feeling good? Now and then I’m sure but not all that often. Reality is that times are hard. People are loosing their jobs and their homes. But how many ways do we sit and take that in? How many hours of reading and viewing will alter that fact, or help us deal with it?

I sat reading headlines and scanning stories this morning. The more I read the more helpless I felt, the less control I felt I had. I started to worry about that factory on Saipan and thought about what kind of world was my daughter going to inherit? Since 1945 humanity despite all our pettiness, our stupidity, and our vindictiveness, has managed to avoid riding the nuclear night train to the big adios. That gives me some hope, not a lot but enough. Yet, as I sat reading and watching clips from “Morning Joe” and “Rachel Maddow” I realized something, I was doing this to myself. My feelings about the world; and I mean the whole world from South Africa to The Islamic Republic of Iran, doesn’t matter. I have opinions yes (far to many opinions for some people) but I have no control over what happens, I only have control over how much and how often I chose to open the door and descend the stairs into the “doom bunker.”

Reading the news still depresses me. I don’t avoid it but I do my best to limit what I see and hear. Honestly much of what humanity inflicts upon itself makes me sick. Seeing the privations and needless suffering of countless millions is a downer no two ways about it; but my real concern today was the rain. How fast would the bus come? Would my daughter stay dry while we waited? I put our rain coats on, grabbed and umbrella, and off we went prepared the best way I knew how to face an uncertain world.

Sorry for the gap. Not that anyone realy missed me what withmy dazzeling Facebook page but I hope to be back soo.

Shine On Harvest Moon.

We had a lovely day here in Brooklyn, the kind of day that keeps you wanting to live in Brooklyn.

Somehow we all managed to be up and out the door at 11:00 am on our way to the Greenwood Playground – about a mile away - Harvest Festival. There was a marinate show, music, free pizza and of course the newly refurbished Greenwood Play Ground. Everyone was civil and having a great time as usually happens when you pack about a hundred New Yorkers together. (I am excluding the vicious world of the NYC Transit which brings out the snarling beast in even the elderly and infirm.) Ella was front and center doing an interpretive dance to the band that was playing and it would have been a perfect Fall day if it weren’t for the 84 degree heat and whopping 90% humidity, nothing like sweat running down you back as you try and carve a pumpkin.

After being blasted by the sun for an hour or so we walked over to deposit our change, $150 thank you, at the Commerce Bank where my wife employed her super power of meeting people who need help and then helping them. We meet a lovely gal from Iowa who had just moved to New York with her husband and was looking for work. Persephone sprang into action, there was the taking of emails etc. Jennifer was her name and she was very nice to complement my new Frank Miller Batman t-shirt. After soaking up the blasting AC we walked the three blocks to where Jenifer worked a coffee shop right next to Prospect Park. We sat in the Adirondack chairs right on the street, drank our coffee and ate pastries. Life was good, better than good, it was grand.

Thank God For Married Life.

You can buy almost anything here in Kensington, food wise that is, provided its fresh produce, pickled, alcoholic, or mineral water so dense in…well, I guess minerals, that it gives your bowels marching orders. Ice cream is not high on the needs of the community it seems. But some pickled beets cold vodka and some mineral water to flush yourself out with and I guess you’re good to go.

I was in a store on 18th Ave tonight to buy fresh produce and beer and thought I would like some ice cream. The frozen case in the Gala Apple International Foods was interesting and mostly in Russian so I looked closely at the pictures. There, in a tub, was what I was after, ice cream. Oddly enough it was “CCCP” brand vanilla. Raised on Regan era cold war paranoia I felt I couldn’t trust this “taste of the Soviet Union,” and back in the case. Begrudgingly I went to our local Met Foods. The Met on 18th Ave sucks. It has a lot of beer and Mexican soda but not much in the way of ice cream, or sanitation. Happily I found some Ben and Jerry’s and went to the register. As soon as I got there a Russian woman demanded to know where the, “Vesson korn oil vas,” and I was left standing there. Eh? That’s life. I did however giver her a look that elicited a “sorry” from the woman. (I’m counting that as a personal victory.)

As I stood there listening to Ella talk about the number 6 she had just seen a man started to unload his basket on the counter:

2 bags no sugar ice pops
2 ½ gal. generic fruit punch.
1 loaf generic white bread
2 bags potato chips
3 diet type frozen dinners

The corn oil problem was solved I was rung up and went out onto 18th ave with Ella. We stopped and looked over the EL at the beautiful setting sun. The soft pink clouds, a gentle breeze, the murmur of the outdoor restaurant. It was a nice moment with my little girl. I told her how I had seen the sun set while camping in South Dakota. “Would you like to go to the Badlands with Dad?” I asked, “Yes.” Said Ella and we strolled home.

I complain a lot here at Brooklyn Dad but not tonight. I’m happy that the days of the sad grocery basket are over. I’m married to a beautiful and vivacious woman, and we have a happy-go-lucky little girl. I may never see the glorious sunsets on The Great Planes again but I’m also not going to be the guy with the generic white bread. Thank God for married life.

The Time of Purification is at Hand

Our new apartment affords me the luxury of being able to write in one room while my little girl sits in the other and watches Teletubbies and Sesame Street in the mornings. I don’t get much done, maybe only a few emails or what have you but it’s nice to have the separation and I don’t have to listen to the Teletubbie’s. Unfortunately for me my daughter now comes to get me and takes my hand and we sit and watch TV together on the floor. I can’t say no it’s so cute and she does it with such love I can suck it up and watch yet another Teletubbies.

I sat on the floor with her the other day not paying attention to the TV my mind filled with thoughts of when we would go out what park we should go to and so on when I heard the Teletubies Narrator (for some reason a Britt doing an American accent) say :

NARRATOR – One day in Teletubbie Land it was time for justice.

My eyes snapped to the screen, Poe - the red one - stood alone in the space pod thing they live in, his lifeless eyes staring out at me, taunting me with the prospect of Teletubbie justice.

Would Poe call the other Teletubbies into the space pod and sit at the Tubby-Custard table, then produce a baseball bat, and start talking about team work?

Would he derive bloody satisfaction in a sword fight to the death with O-Ren Ishii – La La?

Was Poe going to reveal who Costello's rat was in their orgonization? Or would he smash the windows of Tinky Winky’s car collection, fill them with gasoline, then blow them all up?

The shot widened and Poe went to the control panel behind him and started pulling levers. The levers made animal noised and made lights flash. The other Teletubbies joined in the lever pulling and animal noise making with much merriment. My mind reeled, “Where is the justice!” I thought back on what the Narrator more likely said now that I saw the Teletubbies pushing buttons and what not:

NARRATOR – One day in Teletubbie Land it was time for adjustments.

(Sigh)

I had envisioned a climactic battle, Dipsy’s bullet riddled green body, stained with blood, clutching the end of a water cooled Browning M1917 firing at the sky, at God himself, as Poe, taking hit after hit, vainly blazing away with his white hot automatics at the Mexican Army closing in on them, shouting, “Dipsy…Dipsy…Poe full of lead…one last…biiiig hug…”

I'll watch "The Wild Bunch," with Ella some day and tell her this story. Cain't wait to see the look on her face

Raped in the Prison Shower of Friendship

Life is a little like prison. It’s isn’t always hard time but it isn’t always easy either. We all showed up here and we don’t always understand why. We are thrown in with a lot of people we don’t like and a few we do. Some make the most of it others cry, “why me?” to the heavens the whole time. If we are lucky we meet a few other inmates and form a friendship. Friends are necessary in “the joint” to get us cigarettes and watch our back lest we get shived by a pointed cafeteria spoon. There is a lot of trust in The Joint because you need it. We need trust more than water. With out trust there is no love, no friends, and we spend hard time cursing the walls and waiting to be moved to the Chain Gang so at least we will be forced to be with other people.

The hardest time is in “The Hole” Middle School through High School. Some of the hardest screws you will ever meet are in the Hole. But through this tribulation we form, in some cases, lasting nearly permanent friendships. Then, we go to Work Release, collage. With a sigh of relief we meet the new inmates all at the same prison by choice. We drink contraband hooch together, some fall in love, and we feel like we can make it on, “the outside.” After all we have friends with whom we have heard the chimes at midnight. And if we all stayed on good behavior the warden would let us be cell mates for a good long while.

I turned 36 two weeks ago. I’ve been on the outside for along time. The outside has been good to me over the last few years. I have learned a lot, meet new inmates I love and adore, and my cell mate and I made a third to share our Brooklyn cell with.

But as I stepped into the prison shower this summer my friends turned on me and I got rapped.

I thought at 36 I was beyond this shit but I’m not. Trust doesn’t have to be the largest component in a friendship on the outside. Trust turns to respect and that respect breeds love and understanding. We don’t judge and we stay in touch over thousands of miles waiting for that brief moment every few years were we can meet in the yard and say, “isn’t this just like the old days.”

I hate writing about friendship because of my old friends from The Hole I’m down to one, Barry, and he lives in Istanbul. From Work Release I am also down to one, Mike. I love them both and would be devastated if I lost them. I know this because for my birthday my friend, Jeff, from collage broke my heart. Oscar Wild once said, “A true friend stabs you in the front,” and that’s what he did. I loved Jeff and I’m mourning his loss. Ten years ago Jeff and I went on a cross country trip and back packed in The Grand Canyon. We said we would go back in ten years to celebrate all our travels and so many years of friendship. Jeff moved to LA about eight years ago and we of course stayed friends. We spoke less, emailed a lot, then it all slowed down and it got harder to talk with him. As this year approached I was sending him ideas for our trip to Utah. I never really heard back from him and after I broke my foot I figured I wasn’t going anywhere. But I still had respect for Jeff and though he had the same for me. Until last week when I opened the mail box and out came a post-card with Jeff’s handwriting on it. I turned it over, “Zion National Park, Utah!” it read. Tears rolled down my face. Jeff no longer had respect for me. We had been friends for more than 13 years, and now it was over…he had gone without me.

I emailed him telling him I was hurt that he didn’t even tell me he was going but that too was a week ago and I haven’t heard from him.

All this on top of my friend from The Hole disappearing after my daughter was born, I think in an attempt to deny that he was getting older, turning up in Queens living with my ex-girlfriend. And a “friend” from collage I was trying to reconcile with reminding me why I cut him out of my life to begin with.

I have more love and respect for the people in my life now. That is usually the group of folks who read my tirades on this blog. Thanks for having my back in the shower, and I’ll see if I can trade my smokes for some Green & Blacks chocolate for you.

9/5/07 Post Script. Thanks for all your cards and letters. The night I posted this my wife came home with some G&B chocholate for me.

Mind Your Fucking Manners You Fucking Cocksucker!

Today I wished I lived in Deadwood cause I wanted to smash a cocksuckers teeth out of his smarmy head real bad. What are manners? What does it mean to be polite? I would guess that it means doing something “right” without having to be asked, giving your seat up to the elderly or a pregnant woman, holding a door, offering a tissue, that sort of thing.

I was in a local sandwich shop today which is notorious for being slow and crowded. I stop in sometimes and get a sandwich to eat while Ella eats or takes a nap. I got in the door with Ella in her stroller with no problem. The place was packed so I deiced not to wait. There was this man standing in front of the door, “Excuse me I’m going to leave,” I said politely. The man steps to the side ignoring me. Not being able to stop myself I said, “Don’t hold the door or anything.” Thankfully someone did open the door and I started to drop Ella down the stairs. Then he says, “I’m under no obligation to help you,” again, unable to stop myself I said “Fuck You! What? You can’t be nice and open a door you can see I need help!” And on it went for another few seconds. The crowed did seem to be on my side cause this guy starts telling me if I had asked he would have helped that sort of thing. For all the problems I have had with my upbringing being Catholic and all, I go out of my way to help people or at least offer because it’s the way I want to be treated but moreover because it’s polite and the right thing to do. No obligation. That’s what’s wrong with this country we all think everyone is out to fuck us so we don’t even engage in common courtesy at least in my opinion. This guy was a white middle class, middle aged man who should fucking know better.

Later that afternoon on our way back from the doctor - Ella had a fever but she was OK- I stopped to get her a doughnut for a snack. As I moved toward the Dunk’n door a huge and I mean huge black dude with big guns and like two feet on me, the kind of guy you wouldn’t say boo too, rushes in front of me, then stops, opens the door behind him and says with a smile on his face, “I’m sorry I didn’t see you there,” “No problem. Thanks.” I said. Then he gave me his place in line. Just goes to show you can never tell about people. I have to say in the almost two years since I have been pushing that stroller a black man has never let me struggle with a door.

New Political Term

Anyone who knows me knows that I very often have more free time and curiosity than I do sense. The other day was no exception. A "gentleman" stopped me on the street as I passed and asked if I wanted to hear some information on impeaching Cheney. "It'll never happen but sure lay it on me," I said. Now to make things clear I don't want anyone in the current admin impeached I want them out of office and for our country to move on, but this seemed good for a laugh. The guy went on about how a bill is before congress with so-and-so attached yada yada yada. I asked who was behind this bill, he turned his head and lowered his voice so I didn’t catch it all but I head the magic words, the verbal equivalent of a warning hiss from a Cobra, throes words? Lyndon Larouche. "Sorry I said I don't listen to anything he has to say, sorry." I said trying to leave gracefully. "Why is that?" he asked. Now there are a thousands lies I could have told but the truth came spilling out, "Because he's crazy," said I thinking that somehow this wouldn't lead to more problems. We talked and again I said that nothing I could say to him would make him see things my way. He wanted issues. I didn't have any, then again if he wanted to debate a stranger about the battle of Gettysburg he might be surprised to see the facts I have tucked away in my head. But I didn't have any other than the general stuff about Larouche and his global conspiracies theory etc. Normally I take exception being compared to McCarthy but in order to end this and have this guy stop following me I reiterated that we would never see eye to eye and said good day.

So I propose a new name to enter the political lexicon (ahem) "Larouche-bag"