Violence Isn't What She Seems

A friend from before and ago recently bemoaned, "Why all the f'ing violence?????" when faced with the horrors in Fort Hood, in Orlando, in Cleveland, and -- tragically -- elsewhere ...

It made me pause. Why, indeed. Why violence ... And the voice inside my head whispered:

"Violence is a malicious temptress, seductively posing as an easy way out -- when she's faaar too often nothing more than the pathetic path to tragic failure." -- jonathan billings

Hmmm. There may be something there. And yet we flirt with the temptress ...

Controlled violence offers a powerful adrenaline-lace elixer. Certainly, there's an attraction there that stirs something within the soul ... Crashing through a striker, despite your own injuries, to preserve a championship season? Burying a shoulder in a catcher's chest to knock the ball free and score the winning run? Whacking a goalie's helmet with a lacrosse stick to allow a replacement to take the field and score the first goal of her career? Magical violent athletic moments purmeate my family's tales of lore ... legends we tell with prideful lust and cackling glee ...

It's true off the field as well ... Want one of the chickens for dinner? I'll kill it if you pluck it. Is there anything as mindlessly entertaining on a sleepy Saturday afternoon than a bit of dismembering in a monster movie? A favorite Bible verse advises that s if your hand is your problem, cut if off ...

Okay, it didn't take much self-reflection to find I may have a bit of a taste for violence ... Hell, I don't know how often I've wanted to whack someone with a bat because of their perplexing behavior. But I've always stopped short of swinging that Louisville Slugger.

Why is that? What of those who don't? What of the uncontrolled violence?

A US army soldier/psychiatrist headed to Iraq murders a dozen bretheren and wounds dozens others, crimes now attributed to people disrespecting his Muslim faith? A sociopath sex criminal kills a dozen women and keeps their bodies? An aspiring engineer fired for poor performance returns to his former employer and slays one and shoots five others saying the company had interfered with is unemployment check.

Damn. Three horrifying examples in three days -- enough to drive my friend to despair and wonder aloud, "Why all the f'ing violence?"

What gives one the ability to dance in the glory of controlled violence while another spirals into the abyss of uncontrolled violence? How is it that most of us develop the coping skills necessary to resist the seduction of senseless violence, and a few do not? Why do so many have the grace to chose a harder path in pursuit of a non-violent solution to our own problems, and a few do not?

It saddens me when I think about it.

Why? I've never given any credibility to what I see as feeble excuses -- television made me do it; the song lyrics told me to; it's how my people do things ... Nah, take some personal responsibility for your actions ...

... and yet, sadly ...

Long before I can make any sense of it all ... Long before I can differentiate between "self defense with reasonable force" and "proactive self preservation in a kill-or-be-killed world" ... Long before I can come to grips with "there but for the grace of God go I" ... Long before any produtive or insightful thought, I get distracted and wander off to something else ...

And the world lurches violently onward ...

Haiku Kachu, Revisited

Haiku Kachu? You may think I'm Koo Koo -- especially fans of the Beatles, but let's avoid the terrors of free association and press on as we revisit and update a topic from times gone bye ...

Japan's True Haiku: Poetry where construct shapes the content ... rhymes -- and sometimes reason -- are seemingly optional ... it's all about creativity within the confines of compliance with the construct. 3 lines. 5 syllables in the first, 7 in the second, 5 in the third. A glimmer of connection between them and overflowing with visual imagery.

JB's Conversational Haiku: As a writer, I've always been more comfortable with constructs when I've had the chance to shape the construct in question ... so, I now announce that my "conversational haikus" are articulate art, not nuggets of non-compliance. My conversational haikus forsake pure visual imagery per se, for the playful verbal imagery of creative banter ... (And yes, Ms. Cousino, I am now old enough to have my own style ... ;-)

A daily haiku contest put forth by the literary scholars at USA Today (literally, that fine bastion of poetic journalism) prompted me to revisit haikuing ... typically, I'm amused by rhyme and longer works ... droning on to the exhaustion of my own amusement with my toes or whatever, but I figured I'd play with Haikus a bit ... not that I'm competitive ...

I found that , like life itself, haikus are great fun if not taken tooooo seriously. Delayed in an airport? Waiting in line? Trapped in a meeting? Bored out of your skull? Write Haikus. Poetry surrounds you -- just jam it into the Haiku format. Yes, you too can haiku.

Haiku Writing Warning Label: Whispering "what's a two-syllable synonym for monotonous" to the person next to you in a meeting may expose your distraction. Let's be subtle out there -- and stay both amused and employed!

Structure
The Haiku template
first five, then seven, and five ...
that's all that's aloud.

The Call
Excitement, Mainly.
Ears await the ringing news.
An-tic-i-pa-tion ...

Spam-aliciousness
Grilled to perfection,
Imitation Beef-Like Treat --
Salty Succulence!

Macro Photo
Made larger than life,
Rich detail astounds the eye ...
Overlooked no more.

Wart
Horrid dermal blight ...
Scaley, cracked and putrid burr --
Toads' curse upon man.

Pop Tarts
Sweet, colorful frost ...
fruit-like filling foiled delight ...
Morning's fire hazard.

Advil, Please, Miss White
Achey and Stuffy
and five other sinus dwarfs
mining in my mind.

Belly Button Lint
Blue fuzzy build-up,
Where you come from? Why you here?
How you get in there?

Scabs
Dark, crusty medals!
Like your nose, meant to be picked --
the great ones ooze pus!

Gratification
Now, then, or later
Noble efforts are rewarded
T'is true, life works out.

C'mere, Kitty
Fur-cloaked indignence!
Cats answer only to God --
not to their humans.

Same Old Same Old
Like a mental rash
Monotony chaffes my brain
The urge to scratch calls

Monday, Monday
Like Cinderella,
Misjudged by those who scorn her,
A princess of days.

Some Experiences Can't Be eReplicated

I have befriended a creative intellectual who has recently questioned the future of higher education with a pair of online posts ...

"Am I the only person amazed that higher education model hasn't imploded? See the Washington Post article: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/09/11/AR2009091104312.html "

... followed by ...

"Viva la revolution! College for $99/month. Google to enter soon."

And though I respect his visionary abilities and this post will paint me as an old man devoted to the way things were when I was young, I disagree with the postulation that traditional collegiate education is soon to be no more.

I'm old enough to remember back when futurists said the internet would eliminate books, kill bookstores, and antiquate libraries. Certainly, some have perished and perhaps the online revolution has changed them all -- but their widespread demise has never materialized. In truth, only the weak failed to adapt. The nimble have thrived. Such will be the way of the the undergraduate experience -- and that's a that's a saving grace, as its intangibles are too precious to be extinct.

The St. Michael's College viewbook speaks towards such speculation, saying "There is nothing virtual about life on campus, where nearly 100 percent of students make their home. Sure, you'll find high-speed internet, good cell phone reception, and all the necessary technologies that keep you plugged in. But here, you will also discover a genuine community of students where students walk, talk, study, eat, work and play together. You'll feel at home at Saint Michael's."

Meh, you say? Brochure-speak? In truth, if anything, it's an understatement.

I remember the dark night of my sophomore year at SMC, awakened in the wee hours of the pre-dawn to find the RA had let my mother into my room as she carried news that my father had died a couple hours earlier. I remember being hugged by our dorm's elderly janitor while my roommate packed me some clothes he thought I'd need ... I remember the murmur at the funeral home a couple days later when a giant purple bus rolled into little Bristol, VT, and 60 Purple Knights filed off to pay their respects to the fallen father of a classmate. I remember each of my professors helping me find creative ways to maintain my academic standing as I struggled to bounce back from devestation. I remember the Edmundites and the Financial Aid Staff stepping forward with additional scholarships to help keep me in college when the family finances essentially collapsed with the loss of the primary wage earner.

Now I'm a Dad. Two in college (GO SMC! GO NHIA!). That's two at the same time, mind you! Room, Board, and Tuition? Dang. Even with a pair of impressive academic/artistic scholarships, it's not inexpensive. And yet, for my daughters to experience -- first hand -- the kind of in-person, multi-dimensional, awe-inspiring, delicious undergraduate experience that I was blessed to have? Worth it.

Couldn't we eliminate all that brick-based overhead? Why have dorms? Why bother with classrooms? Couldn't we give the registrants a link and let them learn it online? Can't we make it sexy with a Googley-oogley Facebook-esque simulation of eCommunity for the apparent cyberlearners? Sure - it's technically possible - but so is kissing an android. As for me? I'll take a hug from a teary-eyed janitor over the taste of polycarbonate lips any day.

There. As I climb off this particular soapbox, I think I'll send another donation to SMC and my first to NHIA to help keep their doors open so they'll be there not only for my daughters, but for their nex-gens as well.

Wither To, Time Traveler?

Dusk was falling on Lake Iriquois when a dear friend from forever poised her poignant question, "If you had a time machine, would you go forward -- or would you go back?"

My immediate reaction was swift. Back. Discussion done, game over. Heck, I'd over-pay for a ticket to re-live my junior year in either high school or college. Mt. Abe? Junior year meant the metamorphasis was complete; the seniors were still around and the sophomores had arrived; soccer, basketball, and baseball were in full gear; the golden subaru had an 8-track player; and I had access to a B&W darkroom -- life was grand! St. Mikes? Junior year meant the his 'n hers Sutton Apartments; the Noontime Basketball Association; the powder-blue Horizon; photography with the Canon AE-1 program; and the first donutrun -- life was brilliant ... Reliving either would be a delightful day at an amusement park with pockets full of cash and not a line in sight. And if there were a chance I'd do so knowing then some of what I know now? Oh, my. Ohhhh, yeah.

Wait -- what of a dalliance in Camelot or on the Enterprise? Could either adventure match the magic of either junior year? Meh. I'll stay with my answer -- I know the joy my adventure holds and wouldn't bet on topping it. I'm good. Game over.

Since then, however, her question has lingered in the cobwebs of my mind, as they often do, begging me to go deeper. Is there more there?

Hmmm. Jennie asked "backward or forward"? I'd assumed the question involved popping out, crashing about, changing nothing, and returning. What if it involved going back -- and staying back? What if there was a risk of changing outcomes? What it involved going forward -- and not coming back?

Would I go way back? History has never been a true passion of mine. I've never truly looked at an era and had it call to my soul. It must have been hot being Pharoh ... I'm not sure they made armor in my size ... Powdered wigs were not a good look ... I like indoor plumbing and air conditioning and internet connections ... Nah, I'm not going way back.

So, what of this nuance of not returning in relation to my initial reaction? As much as either junior year appeals, I wouldn't go back to stay, unless I could be assured it would unfold again exactly as it has. That's either a sign of cowardice (likely partially) or a sign of how profoundly I've been blessed. I like the cards I hold and wouldn't risk it working out differently, as I've grown convinced my destiny wasn't to change the world -- but rather, to father two who will.

So, with those sparrows hopping from the nest, would I now fast-forward? Jump to the future to meet my descendents (should they come to be)? I'd rather stay and hope to make an impact on their early days, giving them entertaining memories of their Antisocial Hobbit ... Jump to the distant future to understand the legacy and mess with unimaginable technology? That, in honesty, is tempting -- as I'm a cat of insatiable curiosity ... "Beaming aboard"? Routine space travel? Laser everythings? Photon topedos? Tell me that wouldn't be fun ... Still, what if the global warming folks are right? It might be hot. Plus, what's the future of photography in the distant future of extreme technology? Will my camera have gone the way of the subaru's 8-track? I'd miss it ... Meh. The intrigue of the far future simply doesn't intrigue enough to give up the simple joy of my tomorrow.

And so, after careful consideration, if the time machine is a one-jump pony, I'd stay put.

And still ... my mind wanders deeper into Jennie's question ... Is there more there?

What if there was another setting? What if I could travel through time, bring folks, interact, and return without disrupting the space-time continuum? Hmmmm. Okay, this trumps the cavortingly enticing opportunity to re-enjoy a junior year.

I do carry a regret. My Dad never met Marilyn. Or Kate. Or Emily. If I could, I'd load my three ladies into the time-machine, visit my Dad before he died, appear to him as if in a dream, and let him get to know my family. I'd tell him how much I loved him, how much I appreciated his gentle kindness and delightful sense of humor. I'd tell him how wonderfully Cleo is doing and how beloved GrammaB has become ... Having had that chance for him to know my girls a bit and they he, we'd return to our time and let him go to Heaven. We wouldn't try to save him? Selfishly, I'd love to -- but it was God who called him. So we'd come back, he'd awaken and he'd go -- perhaps with just a bit more comfort in his heart.

So, there it is -- a deeper appreciation for my use of Jennie's speculated time machine. As an amusement ride? Give me either junior year. As a moving truck? No thanks. As a chance to address a regret and return? In an instant.

Softball/Baseball Catamounts Become Sacrificial Lambs

On Feb. 20, 2009, the Burlington Free Press announced that UVM was eliminating its Baseball and Softball programs after the 2009 season for financial reasons. As a friend of UVM, I shared my reactionary perspective with the UVM President, their Athletic Director, and their Spokesman.

President Fogel responded within minutes of my Saturday morning email. I appreciate his consideration and comments. Athletic Director Robert Corran replied a couple hours later with an equally appreciated thoughts.

Here is my email and their replies:

President Fogel, AD Corran, and Spokesman Corredera --

I'm writing to express my dismay at the decision to eliminate the entire baseball and softball programs at UVM.

As a senior manager at my organization, I fully recognize the difficulty of making financial cuts, especially those of the magnitude UVM faces. I recognize the decision has been made and there is veritably no chance it will be changed. However, if those opposed don't speak out, the sound bite becomes "Response has actually been surprisingly positive" -- so here's a voice against that soundbite.

I grew up playing baseball in rural Vermont, dreaming of a chance to play for a championship at UVM's Centennial Field (only to lose in the semi-finals twice). My oldest daughter was Vermont's Gatorade Softball Player of the Year and was offered a full Green Mountain Scholarship to UVM -- and looked long and hard at the opportunity. She chose SMC instead and we've enjoyed playing our "cross-town rivals" in softball's Fall Ball each of the past three years. Plus, I earned a Certificate in Leadership through UVM's VT Business Center. So, I'm not an alum or a booster, but I am a friend of the University (heck, I own and wear a UVM t-shirt ...).

I would have preferred across the board cuts shared by all teams rather than eliminating the sports of 43 of your 584 athletes. Certainly, I recognize the attention/benefit/revenue that hockey and basketball bring to UVM and to Vermont -- even with the glory days of Brennan/Coppenrath LeClair/St.Louis gone by. Certainly, I recognize that eliminating entire sports sends a far stronger message to the faculty and elicits far greater public sympathy than simply reducing everyone's budget. Still, despite it's strategic sense, this approach leaves 43 athletes as the sacrificial lambs ... and that bothers me.

Yep, I understand the university will "honor the scholarships" but you've crushed the dream that came with it. Yep, they can likely transfer, but by now, they should be deeeeply in love with UVM and going elsewhere would be heartbreaking.So, count me as a voice who would have preferred each sport have one less paid assistant coach and one less scholarship rather than have the University turn it's back on 43 athletes that it recruited ... Difficult? Certainly. Unsurmountable? Though admittedly uninformed, I don't think so.

Therefore, here's hoping the sound bite becomes "People are understandably upset that these 43 kids couldn't come first in our priorities, but they understand why we did what we did and now it's time to move forward."

In all sincerity, best wishes in restoring the financial health of Vermont's educational flagship. I will continue to wear my Catamount shirt with pride -- but ache for those students caught in middle.

President Fogel's Reply --

Thank you for a thoughtful response. Rest assured that we will never downplay the pain and disappointment occasioned by this necessary but strategic decision--feelings that we too share. I appreciate very much your thoughtful comments and your continuing support of Vermont's university. With every good wish, sincerely--Dan Fogel

Athletic Director Corran's Reply --

Thank you for your e-mail re: the decision to cut baseball and softball at the end of this season.It was an extremely difficult decision to make precisely because of our understanding the impact that it will have on the lives of 43 student-athletes and 6 staff. The data-driven part of the decision was clear but the human-impact part made it exceedingly difficult. We must do all that we can to assist and support these student-athletes and staff in the coming days and weeks and we are committed to doing so. Again, sincere thanks for your thoughts and concern. They are very much appreciated.

With that, as I said, it's time to move on and hope for the best for our friends at UVM. Vermont continues to provide among the lowest percentage of State support to its State colleges in the nation ... and I guess this is what we get for it. Here's hoping Dr. Fogel can lead UVM to prosperity. Go Catamounts!!
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Embracing Photography's "Offseason"

I overheard myself grousing to myself about the oppression of winter forcing an offseason upon my photography -- as it's dark, it's cold, and there is nothing good to shoot -- and longing for the world to turn so I could start in again with The Beast.

I took myself aback. Is winter really a forced offseason for my art? Where was the Quixotic spirit of optimism and determination in that bit of victimization? Perhaps my oppressor is not Mother Nature's icy demeanor but rather my own creative laziness and antisocial hobbitness?

Dang. Could this yearly rut be simply self imposed? But what of those barriers to winter photography?

It's dark! Dawn comes late and night falls fast these days, so my early morning prowls are done in the dark and it's still dark when I'm off to work or pitching clinic and already dark by the time I escape.

It's cold! At 15 below, or even 15 above, the romance of wandering "out and about" to find something fun to shoot fades fast in fear of frostbite as artistic patience becomes arctic pain amidst the wind and sleet.

There's nothing good to shoot! The lush landscape and blue sky have gone grey, the flowers are dead and buried, the zoos are closed, the bugs and bees are hybernating, there is very little roadkill, and indoor sports don't lend themselves to 1/640th at 5.6 ...

Wow, those are whiney! While there may be a glimmer of truth in each of the three, there is certainly nothing insurmountable -- especially if one were to maintain that nothing is insurmountable ... So what is it that truly drives the hesitation that keeps my eye from the lens?

Indoor photography has always felt a bit more intrusive and awkward to me. Nothing shatters the subtley of a moment like a flash. Plus, the proximity is sooooo much closer: it's far less conspicuous to wander onto a sideline than it is to wander into a room of people. All in all, I dread being a distraction at events and causing angst among my subjects or observers.

The solution? More creativity and less antisocial hobbitness, perhaps.

Seek out new activities to photograph: Last year, I "discovered" gymnastics and hockey and earlier this year I shot swimming/diving for the first time. I had to forgive the grain and allow some blur to get the images, but they've been fun. I should do more -- and what of skiing? Or wrestling? Or curling? Likewise, I took my first band gig photos earlier this year (here's Kendra from 'The Stray Dogs'). I should do more -- and what of theatre? Or ballet?

Seek out people who like to be photographed: Emily's photoshoot was fun because she wanted to be photographed and participated in creating each shot with poses and outfits and laughter -- perhaps there are others out there who enjoy being photographed and would be willing partners in creative settings as I experiment with an undeveloped aspect of my photography.

Think outside the house: Perhaps it is time I bundled up a bit and sought out some "Vermont in the winter" images ... both the classic blue sky beauty and the grey desolation ... maybe even some black & white work ... as, at very least, it would be an excuse for hot tang upon return ...

Hmmmm. Some interesting potentials there -- if I can get out of my own way!

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Powdered Innocence Lost

I was nurtured in a pleasant nirvana, nestled in the northern wilds, naive to the ways of the outside world. Such were the golden years of my childhood -- a sweet and gentle curly-haired frolic through a land of sharing and kindness.

Then one sunny summer day, our morning walk took us to that sandy land of the forbidden zone which separates truth from reality. I may have been four or nine, it matters not. The scar is old, it's actual age irrelevant.

Our mother and father had brought us there, sister and I, to the shores of a crystal lake lost in the rolling hills of heaven. We walked along the sparkling water, imbibing of nature's glory, soaking in the essence of life. It was our Eden.

Alas, just as Eve shifted eternity by asking if Adam wanted a bite, it was my own mother's inquiry which would shatter a similar illusion so many centuries later.

"Can I have a bite of your donut?"

There I stood in the sand of the beach, powdered donut in hand. Though but a tyke, I held the Excalibur of pastry in my tiny hand, perhaps the king of all powdered jellies. It was large and tender with a layer of powder that put Vail to shame as its heft heralded the promise of unthinkable succulance.

I looked at my donut as I mulled her request. I had but had only one bite of my bakery-made masterpiece -- a small nip, just enough to penetrate the pocket and offer insight into the inner wonders of its powdery awesomality. The sands shifted under my feet, though I didn't recognize then their movement as foreshadowing of what was about to be ... or not to be.

Certainly, I would share. She was my momma afterall, the White Queen, the one who birthed sister and I, the one who baked us eel (okay, that should have been a clue), the one who had coo'ed to us and kissed us. So, as I looked at her in love, with purity and joy in my heart, I handed her my donut ... with what would be the last truly innocent smile of my life.

As she bit my donut, my mother began to change. I had known her only as the White Queen to that point -- but in that moment, the icy winds of insight swirled around us and there before me stood the Wicked Witch of West Street.

As she bit my donut, my eyes like Adam's were opened, not to reveal nakedness (thankfully, as that would have been a whole different trauma likely landing us all on some horrible episode of Dr. Phil Meets Oprah), but rather to the cruel and sandy world you call Earth.

As she bit my donut, she bit on the side afar from my only bite. For decades, she'd claim it was it was an act of enlighted infection control, claims consistently debunked by scholars and mythbusters who have studied the legend.

As she bit my donut, she bit with zeal and angst and consumation -- but she bit short, failing to reach the jellilicious splendor and squashing the powdery pastry, causing all the fruitifabulous filling to spurt forth onto the sand out from the delicate evidence of my only bite.

Silence filled the land. Time stood still, a tear in its eye.

There in the sand, was jelly ... All the jelly ... All my jelly. My mother (the witch) held the empty husk of my donut, looked at me, and smiled. I looked at her. I looked at my jelly. And I cried.

The donut of all donuts was done. All its glory, all its sweetness, all its powdery potential power of good ... gone. In one fearsome fateful ferocious bite, the woman who brought me into the world changed my world.

Off I stomped to the cottage to fetch myself a replacement as "Oh, just go get another donut" was the cackled directive from my "mother" as she desperately tried to stuff herself back into her White Queen costume.

Certainly, there were other donuts to be had -- shriveled, dry, nasty, toady, wretched things that paled in comparison to The Donut Of The Lake.

They weren't the same. Nothing would likely ever be the same.

I stood alone at the crossroads of Despair Street and Optimism Avenue. I wiped the tears from my ruddy face and steeled my soul. In an admittedly heroic knight-errant moment, rather than reject the genre and hide away in shame and sadness, I commited my self to eat those horrible immitations -- to embrace a new quest with a powdery zest -- in hopes of one day recapturing the magnificence of that lost donut ... a choice which would ultimately lead me to the hallowed halls of DonutRun.

EPILOGUE: In the days and years that followed, the Wicked Witch of West Street never was able to recapture the illusion of the White Queen. Weep not for her, however, as there is justice and kindness in the world, even for witches. Her Fairy Granddaughters appeared and the old woman now lives out her days in joy, fulfiling her destiny as GrammaB ... but that doesn't mean I'll ever let the hag have another bite of my donut.
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I'm Not Smiling At You

In truth, this is a story better told aloud, as I do a great Kate-as-an-evil-James-Earl-Jones impression. It's probably better shared just among friends to protect the guilty. Nevertheless, I share it to illustrate older siblings' ability to put the hoodlum in sisterhood.

Enter into my remembrance. It was years ago, when both girls were young ... Kate may have been 11, which would put Emily at about 8 -- that seems about right.

The evening had been going fine from my perspective ... the girls were playing quietly in their room, Marilyn was puttering about, and I was loafing on the couch ... Then, it got quiet. Yep, tooooo quiet. So, naturally, I did what any good father would do.

I crept upstairs to spy on the kids.

Atop the stairs I could hear the hushed conversation: a one-sided fight was in full swing, raging at barely audible levels to prevent intrusion from downstairs. Kate was in full Darth Vader voice mode, breathing heavy and seethingly berating her little sister for some offense tied to playing with Barbies, I think.

Peeking around the corner, I found Kate with her back to me, hands planted on her hips, blocking their bedroom doorway. Emily was trapped, cowering in front of her.

As I crept up behind Kate, I came into Em's line of vision and the little sister began to smile.

That smile infuriated the big sister even more. "Don't you smile at me!!" Kate hissed, slowly and menacingly, in the deepest, darkest possessed voice she could muster.

Emily's eyes twinkled as she wiped away a tear. "I'm not smiling at you," Em whispered in explanation. "I'm smiling at Dad standing behind you."

ZOWZA!!

Kate nearly lept out of her skin as she spun to face her father (himself a life-long little brother of an older-sister). Midspin, she miraculously transformed from evil villan Vader to delicate flower Princess Leia ...

"Hi, Dad ..." my older angel chirped, with as sweet a smile as she could muster on such short notice. "How long have you been there?" she inquired, trying to calculate the depth of the trouble she faced ...

"Long enough," I said slyly. "Em, you're free to go -- I'll deal with your sister for you." Needless to say, I didn't have to ask the little one twice.

** Surveilance of Offspring by Creeping Upstairs (SoObCU) is fully authorized under Section VII (paragraph 1.4.3) of the Parental Freedom of Information Act, circa 1989.
** In recognition that Emily must have done something equally obnoxious at some point, it behooves me to point out that sisterhoodlum-ness is a shared role, both munchkins have always been delightful daughters, and they remain the bestest of buds ... :-)

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The Dempster Perspective

"Even more money" is a powerful magnet that pulls many to misery -- making Ryan Dempster's story worthy of note.

Dempster, a pitcher for the Chicago Cubs, just signed a 4-year, $52-million contract to stay in the Windy City, rather than sign an even more lucrative offer elsewhere. He said he enjoyed playing in Chicago, enjoyed his teammates, and wanted to win a championship there. His quote:

"Was there more money on the open market?" said Dempster, who said he recieved interest from Atlanta, Toronto, the Los Angeles Dodgers and both New York teams. "I'm sure there probably was. Maybe there was five years. That's a question that I'll never be able to answer. But truthfully I don't really even care to know because I'm happy with what I have. It's more money than I could ever dream of getting when I was a kid growing up playing baseball."

Compare that to Mike Piazza's reaction back in 1998 when his career-long team (he was their 62nd round pick), offered him more money than any player at his position had earned in the history of baseball (six years, $84-million). He said he found the Dodgers' offer "insulting" and demanded to be the highest paid player in baseball history, not just the highest paid catcher, as anything less than that would be disrepectful.

My older daughter was a thoughtful 9-year-old baseball fan in 1998. She mulled Piazza's reaction and asked me, "Dad, would you have signed the 6-year deal to stay with the Dodgers?"

I remember my answer.

"6-year? Kater, I'd have signed a 100-year deal to stay. $84 million is enough money for anyone for life, especially if you're getting paid to do something you love. It would pay for mom and I to live for rest of our lives, as well as for college for you and your sister, for your kids, for your kids kids, and if invested it right, there'd still be a small fortune to pass on. Yep, if Mr. Hofstetter offered me more money than anyone had ever been paid in the history of the world for doing what I do, if I would agree to stay at NMC for six more years, I'd be eternally grateful -- not insulted. Money's only part of the question, my friend. I like the saying 'money is like oxygen -- you need some to live, but it's not the reason to live'. Piazza's forgotten that."

Piazza's indignation got him traded to the Marlins and then to the Mets, where he ultimately signed a 7-year, $91-million deal. He went on to post impressive individual stats and might make the Hall of Fame. Unfortunately, to get that extra money, he damaged his Dodger legacy, ended up bouncing around five different teams, and never knew the joy of helping a team win a world series.

Ten years later, it's heartwarming to hear Dempster's different perspective on his newfound (albeit smaller than possible) incredible wealth. "I'm happy with what I have" are words to live by. They are not an invitation to complacency or mediocrity, but rather a tip of the hat to contentment and recognition that money is just part of the equasion of success. Dempster provides a teachable moment for us all -- and gives us a good reason to hope that 2009 is finally the year for the Cubbies.
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A Different Take

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What are you, when you're different?

Is the different the weed in the garden? A swan among ducks? A round peg among square holes? A dentist among toy makers? A lone voice crying in the wilderness? A metaphor among cliches?

Is the fact that oil and water are different a problem, because the two don't mix -- or is it a solution, because that's what makes the magic of lithography possible?

Does different enrich discussion or represent resistance?

Opposites attract -- what do differents do?

After all that's been and given what is, perhaps it's time to approach this ... a bit differently.
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Pirates, Piers, and Piercing

When faced with a plan that had devolved to involve modern-day pirate types in the mainstreet equivalent of a darkened navy pier, what was a young artist to do? Yep. Get Dad. Egad!

You see, our artist had finally secured authorization to have her upper-ear cartilage pierced to add a bit of spiral flair to her head -- only to find they now only do lobes in the safety of the Mall. "For cartilage? You'd have to go to a tattoo parlor for that ... "

Now, Mom had been okay with the Mall -- but she wasn't likely to take on a tattoo parlor, so the 17-year-0ld in need of parental consent did the only thing she could think of. She turned to Dad.

While the "shirt & tie" is a costume for a role, realistically, I only relate to the underworld's romance from afaaar and simply don't travel in the "tattoo parlor" circles ... So, I did what any Dad without a clue would do -- I asked my stylist at my Salon for advice ...

Tracy sent me to Sarah's Tattoos (they don't do piercings) who sent me to Yankee Tattoos (they don't work on anyone under 18, no exceptions) who sent me to Body Art Tattoos & Piercings ... Visiting the first was delightfully entertaining (Sarah's sweet, in a rough kind of way -- like rock candy) ... calling the second was surprisingly professional (like calling a swirl of a doctor's office and art gallery) ... and the third? Well ... calling Body Art was a bit like calling a pirate ship docked at a darkened navy pier somewhere off the sinister bowels of a waterfront wharf's back alleys ... Gruff voices. Brusk answers. Background chaos. Condescending use of the term "dude" ... Egad.

Refusing to be detered, I double checked the plan with a trendy graphic designer down there and that Saturday, after a photo wander-off, I met up with Em on Main Street in Burlington outside Body Art. She gleefully gathered her resolve and in we went. Em waded through the crowd in the lobby -- a woman who wondered if the ball under her lower lip was too big and looked ridiculous (it was and it did), a woman who wanted her child's footprint tattooed on her right shoulder blade (that'll be $184 for custom), the UVM girls trying to get the nerve up to pierce their bellies (apparently sharing one brain between the four of them), and made it to the counter ...

The pirate running the ship at that moment? Julie. (Yep, God might have been watching out for us.) Older than Em, younger than I -- another rock candy type with an engaging smile and a surprisingly gentle way. Em explained what she wanted and Julie nodded and asked, "Are you 18 and did you bring your ID?" ... Em shook her head no, but her response brought light to the pirate mistress's eyes "No, but I brought my Dad." I got a grinning once-over and Julie asked, "And did Dad bring his ID?" and I thought, "Oh, bless you, my child" ... though as I reflect back, it was likely a liability inquiry rather than flirty flattery ... (Such is life at 43) ... A disclaimer and a pair of signatures later and Em was cleared for piercing.

I got invited to the piercing room and watched the process unfold ... cleanliness looked good, sterility seemed to be in order, Em was up for it, and Julie went to work. In moments, it was over, as were the after-care instructions. I think the $42 hurt my wallet more than the needle hurt Em's ear -- but my wallet will heal faster ...

With that we escaped to the hilarity of the sidewalk for a cell phone photo and a grand hug of appreciation.

It'll be a couple months of healing (while avoiding staph, Hepatitis, and the Flesh Eating Virus) before the starter hoop gives way to the decorative spiral ...

While that time passes, we'll revel in our priceless Dad/Daughter adventure in pursuit of youthful artistic expression ...

Life is good -- enjoy every moment!

The Tinkers to Evers to Chance of Camera Shopping

As I stalk the planet http://thedonutrunsoapbox.blogspot.com/2008/08/lens-envy.html with my Nikon D300 (and it's trusty sidekick, the Manfrotto 682B), a number of folks have asked about cameras. It occurs to me there are three websites I recommend most everytime somebody asks -- so I thought I'd give them some public love out here ...

Ken Rockwell is a photographer who has seemingly shot with every camera out there and is not shy about sharing his opinion. I appreciated his research so much I sent him a paypal donation as I figured he saved me the cost of a couple photo magazines ... His overall recommendations are out at: http://www.kenrockwell.com/tech/recommended-cameras.htm

Digital Photography Review has an incredibly extensive collection of pretty objective reviews and comparisons of a huge array of cameras. Plus, they have forums for users of specific cameras so you can read real world thoughts on the ones you're interested in: http://www.dpreview.com/

I've had great luck buying cameras and gear from B&H Photo in New York City. Prices consistently on the low end of the really credible sources and I've never had a problem with an order. I have even had a successful exchange with them as I upgraded a 681B monopod I bought from them to the 682B. http://www.bhphotovideo.com/

You can always go the Consumer reports path, there are unending websites out there (Steves Digicams jumps to mind), and eBay is a fascinating wild fronteir of purchasing -- but the three I shared are rock solid in my opinion. I hope they prove as helpful to you as they have for me. Enjoy!