Conventional Wisdom?

I watched a little more than 2 hours of coverage tonight. Not because I wanted to, but because I felt I needed to. I wanted to understand the Republican platform and see just where our differences lied. I consider myself a very moderate democrate, conservative fiscally, but socially liberal. That said, I wanted to see what this platform was about.

What I saw made me sick as well. Here's why.

If you removed a few key figures, you could have been at the Green Party's Convention. Where the hell did I learn anything about the Republicans last night? The entire night was a prostitution of the tragedy that was 9/11, followed by speeches by the two most LIBERAL Republicans in the party.

Let's start with the 9/11 Memorial segment, which may have shown me the most about the republican platform, which is that they are not above unabashedly milking pain and anguish for political gain. It was notable to me as well that they only brought out the women that were left behind. Because we all no that no men were widowed that day. Or is it simply that we are supposed to feel more simpathy for women? It occurred to me that in the Republican ideology, perhaps we are supposed to view these women as pathetic creatures too ill prepared to take care of themselves now that their men have been taken from them. And that pisses me off.

It pisses me off as well that they can raise the flag, sing the anthems, and say nothing. And yet Kerry gets attacked for not having a platform?! I've yet to hear what Bush has in store for a second term, aside from a constitutional amendment against gay marriage, a possible war in Iran, and oh yeah, another 30 day vacation in Texas each year.

The idea that Kerry flip flops is not an unfounded one. You have to call a spade a spade. But flip flopping is a manner of political manuevering and positioning and what the Republicans did next is no different.

First there was McCain, then Guiliani. The two most liberal republicans in the party. THEY ARE NOT EVEN REPUBLICANS! Talk about wanting it both ways, these guys only agree with Bush on one thing...Iraq. Neither agree with the religious right, both are more socially and environmentally conscious, and the list goes on and on. But here they were, front and center on opening night, as if they were the model for this party.

I learned from McCain that his friends in the democratic party think one way and his friends in the republican party think another. Think this guy doesn't want it both ways? At least he had the decency not to bash his 'friend' John Kerry as much as he and the Republican party bashed Michael Moore.

Then came Guiliani, whose speech was equal parts lie and exageration. As he spoke I couldn't help, but think he was having difficulty with his own words, as if he could barely believe he was saying them. Perhaps it was because I doubt he believed much of what he said, he was only smart enough to realize that if he wanted a prayer at the White House in 2008 he better make friends now. So he continued on, comparing Bush to every great leader with the exception of Ghandi. Yeah, he's Winston Churchill and Ronald Reagan all rolled up into one. The greatness of Churchill and the fact that he is a Republican like Reagan.

I love how the Republican party throws out Abraham Lincoln as a great Republican president. Little history for your folks, he was a democrat with democratic values whose party happened to once upon a time, call itself Republican. As in forming a more perfect republic.

Both speakers spoke of FDR, who yes, was a Democrat. In fact, while I take an aside, when was the last successful war run by a Republican? Was it Woodrow Wilson in WWI? Nope, he was liberal. FDR in WWII? Nope, another democrat. How about Truman? Nope. Was it a republican that helped avoid war during the Cuban missle crisis? No, that was Kennedy. It was a Republican that got us mired in Vietnam though (Nixon). So let me ask you, where was the proof again that the Democratics couldn't handle war?

There was a shot of a black man standing in the crowd during Guiliani's speech. My first thought was that he was lost. My second was that he was security. My third was that they were holding that short way too long, as if he was the ONE black man in the crowd. He certainly wasn't the only one over 60 though. Man, if we postpone the election for a few months 1/2 of the Republican delegates might keel over.

So I watched as Guiliani's speech went long, not surprised as I know how much he likes to hear himself lisp, I mean talk. And in the end, I still know nothing more about the party. I know that it still refuses to define its platform, but likes to attack Kerry on the issues it refuses to stand on. I know that we are fighting against Kerry on Vietnam, Iraq because of terrorism that doesn't exist, and a war on terror that isn't a war because we can't win it. No we can win it. No we can't win it.

I'd say fool me once, shame on me, except I was never fooled and Bush says that saying much better than me anyone. I will say that that it has become apparent to me that this election will not be won with the truth. It will not be fought on the issues. It will not be respectable, nor honorable. The liberal media bias will mean that CBS is the only network that will air parts of the Republican convention and that Fox will be fair and balanced by devoting 90 minutes to the Republican's opening night after giving 20 minutes to the Democrats opening night. I know that either 100,000 or 500,000 people protested against Bush on Sunday depending upon which party you ask. I know our poverty rate is up and our economy is down. I know that it is our enemies and not our allies that are growing and that our armed forces are stretched far and wide to fight a 'war' that our own president said we cannot win.

And I know that I will be voting for Kerry.

Nonsensical

Sometimes you wonder about the bigger picture in life. But then when you realize that you can't afford the bigger picture, so you settle for the picture in picture or just the cable ready version. Sometimes the bigger picture is too big to move or breaks. Fortunately the bigger picture often comes with a warranty.

I've wondered a lot about things like this.

Today I sit here at my desk lost in thought. It is unfamiliar territory at first, but once I found that I was lost in thought it was easier to retrace my steps.

I am realizing that more is not necessarily better, for instance while a man with 2 televisions can watch sports and game shows, a man with 2 watches does not know what time it is.

Perhaps you think that I have lost my mind, but I can assure that I remember just where I left it. You see this all makes sense when I think about it. Unfortunately while I can think for others, I can not understand for them. This is why my day has become so frustrating.

Still, on the other hand, I have different fingers.

It's A Bird...

One of the greatest crimes of modern times is the disregard and disrespect given to one of pop culture's latest and greatest phenomenons, the graphic novel. What began with Art Spiegelman's classic, Maus, has grown through the years, with modern masterpieces, like American Splendor, Blankets, and Box Office Poison. Graphic novels have emerged as a vital and articulate form for memoirs and semi-autobiographical tales, and IT’S A BIRD. . . written by Steven T. Seagle is no exception.

The novel is a personal reflection that finds the story's writer, attempting to rectify the disappearance of his father, come to terms with his family’s legacy of Huntington’s disease, understand his relationship with his girlfriend, and stave off writer’s block. It sounds like a job for Superman, which in fact is the job the writer has been hired to do.

Steven is given the break all writer's long for, only when his world turns upside down, Steve is forced to confront not only his family’s history of Huntington’s, but the possibility that any future he might lead will bring him face to face with the disease himself.

What is so fascinating about this story is the multiple levels that it works on. This is a story about Superman the hero and then again, it is a story of the flaws that go unacknowledged in said hero's adventures. As our hero fights with his inability to accept and understand Superman, the hero, we the reader come to realize that while he rejects Superman, he becomes Clark Kent. That seems like a grandose idea, but in reality it is simple, Clark is an alien, different from us, but simply hoping to just fit in and live amongst us, a concept not too different from one familiar to anyone living with a potentially devastating disease.

This isn't a typical Superman story. It is experimental novel, delving deep into philosophy, and expressively deconstructing the Man of Steel as none before have. Most impressively, the central theme is not far from those which Nietzsche dealt with long ago, Man or Superman?

It's a Bird is a clever meditation on what makes Superman an unchallenged icon and on what makes each man their own Superman. It is gripping at times, harrowing at others, and spellbinding throughout. Regardless of format, the story grabs hold of you and refuses to let go. Do yourself a favor, regardless of how you feel about comics or graphic novels, make sure that you pick this one up. I promise you won't put it down.

Walk on the Beach

An odd occurance happened last weekend that I thought I'd share. It's not a joke, and strangely enough, it happened just as I say.

I'm out at my family's place in Long Island, with the usual family dynamic going on. I needed to take a walk, and with the beach a block away, I had endless sands to get lost on. When I started walking I headed north, but for all I cared, I could be on a treadmill, not even giving a second thought to where I was going or how long I would walk.

Work has been rough over here lately, as I've been juggling my own confusion over what path to follow, with my office's desire to promote me to better position that I don't want, and my desire to take a different position at the University. Of course the reality is that neither decision will really make me happy, as it is writing that I truly want, and it is that effort that I am really pushing forward on, having completed a good 3 plus chapters and counting of my first novel.

All this is a lot to have weighing on your mind, especially when your folks are wondering when you are going to have kids, buy a home, where are you going to raise your kids, and how much money have you set aside to do so. Your heads spins with the thoughts of how you are going to pay for college for a kid you don't have and have much a mortgage will be in a state to be determined. Your parents are getting older and nobody is stepping up to the plate, so you find yourself approaching thirty, with a body that feels 40, worrying about your folks as if they are 10, but are actually in their 60's.

With so much on my mind I was not only thinking in circles, I started to feel that I was walking in one, as for no reason I found myself hooking back towards the water and stopping. I just stood there. Didn't want to walk anymore. Didn't want to think anymore. Just wanted to take a deep breath, enjoy the salty air, and try to gain some perspective.

There was no one around and the sands had been untouched, save for my own footprints. Footprints that I noticed made a very distinct design in the sands. One I was very unaware I was making and very startled to discover. Sure it could be coincidence or happenstance, but given the circumstances, I found it peculiar that my mind could signal the obvious to me and then drive the point home.

The path I left behind? A question mark.

The Search for More Money

Mel Brooks' Spaceballs was a seminal moment in my childhood. I say this because Star Wars may have been the most influential movie I've seen, as it was the one that opened up my eyes to the power of the imagination. When Spaceballs came along, I realized the power that humor has towards an existing idea, and the way it can help you take something independent of yourself, and brand it your own.

Why am I remembering this today? Well, it appears that George Lucas isn't the only one adapt at milking the cash cow.

For more as it was reported at Aint It Cool News, click below.

Ain't It Cool News

Positively Fifth Street

This book changed my view of poker. And if you know me, that says a lot. Never in a million years would I have ever thought a time would come when I would even consider playing poker in a casino. Now, I not only wnat to play, I think I can win.

Talk about delusional. They say that books are a trip to our greatest fantasies. This book took me to mine by way of a Concorde, with a beautiful stewardess, free drinks, and plenty of peanuts. We're almost talking mile high club, that's how much I enjoyed this book.

You get lost in it. McManus picks up so many threads, dealing with his personal life and balance of family, to the trip he is on to write a piece for Harper's Magazine about the trial of Ted Binion, heir to Binion's Horseshoe, to his fly by the seat of his pants adventues when he decides to use his advance money to try and play into the World Series of Poker. I could barely construct that thought into a paragraph and yet McManus balances each perfectly and juggles them so well that he brings you to the edge of your seat, then turns to another viewpoint, and you never lose the rhythm. He constantly leaves you wanting more, but never allows you to become disinterested.

To give you the story, as the bookseller's do well, Jim McManus, was a 49-year-old novelist, poet, teacher, and sometime journalist on assignment in Las Vegas for Harper's Magazine. He takes part of his $4,000 retainer and buys into a satellite tournament hoping to win a pass to play in the big one, the $10,000 buy-in no limit hold'em event that annually decides the world championship of poker. Not coincidentally he is also covering the trial of Sandy Murphy, a saucy, skanky Vegas lap dancer and her linebacker beau Rick Tabish who are accused of the murder of Ted Binion, brother of Becky Behnen, host of the tournament, and one of the sons of Benny Binion, the long time owner of the sponsoring Horseshoe casino.

Positively Fifth Street is a great example of the type of participatory sports writing made great by Hunter Thompson and George Plimpton. Here we have a voice, a narrator, who is not only telling the part of the story he's interested in, but involving himself in th story so that he becomes what we are interested in. As he covers the trial and the World Series of poker as an insider, he gives us a view of the game that tv and peanust games with your buddies will never allow you to achieve.
I refuse to share too many details because watering down this book would be tragic. Suffice to say, here is a book that satisfies all of our urges for crime, drama, love, and the greatest literary device of all, the underdog rising to the challenge.

Someone who read this book was quoted online as saying he didn't read it, he lived it. I can understand that and believe that if you read this book, you will too.

The Ivory Letter

I realized this afternoon that I was married. I should have known this earlier, especially since I recently had my second anniversary. It may come as a surprise to you, but being married is something that the husband is always the last to know. Today’s discovery changes everything for me, but I will get to that in due time.

I know what you must be thinking. How is it possible to be so oblivious? It is unfair, though, to consider a man undergoing a metamorphosis such as marriage oblivious. Does a caterpillar know what to expect when it becomes a butterfly? I think not. All of a sudden one day it wakes up and it looks different, smells different, and it is flighty. Just like a newlywed.

You are probably confused still. If so, allow me to further explain. The newly married man suffers from much confusion. Some attribute this to a post-wedding hangover, but I subscribe to a different school of thought, mostly because a hangover that lasts a lifetime that is achieved without tequila seems a bit too unbelievable. With tequila, well, that makes sense.

So let’s talk about the three types of confusion that are most often suffered.

The most common confusion that a young husband suffers stems from the confusion inherent in moving from “I” to “We.” This is especially true in cases where “We” is actually “Her” or “What She says We should be.” I am fortunate is that “We” is most often “We,” or at least an impression of “We.” For my wife and I, “We” is sort of like Eddie Murphy’s Bill Cosby impression in that it’s a “We” close enough to pass for the real “We” if you listen, but don’t look carefully.

Another startling confusion that a husband deals with is his inability to come to terms with the shiny, often heavy, metallic band that become surgically attached to his finger during what women refer to as “marriage” and men refer to as the “Marital Procedure.”

For men, this surgery is not too different from any other procedure that one might go under, as it usually takes less than an hour, but it differs in that the recovery period is decidedly longer, and in some extreme cases, is never-ending. As with most patients that experience partial limb damage, I spent approximately one year in therapy, adjusting to the weight of said ring, as well as the sometimes troubling emotional aspects of realizing that a part of you has been taken, rather quickly, away from you.

This leads to the last type of confusion that I have come to relate to, which is a kind of a “Phantom Limb” pain, similar to that which occurs in amputees. The sense is that there is a missing part of me, now lost forever, that I sometimes still feel the sensation of. It is in cases like my own, where the sensation of not wearing a ring is felt, despite the fact that one is now joined to my body and soul that are most often discussed. This traumatic adjustment needs to be met head on in order to re-achieve functionality in society as a “Husband” or “Married Person.”

Having undergone all three kinds of confusion, today’s discovery left me a bit flabbergasted. I had determined that I had dealt with every kind of confusion that was there to experience, yet today I realized that a new form of confusion lie ahead.

Today I took off my ring, as I normally do when I swim, and discovered that the ring remained. No, not the shiny platinum band, but a white, tan-less ring of skin that had remained behind, acknowledging my state of living, even in the ring’s absence.

Many thoughts occurred to me. Here I was, with an Ivory Letter encompassing my finger, a white letter O that branded me for all to see. Wherever I was to go, regardless of choice, I was now a marked man. I could not simply take off my ring, should I decide upon indiscretion, for now, as Reverend Dimmesdale before me, I had branded myself beneath the surface. No, I realized, this was not society using a ring to brand me, as they did with Hester Prynne’s scarlet letter. I now knew that I had affixed my own stigma, my own brand, and my own new identity simply through adapting to my new lifestyle. And to top it off, I realized that I had retained a surprising amount of information from Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “The Scarlet Letter,” a book that I really tested poorly on in High School.

So now it occurs to me that my confusion, now at the surface, has arisen solely to disappear. I have reached a point of no escape. A truth has been revealed, not only to me, but to the public as well. I am married.

Boogie Brilliance

I was at my sister's wedding, it was sometime around 7:15, and it occurred to me that I had lost my rhythm. As a white man, I’m sure you assumed once you met me that I never had it to begin with. I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that you were wrong.

Once upon a time I did have rhythm. You cannot have 3 sisters and not pick up a few things along the way. But what happened?

I’m a young white man and my most current dance move is the Roger Rabbit. How did that happen? Why is it that my best moves stem from nostalgic beats from the 1980’s?

And if they went as far as Breakin 2: Electric Boogaloo, is it too much to ask for them to complete the trilogy?

If I hated the New Kids on the Block so much, why can I copy them fluidly? God forbid I try to dance to anything with more soul than that, though. And how sad is that, to admit to yourself that your soul stopped growing back in the Donny Wahlberg era. Even worse, he's grown more as an actor than I have as a dancer during that time. I feel like I'm a fraud.

The funny thing is that I remember keeping the beat much better back in college. Sure it could have been the rum and cokes shakin it out there, but I could swear to you that there was a time when Blackstreet ruled the radio and I owned the dance floor.

I remember it well, crowded floors packed with women in all black outfits, guys with white baseball caps and jeans, lights, the stench of sweaty alcohol filled stale air trapped in the bar, with some upstate NY DJ swearing he could make it in the big city spinning, despite the fact that he was using a 5 disc changer and playing a bit too much Chumbawumba.

I never was the one out there doing the Ickey shuffle, right, left, throw the hands down and snap the fingers, repeat. I had moves. I had boogie brilliance, god damn it.

The music blasted out my ears, but who cared when every woman out there was on fire, pulling out moves from their repertoire, like they were acting out some grand ballet. Where the hell do they teach you girls this? Is that what’s in the video they pull you aside for in the 3rd grade?

Or did god just figure that in return for the pain of labor that you could have a lifetime of laughing your ass off at our expense? And what’s with pulling this off in high heels? What does dancing come so easy that you just need to throw yourself another challenge? Or is it just another way of rubbing it in that you are better than us at something?

But something occurred to me at the wedding, looking out upon my family and friends and realizing that the dance floor needed an air traffic controller. I saw Kate and I realized that she was my wife.

When woman dance, sex is in the air. I don’t care if you are black, white, red, yellow, or green. If you are a guy and are reading this, you and I know that the dancing was your way of standing out from the pack. If someone stood from afar and filmed us, I imagine not much would separate the mating rituals of migrating geese from Darwin’s on a Thursday night. Men dance to prove virility…or at the very least
release sexual tension as they grind themselves on some poor unsuspecting co-ed. Men are dogs indeed.

But I am married now. I have nothing left to prove anymore. There are no more dance clubs once a week. No more smoky crowds and slick floors of spilled drinks. I don’t have to listen to the remixed version of a Madonna remake if I don’t want to.

I am simply going to come right out and tell you, I can't dance anymore. I had it once, and I’ll look back at it one day, recalling stories to my grandchildren about who Kid N Play were and how I got this bum hip trying to do the running man at my friend Chris’ wedding.

Sure I’ll miss the good ol days when I had rhythm, but maybe this is all part of the way it’s meant to be. Maybe rhythm is something meant to be utilized to help us match and procreate, and then it is lost. Like a snake shedding its skin or a caterpillar becoming a butterfly.

And maybe I can rationalize losing my hair like this too.

Project X

Westwood High School. John F. Kennedy Middle School. PS 153. Columbine High School.

Anyone of these could have been your schools, but only one will be remembered through the ages as a place where a generation made its bloody mark. In the aftermath of Columbine’s tragedy, many of us continue to act in disbelief, unable to grasp the why and how behind the anger. We often say it couldn’t happen here.

We are wrong.

Embarrassment breeds contempt. Humiliation breeds revenge. Anger breeds hatred. High School breeds it all. We can try to ignore it, but ignorance is not a shield, it is a cloak. It is not strong and valient, it is weak and cowardly.

And ignorance can only be bliss for those who stand watch while others suffer. Not for those in pain.

Project X is an engrossing novel gives the subject of Columbine a subtle and disturbing treatment.
Following the travails of Edwin Hanratty, a loser at the bottom of the ruthless eighth-grade pecking order, beaten up and mocked by bullies, disliked by his teachers and at his wits end with his exasperated parents. Clinging to one friend, Flake, he moves toward a startling vengence upon all of his peers, those who wronged him and those who were simply in the way.

Shepard’s exploration of the themes that have rocked our world since Columbine is incredibly startling. Perhaps morbidly, I found this book addictive, as it delved deep into the disturbed mind of adolescence, and searched for understanding in teenage obsession and the mastery of fitting in.
This is a difficult read, but one well worth attempting. Shepard’s words mark a true understanding of the immaturity inherent in our teenage words, as well as a compassion for the loss of language suffered by all who suffer the spotlight of humiliation. This mastery of emotion makes Project X worth a look.

Words, Words, Words

In the state of sorrow that I find myself in, I find that many of my friends seem to be unable to speak to me, or approach me in any way.

I am reminded of a time when I had approached a friend of mine with a story of how I had just been so tragically dumped by my first love. His reply to me was, "Words, words, words," and then he put his arm around me. He later explained that he did this because when we come to a time in our life filled with anger, resentment, and sadness, there is little comfort in any words that are said to us, but that it is important that we know people are there for us, and with us.

Words, words, words. That's all I need right now.

Memorial

Here is a good look at my Grandfather when he used to teach at NYU. 

Eulogy

Today, I delivered my first eulogy. This was a milestone I just as soon not have passed. But a life well lived deserves to not only be remembered, but honored by all who are left behind. That is what I will take from today, and from the life of my grandfather, Theodore Ehrsam.

My remarks:

I stand here today, foolishly attempting to find words, when none will do justice in memorial of the most influential person in my life.

The task before me is monumental, for I am unable to accept the fact that my grandfather, one so full of vigor, and so full of joy, has passed. Perhaps you find me delusional to be so unable to comprehend the loss of a man who had seen so many years, but my grandfather was only 94 on God’s terms.

In my mind’s eye, I am still knee high to mountain of a man, who simply wants to be a boy like me. I sit upon his lap, his body firm and muscular, and his mind fertile, pouring out epic tales born of the moment, and remaining in my memory always. I nestle snug against him, my head resting against a soft cotton turtleneck sweater; the place where every tale began simply and earnestly, and vividly grew in leaps and bounds. Inside the pages of any book only lay the groundwork of any story. With the dual powers of creativity and innocence, we explored worlds that only we knew existed. And with every word he spoke, and every motion of his outstretched arms, I was captivated.

To experience just one moment in your life where someone actually had the power to will imagination into reality is a blessing. To spend an entire childhood residing in just such a place is nothing short of miraculous.

As children, we all find ourselves creating imaginary playmates to fill the void created between the unending excitement of childhood discovery, and the adult constraints of time and responsibility. And yet, I had little need for one. I had my grandfather, the perfect embodiment of an imaginary friend come to life. We played games that only we will ever truly know, and they were boundless in spirit and energy, just like the man who created them. Rules were taught, yet hardly enforced here. And for a time that was all too brief, there was no winners or losers, no competition or rivalry, there was simply playtime.

And in the recess of my memory stirs the age when I would go to school full time, to learn and grow as all young children do. The time came, far too quickly for both of us, and when the day arrived for me to go to school, I was afraid and upset. Not because I was growing up, nor that I was leaving home. I simply wanted to know one thing. Who will play with Grandpa while I’m gone?

For me it was inconceivable that my best friend was not going to come along with me. It was mind boggling to think that someone so similar to me, who thought, acted, and played just as I did, had already gone through what I was about to embark upon.

It was in these days, perhaps too early for most to call their formative years that I realized what I wanted to be when I grew up. I spoke of grandeur. Of flying spaceships, fighting fires, or hitting the game winning home run, and then curled up on the floor and scribbled stories of such tales. Wild outrageous stories, born from the imagination that had been groomed day in and day out by my life’s greatest teacher.

It is this six year old, that wrote to pour out the pure joy in his heart, that the twenty eight year old before you has come to realize was bred from the love and boundless enthusiasm of his greatest role model.

So here I am today, still asking myself the same question that has tossed over and over again in my mind. To me, was he Man or Superman?

Because maybe, just maybe, the difference between the two is not as much as you might think. Maybe the difference lies only the ability to make the impossible possible. And maybe the only way we do that is by transcending the imagination. For it is in that transformation, where anything can be realized, that one learns that dreams can, in fact, be willed into being.

And then, just as my grandfather proved once before, and in his passing has reminded me so, man passes into something so much more.

Or perhaps the legend of Theodore Ehrsam is just that. And the myth is not the man. Perhaps its all just the construct of a wide-eyed boy who refuses the accept and see things simply as they are. Perhaps there is an over-active imagination at work here, trying desperately to create yet another world to escape to. And if that is so, then so be it. Because then the boy has become just like the man he wished himself to be.

The boy his grandfather always was.

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