MUSINGS

The Feat of Feet

I was thinking about feet the other day, as I slipped a pair of socks over mine. I stared down and wondered about feet and death. I’m not sure why this thought came to me, but it did . . . so I let it.

I thought about feet at the end of a hospital bed. The final prickle of life, stabbing and dancing its way across the soles of the feet, before dissipating into the nothingness, escaping at last through the pores on the cool tips of the toes.

I envisioned my feet — blue, stiff, and lifeless, upward facing on a cold steel coroners table.

Finally, I imagined the pant cuff of a neatly pressed suit, respectfully pushed up the leg, in a room so full of silence the walls bend outward — an attentive and faceless mortician ties my finest (and final) pair of dress shoes, tersely knotting them, before carefully evening-out the laces — for whom, I do not know.

Get off your knees and on your feet.

Be thankful for feet, for they are the no-cost vehicle to “purposville.”

Walk a bit every day, take the world in, visit kindness onto a stranger – or a loved one.

Rise up, push down, and feel the hard and unforgiving world press into the soles of your feet. Then, make a stand for justice, equality, love, and peace.

Public Access Private Thoughts

I was walking down Tuckerman Avenue earlier today, when I came across this sign:

Public access to the shore is the way the public can legally reach and enjoy coastal areas and resources.

Feeling adventurous, I decided to take the path less traveled (at least for me).

On my trek from curbside Tuckerman Ave to the shoreline, I couldn’t help but think, this public access is not very accessible. The path was overgrown, uneven and rocky in most parts, muddy and narrow in others. At one point, I had to crouch to make my way through a tunnel of shrubbery, the ground beneath my feet, a treacherous gully (can a gully be treacherous?).

As I made my way down the path, I imagined an animated discussion between Meriwether Lewis and William Clark, with an exasperated Clark shouting “Turn around Lew, she’s impassable” and “It’s risky business, this path to the shoreline, I fear we may lose some people!” – but I soldiered on.

If you ask me, accessible should mean accessible to a wide spectrum of people. If your Nana can safely walk the path with a less than 50 % chance of fracturing a hip, then I say its accessible. I’m not sure the path from Tuckerman Ave to the shoreline passes the Nana test.

Once I made it to the shore, I headed in the direction of Sachuaest beach, hoping to make my way to Purgatory chasm and to the lower end of Tuckerman Ave — and eventually back to my car, which I had parked at the local YMCA.

I’ve lived on Aquidneck Island for nearly half a century, and this was the first time walking this particular shoreline – it's really quite beautiful.

The rocky terrain was not easy, and it was slippery in parts. I was reminded several times that mother nature doesn’t give a shit when you say “I got this” — having slipped twice on slimy seaweed-covered rocks.

I ran out of walkable terrain before I could reach Purgatory Chasm, so I had to double back. But all-in-all, it was a productive, mind-clearing walk, and a nice reminder of how fortunate I am to have ended up on Aquidneck Island.

Debating the Undebatable

For as long as he can remember, he loved to argue.

He wasn’t sure where this penchant for debate came from.

His mother had firmly held beliefs, but he had no recollection of her engaging others in a passionate discourse about politics or religion, or anything else for that matter. His father’s passions revolved primarily around a reclining chair by the fireplace, an after-work scotch on the rocks, and cigars.

He remembers a heated debate with a friend at a sleepover when he was just a kid.

They argued fervently about which baseball league (the National or American) had better players and teams. He remembers being energized by the back-and-forth discussion. He remembers the thrill of responding on-the-fly to his friend’s assertions, countering them with well-thought-out retorts.

That debate dragged into the early-morning hours. The warm stuffy bedroom became thick with a swampy August heat and the two boys’ passion for sports.

Eventually, he and his friend drifted off to sleep, no hard feelings, no carryover.

The arguer never put his love of debate to practical use. He lacked direction and parental guidance. In the absence of a nurturing nudge, his life was shaped primarily by the stance brothers (circum and happen).

Later in life, when jonesing for a debate, he’d engage others over social media, arguing with vigor and passion about politics and religion.

It was from 2016 onward, that the arguer noticed a fundamental change in some of the individuals he debated. Many of them disregarded verifiable facts and truth in favor of falsehoods and outright lies.

So, for example, when the arguer made a declarative statement about Trump supporters attacking the capital on January 6th, some of his friends took this as an invitation to debate.

They argued the attackers were not Trump supporters.

They argued that the attackers were tourists that posed no threat.

They argued against what everyone saw with their own eyes and heard with their own ears.

It was stunning.

A basic premise of debate is that there are facts on both sides of the issue being argued.

The intellectual joy of debating comes from being challenged with factual information that counters your argument. The idea that you’ll be able to convince the person that you’re debating to change their mind (and vice versa) is what made debating so enjoyable to the arguer.

The COVID-19 vaccines are safe and work, is not a debatable statement.

On January 6th, the United States Capital was attacked by Trump supporters at the behest of the defeated former president. This also is not a debatable statement.

Climate change is real and poses a genuine threat to our planet. Again, not up for debate.

The point here is that some issues have been settled definitively by evidence, truth, and facts. But because old habits die hard, the arguer was drawn into debating the undebatable.

The result was exhausting, frustrating, depressing, and ultimately revelatory.

The arguer concluded that America is inundated with millions of willfully disingenuous people who are guided by politics over truth. These people are continuously debating the undebatable with falsehoods, misinformation, and quackery.

This represents a default way of thinking and arguing for nearly half the country, to the chagrin of the arguer.

Self Determination

“I’m tired.”

That was the note he left. A sticky note, actually. Pushed hard and pressed purposefully onto the upper-left corner of the corkboard in his home office, now spattered with brain matter and blood.

He woke that Tuesday, poured his coffee, sat on his back porch, and listened to mourning doves coo and the distant rumble of the early commute – trucks and cars, potholes and puddles. The wet hum and rattle of life.

He would miss his morning coffee, but not enough to stick around.

His kids were grown. As best he could, he’d advised them about life and how to get on in the world. So, in this regard, his “main” job was done.

He wasn’t all that unhappy or in any kind of pain, just immensely bored and intensely uninterested in the grind and pursuit, of what, he never entirely understood.

For the last several weeks, he found himself muttering, “What’s the point? Nothing changes. It’s all the same shit."

What’s the point?

Nothing changes.

It’s all the same shit.

I suppose if one chews on those sentiments long enough, a sticky note on a corkboard and a gun in your mouth is where you end up.

He was missed dearly by his family, who stumbled numbly through life for the next two years.

For weeks after his demise, his faithful dog waited for him to come down the stairs and give a loving pat on the head. Whenever the house creaked, or the upstairs plumbing clanged, his dog would get up, walk to the stairs, and wait.

That was perhaps the saddest display of love and loyalty ever.

Gilead, Texas

Many right-to-lifers believe life begins at conception and a zygote has the same inalienable rights as a fully developed human. And because a zygote is defenseless, right-to-lifers see themselves as self-appointed and divinely anointed protectors of the unborn.

It’s a crusade for these people.

With placards and posters splattered with images of aborted fetuses, they march at pro-life rallies, scream at, harass, and intimidate women at abortion clinics, and vote only for pro-life candidates (regardless of the candidate’s character or qualifications – see Donald J Trump).

On the other side of the issue, pro-choice advocates feel just as strongly about women’s autonomy over their bodies. Pro-choicers believe any decision around pregnancy is solely up to the woman – her body, her choice. They believe life begins outside the womb after the baby is born and that being forced to carry an unplanned pregnancy to term, based on someone else’s philosophical or religious views, is an unacceptable assault on autonomy and human dignity.

Pro-choicers march at rallies, support organizations that provide reproductive health services to women, and vote only for pro-choice candidates.

From a plumbing and religious perspective (male/atheist), I don’t feel emotionally invested enough to opine on either side of the issue.

But maybe a lower emotional investment makes me more objective?

Don’t mistake my decision to speak out as telling others what to do or what to believe – in the end, we make our own decisions. Well, hopefully we do.

As I said, I don’t believe in God or heaven or the notion of a soul – I see no evidence of any of these things. I believe we are born of biology, just like every other animal. I believe our lives are shaped primarily by what happens (the good and the bad) after entering the world.

That said, none of us can deny the fact we all begin in the exact same manner, moving from a fertilized egg to embryo, from an embryo to fetus, and finally, from a fetus to a baby. Disrupting that process through abortion prevents a natural biological transformation. Without that disruption (and if all goes well), the end result is a baby – soul or no soul.

There can be many reasons why a woman decides to disrupt that biological process. And those reasons can run the gamut from the profoundly emotional to the detached and dismissive.

I imagine how a woman feels about her pregnancy depends on the circumstances surrounding it and that those circumstances can vary greatly. Maybe it’s a pregnancy from a casual and consensual fling, maybe it’s a meticulously planned pregnancy with a life partner, or maybe it’s a pregnancy resulting from violent rape. Each circumstance is going to evoke different emotions and thought patterns. In addition to the circumstances surrounding the pregnancy, the situation of the individual woman is also unique. Is she emotionally stable and physically healthy? Does she have a solid social and familial support system? Is she financially independent? Is she able to support another human being emotionally, physically, and financially?

Right-to-lifers say the circumstance of the pregnancy and the situation of the woman is not what matters most. When it comes to pregnancy, the focus is not on how or why the woman became pregnant or whether she can support a child. Instead, right-to-lifers put all their focus and support on the unborn child.

Regardless of how the seed was planted, in the eyes of a pro-lifer, the woman transforms from an autonomous human being to a vessel – as soon as fertilization occurs.

Imagine having no say. No voice. This is the most important and challenging thing for men to wrap their heads around.

Imagine being told by the state that regardless of the circumstance of your pregnancy or your physical, emotional, and financial status, you have no say in your pregnancy after reaching the six-week marker.

After that six-week marker, you will do what you’re told.

You will have that baby, whether you want to or not. Whether you can care for it or not.

Whether you were raped or whether you were little careless with your birth control. it. Does. Not. Matter.

You have no say.

Imagine how that makes a person feel.

Stripped.

One group believes that from the moment of conception, the woman’s role is that of a vessel. The other believes all the goings-on in a woman’s body (including fertilizing that egg) is the woman’s business and nobody else’s.

Neither side will ever budge from their firmly held beliefs, and legislation sure as hell won’t change minds. All legislation does in the case of abortion is make access easier or more difficult. It never changes minds.

The legislation in TX clearly makes getting an abortion more difficult. But let’s be honest, a wealthy woman in TX who wants to terminate her pregnancy will not be deterred by legislation. As has always been, women with means will find a way. They’ll get on a plane to go “visit” their cousin. But, like so many other laws, the law in TX will have a far more significant impact on those without means.

Suggested guidelines, questions, and suggestions before weighing in on someone else’s decision to terminate their pregnancy:

How does someone else’s decision about their pregnancy affect you at all? It doesn’t.

If you don’t believe in abortion, don’t have one.

Believe an aborted fetus has a soul? Great then, all the aborted are in heaven, basking in the glow of an all-loving God.

Believe all beings will be judged by God after they die? OK then, let God dispense judgment at that time. That’s God’s job, not yours or mine.

And if we were serious about wanting to reduce the number of abortions in America, we’d be looking at national standard for sex education in public schools, with frank and honest discussions about sex, responsibility, and consequence.

Robots in Human Skin Suits

I'm more than a bit shocked that I still wallow in work worry.

At nearly 60-years old, I thought that shit would have dissipated by now, but it hasn't.

I still lie awake at night and stress out about work.

And lately, worry is partnered (weirdly enough) with a growing and sustained apathy, where even though I'm frantic and panicked about my job, I struggle to find the motivation required to push through the mile-high mountain of the inane yet necessary:

Zoom meetings
Stand-ups
One-on-ones
Deadlines
New processes, procedures, and tools

When you can't summon the energy needed to organize your thoughts and quell your work worry, you've probably reached a saturation point.

And I'm beginning to think that's where I am - at the intersection of panic and apathy.

If I never hear another "let's jump on a call" or "find some time on my calendar," I'll be OK because honestly, after 35 years, work has become an exhaustingly joyless and life-draining endeavor - a toxic and twisted nest of feigned interest and stress. All made worse today by the fact that work unfolds against a devastatingly bleak backdrop of worldwide calamity; from our crumbling democracy, to the rise of authoritarianism, to the climate catastrophe, humanity is in utter shambles.

All of this makes focusing on two-week agile sprints, and software deliverable deadlines damn near impossible.

At least for me, it does.

And so, I'm itchy to retire. I want to step off the "dread-mill," put my work worry aside, and use the surplus of time and onset of calm to focus on things that matter – family, personal relationships, health and relaxation, and preparing for the apocalypse.

And actually, it's beginning to feel like retirement might be close at hand -- I mean, after 35 years, the next step, the one where my wife and I get to relax and smell the roses, should be just around the corner.

Right?

I consider myself one of the lucky ones. Barring a catastrophic financial meltdown, I hope to retire while still having some tread on my soul. But for millions of Americans, the high cost of healthcare, housing, food, gas (and just about everything else) makes retirement a pipe dream.

If I had to continue the rest of my days formulating bland and drier than dessert dirt descriptions of software features, I don't know what I'd do.

I did it for 35 years.

I'm ready to stop.

When I no longer care, keeping at it would damage my emotional well-being.

Humans are strange; we keep doing what we do, even when we're dead tired, exhausted and deflated by it. Even when it brings us no joy and turns us into stressed-out, fidgety, and fragile work zombies, we just keep on with it. Maybe because we have to. Maybe because we have no choice in the matter - we work, or we get swallowed up and spit out.

The system that we're part of has turned millions of Americans into robots. We are programmed and cultivated by the carrot and stick message of capitalism. So we move ahead, expressionless, one foot in front of the other, until that final day when we stop and fall over into our shiny and perfectly polished coffins.

The Death of Altruism

We have a free medicine at our disposal that limits the deadly effects of a virus for those who contract it while also reducing our ability to spread it.

We have mountains of data proving the medicine is safe and effective.

We also know how vaccinations work – that to protect the population at large, we need to meet a threshold of more than 80 percent.

We simply relied on people’s altruism to do the right thing in the past.

In the past, we trusted that the scientific and medical community cared about the health and wellbeing of their fellow human beings.

In the past, when faced with a medical crisis like this pandemic, we rolled up our sleeves willingly. We had a strong sense of community and cared about more than just ourselves or our “individual rights.”

I’m a bit tired of those who complain that any mandate infringes on their freedom. These people have politicized a public health emergency, which has made a bad situation worse.

The millions of people who ignore the global medical community (and most likely their own doctors) are primarily responsible for extending the pain, suffering, and economic uncertainty. And their decision is hindering our nation’s ability to get on the other side of the pandemic.

I don’t support forced vaccinations, but I’m okay with individual businesses requiring proof of vaccinations.

Businesses have a right to make decisions in the best interest of their customers and their employees. It’s akin to a business not allowing visitors to smoke in their place of business. They’re not telling people they can’t smoke at all. They’re simply saying that because the visitor’s decision to smoke poses a danger to others, they’re not going to allow it in their place of business.

Like smoking in public, the decision to not get vaccinated endangers others. And, unfortunately, it also increases the likelihood of new variants getting a foothold and spreading and prolonging the battle against the virus.

In addition, as we’ve seen all over the country, the unvaccinated are putting undue stress on our healthcare system. Hospitals are running out of ICU beds filled with unvaccinated COVID patients.

Proof of vaccination to enter crowded venues or stores or fly on an airline is not optimal. Still, when altruism doesn’t work, society must try to convince people to do the right thing.

We all sacrifice some individual freedoms for the greater good of society. If people decide they are not going to do that, they should bear some cost or suffer a consequence for their decision.

Protesting the Protestor

Extending gloved hands skyward in racial protest, U.S. athletes Tommie Smith, center, and John Carlos stare downward during the playing of the Star Spangled Banner after Smith received the gold and Carlos the bronze for the 200 meter run at the Summer Olympic Games in Mexico City on Oct. 16, 1968. Australian silver medalist Peter Norman is at left. (AP Photo)

Flags and songs aren’t people. They don’t have feelings or emotions.

The American flag and the national anthem are not capable of “feeling” respect or disrespect, any more than a dishcloth or AC DC’s “Highway to Hell.”

So, when some Americans say in anger, “He disrespected the flag” or “She disrespected the anthem!” what they’re actually saying is, “They disrespected my feelings for the flag and my feelings for my country.” I don’t deny the authenticity of their anger or their right to express it.

What I do have a problem with is their presumption. The presumption that everyone’s feelings for America should be the same – or the same as theirs.
The American experience is not uniform (and never has been). For example, as a white American male, I haven’t felt the sting of systemic racism. But just because I haven’t felt it doesn’t mean it’s not there; it simply means I didn’t experience it personally. So systemic racism did not shape my American experience, the way it shaped George Floyd’s family, or the experience of millions of other African Americans.

To understand something that I haven’t experienced, I need to listen and employ empathy. And if there’s one thing in short supply in America, it’s empathy.

Many Americans don’t want to hear about someone else’s experience, especially if it does not mirror their own. So, when they see an Olympic athlete protest, they immediately dismiss the protester as ungrateful, selfish, and un-American. They never pause to consider that individual’s experience – they don’t want to know why the person is protesting – they simply point a finger and condemn or compare the protesting athlete to one who did not protest.

But when Americans see an aggrieved citizen of a communist country stand up for their rights, we (almost uniformly) celebrate their protest as brave and heroic. Demonstrating that even though empathy is in short supply, there’s an abundance of hypocrisy in the USA.

America was not born perfect. In the past, women and blacks could not vote, gay people could not marry, and civil rights were a pipe dream. And so, Americans (including Olympic athletes) fought, protested, and marched against these injustices.

And even though we stand head-and-shoulders above most other countries when it comes to freedom and opportunity, we are not yet that “perfect union” – that’s always going to be a goal. It’s always going to be America’s journey. And along the road to that more perfect union, Americans (and American athletes) protest or march or fight to shed light on things like racism, sexism, and voter suppression.

That’s been our history, and it has served us well.

In a Democracy, Criticism is Love

Many people mistake criticism of America by citizens as hate towards their country. I would argue the opposite is true, that in a democracy, criticism is love.

American democracy is an ongoing experiment that remains in pursuit of a more perfect union. And so, America consistently tries to live up to the ideals on which she was founded. So, when the government that represents us does not live up to those ideals or starts to stray away from democratic principles, we must correct America’s course. We correct course through constructive criticism, dissent and protest, and voting.

In America, the citizens are not static witnesses to democracy – we don’t sit idly by when our representatives behave in ways that contradict American ideals. We don’t sit on our hands or keep our mouths shut when we see systemic racism and an unfair justice system. We don’t just go along with a president who inspires and praises a violent insurrection against our country. Instead, we speak up loudly and condemn lies and the deplorable actions that spring from those lies. We do so because we love America, not because we hate America.

As citizens, we are not parented by our government. We are not obliged to remain silent in deference to government officials when they go afoul of democratic principles and American ideals.

In a democracy, the citizens are the parents or the controlling authority. So, when you see your child behaving poorly, you don’t ignore the behavior because you love them. Instead, you criticize the behavior, demand that they change the behavior. . . . because you love them.

Somehow, our understanding of the relationship between the government and its citizens has gotten totally twisted. So many of us view our President or government as infallible parental figures that should be obeyed and respected at all times.

Speaking out does not mean you don’t love or respect America.

In a democracy, criticism is love. In a democracy, criticism is our responsibility, especially when we see America straying from the principles on which she was founded.

Fake Patriotism, Blech!

Republicans all over Facebook are trying to hijack patriotism with fake-ass outrage at an Olympic athlete protesting. These are the same people who turned a blind eye to a lying ex-president who inspired and praised an insurrection against the United States of America.

“Look at me supporting the flag-wavers, the anthem standers, the pledge-sayers – I’m a true blue American!!”

Blech!

Posts of proud and talented athletes draped in the stars and stripes don’t make you “patriotic.”

Posts showing disdain and disgust towards the American athlete who protested don’t make you a “true American.”

And all the patriotic posts in the world won’t erase the un-American act of supporting a President and a political party that tried to overturn a free and fair election. That dark, dank, stank envelops you. It sticks to you like white on rice, and you can’t “patriotic-post” your way out of it.

Do you want to be a true blue American?

Speak out forcefully against the big lie.
Protest voting laws that make it harder for your fellow citizens to vote.
Show your outrage at the refusal to investigate a politically motivated insurrection against your country.

Be a Patriot, not a Parrot!

They say that patriotism is the last refuge
To which a scoundrel clings
Steal a little and they throw you in jail
Steal a lot and they make you king – Bob Dylan

Article published on June 20, 2021

Injecting patriotism into politics is nothing new. But what we saw under the Trump administration was a dangerous and poisonous variant of political patriotism that continues to threaten our democracy today.

Trump weaponized patriotism — not to marshal and unite Americans for the country's greater good but rather to pit Americans against one another. Trump understood that a divided America was his best hope of holding onto power — and a false and cheap patriotism was a way to achieve that.

Trump's patriotism smacks of fascism. It's mob-like and fervor-based. It’s an America-first / white-is-right / bend-the-knee-and-kiss-the-ring form of patriotism. It's anger-based and nationalistic. It feeds, grows, and lives on grievances, bigotry, and religious intolerance.

And what mattered most with Trump patriotism was how loudly you proclaimed it, or how prominently you displayed it. Volume, visibility and violence were the primary elements in measuring one's commitment to Trump's vision for America.

From MAGA hats to Trump banners to beating capitol police officers' unconscious with American flags, Trump's patriotism was loud, obnoxious, violent, and devoid of American values and human empathy. It drove a wedge between Americans and divided the country into two groups – those who shared Trump's warped view of American democracy and everyone else.

Lately, I've been seeing many puffed-chested patriotic posts on social media from Trump supporters. Pictures of the American flag, videos of the Pledge of Allegiance, and the Statue of Liberty images are all over Facebook. I believe these patriotic posts are a reflexive response by Trump supporters to the continued coverage and news stories about the January 6th insurrection.

As we learn more about that day, we know with certainty that the violence behind the insurrection, and the ongoing lies about a stolen election, are inherently tied to Trump and the Q-wing of the Republican party.

And so, many traditional republicans find themselves caught in this fuck-tangle of lies and un-patriotic behavior from the leader of their party.

What to do when faced with this sticky wicket?

Well, what we're seeing from many Republicans is an almost obligatory need to vomit out a bunch of flag and pledge posts on social media.

Maybe they think they can "patriot" their way out of the conundrum in which they find themselves.

"Look at me, I love my country!!!"

I've no doubt that many of these folks are decent-minded Americans who actually do love their country and are now trying to reconcile their support for a man who cheered and praised the January 6th insurrection against America.

I almost feel sorry for them. Almost.

By the way, I'm not suggesting that everyone who says the pledge is un-patriotic (though publicizing it on social media seems a bit, I don't know . . . . over-the-top).

What I am saying is that reciting the pledge in-and-of-itself is just a gesture and has nothing to do with being or not being patriotic.

I can teach a parrot to recite the pledge, that doesn't make the Parrot a Bald Eagle.

And in the case of Trump supporters, it doesn't matter how often or how loudly you proclaim your patriotism. It doesn't change the fact that you voted for an autocratic white nationalist who defied and continues to defy, our democratic principles.

We've drifted so far away from the true meaning of patriotism, it's difficult to see how we get back on track (though voting the biggest fake patriot out of office, was a good first step.)

Fake Political Patriots and False Prophets

There's nothing like a group-pledge to form a cheap and easy kinship with your fellow Americans. Tie-in a political message like "Make America Great Again" and voila, you've got yourself a vociferous Army that you can feed for years with cheap and empty platitudes of patriotism.

Under the Trump Administration, it was considered patriotic to shout racial epithets and condemn African Americans (and others) for taking a knee in peaceful protest against systemic racism.

Under the Trump Administration, it was considered patriotic to support the government when it dispersed peaceful protesters with chemical agents.

Under the the Trump Administration, it was considered patriotic to separate children from their parents and put them in cages.

Over four years of a cult-of-personality presidency, many Americans came to believe the act of supporting a president, even when he obstructed justice and abused the power of his office, was also patriotic.

America desperately needs to get back to a quiet, purposeful, and dignified patriotism. A patriotism that that unifies citizens around the democratic principles on which this country was founded, rather than a politically fueled patriotism that divides us.

To do so, we must disentangle patriotism from politics.

If the four years of the Trump presidency taught us anything, it's that we need to view political patriotism with a healthy dose of skepticism and suspicion.

Deploying cheap, simplistic, and empty patriotism for self-gain, is not patriotism — it's a form of fascism.

We need to continue pushing in the right direction

America is not perfect, hence the phrase to form a more perfect Union – the movement towards that objective a more perfect and more complete union, makes America great. It's the journey towards self-improvement (and all the work that entails) that will continue to define America.

America is at a crossroads. To go in the right direction, we don't need empty patriotic gestures. We need a steady, consistent, and united push towards that more perfect Union.

Flag-waving and saying the pledge won't get us there – actions supporting democratic principles will.

So, be a patriot, not a parrot.

When it comes to our transience, honesty is the best policy

Article published on May 30, 2021

If we’re lucky, our postmortem shelf-life lasts about 2 generations. After that, the story of us fades from existence entirely. When the collective memory others have of us disappears, we move from mostly dead to genuinely dead.

We might live a few extra minutes a year in the side glances of strangers who pass by our gravestones (on their way to visit a soon-to-be-permanently-forgotten loved one).

A clever quip on a headstone, and the laughter it generates, can raise us from the dead for a few moments. But honestly, that seems like a desperate attempt by the departed to prolong their existence.

YouTube is a heaven on Earth. Digital preservation of the self that survives after we pass. I believe our subconscious desire for everlasting life is at the core of YouTube’s popularity. We’re the modern-day version of the sculptor in Percy Shelley’s Ozymandias, posting digital carvings of ourselves in a futile attempt to stem the tide of our own transience.

As the last memory of us fades to black, we transition from the warmth of humanity to the cold breathless, inanimate. In the end, our blood, bone, and guts give way to the flat and dimensionless world of dusty photos, handwritten notes, password-protected social media sites, and, possibly, a couple of YouTube or Tik Tok videos.

Such is our fate.

The thought of man’s impermanence was so bothersome, we invented the concept of an afterlife as a counterbalance. Entire religions have baked the notion of everlasting life into their concocted fairy tales. Most of us were probably raised in a religion that fostered such beliefs.

All of us were probably told by our parents that grandma and grandpa were in heaven, and one day “you’ll see them again!” I’m not sure our parents actually believed this. It’s more likely they were simply repeating what their parents told them, or perhaps they thought this lie would somehow protect us or make us less fearful. Maybe they were just too damn lazy to level with us. Probably a combination of all of these.

I think this world would be a better place if we were just honest with ourselves about our impermanence, and more importantly, honest with our kids about it from early on.

Embracing the truth that life is temporary would make us value and appreciate it more.

Instead of telling our kids that by obeying a set of rules, they’ll get to live forever, we should teach them to live a life that leaves this world in better shape than they found it. By doing so, their children and everyone else who comes after them have an opportunity to live comfortably, without undue suffering.

Instead of lying about heaven, preach about human rights and the importance of equity, and preserving our planet.

A philosophy that embraces our temporary nature and stresses a responsibility to preserve the planet for future generations would go a long way towards improving the here-and-now. All this nonsense about an afterlife has harmed our culture and our planet. It’s a good example of how well-intentioned dishonesty can be just as destructive as malevolent dishonesty.

President Trump Tests Positive for Karma

Article published on October 2nd, 2020

The man who lied to the American people about the dangers of a deadly virus, putting millions at risk, and undoubtedly contributing to the death of thousands of Americans, has contracted that very same virus – forcing many of us to balance decorum and our capacity for empathy, against a genuine contempt for the President.

Humans have an innate capacity for empathy, which can be developed further though our shared experience with others, and the moral guidance of loving and nurturing parents — neither of which Donald Trump had.

Donald Trump grew up in an insular environment, where he was taught and praised for cutthroat behavior. He was raised in an environment that put a stranglehold on cultivating that innate capacity for empathy. Under such conditions, the result is usually disastrous and tragic on a “localized” level. As a result, those who find themselves directly involved in business with Donald Trump, or those who are part of his inner circle because of familial ties, end up being hurt or damaged by his abject apathy and malignant narcissism.

Unfortunately for America (and the world), when Trump became President, the collateral damage borne from his apathy grew exponentially, metastasizing from a localized problem to a global catastrophe. Because of this, our democracy and the health of our planet are threatened.

We’ve witnessed Trump’s apathy in both behavior and policy. From his denial of climate change science to his willingness to snatch and cage children, to callous paper towel tossing to hurricane victims, to labeling killed or wounded soldiers as “suckers and losers,” to his weak and feckless response to racial injustice.

When the traitorous and narcissistic fool who is dismantling democracy and destroying America from within contracts a deadly virus, how do we draw upon the “better angels of our nature” and wish him well? (Especially when we know in our hearts that the President wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if the shoe were on the other foot).

Feeling empathy towards the deeply apathetic is perhaps the sincerest empathy test. We owe it to ourselves and our country to give it a try.

It was a Tuesday, Like any other Tuesday

Article published on September 5th, 2020

I logged on to my Mac, opened Outlook, and went through my emails. Nothing out of the ordinary. There were several notifications from colleagues requesting reviews of the latest design changes for the September release, a few emails from developers with review comments for a draft of the documentation I put out last week, and a one-on-one meeting on my calendar with an individual whose name I did not recognize.

The sun was shining, and an early Autumn breeze billowed the curtains in my office.

I went on with my business.

The first item was to review a document in Confluence (our internal repository for posting and sharing files). But when I clicked on the link, I received an "ACCESS DENIED" message. This is not entirely unusual. So I figured the network was down temporarily.

Time to grab that second cup of coffee.

I've been employed as an information developer for over 25 years, with most of my tenure at IBM. At IBM, I created user assistance (context-sensitive help, blogs, release notes, and help center articles) for various software products and solutions.

From 2014 to 2019, I worked on IBM's marketing/analytics software, which our clients installed to analyze and manage their customer's experience.

In 2019, IBM pulled out of the "martech" space, selling their marketing analytics products to a private equity firm, which spun up a new company to develop and sell the products. Most of the IBM employees (including myself) retained their positions with this new company.

I enjoyed being part of a new venture. There was a buzz and energy that came with being part of something fresh and new. I loved my team and my manager. The tools and processes were all different, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had some creative license in my work.

Life was good.

Sitting in front of my laptop with a fresh cup of Maxwell House. I tried to access Confluence one more time, still no luck.

I sent a message to my team lead:

"Hey there, and good morning. I'm having trouble accessing internal systems. Have you been able to get to Confluence?"

"Good morning! Let me check. Yeup, I get in fine. Maybe reboot?

"When in doubt… 😊"

So, I rebooted my machine, sipped my coffee, and waited…

All rebooted, but still, no luck getting to Confluence. So I sent another message to my team lead, who responded:

"Weird! Let me ask around."

"Thanks" I said.

Me: "By the way, I have a meeting with <name> at noon. Do you know who <name> is, or what the meeting might be about? I hate going into a meeting blind."

"Oh, she's a designer, works for <our managers name>"

Me: Ah, OK, I'll drop her a message in Slack. Thanks!

So, I searched Slack for the person that I was scheduled to meet with and sent her a message:

"Hi <name>, I have a 12:00 meeting on my calendar with you, just looking for context 😊"

"Hi Geof. I have some time now. If you want to jump on a web conference, we can talk through it.

Me: "OK, give me a few minutes."

Slightly agitated, I whispered to myself "Talk through what!!??"

Enter that sinking feeling when you start to piece things together, and the most likely outcome is you getting canned.

I closed my office door, took a few more sips of coffee, gathered myself, and clicked the web conference link.

At the other end of my laptop, I see a young woman sitting at her desk.

She seems a bit shaken but gets to the heart of the matter:

"Because of restructuring, your position at the company has been eliminated. You no longer have a job at <company name> Today is your last day at <company name>. This has nothing to do with your performance, and your manager will provide a letter stating so. Stop working and clear your laptop of any personal files.

Me: Damn. Wow. Really?

Firing woman: "I know this is a lot to process. Take the rest of the day to gather your thoughts. We'll be sending a transition package to your personal email. I don't have your home email. Can you provide that to me?"

Me: "Its reilly – r e I l l y – "G" as in "God, I can't believe I am getting laid off" "S" as in "Steven" @gmail.com"

Firing woman: "Let me give you my cell. Please don't hesitate to contact me with any questions. I'm really, really sorry.

Me: It's OK.

And just like that, I was done.

I closed my laptop, picked up my cup of coffee, opened my office door, and walked to my living room in stunned silence. My wife was home on vacation. She looked at me.

"What's wrong?"

"I lost my job."

The words hung in the air between us, and as I spoke to them, my brain sputtered a bit, trying to process the ramifications of those words … How will I provide for my family? Will we be able to stay in our home? How will I help my boys with their college loans…?

My wife calmed me. "Just breathe, relax, we'll be OK."

I love her for that.

Because my manager was on leave, it fell to this other person to lay me off. I actually felt for her. I got a call from my manager later that morning. She was genuinely upset and very supportive – same with my team lead.

Everyone was caught off guard by the speed at which the layoffs came, and no one was happy about how the conversation was handled.

It's been a few days now, and I've had some time to think about things, and here's what I've come to understand.

You can work your ass off — put in 12-hour days regularly– sacrifice time with your family — put an immense amount of pressure on yourself to do a good job, to meet aggressive deadlines, to produce quality work — but in the end, if the company has to let you go as part of cost-saving restructure, they will do so, without hesitation.

Corporations are not people (sorry, Mitt, you were wrong about that).

Corporations are bottom-line driven entities that do whatever needs to be done to remain competitive or survive in the marketplace or keep their shareholders happy. And if that means laying off hundreds of dedicated, hardworking people, then so be it.

But the people that make up the corporation? They are living, breathing, empathetic beings who (like me) work hard and make sacrifices. And out of this shared experience comes a love and respect for your colleagues.

Sure, we get paid for our efforts, but it's not just about the money. We also work to ensure the company's success and our fellow workers, who, over the years, become kind of a second family.

I hold no ill will towards the company that laid me off because I understand what companies are, what drives them, what they need to do to survive.

For me, it's the people that matter.

I received a lot of support and encouragement from colleagues who also lost their jobs this week and from those who remain employed. I can't express adequately in words how much that support and encouragement have meant.

It lightened my spirit in the days that followed that Tuesday morning, which, as it turns out, was not like every other Tuesday morning.

The Boulevard of the Unsuspecting

Article published on May 25th, 2014

A mentally disturbed and delusional kid – spurned by others – sitting behind the wheel of a BMW – firing a legally purchased 9 mm semi-automatic pistol into a crowded café and deli – killing and maiming – just as he promised.

On any given day in America, any one of us can be cast in the role of the unintended victim in the twisted wreckage of someone else's tragic life– like we are all just a trigger finger away from a becoming a profile on CNN's website.

The only thing that stops a bad guy with a gun – is a good guy with a gun, except that rarely ever happens – even though Americans are armed to the teeth – we still wake up (on average) to a mass murder every two weeks – and in most of these cases, the only thing that stops the bad guy with a gun, is that very same bad guy, when after killing a slew of people, he decides to eat a bullet.

Unfortunately, many Americans are as delusional as some of these shooters – as they continue to tell themselves that more guns make for a safer society when the data tells us the exact opposite is true.

We are immersed in a culture that glorifies violence. Too many believe that violence and aggression are the solutions to problems. We have inadequate and often ineffective mental healthcare, and way too many people who should not have access to guns – – have access to guns.

I'm sick and fucking tired of the NRA denying the role guns play in mass murder. There is clearly a gun component to this problem. But any time anyone even whispers that maybe we should look at gun regulation along with other components of the problem, the NRA ratchets up a campaign of lies and fear.

We need to wake up.

Dogs and Grief

Article Published on January 22nd, 2013

We're a dog family.

I had dogs growing up as a kid. My wife and I got our first dog soon after buying our first house. His name was Wayne, but we changed it to Kane (because his name was WAYNE.)

Your first dog is the dog by which all other dogs are measured, and Kane set the bar high. We adopted him from the Robert Potter League for Animals in Middletown, RI, where Meg and I worked before dating.

Kane was a full-grown shepherd mix, about a year old when we adopted him. I remember approaching him in his cage – he crouched slightly and turned his head quickly towards my hand as I tried to clip the leash to his collar. Clearly, he could have bitten me if he wanted, but his intention was to inform, not injure – a way of stating we are not well-enough acquainted for you to approach so casually and clip a leash on me.

His eyes seemed to say, "I've seen friends of mine leave on a leash and never come back."

For some people, Kane's reaction would have been a deal-breaker – an excuse to walk away or visit the friendly Beagle-mix two cages down. But I was not willing to give up on Kane. So I backed up slowly and sat down at the opposite corner of the cage. Kane and I regarded one another like potential enemies who might one day become best friends – a future to be determined in the next few minutes.

I maintained an un-threatening posture, relaxed, head down, making eye contact only occasionally. Kane seemed a skeptic but open to negotiation. Finally, after several minutes of détente, I patted my hand gently on the cold concrete floor, gesturing for Kane to make the journey across the cell. He wagged his tail slightly – one of those "rattler" wags, where just the first few inches of the tail moves rapidly back and forth, while rest remains dormant and unsure. Then, Kane stood, lowered his head somewhat submissively, and approached slow and steady, the wag finding its way through the rest of his tail.

He regarded me in a friendly manner when he sat, dissipated skepticism replaced with trust and hope.

This time when I went to put the leash on, Kane lowered his head and gently leaned in – and that was it. The deal was sealed. I knew that instant that Kane would be coming home with me.

Of all the dogs we have had, Kane was the most loyal. We would let him out the front door, and he would just sit or lie down on the steps – if he ever wanted to run off, he never let on. So for about 2 years, it was just Meg, Me, and Kane. We took him to Colt state park for long walks, to many-a high school baseball fields to play fetch – he bonded quickly and totally to us.

Even though he was our first, Kane knew (instinctively, it seemed to me) that when baby number one arrived, he would be relegated to a lower rung on the ladder. Kane accepted his demotion with grace – if such a thing is possible for a dog.

He was a constant companion to Jake and Liam growing up. When our boys ventured across the street, Kane would always tag along, trotting slowly behind them, keeping watch on a corner of the neighbor's lot. He would never intrude on kickball, whiffle ball, basketball, football, or Pokémon card trading activities. Instead, he would just stay close and observe – with an air of guardianship and responsibility.

At around 12 years of age, Kane began suffering from congestive heart failure. I remember driving him to Ocean State Veterinary Clinic several times that year, where a vet would work a needle into Kane's chest to draw fluid from his lungs. It was miraculous how well he would respond – giving us several more months of friendship and companionship before falling ill again. We were told by the vet that this procedure would work only for so long that eventually scar tissue would form and prevent them from drawing fluid. Futility and the inevitable snuggled up to one another. We knew we were running out of time with Kane. We knew we would have to put him down. When that time came, I was 42, old enough to have experienced some loss in life – loved ones, a parent, relatives, friends, and colleagues.

The longer you stick around in life, the better acquainted you get with death. Each time death pays a visit, you gain a little more perspective until eventually, begrudgingly, you accept that death is part of the equation.

I've never felt more bereft with grief than when we had to put Kane down. I always described it as "Profound Grief" (capital P capital G) – grief that knocks you down, wrecks you, and just leaves you in a heap for some time.

We've had to part with two other dogs since Kane – and the grief was no less – not one scintilla. But unfortunately, when it comes to death and dogs, the death equation does not hold up. The experience did not prepare me or soften the blow. It was still like being hit in the heart with a sledgehammer.

So why does the family dog's death hurt so much? What is it about our relationships with our dogs that makes their death so poignantly and consistently painful?

I think it has to do with the dynamics – the one-sidedness of the relationship. This is not to say that we don't love our dogs – we do – but they love us more (or at least that is what registers in our brains), and they love us "regardless" – regardless of our faults, foibles, and frailties.

Over the 10-to-12-year span of a dog's life, we experience (over and over and over again) unconditional love and non-judgmental friendship. And let's face it, that kind of love is unlike the relationships we have with the people in our lives (even the ones we love the most – especially the ones we love the most).

All of our experiences (the good, bad, and indifferent) are processed and stored as memories. Our brain never sleeps – so all of this processing and storing goes on 24/7.

This means that every single time you were greeted by your dog, tail wagging, eyes smiling, regardless of how shitty your day was, regardless of whether you ignored him or not, all those "I'm so happy to see you" moments are stored.

And when it comes time to put our dogs down, the packaging containing every one of those experiences unravels, the memories spill out. We are forced to face the loss of the one relationship in our lives that seemed pure to us.

How could this not wreck you?

Newtown, CT, December 14th, 2012

Article published on December 15th, 2012

When I heard the news out of Newtown, CT, yesterday, I was, of course, saddened. So, I stopped working for a while and watched the news reports, worked a little more before heading to Providence to watch my son play basketball.

When not directly affected by such tragedies, we absorb the news, process it (disturbingly quickly, it seems to me), and move forward.

Next week, for the vast majority of us, life will go on. We’ll put our little ones on the school bus or shout a goodbye to our teenagers as they fly out the door in the morning, and we will do so with only the slightest bit of hesitancy.

I suppose our capacity to push through these types of events is a survival mechanism. Natural selection has weeded out the trait of extended emotional grief. Our ancestors saddled with that trait did not survive long enough to pass it along, and I suppose that is a good thing. I only wish we could find somewhere between “crawling into bed and pulling the covers over our head” and “life goes on.”

This week will have a familiar sickening feel to it. We’ll watch the news coverage and walk around a bit dazed. We’ll struggle with the feelings that come with resigning ourselves to the negative in life.

We feel the grief behind our eyes, on the back of our necks and shoulders, and in the pit of our stomachs.

What if . . . .

Article Published January 14, 2021

What if on election eve 2016, after all the networks and news outlets declared Donald Trump the winner of the Presidential Election, Hillary Clinton takes to a podium and in front of a large crowd of supporters says that the election was rigged and that there was rampant voter fraud, and in actuality, she won not only the popular vote, but the electoral college as well.

She goes on to say that Americans are going to lose their country if Donald Trump is allowed to steal this election and that Americans must fight with all their energy to "Stop the Steal!"

For more than 40 days after the election, Hillary Clinton still refuses to concede. She takes her claims of a rigged election and massive voter fraud to the courts. She goes on TV nightly, takes to Twitter nearly every single day, pushing her case that the election was rigged, that she actually won, that the Donald Trump will ruin America.

She files more than 60 lawsuits claiming voter fraud and voting machine irregularities. All 60 lawsuits are defeated resoundingly. Some are argued all the way to the Supreme Court, where all 9 justices disagree with her legal team's claim.

But Hillary is not deterred.

Clinton continues to assert that the election is being stolen right in front of America's eyes and that this is the biggest fraud in the history of our country and that they cannot allow it to happen.

The states certify the results of the election and now all that remains to officially seal the deal for a Trump presidency is for Congress to certify the electors.

Traditionally, this is a 30-minute perfunctory process, where Congress counts the electors.

But Hillary still has her staunch supporters in Congress. They promise to contest the certification process on January 6th to overturn the election.

Meanwhile, Clinton supporters have planned a massive rally outside the Capitol to protest the certification process and stop the Steal through social media. Thousands of people show up on January 6th, carrying Clinton Flags, many donned in military garb, all of them shouting "Stop the Steal, Stop the Steal, Stop the Steal!"

Hillary has set up a stage, a PA system, and a podium. She steps up to the stage with her close friend Barack Obama. They launch into a speech, repeatedly claiming that the election was stolen, that Trump will ruin America, that they must fight for the country, march to the Capital, and stop this assault on democracy!

The crowd heads to the Capital building, full of rage and anger, and they launch an assault on the building, beating law enforcement with Clinton flags and American flags, looting offices, destroying property, breaching the chambers of the house to take Trump supporters hostage. Blood is shed and several people die.

Hillary and Barack Obama are seen on video watching the assault approvingly. The President fails to call in the National Guard, fails to try and quell the uprising. Help finally arrives at the behest of congressional members and the VP, all hiding in fear from the mob.

Congress goes back to work later that evening to certify the vote in the final step of a constitutional process for "peacefully" transitioning power to a new President. Even though several staunch Clinton supporters refuse to vote for the certification, most do, and the election results are finally official, Donald Trump will be President.

Meanwhile, Hillary still claims the election was rigged. She praises the people who participated in the uprising, telling them how wonderful they are and that she loves them.

WHAT IF ALL OF THAT HAPPENED IN 2016?

How would Trump supporters have reacted?

I contend that even if Hillary Clinton had decided to go down that crazy path, that after all 60 lawsuits were thrown out, her supporters would have said that was enough for them.

She would not have been able to whip her supporters into a frenzy with blatant lies and conspiracy theories — because most of her supporters don't believe in the unbelievable — most would have looked at the information and data themselves and would have come to the conclusion that she did in fact lose the election and that that Donald Trump was indeed the winner.

Unfortunately, Trump supporters believe whatever Trump tells them. They refuse to think for themselves. They are part of a cult of personality. So whatever the leader says is true, even when what he says is clearly contradicted by the facts. And we will be dealing with that dangerous phenomenon for decades to come.

Don on the Porch

Article published on January 9th, 2021

After some deep thought and scribbling notes on a napkin about ways to improve community spirit, you design a flyer, head to the local Kinkos, and launch “Susan’s Front Porch – Community Story Night.”

At first, it’s just a few families that attend. They lay their blankets on your front yard, bring picnic baskets, pop open a bottle of wine, and listen to individuals from your neighborhood, each taking turns telling stories on your front porch.

Word spreads in a small town, and soon you have 40 to 50 families every Tuesday night gathering in your front yard, listening to individuals from all over your community as they take to your porch, one at a time, to share stories anecdotes, and jokes.

You’re thrilled to be able to provide a venue for your friends and neighbors. So, you start baking and selling honey biscuits from a concession stand that your son built with his two cousins.

Pretty soon, “Susan’s Front Porch” is the place to be! You open your yard and porch to the community 3-times a week. Your honey biscuits are flying out of the concession stand faster than frisbees in a tornado – Life is good!

One day, a new guy (let’s call him Don) comes to your event. He takes to the stage and launches into a boisterous, funny, off-color rant. He’s pretty charismatic, a bit politically incorrect, but a big hit with a segment of the audience.

Before you know it, Don becomes a regular on your porch. People from outside your small-town travel hundreds of miles to catch him telling stories and cracking jokes.

One day, Don takes to your porch and starts bemoaning about a new restaurant that opened a few weeks ago in your town.

“Where do these Greeks get off opening a restaurant in the good ole USA?” he snarls.

“Not enough opportunity in Greece, they have to come to our town and put Americans out of work?? That’s what’s wrong with this country today – too many Greeks, not enough real Americans!!”

A peal of nervous and hushed laughter hangs over the blankets on your sun-splashed lawn.

Then someone in the back shouts, “Yeah, what’s up with the Greeks???” And before long, others are joining in, yelling profanities about the Greeks and their restaurant.

But here’s the thing, you know the Greek family who opened that restaurant. They go to your church. They’re new to the restaurant business but have lived in your town for many years and are well-loved members of the community.

After Don finishes his set, you approach him.

“That was pretty funny, but I know the family who runs that restaurant, and they’re wonderful people, hard-working Christians as a mater of fact. And actually, the husband and wife are both naturalized citizens, so your story was not only a little offensive but false.”

Don says nothing at first, just aims an icy stare in your direction before stating matter of factly:

“I thought Susan’s Porch was part of the USA? – You know, the free speech capital of the world?”

Nervously, you say, “Well, yes, it is, but I don’t want to make people fearful or uncomfortable.”

In an off-handed way, Don says, “Sure, I get it Sue, have a good night.”

The following week, Don gets on stage and starts telling how that new Greek restaurant is a front for a child sex-trafficking ring and drugs. He heard that from a very reliable source. The folks on your front lawn start looking around at each other in disbelief (Could this be true??).

Then, again, from in the back:

“Yeah, I heard that as well!”

Before you know it, 50 to 75 people are yelling and screaming about the Greek family – and how they can’t do that in our community!!

Several of the more agitated men jump in their trucks and head downtown.

They burst into the restaurant and killed the owner. Shooting him in the face as his son looked on in horror.

So, do you ban Don from telling stories on your front porch – or do you let him continue next week when he plans to rant and rave about the new Chinese restaurant?

It's a Scary Thing

Article published on September 30th, 2012

It’s a scary thing when you realize while brushing your teeth, getting ready for bed, and approaching 50 years old, that what you do, and what you have done for 8 to 12 hours a day, for the past 27 years, you do not because you enjoy it, but because you have a deep-seeded fear of failure and a strong desire to be liked - and it just-so-happened that you ended up as a software technical writer - and the desire to be liked and that fear of failure, rather than your love of the job, is what fuels you every day, and with watery tooth paste running down your chin, and a tired expression looking back at you from the mirror, you imagine, just for a split second, that you see your father's face, a slight smile that is both wry and full of regret, and as this moment of clarity extends a little bit longer, you realize how much time you've wasted and that the time laid out before you has a thick visible horizon that is a little too close for comfort and you begin to drift, and wander, and suddenly realize the profound affect your family dynamic from childhood has had on all of the decisions that you've made right up to this toothpaste moment, from choosing your spouse, to taking your first technical writing job, to not taking risks, to blindly putting your nose to the grindstone for so long you may have missed a true calling and to the heart-sinking realization that so many of your decisions were totally unguided, that you made them with little forethought and as a result you became a cork in a rapidly rolling river, and now, as you approach your 50th year, you've been granted time to pause in front of your bathroom mirror at 11:45PM on a Sunday night, as if the river has taken sympathy on your plight and dumped you momentarily into an inlet where you can see shadowy opportunities swaying on the shore, and a murmur of a thought bubbles up from a thick murky place in your brain about how good it would feel to take control of your life while you still have the chance, before that river pulls you back into the current and you drift ever more swiftly from the shore and resign yourself to the river’s plan, which you know ends with you being dumped unceremoniously into the Ocean – which is of course a metaphor for the end – and you start to wonder about your kids, and the role you've played in their family dynamic and what effect you've have had on their formative years, and although you know with absolute certainty that you love them more than life, you still wonder about the messages conveyed simply by you going through your daily, weekly, monthly, yearly routine and you wonder if there is anything positive, if there is a scintilla of good that might have seeped into their subconscious, and you understand that your kids are in a sense passive participants in your life, and you begin to worry that they learn through observational osmosis and therefore are in a sense doomed to repeat the mistakes of their parents, and you start to think that the best thing you can do for your kids would be to get out of that god damn river and set your own course, because by staying in that river you are basically telling your kids that life controls you rather than the other way around, and that is probably the worst thing to tell anyone, let alone your own kids, who still have so many decisions to make and so much time ahead of them – so you start to clear 50 years of brush from your mind in hopes that you will be able to find your life’s passion, while at the same time you question the logic of having to search for one’ passion, shouldn’t passion come from within? If you have to search for your passion, are you not saying that, at least for the moment, you don't have a passion? And let's face it, all of this means starting over again, and you begin to sink into your sink at the thought of that, and then you start to rationalize by telling yourself about the importance of setting a good example and providing for your family and its approaching midnight and tomorrow is a workday, and you are so far behind on your work, so you press-down and twist the top off your bottle of Ambien and fumble for one of the pills and turn off the bathroom light and walk away, your Father's reflection remains in the mirror, all the wryness in his expression has melted away, replaced with just sorrow and regret..

Tired of the AR-15 Yet?

Article published on February 23rd, 2018

Memo to gun rights enthusiasts: We're not living in the land of the Walking Dead. We're not trying to survive the Zombie Apocalypse.

If a house is broken into, it's probably not a gang of crazies looking to kill and eat an entire family. It's more likely a desperate schmuck looking for cash or something to hock. A decent home security system can provide the deterrence and protection you need in most cases. But if a criminal persists, I suspect a 12-gauge shotgun, or a handgun is sufficient protection.

Do people really "need" their AR-15? Of course, they don't. Any citizen who argues they "need" an AR-15 is full of shit. But here's the thing – they LOVE their AR-15. They enjoy firing it, and more to the point, they enjoy the feeling they get when they fire it. They get pumped like John Rambo on crack when they fire their AR-15. The sensation of a round exploding through the barrel, the synaptic crackle and pop, the release of endorphins, the sense of control, the validation of masculinity, and the empowering dissipation of weakness and insecurity, all in one-fell-swoop. Why would any law-abiding citizen give up all that pleasure?

Listen, I get the tired argument that guns, and ammunition are "inanimate objects," in-and-of-themselves, not dangerous. But if we know that one inanimate object is being used consistently in mass shootings and that banning the sale of that object would not cause harm to society, why the hesitation?

The NRA continues to use fear (nothing loosens purse strings like fear), patriotism, and (appallingly) God, to peddle guns and pad the bottom line of gun manufacturers.

The gun lobby fills the coffers of senators and congressmen to push the false message that the AR-15 makes citizens safer and that it's a valuable insurance policy against tyranny. And let's face it, ideologically ensconced, fact-challenged Americans don't need a lot of convincing from the NRA.

Combine NRA efforts with an American mentality of wanting what we want, when we want it (also known as the big "FUCK YOU, I LOVE MY GUNS!") - and we have what we have today.

Will banning the AR-15 and similar weapons end mass shootings? Unfortunately, no. The mass shooting issue is complicated and multifaceted. We need to do more than regulate weapons to prevent these tragedies from occurring. But banning these weapons will mean less carnage and fewer casualties per shooting. I know that's not much, but in my opinion, it's a baby step in the right direction.

Cecile the Lion, the American Dentist, and Instagram

Article published on August 5th, 2015

Let's talk about trophy hunting.

I want to hear from the people who think it's "OK" to kill animals purely for sport. If you are such a person, I'd love to hear why you think it's OK and what you enjoy about the experience. What do you get out of it? I'm not talking about a head – or a tusk – or a pelt - I mean, what do you get out of it emotionally?

I'm not being a sarcastic left-wing dick -- I'm actually curious.

When I see a lion, an elephant, a leopard, or a rhino, my first thought isn't, "man would I love to kill that thing. "To be honest, I can't imagine ever thinking that way. But there are people out there who shell out serious coin to star in their own wildlife snuff film --- and I just don't get it.

Not being raised in a hunting culture, the thought of killing a living creature purely for the thrill of it -- then posting pictures of the kill on social media -- disturbs me at an elemental level. When I see these pictures flash across my TV, or when I see them online in stories about hunting -- I experience a rush of anger, dismay, and befuddlement.

I know the person standing over that dead lion, elephant, leopard, or rhino is human like me. But the "common humanity" that would typically connect us gets obliterated when I see these photographs. Suddenly, the person in that picture is not like me at all. On a purely human level, my connection to them evaporates.

Besides barbarism disguised as bravado, what I mostly see in these pictures of grinning humans standing over beautiful dead animals, is ego and entitlement. If I had to caption the image, I would surely use those two words. Moreover, the pictures exude an ideological view of man's dominion over all creatures – you get a real sense that these people believe the purpose of the lion, the elephant, the leopard, and the rhino is to satisfy an evolutionary hardwired human desire to hunt and kill – a bloodlust.

I don't see in these pictures our "higher" human qualities; decency and kindness; empathy and appreciation; respect and civility. And though I don't know any of the people in these pictures, I immediately see them as lacking these higher human qualities. This can be dangerous because once that happens, it becomes easy to treat these people as less than human, leading to a social-media-mob-justice that we are witnessing in the Cecil the lion case.

My hope is that over time, we humans become a little less human and a little more humane - that more of us evolve towards the higher human qualities, where we finally put an end to the practice of trophy hunting.

Time, Ambien, and the Ferryboat Captain

Published on June 8th 2014

For more than a decade, I waged a nightly battle against sleeplessness.

Every night, shortly after shutting my eyes but before falling into unconsciousness - a movie-reel of the worst parts of my day and an unending series of previews for upcoming work-related deadlines would play inside my head. No matter what I did - or how hard I tried - I could not turn off the projector, and I could not fall asleep.

Before being introduced to Ambien, I devised strategies to combat my worry-borne sleeplessness. As soon as I flipped the bedroom light off and plopped my head onto my pillow, I would construct a quiet secluded place in my mind. For example, a cabin on the side of a mountain - surrounded by acres and acres of protective evergreens that shielded me from the buzzing reverberations of my day. I placed myself in this imaginary cabin, alone in a bed. Then, like a god, I painted a cold, crisp, blue-black sky and splashed it with sparkling stars - I envisioned myself enveloped in a cocoon of silence and serenity – sheltered safely from the remains of my day and the rumblings of my tomorrow.

This nightly exercise to keep anxiety at bay and worked for a while. But eventually, all my dreamscapes (be they cabins in the mountains or mud huts on a beach) would dissolve in a wave of worry- and I'd end up right where I was the night before - tossing and turning and unable to fall asleep.

I don't t know what Ambien does physiologically – I have no idea how it acts on the brain – all I know is it works. I envision Ambien chemical agents starving the part of my brain that feeds on the memories of my day and the fear of my tomorrow – somehow disabling the mechanism that switches on that relentless movie-like projection of all things stressful.

It was 5 years of taking Ambien before I started to think hard about the fact that I needed this drug to trigger what was supposed to be a natural human function – the act of drifting off to sleep at the end of a busy day. I wondered what had changed in my life that made it impossible for me to fall asleep without chemical aid. I couldn't pin it on one specific event. Perhaps it was the disconcerting realization (that simmered and hummed just under the surface of me), that more than half my life was over and that as a commodity, time was in short supply, while responsibilities and obligations were growing, creating a perfect recipe for worry.

After five years of being prescribed Ambien, I began to look at my habit as a character flaw. A drug addiction with none of the perks.

Last year our family took a trip to Maine to tour some colleges and universities. I left my Ambien home on that trip, and I've not taken it since.

I couldn't tell you what changed in my life that allowed me to fall asleep without that little pill. My work is still stressful and achieving a work-life balance is as impossible as ever – one son is heading to college in the Fall – and the other is close behind - so if anything, there's has been an uptick in financial stress.

The only conclusion I can come to is that somewhere along the road, I arrived at perspective. All the things that kept me awake for years remain firmly ensconced in my life. Perhaps I understand futility – that all the worrying in the world will not shake these things loose – and that time remains a steadfast and unapologetic ferryboat captain - not caring one iota about what lies on the other shore or whether our arrival suits our schedule.

And so, it is – and so I sleep.

Middle-aged Man Buys First Condo He Sees

“Sandi Beaches, nice to meet you.”

Across from you stands 5-feet seven inches of sunshine, splendidly packaged in twinkly eyes on a lightly freckled face, each freckle perfectly placed by one of God’s angels.

“Nice to meet you, Sandi,” you suck in your gut and shake her hand.

She turns and walks ahead, her hair bouncing playfully on tanned and toned shoulders as you stroll towards the front door of an overpriced, undersized 2-bedroom condo.

You struggle to not let your gaze drift southward.

Newly divorced, you’re looking for your own place for the first time in 30 years – “A fresh start,” you tell yourself, and Sandi’s listing seems to
fit the bill — at least on paper.

At 60, you’re done mowing lawns; your achy knees are a weekly testament to that. You’ve convinced yourself a monthly HOA is a small price to free you from that discomfort.

As you enter the condo, Sandi begins her pitch:

“In addition to the living area, we have 2 bedrooms (one with an ensuite) and a lovely eat-in kitchen leading to a cheery patio overlooking the backyard.”

Sandi’s lilting voice bounces softly off the walls of the empty condo, mixing with her perfume to form an intoxicating blend of scent and sound that hangs in the air for you to absorb.

You quietly inhale.

Ballerina-like, she spins and says, “feel free to walk about,” then heads onto the patio, taking out her phone and sitting down in one graceful motion.

You realize you’re barely a blip to her. A soon to be forgotten notation on her calendar.

You sigh.

This unexpected encounter with youthful exuberance brings a heightened awareness to your current station in life. It wasn’t that long ago when purpose and promise filled your days. Now, in the full grip of a midlife crisis, you grasp for what’s no longer there.

Your situation hits you like a two-by-four to the back of the head. You tour the unit numbly; you feel yourself move from room to room, seeing it all but noticing nothing.

You walk towards the patio where Sandi sits in the sun. “I’ll take it,” you say, not because you want it, but just to see her turn towards you and smile.

That Final Hug

She can still feel the imprint of that final hug.

She can still feel the weight of her son’s head on her chest and remembers how she cupped the back of his head and ran her fingers through his dark curls.

She still feels the final squeeze around her rib cage. She remembers her son loosening his embrace, his arms slipping from around her, before letting go and walking through the front doors of his elementary school.

She can still see that carefree smile as he looked over his shoulder back towards her before disappearing forever.

She can’t bear the thought of waking up one day and not feeling the remnants of that final hug.

She has not slept through the night since the incident and cannot forgive herself for letting her boy walk through those doors.

She just wants to close her eyes, stop feeling, and slip into eternal blackness.

Knowing that other mothers suffered before her, and still more mothers will suffer after her, with no substantial changes to gun laws, hollows her out.

Her son was murdered by an 18-year-old boy with an AR-15. His right to purchase that gun was protected by an antiquated and misused 233-year-old amendment to the constitution and a gun-loving governor.

Her son’s right live and grow up was not protected.

Over the last several days she has listened to cold intellectual and academic debates about that amendment and what it means. It doesn’t mean anything to her. It’s all just empty words and platitudes. After all is said and done, her boy is dead.

She walks into her bathroom, places two framed pictures of her son on the sink and runs a hot bath. She takes off her clothes and sits on the tub’s edge, staring at his smiling face.

She remembers the day these pictures were taken.

In one, her son is wearing his Houston Astros baseball cap and clutching his glove to his chest. His first baseball game with his father. His smile bursts through the glass picture frame and she feels a sudden pang in her heart.

Her husband took the other photo and gave it to her last Mother’s Day in a frame with brightly painted flowers. In it, her son is seen squatting in the flower bed on the side of the house, joyously pointing at a snail that he discovered. The sights and sounds of that day are still fresh in her memory. She can still see the mud from the freshly watered garden seeping from the holes in his spiderman crocks — and she still hears all of the questions about this newly discovered creature.

“Mama, does he live in that shell…. is that his home?”

“What happens if he gets too big for his shell? – where does he go then?”

She remembers telling him that the shell protects the snail and keeps him safe from harm. And that memory triggers a flood of emotions. She can’t stop thinking how vulnerable and scared he must have been in those final minutes, and how no one was able to protect him from harm.

She opens the medicine cabinet and takes out a razor blade. She picks up the framed pictures and kisses each one, tears running down her cheeks. Then she turns the pictures away from the tub to face the wall at the back of the sink.

She shuts off the water, slides into the tub, and carefully cuts open the veins running from her wrist up to her forearm. She does this on each arm. Then she drops the razor in the tub and feels it slide along the side of her hip before resting underneath her left buttock.

She takes a deep breath and then closes her eyes.