Economical storytelling, part 3?

So Clay has this thing going on over at his blog, Seven, that challenges readers (both of us) to engage in a little economical storytelling, a la Ernest Hemingway's "For sale: baby shoes, never worn."

I've commented snarkily a a couple of times, but really dig the exercise. Go read his first. My most recent attempt was this:

He stares into an empty room lit by a single lamp, wondering how to create bread when there is only wine.

Go ahead. Try it. It's fun. It's like Twitter, only literary and less annoying.

Two beautiful words: President Obama

"If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible; who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time; who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer.

It’s the answer told by lines that stretched around schools and churches in numbers this nation has never seen; by people who waited three hours and four hours, many for the very first time in their lives, because they believed that this time must be different; that their voice could be that difference.

It’s the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Latino, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled - Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been a collection of Red States and Blue States: we are, and always will be, the United States of America.

It’s the answer that led those who have been told for so long by so many to be cynical, and fearful, and doubtful of what we can achieve to put their hands on the arc of history and bend it once more toward the hope of a better day.

It’s been a long time coming, but tonight, because of what we did on this day, in this election, at this defining moment, change has come to America.

I just received a very gracious call from Senator McCain. He fought long and hard in this campaign, and he’s fought even longer and harder for the country he loves. He has endured sacrifices for America that most of us cannot begin to imagine, and we are better off for the service rendered by this brave and selfless leader. I congratulate him and Governor Palin for all they have achieved, and I look forward to working with them to renew this nation’s promise in the months ahead.

I want to thank my partner in this journey, a man who campaigned from his heart and spoke for the men and women he grew up with on the streets of Scranton and rode with on that train home to Delaware, the Vice President-elect of the United States, Joe Biden.

I would not be standing here tonight without the unyielding support of my best friend for the last sixteen years, the rock of our family and the love of my life, our nations next First Lady, Michelle Obama. Sasha and Malia, I love you both so much, and you have earned the new puppy that’s coming with us to the White House. And while she’s no longer with us, I know my grandmother is watching, along with the family that made me who I am. I miss them tonight, and know that my debt to them is beyond measure.

To my campaign manager David Plouffe, my chief strategist David Axelrod, and the best campaign team ever assembled in the history of politics - you made this happen, and I am forever grateful for what you’ve sacrificed to get it done.

But above all, I will never forget who this victory truly belongs to - it belongs to you.

I was never the likeliest candidate for this office. We didn’t start with much money or many endorsements. Our campaign was not hatched in the halls of Washington - it began in the backyards of Des Moines and the living rooms of Concord and the front porches of Charleston.
It was built by working men and women who dug into what little savings they had to give five dollars and ten dollars and twenty dollars to this cause. It grew strength from the young people who rejected the myth of their generations apathy; who left their homes and their families for jobs that offered little pay and less sleep; from the not-so-young people who braved the bitter cold and scorching heat to knock on the doors of perfect strangers; from the millions of Americans who volunteered, and organized, and proved that more than two centuries later, a government of the people, by the people and for the people has not perished from this Earth. This is your victory.

I know you didn’t do this just to win an election and I know you didn’t do it for me. You did it because you understand the enormity of the task that lies ahead. For even as we celebrate tonight, we know the challenges that tomorrow will bring are the greatest of our lifetime - two wars, a planet in peril, the worst financial crisis in a century. Even as we stand here tonight, we know there are brave Americans waking up in the deserts of Iraq and the mountains of Afghanistan to risk their lives for us. There are mothers and fathers who will lie awake after their children fall asleep and wonder how they’ll make the mortgage, or pay their doctors bills, or save enough for college. There is new energy to harness and new jobs to be created; new schools to build and threats to meet and alliances to repair.

The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year or even one term, but America - I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there. I promise you - we as a people will get there.

There will be setbacks and false starts. There are many who won’t agree with every decision or policy I make as President, and we know that government can’t solve every problem. But I will always be honest with you about the challenges we face. I will listen to you, especially when we disagree. And above all, I will ask you join in the work of remaking this nation the only way it’s been done in America for two-hundred and twenty-one years - block by block, brick by brick, calloused hand by calloused hand.

What began twenty-one months ago in the depths of winter must not end on this autumn night. This victory alone is not the change we seek - it is only the chance for us to make that change. And that cannot happen if we go back to the way things were. It cannot happen without you.

So let us summon a new spirit of patriotism; of service and responsibility where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves, but each other. Let us remember that if this financial crisis taught us anything, it’s that we cannot have a thriving Wall Street while Main Street suffers - in this country, we rise or fall as one nation; as one people.

Let us resist the temptation to fall back on the same partisanship and pettiness and immaturity that has poisoned our politics for so long. Let us remember that it was a man from this state who first carried the banner of the Republican Party to the White House - a party founded on the values of self-reliance, individual liberty, and national unity. Those are values we all share, and while the Democratic Party has won a great victory tonight, we do so with a measure of humility and determination to heal the divides that have held back our progress. As Lincoln said to a nation far more divided than ours, “We are not enemies, but friends...though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection.” And to those Americans whose support I have yet to earn - I may not have won your vote, but I hear your voices, I need your help, and I will be your President too.

And to all those watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of our world - our stories are singular, but our destiny is shared, and a new dawn of American leadership is at hand. To those who would tear this world down - we will defeat you. To those who seek peace and security - we support you. And to all those who have wondered if Americas beacon still burns as bright - tonight we proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from our the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity, and unyielding hope.

For that is the true genius of America - that America can change. Our union can be perfected. And what we have already achieved gives us hope for what we can and must achieve tomorrow.

This election had many firsts and many stories that will be told for generations. But one that’s on my mind tonight is about a woman who cast her ballot in Atlanta. She’s a lot like the millions of others who stood in line to make their voice heard in this election except for one thing - Ann Nixon Cooper is 106 years old.

She was born just a generation past slavery; a time when there were no cars on the road or planes in the sky; when someone like her couldn’t vote for two reasons - because she was a woman and because of the color of her skin.

And tonight, I think about all that she’s seen throughout her century in America - the heartache and the hope; the struggle and the progress; the times we were told that we can’t, and the people who pressed on with that American creed: Yes we can.

At a time when women’s voices were silenced and their hopes dismissed, she lived to see them stand up and speak out and reach for the ballot. Yes we can.

When there was despair in the dust bowl and depression across the land, she saw a nation conquer fear itself with a New Deal, new jobs and a new sense of common purpose. Yes we can.

When the bombs fell on our harbor and tyranny threatened the world, she was there to witness a generation rise to greatness and a democracy was saved. Yes we can.

She was there for the buses in Montgomery, the hoses in Birmingham, a bridge in Selma, and a preacher from Atlanta who told a people that We Shall Overcome. Yes we can.

A man touched down on the moon, a wall came down in Berlin, a world was connected by our own science and imagination. And this year, in this election, she touched her finger to a screen, and cast her vote, because after 106 years in America, through the best of times and the darkest of hours, she knows how America can change. Yes we can.

America, we have come so far. We have seen so much. But there is so much more to do. So tonight, let us ask ourselves - if our children should live to see the next century; if my daughters should be so lucky to live as long as Ann Nixon Cooper, what change will they see? What progress will we have made?

This is our chance to answer that call. This is our moment. This is our time - to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American Dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth - that out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope, and where we are met with cynicism, and doubt, and those who tell us that we can’t, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people:

Yes We Can. Thank you, God bless you, and may God Bless the United States of America."

The triumphant return of Terry Tate, Office Linebacker

For those of you who read Gawker, you may already have seen this gem. "Terry Tate, Office Linebacker," was a series of Reebok commercials that began airing in conjunction with Super Bowl XXXVII in 2003, in which the character Terry Tate wreaked havoc on unsuspecting office drones who, shall we say, had it coming.

This time around, Terry Tate takes it to Sarah Palin for giving Katie Couric a shitty answer during Couric's now-infamous interview of the VP candidate in September:



To see more Terry Tate commericals, check out this link.

Some more Palin, shall we?

So, this infernal woman is on my mind lately. Here are some questions for anyone reading:

What will you do if McCain/Palin, God forbid, somehow manages to pull this thing off? What if McCain gets cancer again and has to cede power, even for a while, to Palin? What if, God forbid, the man dies? Are you on the next thing smoking to Toronto, Guadalajara, or the Lesser Antilles to set up a new life? Cut and run? Stay and fight the power?

What if (stretch your minds for a moment) Obama is right about America, right about the economy, right about our standing in the eyes of the World, right about healthcare and energy and everything else, yet by legitimate means or otherwise, the Republicans still win the election? What if that happens?

Eight years of Bush & Co. have shaken my faith in humanity. Any more of the same will make me doubt whether our nation is ever capable of change, or whether we have succumbed to fear for good.

Barack Obama is more than a symbol, or an orator or the sum of a well-oiled campaign machine. He is the right candidate at the right time. Go vote your asses off for change, and make them count.

Would the real Sarah Palin please stand up?

This pretty much spells out what I was thinking:

What would your last meal be?

(A semi-recycled post from years ago, but it was on my mind. Again.)

My friend Ben gave me a copy of "Schott’s Original Food and Drink Miscellany" a few years back, and among its random, fascinating,and useful factoids is a listing of a half-dozen or so of the final meal orders of inmates executed in places like Florida or Texas.

Turns out there's a book on the topic, with a twist: 50 great chefs from around the world (the list of names is staggering in its who's-who-ness, if I may) share their ideas and recipes for their last meal experience, including guests, music and more.

There's also a Web site that has a complete listing of the last meal requests of 300-odd Texas inmates executed since 1982.

My friends are likely sick of hearing me bring this up, but I find these meal orders fascinating for a number of reasons:

1. I’m a foodie, and as such, am thoroughly engrossed in matters of dining. Why order, say, a dozen fried eggs and two pounds of bacon? What sort of capabilities does the prison kitchen staff have? What ingredients or tools are at their disposal? Are the orders placed far enough ahead of time that inmates’ requests are guaranteed (within reason, of course)? Is there any discernible emotion on the part of a chef preparing someone’s last meal? Is it saddening? Does a chef take special pride in it? Could they care less, because it’s just some chow for someone who’s committed a crime heinous enough to merit the death penalty? Do they spit in it? Worse?

2. One’s final meal is the ultimate expression of one’s earthly desires ( I can think of one other, but will leave that for another post, perhaps). As such, would a person choose food items that remind them of someone, somewhere, or something? A childhood favorite, perhaps? Do they choose expensive, luxurious items that might help them forget for a moment that they’ll be dead in less than 24 hours? Are their orders based simply on a craving at that moment?

3. Let’s assume that at least half of those executed for crimes are, or have been, career criminals or have spent most of their lives in jail. They may come from poor urban or rural backgrounds where they may have been exposed only to certain cooking styles or ingredients. They would not have access to or knowledge of modern food trends or ingredients. As such, many of their choices might be traditional dishes or items. If they’re held in a facility far from their home towns, would those chefs necessarily get it right?

Check out the Wikipedia entry on last meals - there's a list of meals served to well-known criminals who were executed. Interesting stuff...

Even if you hadn’t done something heinous and weren’t in jail, even of you were just plain old dying and you knew when you were going to go, what would be your last meal, and why?

Home ownership, round two.

So satisfying, so frustrating. We've been having one hell of a time getting Casa de Nickels in order, but it will all be worth it soon. Better to do it right than to do it fast, I find myself saying. Besides, the Wrestling Dudes need proper context. They can't continue to lend a profound sense of gravitas, sportsmanship and homoeroticism to just any domicile. They need to thrive, my friends.

I promise to write more when I get out from under. I hope all three of you are doing well. If you've helped us paint or move large objects, thank you very much.

We will sit inside, look around, and drink to you very soon.

15 feet apart.

I ran across this piece on Slate.com - David Plotz, one of Slate's editors, and his wife, Hanna, an editor at the Atlantic, learned about an Arizona Buddhist couple who spent all of their moments no more than 15 feet apart, forcing them to share completely in one another's lives, thoughts, experiences and consciousness. So they decided to try it for the sake of investigative journalism. I find the concept completely fascinating and utterly ridiculous.

I think of two different relationships and what effect such an exercise (David and Hanna tried this for 24 hours) might have on them: my own relationship with my wife, and my parents' relationship with one another. My parents have been in Florida for four months or so, and in my mind's eye, I picture them together pretty much 24-7. Pressed together on a motorcycle whipping down the road, floating lazily in the pool, sleeping, ambling through the produce section of the grocery store, going for morning walks through the neighborhood, talking to me on the phone - it seems that they're never apart, and that they kind of like it that way. They must - they've been married 30-some years (sorry, Mom - I can't remember any more...)

Contrasting this is my relationship with Lauren. We're still at that breakneck-paced section of our young lives where we're focused on career building, advanced degree collecting, forming our world-weary opinions, exploring the caverns of our minds, and other vaguely individualistic pursuits. It means we spend a great deal of time - too much - apart. When we have weekend days together or are on vacation, we glom onto one another like high-school lovebirds because we get to just be together with no agenda. It's nice. But I wonder what would happen if we had to spend more than a day within 15 feet of each other at all times. We both like having "me-time," and perhaps I value it more than she does because some of my favored pursuits (watching football, boozing, voracious reading, ball-scratching, cooking various meats, violent movies, etc.) are not exactly her favorite things to do. But we manage our lives with the expectation that things will slow down and we'll be able to rest on our laurels one day the way our parents are able to. I think if we turn out like them, we'll be doing alright. And we'll be doing alright together - maybe even within 15 feet.

Read David and Hanna's thoughts here. But definitely watch the video.

Brett and Satan Take on the Windy City, or What I Learned About Writing, Bullshit and other Communications Tools, Part One.

Another cool part of my job is getting to travel once in a while for the express purpose of gaining knowledge from people who make a lot more money than me for knowing a lot more than I do. This happened again last week when I went to Chicago for the 2008 Corporate Communicator's Conference.

Because of the fact that we had to move out of our house imminently, my wife broke rank and decided to stay home and pack. While I had hoped we might use my business trip as a getaway of sorts, one of us had to stick around and be useful, and everyone knows she's the more useful of the two of us.

After slogging through monumentally annoying road construction on the Edens, I finally arrived at my destination: the historic Drake Hotel on Chicago's famed Magnificent Mile. At the tail end of my check-in experience and immediately before I realized that I had forgotten both of my suits in the car that was now being shuttled off somewhere by a valet, the kindly desk clerk handed me my room key and told me where I could find the elevators.

As I got into one of the six elevators (pay attention, this is relevant) on my way to the sixth floor, I looked down at my room key and gasped. Now, imagine what room I ended up in, From-Out-of-Town-and-All-Alone Conference Guy?

Yep. The Room of the Beast:

Upon entering, I was not at all surprised that I began imagining who might have been lured in, bludgeoned to death, violated, hacked asunder, set ablaze and thrown from the adjacent fire escape over the course of the hotel's many years as a playground for the rich, famous, illustrious and conference-going.

After depositing my baggage and calling the valet to fetch my suits, I sat down on the toilet to do things that people on toilets do. I looked down into the polished sheen of the shale-black marble floor and saw a full reflection of my own face and everything in the room above me staring back at me. For a second, I imagined that the head I saw reflected in the floor, which I knew to be my own, actually sported a pair of horns. What if that floor in that room of that storied hotel were actually the one and only portal to Hell? And there I was staring right into it with all the nonchalance of a tourist?

I started thinking that if something went down, if I saw any glint of red or contrail of smoke, I would call Father Jim, our campus priest and a wise Philly native who has likely seen his share of evil incarnate. I have his cell phone number in part because I've always pictured myself needing it in some dire moment. I think staring at the devil in a hotel bathroom floor would count.

To be continued...

Five Philosophical Haikus for Charles Bukowski

1.
If you can’t drink it,
spit it out, or write of it,
it ain’t worth shit. Ever.

2.
My ears pricked up at
Lorca’s old verse - “agony,
always agony.”

3.
What is a fight if
not the culmination of
a fucking bender?

4.
All the poets in
Los Angeles can’t equal
whores or longshoremen...

5.
...According to them,
Charlie would have hated this -
all oyster, no pearl.

Words to live by.

Don't give people the benefit of the doubt unless they have never given you a reason to doubt. I'd like to think that people are inherently good, but sometimes you have to wonder. It's hard to pull knives out of your back or climb a rope after you've been hung with it.

What identity crisis?

I guess my blog is just trying to find itself. It didn't get enough hugs when it was young, or something.

After one whole day, the white background bored me to tears. It was like staring into a void. I think the thing to do is give my blog some time to spread its wings, see the world and really learn to love itself.

Whatever. I'll probably change it again tomorrow. Stay tuned.

All in a flurry.

Sometimes you just get sick of things and want to make some changes. It's spring, after all. Peep the new look and take the survey at right.

On another note, I plan on posting more poetry here in the near future (see "Heaven" below). More work-in-progress type stuff, which I wouldn't normally do - my whole purpose in starting the blog was to keep myself in the practice of writing for something other than work. I haven't written any new poetry in some time, so I need a reason to keep myself at it. Whoever out there reads this thing, it's your job to holler at me if you don't see anything. I'll go crazy if I don't have an outlet...

That said, read up and tell me what you think. I have a thick skin. I can take it.

Heaven is Hardly a College House Party.

I will be there, having done the impractical
and left without warning or a proper coat,
wearing only a light jacket as useless as a paper windsock.

I’ll be there, wondering how it is that
worms got around without legs, how
Constantinople was an inherent negation,
how Swift’s ‘Modest Proposal’ brought itself to bear.

I’ll probably hang in the back, thinking of words
to describe what I’m feeling
after I’ve been there a while, seen
what’s to see,
made the rounds,
peered into other rooms and eavesdropped
on the nattering, fretting, boasting
and postulating. These people simply
have more to say than I, their lips like gaudy parade floats.

I will be there, in all likelihood
looking for people
I hope showed up, steering them toward the mixed nuts
and half barrel so we can catch up
on all that has passed in the ditch between
parallel tracks we aren’t on.

I’ll go by myself so that I feel no obligation
to stay, to make it somehow worthwhile.
I’ll be in the dingy kitchen, unwashed dishes
scattered like dandelion stems, mismatched
plates and cups patterned in the manner of capillaries
strung like Christmas tinsel over bone.

Once I get there, I’ll be the one wandering
like a mountain goat
in valleys of denim, stone sours and furtive skin,
looking to see if it’s true what they say –
that there really is something for everyone.

Election year verse.

In celebration of National Poetry Month, a haiku:

Asking questions brings
so much to shove through the sieve
in such a short time.

I wish I was a graphic designer.

One of the more alluring parts of my job (and by alluring, I mean most enjoyable, quiet and creative) is designing stuff. Sure, I like the writing and also, sheepishly, the attention that can come with it. I do get e-mails from random fellow employees in the vein of "hey, nice story," or "you're a wonderful writer." That's gratifying, and it makes what can sometimes be a toil worthwhile. But there's something inherently satisfying about making things look a certain way.

I used to think that no matter what one reads, it's all about the words. But the deeper I got into my job, the more I started turning a critical eye toward other magazines. Since I write for two of them, it's logical that I've earned the right to be critical of them as a medium. By extension, I began to look at other media in a new light, silently (or volubly) critiquing their layout, the quality of the photography, the type of paper, etc. In many instances, I thought to myself, "hell, even *I* could do better than that, and I don't know what the hell I'm doing." So I started trying to figure out what I was doing. Luckily, I have two phenomenal and patient resources in the next room who usually wander in when I muse aloud about why I can't get something to work or when I ask for a critical (and trained) eye to look at my latest Frankenstein layout.

All of this has made me realize that the words are secondary. We eat with our eyes, and I don't only mean food. If something is unappealing to the eye, why pick it up to see if the words are any better? Consciously or not, this has always guided my department's mandate that everything that leaves our university goes through us first. We're getting better at working with people so that they don't feel as though we're lording over them, but it remains critically important that we maintain a certain elevated standard. Higher education is a competitive market. If your publications, your print materials and your advertising suck, so will your enrollment numbers. People choosing where to get their education are not unlike people choosing sex partners: does it look good on the outside and what does it feel like on the inside? Our job is to draw people in and then support that initial interest with a great all-around experience.

Perhaps this shift in perception has led me to think more like a designer than I ever felt capable of. I discovered that when I design stuff, I turn into a designer - I mostly ignore the copy (even if I wrote it) and concentrate on its place on the page (or card, or poster, or brochure), its adherence to "the grid" and so on. It's a transformative feeling and one that I hadn't expected. I don't know if being a writer makes me more attuned to design, or if I'm just one of those relentlessly creative types that's content to tinker with the look of everything he sees simply because I have very real obsessive-compulsive tendencies.

I mean, have you seen my desk?

36 righteous people.

Tonight my Future Milwaukee classmates and I were fortunate enough to visit a Jewish temple, learn a little bit about the Torah and the Talmud, and enjoy an early Passover seder meal with our new friends.

One of the things that struck me as Rabbi Shapiro told us some stories was the idea that there are said to be 36 righteous people on earth. These 36 people don't know that they are the righteous ones. They just live their lives as purely, kindly and simply as they always have, not treading upon their neighbor or their earth, reaching out to serve others in need as they would ask others to help them. The idea moved me, having learned firsthand in Italy and at work a very similar philosophy in the tradition of Saints Francis and Clare.

Rabbi Shapiro went on to say that as one of the 36 dies, another is born, perpetuating the great balance of righteousness in the world. The part that really got me was essentially the moral of the story: because the 36 don't know who they are, no one else does either - so if everyone carried themselves as though they were one of the 36, all of humanity (not just Jews) would coexist peacefully as one great mass of unadulterated righteousness.

It may sound a bit idealistic at first blush, but what's wrong with the power of positive thinking? Who hasn't fancied themselves the center of the universe at some point in their lives? Just don't act like it. That's hardly righteous.

Four thousand plus.

Most of the text you're about to read has appeared once before in a long-ago, far-away blog. I was cleaning out some electronic files and ran across materials I wrote during that era - much earlier in this interminable Iraq war. Probably over 3000 American lives ago.

It’s not always easy to digest war. People tend to get defensive over three things: politics, religion and children. Yet wars are usually waged (or staged) in defense of at least one of the three. This war is about all three in some way. Sure, it’s hard to really put into perspective what it's all about, what our motive is, whether or not we're comfortable with invasion and occupation under the guise of spreading democracy.

But, you say, surely our occupation of Iraq is not about children? Well, directly, no. But think about the implications it will have for this generation of Iraqi and American youth, and what a vastly different experience it has been for each. Many American kids are seeing war for the first time as it unfurls noncommittally on their TV screens every evening. Well, it used to be every evening. War coverage can be pretty spotty these days with so many corporate scandals, school shootings, ball games and storm warnings. Does a kid know what an RPG or an IED is? Can she wrap her head around the motives of a suicide bomber in the same newscast as the latest exploits of Paris Hilton? Many kids no doubt think of the Sunni Triangle as a board game.

Who plays board games anymore?

Perhaps the most revealing detail in our consideration of how war affects America’s youth is the manner in which our culture has desensitized kids to not only violence, but also its antithesis: peace. When is the last time you saw a news program, magazine or paper go out of its way to celebrate peace? With the popularity and ubiquity of video games, many of them violent first-person shooters, kids have a hard time grasping the meaning behind even these electronic assaults, explosions, decapitations and raids. Is it too much, then, to expect that they might give pause to more of it, all of it real, on the news at night? Can we realistically expect that children in our culture even see the news or understand its purpose? If I had kids, it would be impossible for me to explain to them how so many people they don’t know in a place they've never heard of have been ravaged by the political and capital ministrations of so few.

As I consider how Iraqi children might view the very same war, I feel a pang of guilt. Simply put, they don’t share our luxury of being removed from the war by a pane of glass.

Not all American children are shielded from or ignorant to what’s going on, nor are all Iraqi children so innocent. It breaks my heart to hear the stories of soldiers who return hostile fire while passing through dangerous insurgent strongholds only to find out that a couple of brainwashed ten-year-olds were pulling the trigger. In what way does this parallel our own country’s militia families and extremist parents who foment hatred and distrust in their own offspring, who teach them to shoot first and ask questions later?

No matter where young people in America live, someone from their area has been killed serving this country. Someone whose name is read out loud at 6 and 10 by local news anchors with every attempt at steeping their voices in understanding and empathy despite comparative detachment. Most of us will never have the kind of empathy that would give comfort to a member of a soldier’s family, yet we pass judgments. We pay taxes. We eat cheeseburgers. We make art out of the lives of others and expect people to give a shit. Worse – pay to give a shit.

Still, people everywhere close their newspapers, shut down their computers, turn off their televisions and tuck their kids in to warm beds, sighing deeply about the tragedy of it all.

Read all about it.

There is hardly a more pleasurable activity to be undertaken than reading. A good book has a unique way of removing one's brain from its current set of perturbations and dropping it gently on the lush, soft grass of knowledge. I don't even have to learn anything or be stunned by genius, though I have. What I do require is something that holds my attention and does so in an eloquent, witty or provoking manner. To that end, I recommend the works of the esteemed chef, television host, writer, rabblerouser, former drug addict and globetrotter prophet Anthony Bourdain.

I've only read two of his books, but now plan on reading the rest, which include a couple of novels. The man has a gift with words. Being a fan of his Travel Channel show, "No Reservations," and knowing well his cigarette-addled, sarcasm-laced, NYC-bred, kitchen-heat patina'd voice, I can hear him read to me as my eyes move over the page. It's a rare advantage to have while reading a funny, engaging and moving book - when else in our reading lives (you all have reading lives, I hope...) are we able to immediately conjure the text before us in so singular a voice? It's not like old scratchy tape of Shakespeare reading sonnets exists out there in the ether. If it did, it would be expensive and utterly underwhelming. Of that fact I am sure.

If ever you get the chance to listen to, purchase or memorize the oral music of your favorite writers reading from their works, please indulge yourself. I have had the opportunity to listen to recordings of one of my writerly idols, the poet Adrienne Rich, read what may be my favorite poem, "Diving Into the Wreck." Until I heard her read it, it was as if I had never heard it at all. Her cadence is forever seared into my cortex, and I am glad. Next month, I will have the second and hopefully more personal opportunity to hear her read. Or at least talk. She's coming to Milwaukee, and I couldn't be more excited.

How excited? Let me put it this way. I was in Rome and could have stood under Pope Benedict's window in Vatican City to hear him give noon Mass in 15 languages. Not an experience many people can say they had a shot at having. What did I do instead? Got on a double-decker tour bus with a nice couple from Washington and saw a hell of a lot more of Rome than can be seen from Benedict's window. But Adrienne Rich coming to your city? I would sell my left arm, leg, kidney and most of my soul just to be in the same room as her.

You get my point: Read. Listen. Enjoy. Repeat.

Lo, these 15 days.

Hello there. It has been some time since my last post, and some water has passed under the bridge, as they say.

I don't have a whole ton of new information for you, expect to say that my house is still for sale and the democratic nomination still isn't sewn up. Alas. May the winds of change blow through Milwaukee and Washington, D.C.

Today is St. Patrick's Day, which in this country is merely an excuse to wear green, drink heavily and leer at others for the purpose of either fisticuffs or intercourse. Sometimes it's hard to determine which leer is which. I will drink today, but I have to be in class tonight to give a presentation with my group on a project we haven't really begun yet.

I have to share a random observation with you, because it's the kind of thing that is truly ripe for dissection. There is a new commercial on television for the Toyota Sienna minivan. If you've seen it already, the mere mention of it should have you in hysterics.

The commercial is done in black and white. It features the not-remotely alluring Sienna parked on what could only be a California beach (rocky coastline, crashing surf), a stunning bikini-clad model circling it and caressing its shapely curves while a voice-over announcer says platitudes in a bedroom voice. Enter a buff, shirtless man, who promptly sidles up to the woman and... am I watching a commercial for personal lubricant or a swanky hotel chain? NO - IT'S A FRIGGIN' MINIVAN! What on earth would a minivan be doing on a beach? Why would these people with lust in their eyes be anywhere near a minivan? The kicker is what happens next - the woman pulls the van's key fob from the pocket of the man's shorts and opens the rear passenger doors while the voice-over guy closes with Toyota's line about moving forward.

I would love to have been a fly on the wall at the meeting where some agency hacks were dreaming this one up - "see, we're just going to rely on the natural and stratospheric sex appeal of the all-new Toyota Sienna. It will practically sell itself..." But hey, I'm all for satire, and if this is merely satirizing Calvin Klein like others are saying it does, then more power to them. Personal lubricant not included. Watch the ad here.

No wonder everyone wants to work in advertising.

Random question.

Hey readers. What are the Ides of March?

Why can't it just all be over?

Really? Why can't it? There are so many things I want to be through with, some of which I can't even mention here because you never know who's reading. It would be nice for winter to be over. Having this damn cover story done with would also be nice. Doubt could leave and never come back. Class being over would be ideal. The presidential election, lest we run the risk of having to sit through another debate, could end any time now. Stress? Be gone with ye!

Seriously. All this stuff could be over with and it wouldn't bother me a lick.

"But then what would make life interesting, man?" Shut up, whoever asked that.

Being able to finish reading a book would be awesome. Not feeling guilty about paging through the Onion or Architectural Digest instead of editing stories or painting or ironing or shoveling would be outstanding. Watching the nine movies I own that I've never once seen appeals to me. I bought myself the "Planet Earth" BBC miniseries for Christmas and haven't yet pulled it off the shelf.

Why do I want to do everything I don't have to do but none of what I have to do when I have to do it?

Wait, what?

See! Taking the time to blog about not having enough time to blog is turning my brain to jelly! See what I'm up against? I keep telling myself that I'll have time soon, that the busy period is almost over, and it actually worked for a while. Now I'm not so sure. Hey, I know! Why not put my house up for sale and start looking for another one! Maybe throw in some desperate attempts at home improvement while we're at it! Sweet! Now we're talking! What's that? We'll barely break even when we sell the place because the real estate market sucks? Okay! No problem!

No wonder I drink.

(Image above from "Stressed," a 1994 animated film by Karen Kelly)

See, what had happened was...

I have to admit, almost any amount of work can be avoided to watch pretty people receive accolades for altering our perception of the world just a little.

It's been tough for me to continue progress toward my goal of simplifying my life and doing less when I'm reminded of talented people whose own goals necessitated working harder, smarter and longer rather than less.

Dammit.

Yes we can.

I spent this morning avoiding the profound amount of work I have waiting for me on my desk and attended a rally in downtown Milwaukee for Barack Obama. While this post couldn't compare to the effusive, moving and well-put commentary offered by my friend Erika on her blog a couple of days ago (read it here), I will attempt to put into words what being a part of this moment and movement mean to me:

A fellow from a local talk-radio station known for being a bit right of center walked along the line of people waiting to get in and asked a guy a few feet in front of me, "why Barack Obama? Why are you here today?"

Though I don't know how he answered the question, it got me thinking about how I would have answered it. When Obama took the stage and began speaking, I understood that even though I've supported his candidacy and campaign for some time now, his present momentum makes the possibilities that his presidency would offer all the more real. He made reference to the phrase Dr. King used in the 60s that has become a mantra for this campaign: "the fierce urgency of now." It rings true when you're standing among 6000 people for whom this man represents not only the best choice to lead our nation, but the best choice to bring about a better quality of life.

Many of Obama's critics, including Senator Clinton, claim that all the rhetoric about change is just hot air. He addressed this criticism directly today, saying that he agreed that articulate speeches and invocations of hope don't bring about change and progress on their own; action does. But without hope, without the belief that a better future is around the corner, without the conviction that it takes to make tough decisions, without the desire to undo the damage that has been done by an arrogant administration, we can't get to where we need to be.

Though I came to see him speak and to be able to tell my kids and grandkids that I was there to see the man who made history, I found myself looking around at the expressions on the faces of those who feel as I do. I wish I would have photographed them instead of him. I know what he looks like and will be seeing a lot more of him to come. It was in their faces that I saw the excitement, the anticipation and the hope (yeah, I said it) that will propel him to the presidency.

I think this sentiment was best exemplified in the sartorial choice du jour of six young women who ended up sitting just below the banner that hung behind the stage. Each one of them wore a different colored shirt with a letter on it. Standing together, their shirts said more about Barack Obama and the hope of a nation that any blog ever could:

C-H-A-N-G-E.

These places exist.

Though you might find it hard to believe, aliens are out there. Sometimes, they even set up shop right here in America. In places like Bismarck, North Dakota, where the locals are friendly and people like me are drawn to gaudy neon signs and sloppy brisket platters. Who knew that aliens are known for their award-winning barbecue?

"Let's get awesome."

On Monday night I was in class, sitting in between two of my beloved former group mates, Jon and Dwayne. Our class was in the midst of a discussion about lessons learned from our group projects, which just wrapped up last week.

Dwayne (at left) was relaying to the group his personal feelings on the genesis of our group's project and said that, despite all of us being busy people with our own priorities, we were willing to take on a project that allowed us to help kids. He then related that sentiment to a greater context and said something to this effect:

"If I'm busy but you come at me with something totally awesome that I could spend time doing, then, you know, let's get awesome."

It couldn't have been said any better. So to all of you who lead busy lives but yearn for that fun, creative, collaborative and enriching experience that will likely take far more time and energy that you have to spare, I say:

Screw it. Let's get awesome.

It's hardly fair.

There are moments in life where we are given to whining and carrying on about how we got the short end of the stick; a raw deal; screwed. But frequently, those moments are really just the result of our imaginations conjuring a dramatic coda for some ultimately innocuous event... "Oh! I got a speeding ticket today! The gods are colluding against me! That cop was profiling me because I have a blue car! He never showed me the radar! He wasn't even wearing a uniform! That bag of weed wasn't even mine! What the hell!"

But every once in a while, someone gets what they don't deserve while the person who deserves it walks away.

As I stood stranded last week in the Minneapolis airport, my homeward journey dashed by a blizzard, all flights to Milwaukee cancelled, my companion's luggage MIA, I get a phone call from my mother inquiring as to my whereabouts, condition and Doppler Radar coordinates.

I'm stuck here for a while, I say. Okay, she says. We're coming home early from our trip, she adds. I'm waiting for the punch, because I know my mother well enough to know that the tone in her voice indicates not just an early return, but a reason for it. Not a good one.

Before I continue, let me paint you a picture: An ex-con in his late thirties, having lost years earlier both his driver's license and his father to lung cancer, has cleaned up his act. Living on the righteous path free of drugs, alcohol and prison food, he likes to visit his mother, a kind woman who tells things like they are. One recent night, not wanting to bother the friend who would normally give him a ride to Mom's house, this man mounts his trusty bicycle and pedals himself to see her. In February. In Wisconsin. On dark country roads. For the three-hour bike ride between his place and hers.

Fast forward to my mother on the phone, me standing like a hapless tourist next to a baggage carousel.

"Your cousin Vince was killed by a drunk driver," she says.

I'm thinking, shit, that's horrible. And I'm also thinking about what she might be thinking. See, my mother was nine years old when a man knocked on the door of her family home and said that he had hit a man walking on the side of the road about a mile away. The man who knocked was drunk, and the man he hit and killed was her father.

The man who killed Vince, bundled against the weather and pedaling south to see his mother, was 23 years old. The guy was on his way to a friend's house when he hit Vince. He fled the scene. Upon arriving at the friend's house, he takes the friend aside and out of earshot of the lady of the house, to relate what happened. While this useless fucking bastard is having his crisis of conscience, the woman - apparently the only one with any sense - dials 911. When the paramedics arrive, Vince's body is still warm despite the cold. They declare him brain dead almost immediately.

I couldn't help but think that at least the guy who killed my grandfather had the balls to own up to what he did. The guy who killed my cousin had to be ratted out by a friend. No wonder we're all on the brink of losing faith in humanity. Not to turn this little soliloquy political, but people wonder why a guy like Barack Obama is an attractive candidate to lead the free world? Look around you. We're at war and spiraling toward recession, oil we invaded a country to get is above $100 a barrel, global warming is fucking up weather all over the globe and innocent people are getting shot in shopping malls, classrooms and courthouses. Hope is all we have. Glass half full. Better tomorrows.

I wasn't close to Vince. I can only recall seeing him a few times in my life and chatting about nothing in particular. We greeted each other at my cousin's wedding last summer and exchanged pleasantries. We called him "cousin Vinny" and shook our collective heads at his past. But family is family. When history repeats itself in such heinous fashion, you can't help but notice.

Not to get all soap-boxy, but that's kind of what blogs are for: don't drink and drive. I don't want to have to write this story about my wife or brother or parents or cousins or friends or the guy who works down the hall. If you think it can't happen to you, think about Elmer and Vincent Greuel.

Random thoughts and birthday wishes

1. Hats off to the New York Football Giants. I told everyone I wasn't scared of Tom Brady.
2. The current temperature in Bismarck, North Dakota is 21 degrees. On Tuesday it will be 9.
3. Wives are cool.
4. Happy birthday, Mom. (She's the one on the right.)

LOST is the best show in the history of shows.

Granted, after divesting of nearly all other vices in order to devour three seasons of television storytelling genius, I am biased. But c'mon. It doesn't get any better than this.

One of the truly delightful things about LOST is that you never know what will happen next, and neither does the cast. So many TV shows either give their premise away because it's all they are, or are content with existing inside of a comfortable and crushingly predictable formula so that people only have to tune in and tune out without ever being invested in character, nuance, plot or other hallmarks of intelligent entertainment. LOST's willingness not to try to be all things to all viewers helps what are already solid performances by one of the most diverse and talented ensemble casts in recent memory to be even better - their investment in the story is as genuine as our own.

I hope the writers' strike is resolved soon (in the writers' favor, of course), so that we get more than eight episodes this season.

"Did you see a guy run through here wearing a bathrobe and carrying a coconut?"
"No. Saw a polar bear on rollerskates with a mango..."

This one is for John.

One of the men on pilgrimage with me in Italy was a fellow named John McAuley. John was an economist, professor, father, sailor, author and senior writer for Dow Jones, among other things. Shortly after his return from Italy, he had a heart attack and died on the New York City subway just after being interviewed on live television. His wife, Kathy, who was also on pilgrimage with us, emailed us all to share the news of his passing. My heart broke for her loss, as they worked literally across the country from one another but seemed to be the best of friends, comfortable with one another in the way that we should all hope to be when we get on in years.

John and I had shared a few late-night "grande birra" in Italy and discussed literature, among other things. He asked what some of my favorite books were, and I remember mentioning Malcolm Lowry's "Under the Volcano," a monumentally depressing and utterly beautiful book that revealed to me a new way of thinking about the ways people choose to deal with their sorrows. Though I had learned of the passing of my wife's grandmother that afternoon and was in heavy spirits, John saw in me that night a need to feel some camaraderie, lest I be alone with my thoughts. I would venture that we writers have a knack for that sort of thing. I appreciated his drawing me out.

John was a bright man, and happy. I marveled at how little pretension there was surrounding someone so accomplished. I recall sending an email to friends shortly after his death and imploring them to recognize the significance of perfect strangers who enter and exit our lives at particularly crucial moments. John’s death affected me in a way I didn’t expect. Since being in Italy and sharing such a profound experience with people I hardly knew, or didn't know at all, my awareness of how tiny our lives are has been heightened.

Tomorrow, our group of pilgrims is having a memorial Mass for John. Probably because of the beers and conversation we shared, I've been asked to share some memories of him during the service, and I'm left with a keen sense of how ridiculous it is to be sharing anything about someone whose life only intersected my own for the briefest moment. But yet I'm grateful for the chance; glad to let others know that guys like John are out there in the world waiting to crack jokes with random Milwaukeeans in cockeyed black hats while sitting on the sidewalk in front of a cafe in Rome under the incredible bloom of a full moon over St. Peter's cathedral.

We're only on this rock for a moment. May we all be as memorable and kind as John was. If you're into prayers, say one for Kathy and Matt McAuley.

A thundering herd of truth:

Despite Barack Obama winning a landslide victory in the South Carolina primary, we cannot assume that he will be the Democratic party nominee for president. There are few laurels to rest upon and far too much at stake. There's a long road ahead, and the Clinton campaign will roll out each and every well-paid, well-connected operative it has to shill for Hillary and smear Obama.

What his victory does tell us, however, is that we're one step closer to getting past the all-too-familiar storyline of wondering whether our nation is ready for a black president, or for that matter, a female president. What Bush's leadership, or lack thereof, has shown us over the past seven years is that change is not the campaign catchphrase du jour, it's an imperative.

Let's rock the vote, people. Don't look at the president seven years from now and wish you would have paid attention during primary season in 2008 so you wouldn't STILL be so incredibly disappointed, disillusioned and disgusted. Put down your US Weekly, remove your earbuds, pull the donut out of your cakehole and pay attention.

In case you haven't noticed, we have a lot to lose.

I went to Italy once.

Though it may border on cliche to say that there are unexpected moments that define one's life, or at least put it into perspective, this maxim holds true. I have monumental proof.

On October 6, 2007, I kissed my wife goodbye, hugged a kindly older woman and got on a shuttle bus that would transport myself, eight co-workers and two spouses to Rome via Chicago and Zurich. The kindly older woman? My university's president, a Sister whose vision, deeply felt conviction and sheer budgetary moxie sent us overseas to walk in the footsteps of Saints Francis and Clare, who hail from a town called Assisi in the Umbria region of central Italy.

See, my university is a Franciscan Catholic institution and our president has sent a handful of staff, faculty and students to Italy each year since 1999 to deepen our commitment to and understanding of our Franciscan heritage. And to learn a thing or two about leadership. Now, I'm not a particularly religious fellow, but I have always been intrigued in and vexed by matters of the spirit. Keep in mind that this was not a vacation for any of us, but rather a kind of historical walking tour with lots of Mass, food, wine and introspection.

Throughout our six days in Assisi, I was given many opportunities to lay my thoughts bare to myself and others. I took advantage of almost all of them, keeping a few things to myself. There will surely be future posts that reflect on these moments, but the one that's sticking in my head today is a small but powerful one:

Sister Annie, a compact, passionate and energetic woman who served as one of our three pilgrimage leaders, was recounting the story of how she went from being the CEO of a large health care system in Pennsylvania to being a pilgrimage leader who literally walks dozens of groups like ours through the lives of these saints and the lessons and legacies they leave behind. In talking about her transition and her need to do something that was truly calling her, she posed a question to our group, 40 strong from all corners of the U.S. (and one from Africa), all walks of life and all ranks within our respective institutions and organizations:

"What is really important?"

I'm quite likely paraphrasing the question, but it struck me in a way that being asked the same question in Milwaukee never would have - what was really important? Here we were, four thousand or so miles from home and loved ones, effectively severed from our cell phones, computers, televisions, offices, lifelines, distractions and the general cacophony of everyday life. You admit to yourself pretty quickly that your perspective has changed... a rock is no longer a rock, but a glittering, porous, hefty chunk of history to be meditated upon. A bench isn't a bench, but a conveyance - an ancient repository of songs, stories and sorrows, an organism unto itself.

So the question loomed in my mind for days - what was really important?

I'm not sure that I've yet answered it, but I have a pretty good idea. I made the decision while hiking up a mountain called La Verna (more on that later) to streamline my life as much as I could, to focus on the things that I felt passionately about and to cut out the rest.

It isn't easy to do, but it's necessary. I'm working on it, and I feel better already.

"It's better to burn out than to fade away..."

A fellow named Kurt Cobain killed himself in 1994 at the pinnacle of his fame and artistry. I remember thinking, from the living room of my parents' rented condo in central Florida on the date of my future wife's birthday, "holy shit. Why?"

This was before I had even become a Nirvana fan. But I distinctly remember thinking that if he had only summoned the courage to fight his demons, to persevere despite his disillusionment, maybe we would have been fortunate enough to hear just one more astounding record, one more anthem, one more vicious shot at the status quo.

I'm reminded of Kurt Cobain, James Dean and others when I think of the death of Heath Ledger. He's another talent gone long before his time. For those of us who weren't scared off by homophobic stereotyping and filmmaking that begs consciousness of a higher order, "Brokeback Mountain" was one of the best films of the past decade. Ledger's performance was nothing short of brilliant, and it serves as a cornerstone to his memory. It saddens me to think about how much more Ledger could have achieved in a career that had really only just begun.

While Cobain left us with a rambling, apologetic and ultimately crushing suicide note, we may never know what events led to Ledger's death. All we are left with is an unnerving sense of what could have been.

Another daughter will grow up without a father.

Well, let's do this thing. Again.

This isn't the first time I've promised myself this blogging thing would work out.

"I'll update it, like, daily," I told myself. "It'll be a great way for me to keep writing and keep my lobes in shape."

And that one quickly died on the vine. Such is the nature of things. Do I think blogging will be a different experience for me now than it was then? In a word, yes. My life is changing and so is my attitude. I'm not even sure what that means, but here goes.