Well, things have changed.

Good lord, has it really been this long? I'm sorry. I know no one is reading, but maybe I can turn it around. I feel like you're more likely to read if this is about something.

How about a baby?

I'm going to be a father in late July or early August. For the first time, I think.

We're so very excited to meet our daughter. Maybe I'm naive, but I'm not very scared or intimidated by the idea of being a father. Sure, there will be sleepless nights, crying and relentless pooping, but since we all know that's part and parcel of baby-ness, I'm not really concerned.

Stay tuned.

What marshmallows really mean.

It doesn't take much for me to be distracted, but lately it seems to happen more often. I suspect it's a byproduct of overstimulation - the mind tends to flit from one thing to another rather quickly without really engaging in anything meaningful.

I read something online recently where the author mentioned having reread the Stanford Marshmallow Study and ran down the eventual histories of the kids who managed to hold off eating that tempting first marshmallow. They were, by and large, more successful, more attentive, worked harder and had fewer issues as adults.

I'm pretty sure the four-year-old me would have eaten that marshmallow straightaway and then went looking for the pantry where all the other marshmallows were kept. Screw two of them if I wait when I have two dozen as soon as I outfox mom?

Of course, this historical context for delayed gratification got me thinking about my writing, or lack thereof. Could I be more diligent and disciplined about writing about non-work anything if I simply forced myself to do it, only to reap the reward of a proverbial marshmallow? Would that be enough to simply get me in the habit of writing enough? What is enough? Enough to help me enjoy it again, find something to say, feel expressive and creative again?

Only time will tell. But right now, that first marshmallow sure looks good.

I'm still here.

It's been ages since my last post, but I'm feeling particularly reflective lately, so it might behoove me to post again. Very soon. If we can't express ourselves, what do we become?

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.