Here's to Facebook

People move away.  Sometimes several states away.  Its difficult to stay in touch.  With friends or family.  A phone call.  A letter.  Maybe an email.  We all do what we can, but sometimes the distance between can stretch too far.  You forget to return a call.  You miss a birthday.  A birth even.  You feel guilty and the guilt, ironically, keeps you from correcting a mistake.  Sometimes you get a second chance.  And sometimes you even feel guilty about not having made the effort yourself for that second chance and even that will keep you from making a new connection.  What's worse, the stronger the connection originally, the deeper the friendship, the stronger the guilt that keeps you from just admitting a mistake and taking what you can, when it comes.  Perhaps that's the greatest part of Facebook:  the mechanics for both reconnecting and maintenance are already in place.  Just plug in. For so long I had been one of its leading detractors.  Write a letter, make a call, I would say.  All the while never getting around to it.  Thinking, mistakenly, that great friends lost for too long deserved a grand antique gesture in order to adequately address the error of having let them go.  In the end it was simple.  I accepted a friend request.  No letter, no apologies.  Just a small electronic nod, and a wordless invitation to see their life.  And to observe that life.  Here we are, here's what we're up to.  No worries.  A few comments, a couple "likes" on a post.  And then a moment arrives when you feel comfortable enough to try again.

A lifetime ago, i met a man.  A boy, actually.  So was I, then.  And then he met a girl.  And it was a summer.  We were all seventeen, and in spite of the true joy of having no real responsibility, everything about that summer felt massive and final.  And momentous.  You were all seventeen; you remember.  Lost track after that for years.  Somehow I found them again.  They were together.  Happily.  We had some responsibility then, but still had the freedom to practice being adults without having to commit to anything real.  And then they did commit.  To each other.  And I was asked to stand up for them and speak at their wedding.  Still one of the greatest honors I've ever been given.  And then I met a girl.  And when we committed, my friends returned the favor at our wedding.  We stayed in touch after that.  For a while.  They moved, we visited.  And then...nothing.  I don't know how or why, but that was it.  For a long time.  They moved, maybe.  Back home from out west.  Maybe.  Too many years passed with too much guilt.  I didn't know.  Enter Facebook.

They found my wife first.  I wasn't on Facebook, so she would give me small updates.  They had moved, matriculated.  Then they had kids.  That's what got me.  I could stand having missed a move, a degree or two.  But somehow, the idea of their starting a family was more than i could bear.  I still wasn't sure what to say or how to say it.  Turns out a shared love for bourbon and a ridiculous bottle-sweater was all it took.  That and good timing.  We were just about to go home, which was just a short drive from their new home, new life.  So we went.

Just a day.  Half a day, really.  No one deserves 60 degrees in January, but we got it.  All that we may wish for our friends or family, in this life or the next, is happiness.  A contentment.  Peace, security, fulfillment. A beautiful home with a porch, a garage, and slow traffic going by.  And healthy, glorious, magical, curious, delightful children.  One would be a miracle; they had two.  Should I live a thousand years, it would be a full life were I to be such a host for anyone else.  A meal, a bed, a bottle of booze and chance to get to know them and their family.  Again and for the first time.

Yeah, there's silly pop-up ads in the margins.  And yes, there will never be an electronic substitute for the sound of a child's genuine laugh or feeling the weight of an envelope upon which a loved one has written your name with a pen with their own hand.  But friends, I am saying that without this wonderful invention, the above moment might never have come about.  Here's to Facebook, and all the new friends we might get to know.

To hoard, perchance to shred

Having only a cursory understanding of what is undoubtedly a complex and harrowing disorder, and having only seen maybe 5 minutes of the eponymous program, I will nevertheless assert that hoarding, in its early stages, begins with an unwillingness or inability to process incoming mail.  And perhaps, as a close second, the overestimation of the "actual" value of free tote bags.

Our most recent ordeal, and most issues with sorting and discarding mail, began with a broken shredder.  Like most people, the fact that we couldn't remember where or when we purchased our shredder, or more importantly, how much it cost, made buying a new one difficult.  I knew that our current model wasn't powerful enough.  I knew this because the sound of it shredding made me think of Ving Rhames cursing through a ball gag.  And having no idea what one should cost and for what amount of power or how that power is measured, i just didn't buy one.  That was the start of the darkness.

Three stacks of mail.  Unread, read but unprocessed, and shred-worthy.  First the shreddable pile grew.  And grew.  It grew because "we" (everyone knows i mean only my wife, right?) didn't want to just throw out sensitive mail items with our personal information on it.  If you have a working shredder and just take for granted why a solicitation to join Curves Gym for Women requires shredding, i will be happy to explain.  It contains personal information.  Like your address.  Which is impossible to obtain, apparently, by any means other than sorting through coffee grounds, eggshells, slimy cottonballs and used dental floss in the hopes of discovery.  I knew the shredding pile was large when toppling became a concern.  At which point a line was crossed (by me, alone) that is crossed once by all who eventual find themselves sobbing through a newspaper-narrowed hallway towards a TLC camera crew, lamenting the loss of their "valuables:" I put the mail that must be saved in a bag.  For saving.  Until later.  Oh god.

Stacks of unread magazines can also be a point of concern.  Moments of tension periodically (pun intended) arise in our home when my wife confronts me about putting a mixed stack of Health/Fitness/Shape/Woman/Home/Garden/Woman'sShape/GardenFitness/HomeHealth/ShapeHealth/Woman'sGarden/FitnessHome/ShapelyWoman'sGarden into the pile of newspapers for recycling.  Not because i'm mixing glossy print with newspaper (shut up, all of you; it goes in one truck anyway). Rather, she was bothered because 1) she hasn't read them yet (pffft) and 2) she hasn't removed the address part with our name and our "secret codes."  Which, she imagines is used only as a shortcut by identity thievery adepts to easily extract personal information.

The trouble with this logic aside from bagged mail, is the same as with hitchhiking as a successful path for a career in murder: the victim pool has evolved.  Its a cold, lonely, unsatisfied murderer that stalks our  nation's highways.  Likewise, potential identity thieves are not be-masked, striped-shirted prowlers rooting through our bagged garbage with a flashlight clenched in their teeth.  Nor are they waist-deep in a garbage barge, occasionally turning a grimy, trash slicked face skyward, thrilled at the discovery of my wife's discarded Frontgate catalog.

In summary, fix your shredder.  Or buy a new one.  And read your magazines quickly.

Secret Collation

Whenever a movie or television show dealing with the intelligence community shows a room wherein secret discussions are being held, there are always professional looking binders containing pertinent information laying around.  Who prepares these?

Only one of the following scenarios can be true:

A man walks into an austere office at Langley.

"Have a seat Bob.  I've got good news and bad news."

"Oh?"

"We are moving to sponsor your top secret clearance."

"That's great.  What's the bad news?"

"Well, the trouble is, at this level, our briefings and documents are obviously more sensitive-"

"-Of course - "

"- but still require the same level of professional production value."

"...Okay..."

"Do you see where this is going, Bob?"

"No."

"Well, we can't exactly have this kind of information getting jammed in a copier somewhere down the hall.  All of our best secretarial talent tops out at "secret" level stuff.  In other words, Bob, you'll be making your own reports and binders from here on out."

"No."

"I'm afraid so.  Look, it happens to all of us.  Look at me; I'm 65, when i got my clearance, I had to pump that poisonous ink into a mimeograph machine.  It is what it is buddy.  Otherwise, we'd have a pile of dead temps at the end of every week."

[both men cackle whitely.]

Or...

An older woman walks into an austere office at Langley.

"Thanks for getting these briefings together so quickly, Rose.  I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Your welcome."

"Say, Rose?  Can I ask you something?

"Yes?"

"Ever read any of this?"  (Holds up briefing)

"What?"

"This.  The briefings."

"I don't think so.  No."

"But...you'd have to?  Right?  I mean, to check for typos, grammar, content.  That sort of thing."

"Oh, I don't think so."

"Rose."

"Yes."

"Part of what we do here, is determine when a lie is being told.  You know that right?  A large part."

"Where are we?"

"Rose."

"Suddenly, I don't know where I am - "

"- Rose - "

" - I should go and lie down.  (Hurriedly leaving)  At my house.  Right now - "

"- Rose - "

" - Or see my sister.  Who's been ill - in Venezuela - " (Running now)

"Rose!  Who has a gun?  Anyone?  Damn.  Someone shoot her."

hair

For the second time in my life, I am finding hair growing on new parts of my body.  Only now its my ears and shoulders.  Both times I consulted my father; the first time to get advice, the second time to get an apology.

Arts Education

In even the best of times, Arts education in the public school system is always in jeopardy of suffering in the face of budgetary concerns.  And now, when the economy is strained, we hear stories daily of school districts all over the country slashing funding for music, theater, and art departments.  In order to save these programs many advocates are forced to inject new feeling into the same arguments, hoping that the school boards to whom they are presenting their cases will be somehow be moved to spare the axe and find some hidden funding to keep these necessary projects afloat.  Unfortunately, these arguments are as compelling as they are predictable.  Having just seen Werner Herzog's amazing Cave of Forgotten Dreams, it occurred to me that there is a novel argument to make in defense of the arts.

Imagine us, 40,000 years ago.  For reference sake, the Sumerians set up shop 8,500 years ago, and the early dynastic Egyptians began knocking around about 8,000 years ago.  So, consider the circumstances.  No farming, clothing made from hides, basic tools, a rudimentary language, and definitely no writing.  Basic hunting and gathering.  And lots of hiding in caves.  Dawn to dusk, the primary focus would have been finding something to eat and somewhere safe to sleep.

And yet, for no reason, at least none that would aid in either of the above listed preoccupations, we drew.  On the walls.  Of a cave.  Not handprints, which are a remarkable step in their own right.  Drawing.

A charred torch is scraped on a wall to be relit.  It makes a mark.  And then something happened.  There was a moment, before which we were one way.  After, another.  Someone, who other than being terribly dirty looked a lot like us, in an idle hour, decided they wouldn't spend their evening picking bugs out of someone's hair or staring at the fire.  Decided.  To take a charred stick and DRAW ON THE WALL.  To have some idea of the wonder of this moment, watch any 2 year old learn to scribble.  And then name their scribbles.  And then at around 3 years-old, to try to make a shape that they have seen.  At some point around 40,000 years ago, this didn't happen.  And then it did.

What did we draw and why?  Not plans for a hunt.  Or even each other.  With nothing to be gained other than the primal pleasure of itself, we drew pictures of animals.  And not a catalog of what to be wary of. Just what we had seen.  Over an over again.  Different animals, some running, some fighting.  Horses neighing.  Imagine the moment when other duties waited.  When others in the tribe would watch the person at the cave wall, rapt in a shaky fire's light.  Waiting to see what would appear from the end of a stick.  From memory, an image would appear, then another, the faces of the witnesses slowly betraying a recognition of something outside, from before, glimpsed once.  Perhaps run from.  Or towards.  Or being clubbed to death.  Or torn apart and skinned and placed on a stick and held in a fire until it tasted...different.  Or just lying dead on the ground.  But definitely, and most importantly, not present.  At that moment, a conversation occurred, before conversation ever occurred, between a person making an image and those recognizing what that image was meant to convey.

this was the beginning of us.  US.  An idle hour spent creating.  Creating something with no intrinsic value.  Those images didn't make the cave warmer, our fire brighter, our tools sharper, our prey slower.  They made us more interested in our world, and more interesting for it.  How different our world must have seemed now that we could recreate it when removed from it.  Now imagine the teaching of that skill.  To give to a child their first charred stick, their first piece of ochre.  Seeing another learn to create.  To then see the advantages gained with that enhanced vision.  That all things are such that you may know them through their representation by virtue of your trained and patient hand.  Or that failing your ability, you may know them on the walls of your home, in all its safety, through the efforts of another.

This made us different.  Better.  Pensive.  Keener.  Smarter.  Artistic.  This is the gift of not just drawing, but of all the arts.  We could do it, the neanderthals couldn't.  And they were quickly left behind.  Musical instruments and sculpture were quick to follow.  But they were first.  Before agriculture, before commerce, before language even.  And most importantly, don't ever forget, especially the next time you find yourself at a school board hearing where someone threatens to cancel the marching band, shutter the dark room, unplug the kiln, or fire the theater director;  all of the wonder and majesty of our first strokes across the walls of cave took place 39,649 years before the first organized sports were ever played.

Cats vs Dogs

You cannot talk of having children without someone recommending a pet as a first step, apparently as training.  Several flaws are immediately apparent with this logic, not least of which is you cannot leave your children at home alone all day, nor is it kosher to simply pour cheerios into a bowl on the floor while you fold laundry.  Should we consent to this "first step," I find myself leaning towards something more exotic:  flying squirrel, galopagos tortoise, robot monkey.  All roundly dismissed by my wife as non-options.  Fair enough.  Then dog or cat it must be.  Which got me thinking...

Pluses for cats are a short list and are as follows:  

Eat less, shit in a box, and, if up to it, chase mice.

The end.

This may seem dismissive, but when compared to dogs, the drawbacks become obvious and quite lengthy.

First, there is the issue of loyalty.  If something is to live in my home, it should be part of the family, part of the team.  Should you cat lovers already be inhaling quickly with intent to argue,  I would like to offer a quick test:  tomorrow, leave your cat's food bowl empty and open a window with access to a fire escape or the side yard.  No?  Enough said.  Let me also point out that in spite of having been originally domesticated by the egyptians over 5000 years ago, pet cats remain in the 10-20 lb range, occasionally reaching 30 lbs when food isn't stored high enough.  Do not delude yourself that this is an accident.  Who wouldn't want a giant cat for a pet?  Rest assured, this has been tried and has obviously ended tragically every time, resulting in a size we can handle.  Or more accurately that we can trust.  The same energy has surely been spent breeding cats as has been for dogs.  And yet it is not uncommon to see a 200 lb St. Bernard curled up in living room filled with children, while the tiniest of cats are still being de-clawed.  

Secondly, protection.  How many "Beware of Cat" signs can you recall seeing?  Start with guests.  When entering a home with cats, the owner generally issues two warnings.  If they are house cats, the warning is to not let them out.  This is curious, as the cat is fed, watered, loved, and has its shit removed by that owner. Why then worry about escape?*  The second warning is usually about which cat is "unfriendly."  This usually means the cat is not interested in strangers, expressing its disdain with a distinct lack of presence.  Never a wariness of what a stranger might do to its owner, mind you.  Just a penchant for hiding.  Or alternatively, a willingness to be petted until an arbitrary "over-petting" line has been unknowingly crossed, at which point the "unfriendly" animal will close like a bear trap on the offender's hand, then proceed to scratch and bite until thrown across the room.  

Now imagine an actual intruder.  Any dog, even those subject to periodic beatings and an irregular feeding schedule, will bark unto madness at even a hint of a burglar.  Your average cat on the other hand will blithely watch someone rifle through your belongings, with the only thought in its head, presumably, "I wonder what kind of food this guy would buy?"  Not a meow or scratch in protest.  And were you to be harmed by that same intruder, I will brook no argument as to which of the two animals would prove the greatest benefit.  "Hey,  I think that mewling cat wants us to follow it!  Something must be wrong!  Let's hurry!"  

Aside from the above, the boxed poop argument does hold a great deal of sway with me.  I have, at least once, walked someone else's dog.  And because I respect the social covenant, I took a bag with me.  I realized about myself that day that I cannot abide any two of my senses experiencing animal shit without an uncontrollable urge to vomit.  Grabbing while seeing, smelling whilst grabbing, etc = [gagging].

As an addendum, let me say that I am more in favor of skipping the pet part and heading straight into parenthood.  At least with children, the presumption is that in return for your part in getting them somehow to adulthood, you might one day expect that they will arrange payment for the giant West Indian woman that lifts you out of the tub, or at least a decent cremation and a column in the local paper. With dogs and cats, not only are you on the hook for food and ridiculous halloween costumes, but you've also got to sort out the ultimate trip to the vet.  Like cooking for someone who can't stay to do dishes.  

*side note on escaped or runaway pets.  I have found what i thought were two such animals in my life, one dog and one cat.  On principle, I remained silent.  Whatever circumstances existed at their respective homes, they had clearly made a choice, which i chose to respect.  Having no idea what kind of home life they had, and failing a Pet Welfare Department to adjudicate the matter, i nodded in their direction respectfully and continued minding my own business.

Pest control

Are mice cute?  Is it charming that they live under your fridge or in your oven?  Do you imagine little beds made out matchboxes?  Spent spools as furniture?  Do you think of the one in the chef's hat?  Or the one with the big ears that sounds like michael j. fox?  Allow me to propose a few simple exercises to disabuse you of this notion.  First, pull out your fridge.  My fridge? you say.  But that's...it's a fridge.  Trust me, it got into your home somehow.  You can do it.  I'll wait.  Yeah, how about that.  Pretty disgusting.  Mice and rats literally cannot control their bodily functions.  And yet, you've probably never seen an episode of Tom and Jerry with the little guy on the run, grunting out tiny raisins as he ran across the Thanksgiving table.  Nonstop pissing and shitting.  That's how that pile behind your fridge got there.  Nonstop.  They do not "hold it" while they delicately nibble on your dinner dishes.  Or your sponges, pots, pans, utensils.  While your in the kitchen and feeling chuffed at having moved a large appliance for the first time, get some help and slide out your stove.  Make sure the gas is turned off and don't break the line.  I'll wait.  Even worse, right?  If you're tempted to see the excrement as quaint, take a knee and have a wiff.  Yup, that's still shit and piss, even if its adorably dainty.

First order of business, clean it up.  You have to, because you're not a savage.  Now, how do you get rid of them?  You don't.  Even the most conservative estimates say that there's at least one mouse or rat for each of us.  the good news is, you only have to be cleaner than your neighbors.  think of it like an arms race, only with bleach.  They will always be in your building, you just have to make sure that your apartment is the last option when its time to eat.  Like Hardee's.  "Let's go to 4b." "Hell, no. I'm sick of eating carbonized pasta sauce off the burners." "Well, where then?" "Dude, 3b.  It's just through the ceiling." "Oh yeah?" "Mos def.  They just throw their dishes in the sink.  They don't even scrape them." "serious?" "I'm telling you, man.  Like we can't just climb in and out off the same fucking dishes." "Lead the way.  And, dude, you've got some shit hanging off your tail."  "Leave off, you've dropped like, 5 turds while we're deciding."

For added measure, leave out some traps.  I couldn't, you say.  Why?  Because they're precious?  Remember; nonstop shitting.  And pissing.  On your utensils.  But I just caaan't.  You can and you must. You live in the city.  Based on this conversation, you're probably some kind of hippy as well.  Abandon your irrational fidelity to them based, presumably on some feeling of kinship on account of the mammal thing.  This is your chance to go hunting.  Well, trapping anyway.  which is kind of like hunting, only for smart people.  There's nothing smart about trapping innocent creatures, you say.  Well then set some out and see how you do.  There's a science.  Whatever modicum of intelligence they may possess, a large portion of it is dedicated to not dying.  There is nothing more satisfying than waking up and finding  several dead mice in your traps.  It's primal.  We've been doing it for 4000 years.  And while you can't make a coat, trade for tobacco or blankets, or clothe your children with your catch, you'll definitely be able to entertain guests without having to make excuses when they go to set the table with silverware when you're not looking.