“Spokoj (be calm), Kennush, so you can have the best dreams,” Busia would often tell me as she tucked me in for naps while my parents were off working.
Dreams have always been important to me. They have served as regurgitations, amplifications, and sources of insight. My dreams have occasionally been predictive. But mostly, they have been imaginative grist and launching points for ruminations about personal experiences and reactions to events and the world at large, a sort of expressive impressionism.
“I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.” Vincent Van Gogh
What’s up everybody, so glad you’re here It’s Koziol with a load of good cheer This may not be an epiphany, but I’m on a mission To see if I can get your attention Now I want to drop some information Just a little addition to your deliberation I live my life by the way of the wit Offering insights until your brain is lit When I’m on the beat, you gonna feel my heat, so Throw your hands up if you’re down with the K-O-Z-I-O-L Show I’m lookin’ for someone open, so please let your friends know One, two, three, it’s like A, B, C Though a nod would be nice, my words are free
One of my earliest recollections of childhood was that of a dream, and I remember it quite vividly. I was four going on five. At the time my mother worked half time in the morning and my father full time from four until midnight. I would take a nap from around one to three.
According to my mother, I always wanted to say goodbye to my father before he left for work. I would wake up crying if I realized I had missed the opportunity. In addition, there is something about our practicing Catholic family which impressed a very young me.
I remember one day worrying again that I would miss seeing my father off to work. I told my mother expressly, “Mom, wake me up BEFORE Daddy goes to work.” “Of course, of course, Kenny, I will,” my mother assured me. “Now go to sleep.” I sensed I was drifting off…
A frantic knock on our door startled me up.
Groggy from my slumber, I heard a voice yelling, “Can’t find it!” My mother echoed anxiously, “Can’t find it!?!” “Yes,” a man replied. It was a neighbor.
My mother took me by the hand and led me outside. It seemed very gray and gloomy. The clouds hung down as curtains. There were lots of people there outside with us. They were all looking up.
Floating high in the clouds was Mother Mary. She was just like the image I had seen on my Busia’s prayer card, only very much alive. She boomed, “I have lost a butterfly.” “A butterfly, oh my,” the crowd responded. “Go find it,” she commanded. “Otherwise, there would be no sun.”
The people around looked startled and frightened. “What will we do?” they asked. Then they started looking down the street, behind their houses, looking all around. It was quite frenzied.
After a while, I heard someone call out, “Gene! Gene!” They were pointing at my Daddy. He had suddenly popped out from behind a bush wearing a big grin.
Out from his hand rose a butterfly. I watched it ascend. We all looked up; and Mary, too, was smiling.
The sun came out… and I woke from my nap. My father was still home.
Daily my father rose early And put on his clothes in the dark. He’d make his way to the kitchen As I slept sound in my room. Waking to the sound of the brew, I was greeted by the rousing aroma. A series of crinkles would follow As he thumbed through the Sun-Times. Entering, pattering across the floor, I would approach with quiet respect. His smile mirrored the half doughnut, Artfully placed on his plate.
We passed him along Clark Street, The family out for an evening treat. He sat huddled against a wall Bracing against the chill of fall. In a ragged suit, with one lame foot, He was covered in grime and soot. When I paused to look, eyes fixed, My stomach began to twitch. “Hey, what’s wrong with that man? The sign says, ‘I need a hand.’” “Now, don’t you get too near. It’s nothing to worry about, dear.” “But, it’s damp and cold today. We can’t just walk away!” “Okay, Kenny here take a dime. But, quick, we’ve got little time.” As I rushed back, coin in hand, A smile broke out on the man. Not enough, and only a start, This enkindled a very young heart.
Portrayed through actions dark forces conceal, A striking tale unfolds, its truth so real. Probing humanity with candor unbound, It was for young Me a viewing profound. The pic’s canvas portrays a foreign land, Where culture clashes are quick to command, With people estranged, in turbulent seas, It reveals a saga that aims for peace. Amidst bustling streets of a foul regime, A diplomat arrives in this strange scheme, Presence peculiar to native view, Holding our country’s biases as true. Though the title bestowed shouts out deceit, Beneath its veil, hints of empathy beat. In “The Ugly American” we see A puerile desire to change destiny. Conflict he addresses with reckless care, Neglecting effects and burdens they bear. Acting with impatience and disdain, He naively puts all on the same plain. Only the truths he learns at the flick’s end Brutally make him at last awaken: His work there only serves to complicate, Any chance for redemption may be too late. In this intense tale, a mirror we find Questions about our country’s state of mind. I was aware of the cold war contest But saw no side caring for the poorest. If leaders had watched it and understood, This work could have does us all good.
On a dust-filled ground where cowpokes abide, A pageant unfolds for a thrilling ride. As patrons wait for a sight yet unseen Within the stands, their interest grows keen.
With bated breath, attendees gather near, Stirring up excitement, raising a cheer. The arena transcends, emotions run high, Anticipation boils, reaching the sky.
The majestic dance between man and beast, Struggle for dominance, tension increased, It’s a show of will and courage to share, Where the fearless on mighty bulls do dare.
The gate bursts open, the beast is unleashed, Raw power, fury, bulk, muscular feast. Its hooves pound the earth with thunderous sound, As a brave soul holds on, no fear to be found.
In a medley of chaos, strength, and grace, Man and brute lock in dangerous embrace. Surfing a tempest, adrenaline floods, Rider contra bull, the battle bluebloods.
They twist and turn, defy gravity’s pull, Their spirits aflame, their resolve so full. Within eight seconds, the contest complete, Overcoming odds, a feat so very sweet.
Battered and bruised, yet he never faltered, Chasing the thrill, he leaves our hearts altered. In this rhumba of brawn, his skill displayed, He who lasts longest, wins top accolade.
Epilogue
Now unhappily all did not end there, Which is something I believe you should hear. The angry bull sought to apply some heat On the fallen not yet back on his feet.
A rodeo clown jumped to intervene A brave act ending up breaking his spleen. He sadly absorbed all the toro’s force And was sent to the hospital, of course.
Though for a budding fan of eleven, The rodeo tricks seemed close to heaven; That he’d seen a man there nearly fall dead Made him seek saner diversions instead.
In ’64, marvels filled a New York site, A famous world’s fair dazzling day and night At Flushing Meadows, technological might Envisioned our Tomorrow, a thrilling sight. The Unisphere’s imposing globe welcomed all Sign of universality standing tall. Pavilions showcased nations near and far, Tapestry of cultures, a global bazaar. The Pietà in marble, a sacred grace, Offered the busy fair a reverent space. Belgian waffles were servedcrisp and divine, A tasteful bite of Europe despite the line. Next was Futurama, a far-sighted scene, Representation of cities, clean and green. The monorail gave a sleek and modern ride, An ultra-modern design, a source of pride. The Ford Mustang, a sleek and muscular car, Symbolized freedom and prosperity’s star. Men with jet packs took off in vertical flight, Propelled by their exhaust blasting to great height. IBM computers, a wizardly feat, Promised productivity gains ever so neat. The RCA color TV, bright and clear, Served as window to a wide world drawing near. Along with the Picturephone, it then foretold A communication age soon to unfold. But are these great wonders too good to be true, Or true signs of human progress breaking through?
I have to admit that it was a gift that rescued us from Chicago’s day after day, night after night pitiless summer heat and humidity, the endless series of restless sleep, and dozens of sweat-soaked shirts.
My parents were very proud that they could afford that box, noisy and rattling as it was, placed in the dining room window the stream of cool, dry, restful comfort, it even relieved mold and allergies.
But I had just sat in science class on our costs of making energy; so as I left home the next day I saw the box that gave us pleasure when multiplied millions of times would sure lead to a future of hurt.
He rose like an owl from its nest from behind his Physics lab desk. Out for a night’s session stargazing, Jerry and I had just been returning. With 10-inch telescope in tow, I mustered a very astonished hello. “What are you doing, Mr. Connelly, down here in science laboratory?” “Making sure our new IBM 1130 will stay safe under lock and key.” “IBM 1130? What do you mean?” “It’s a type of computing machine. And once it’s set up and running, it’ll be for science class programing.” Back then I thought this some joke, But it turned out to be a masterstroke; For it helped launched me on the path To a stable and fulfilling aftermath.
Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, A tale of a reckless trip That started from a SoCal port Aboard a tiny ship.
The mate was a novice sailing mom, The skipper green but sure. Three passengers set sail that day For a three-hour tour, a three-hour tour.
The voyage started nice enough, But their boat soon got caught. If not for the wave of a sibling’s bright coat, The Good Luck would be lost, the Good Luck would be lost.
The ship got stuck off the shore of a Santa Barbara beach With The Mrs. The Skipper too, Their daughter, my sister’s friend, Yours truly and Our hero with a windbreaker, Barely in sightful reach.
Now this is the tale of us stuck at sea; We were there for a long, long while. Though we tried to make best of it, None of us could smile.
The first mate and the Skipper, too, Would do their very best To make we others comfortable, In that knotted kelp forest.
No phone, no flares, no motor’s roar, No way to reach safety, Like Gilligan’s venture, As scary as it can be.
So, heed this tale of risk, my friend, To dodge a fateful scare. Before yourself set off to sea, Make sure that you prepare.
In the cosmic dance of forces unseen, Where nature weaves its tapestry serene, Five powers reign with awe and might, Each in its own compelling right:
Gravitation, the gentle embrace, Drawing worlds in the celestial chase, A pull unseen, yet profoundly felt, In orbits, where planets have dwelt.
Electromagnetism in sparks that fly, Invisible waves piercing the sky, Kinetic pinball and magnetic magic, Pulsing currents, charged and quick.
Strong Force, binding quarks so tight, In the heart of atoms, a force of might, Where nuclei are held, against all strife, With a glue that bounds atomic life.
Weak Force, subtle and spare, Transforming particles with magic flair, In radioactive decay and fusion’s glow, A quiet agent that spurs the flow.
And amidst these natural symphonies, Lies a force beyond all boundaries, LOVE, the ethereal, intangible art That binds and heals the human heart.
Like gravity, LOVE is a steady hand, Attracting souls from where they stand, Energizing in its electromagnetic stream, Warming hearts with radiant beam.
Strong as bonds in the nuclear snare, LOVE endures, beyond compare, And unlike that Weak Force, it can mend, Heal wounds of spirit, help transcend.
In the vast expanse of time and space, These forces ever weave and interlace, Yet LOVE is the force that knows no end, A beacon, a guide, and a faithful friend.
Thus, in the grandeur of the cosmic plan, From smallest atom to galactic span, LOVE is the force that truly stands apart, Cure for the loneliness within the heart.
There’s an old Polish wedding tradition The parents perform at the reception. They greet the bride and the groom With rye bread as they enter the room The bread is sprinkled with salt. And with wine they also exalt. With bread, they hope their children Will never hunger or be barren. With salt, they remind the couple That life may at times bring trouble. With wine, they wish for them years Full of good health and many cheers. They then embrace the twosome To affirm their familial welcome.
Some quarter beyond the known cosmic scheme, Where new stars are born and galaxies gleam, One James T. Kirk sails through space, bold and free, On Starship Enterprise, his destiny. Through wormholes and nebulas, he charts course While voyaging through out the universe. Space to him is much more than void and black, It’s a test of courage, where risks never lack— A stage for discovery and wonder, Where Klingons battle and Vulcans ponder. “Engage!” His command resounds at the helm, To seek out new life, in the next strange realm. Joined by Spock, McCoy, Uhura, Sulu And of course Scottie and Chekov as crew, He boldly goes where none have gone before, Seeking civilizations to explore. For space is a mirror reflecting Kirk’s soul, A quest for meaning, where mysteries unfold. But should we give follow this Captain’s lead To future adventures where starships speed? In space’s embrace, will we find our place Or is it just fantasy, a fool’s race?
Yesterday the morning came, a smile upon my face— Girl friend’s doorstep, with Yes tickets, Chris Squire’s driving bass. She just freed from a grounding, begged her father’s grace. But our plans we had to alter, being forced to race.
His limits imposed on us just told us where we were. Wary, leery, restless watchdog, showed us where we were. Lost in temper, rankling, fluster, our minds very far, Lost in losing circumstances, that’s just where we were.
Yesterday the ev’ning came, a frown upon my face— Prog Rock music, sampled glory, too short to gain pace, In a Plymouth car to suburbs, leaving concert place, If then someone asked my feelings, mine was just, If then someone saw my visage, mine was just… Mine was just red face, Mine was just red face, Mine was just red face.
Dad defying, firmly determined to shatter a norm, Sliding on up to straddle, her boldness, her defiance in gear.
Yesterday the late night came, big grin upon this face— The back alley, rousing glory, hot lover’s, hot lover’s embrace, On a rocket ship to heaven, lifting into space! If matched to Tom Jones’s ventures, mine was no… Mine was no disgrace, Mine was no disgrace, Mine was no disgrace.
Dénouement
Upon her return, her dad was fast asleep; Still due to her moods, our bond did not keep. So as a result, I hold slight regret That I could not hear more of Yes’s set.
C’est une histoire from time immemorial Boy meets girl dans La Ville Lumière. “Tes yeux pétillent vraiment.”* La métropole beamed avec un grand sourire.
We drilled our leçons de grammaire, Surveyed bouquinistes au Boule-Miche, Split une baguette au saucisson et beurre … Scooched sur le bancs du Jardin du Luxembourg.
We lost our way dans le labyrinthe du Métro, Strolled les galleries du Louvre, Sipped espresso au Café de la Rotonde … Squeezed hands le long de la Seine.
We dodged crazed drivers dans les rues, Snickered at Le Baiser de Rodin, Shrieked at un plat du steak tartare … Snuggled on the steps of Sacré-Cœur.
We paddled the Bois de Boulougne, Savored Signoret et Montand au cinema, Shared brie avec du Chardonnay … Smooched under Le Pont Marie.
We lit candles in Notre-Dame, et puis Swapped blushes on La Dame de fer … “We’re not going to … , are we?” “Bien sûr que non !”
When I listened to le savant professor, When I sat in the lecture hall as he expounded on Descartes, Pascal, and Marx, When I heard elucidations of metaphysics, reductionism, and form, When the suppositions, tenets, and preuves were meted out, How soon I would drift off, grow tired et ennuyé, Till rising, then gliding softly from my back-aisle bench, I’d exit into the gray, misty Parisian air and souvent Find more wisdom seeping up from une demi-tasse de café.
For chocolate I never need excuse, But this proclivity once cooked my goose. Strolling with a new friend on vacation, We passed a shop replete with temptation. She brought up her passion for chocolat; I followed that I too had a soft spot. She dreamed of sitting in a creamy bain With the lush brown sauce pouring from a pan. Said that her birthday was fast approaching, A hint so clear I needed no coaching. Thus, I bought a fudge cake to celebrate And made sure we would not to be out late. Once back at the hotel after our meal, All encumbrances we soon did unpeel. When our activity raised up the heat, I then got up to retrieve the sweet treat. She motioned with appreciative eyes When my eagerness I could not disguise. After putting a digit in the topping, I grazed her rosy cheek with some frosting. Next there erupted an ear-splitting yell, Way louder than a banchee out of hell. The strum und drang caused such a disturbance; It brought a check by management service. Something that I did not anticipate Had served to seal my fate with that date. So unless you enjoy egg on your face, Make sure to have a consensus in place.
Dien Bien Phu, Khe Sanh Hearts and minds, napalm LBJ, Viet Cong Tonkin Golf, protest song Tet Offensive, Saigon Ho Chi Minh, Nixon won Henry Kissinger, Le Duc Tho America is torn in two
I was born in Chicago, 1952 I was born in Chicago in 1952 Well, my old friends told me “Son, you’d better get outta town”
Well, my first cuz went down When I was 17 years old Oh, my first friend went down When I was 17 years old Well, there’s one thing I can say about that boy Too young to go
Well, my second cuz went down When I was 18 years of age Oh, my second friend went down When I was 18 years of age Well, there’s one thing I can say about that boy He gave us joy
Well, a close friend went down When I was 21 years of age Oh, my second friend went down When I was 21 years of age Well, there’s one thing I can say about that boy He was no dud
Well, now rules are all right If there’s someone left to play the game Well, now rules are all right If there’s someone left to play the game All the young are gone now Everything’s just don’t seem the same Oh, things just don’t seem the same, oh no
I came to Paris to flee the war gods, and their cynical words and cruelty, each day viewing a decade of destruction in the news from distant rice fields.
Tonkin Gulf, Tet Offensive, My Lai, napalm and carpet bombing, a naked child’s run down a road, there were no good reasons for their lies.
As Nixon crows Hearts and Minds and sprays Cambodia with Agent Orange, some ask why so many have to die while the war crawls on and goes nowhere.
Today began cold, wet, and gloomy as I stand in front of the Hotel Majestic encircled by Hanoi and Vietcong flags and hard-nosed, head-bashing security.
First Madame Binh approaches dressed up in a traditional Ao Dai, then comes South Vietnam’s Lam followed closely by the North’s Trinh.
Last in the solemn procession is Secretary of State Rogers hissed and jeered at by protestors as his car warily nears.
There comes the signal of completion followed by a rousing round of cheers signaling that the fighting is over, a futile conflict with nothing but loss.
But observing such a ruckus, I feel alone at the curbside only now fully realizing the extent of my country’s defeat.
Is it greedy presidential hacks Or those barbaric Pentagon rats? My Uncle Sam proclaims he wants me But what really chases me up this tree? IRS comes knocking for some tax I comply for fear of seeming lax: Vietnam, Chicago still on fire But I stay at home with no desire Newspapers decry crime on the streets As nightly I hide beneath my sheets Midnight specials for Russian roulette It seems there is no other outlet I quietly sit sipping my tea While Tricky Dick spouts shit on TV But when I cry “Civic Robbery” I see that I stole myself from me.
Ut dictum est Quod licet Iovi, non licet bovi Parvus pendetur fur, magnus abire videtur Vulpes pilum mutat, non mores Hinc fere libenter homines id quod volunt credunt Damnant quod non intellegunt Sed adversus solem ne loquitor Astra inclinant, sed non obligant Tempora mutantur et nos mutamur in illis Cuiusvis hominis est errare, nullius nisi insipientis in errore perseverare De omnibus dubitandum et nunquam obliviscar Qui totum vult totum perdit Nemo est supra legem Sic semper tyrannis Actum est tandem carmen, plaudite Nunc est bibendum Vale
Tyrant
It is said that What is permitted to Jove is not permitted to an ox, and The petty thief is hanged, while the ringleader gets off, while the fox changes his fur, but not his habits. Hence men often believe what they want to, And some people condemn what they do not understand. But do not speak of what is obviously incorrect. The stars incline us, they do not bind us. Times are changing, and we change in them. Anyone can err, but only the fool persists in his flaws. Doubt everything, and never forget. Whoever wants all, loses all. Nobody is above the law. This always is the fate tyrants. The poem is finally done, applaud! Now is the time to drink! Farewell
enter first seems better but patience is wetter completing too quickly makes the moment sticky start with brushing the bush next onto that sweet tush give a moist flick and lick but do not be too slick peck keenly bit by bit until reaching orbit now exchange role as host by switching to the post since it’s largely for you offer guidance on queue and to make yourself writhe praises you should not hide imbibe is thought yucky so say you feel lucky then when again ready you’ll have the longevity for both a lot more fun affirmed second to none should last at least an hour followed with a shower
I met Jawdat just as I entered by way of the Damascus Gate. “Welcome to Jerusalem, the Holy City. Are you looking for a guide?” he asked. A quick glance discomfited me, For he looked no older than I myself. But he expertly continued, “This Gate is The Center of the World. It is an excellent type of Islamic building, and do you know what its sign means? There is no God but God and Muhammed is His Prophet.” What convenient luck for me, I thought, as he offered to guide me for the next few days. “There is the immovable ladder of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Someone put it against that wall, and no one dares disturb the status quo.” “Make sure you cover your elbows when tucking prayers in the Wailing Wall.” “Remember remove shoes in al-Aqsa, so you can see the wonderful decorations.” He offered little personal insights To spice up our series of walks. “Let me treat you to some Turkish coffee along with a delicious slice of kanafa.” “The sabbath, the busiest day of the week, is when Arabs and Israeli teens eye the miniskirts.” And “Someday I will go to your country to study and get an American wife.” Also, “My family is originally from Jaffa but was thrown out the Day of the Nakba.” Once when we dined late after curfew, he vanished after helping me enter my hostel. For four days there was no sign of him, though I enquired from shop to shop. At the market there was a wary silence until my last day his familiar figure re-emerged. Jawdat approached and pulled up his shirt to show me the IDF’s purple marks.
To stroll the walls of the Old City is to walk a line surrounding history. Outside is modern life, bustling streets lined with hotels and tourist shops. Inside is rich tradition, much older and long the vortex of many faiths. Many pilgrims fill the lanes to visit the temples, mosques, and churches. Tiny gardens behind homes of stone are shaded by ancient trees. Their branches reach out and, in some places, cover the city walls like curtains. Narrow lanes open into wider streets with busy shops and open stalls. Men sit sipping coffee, fingering their prayer beads or just talking. Women crouch in the shade of inner courtyards, sorting beans and legumes—and talking. How is it that some call this place, the world’s biggest thorn in the side?
Workhorse in a tiny package, light yet solid, a hands-on tool for lecture, letter, or novel, along with espresso, croissant, and cool jazz, there’s no better way to spend Saturday morn.
Powered by human touch and muscle, I churn out human language, a comforting sonata with my clatter, conducive to the creative process.
Page after page fly through my platen with ease enabling what comes closest to his athletic prowess as well as the charm, and to be honest, the frustration of the unmistakable pangs of writer’s block.
In a zone, his fingers may dance on my keys getting into the flow on a Zen roll, but also making so many mistakes that my x arm will soon need Tommy John surgery.
Sixty-word-per-minute, 1000 words double-spaced, for days, weeks, months, and years, he thinks he’s Hemingway or Ernie Pyle.
Banged up, spilled upon, cursed Misfitted ink-ribbons, broken keys, if we could just switch roles, I know I could write better than he.
Ich muss Deutsch üben, I have to practice my German, Aber gut Ding will Weile haben. But good things take time. Man kann die Natur nicht ändern, One cannot change nature, Also sich nicht um ungelegte Eier kümmern, So you shouldn’t cross a bridge before coming to it, Die Ochsen hinter den Wagen spannen, Don’t put that cart before the horse, Und das Kind mit dem Bade ausschütten. And don’t toss the baby with the bath water. Es heißt, dass wer nicht hören will, muss fühlen. It is said that he who won’t listen will regret it. Er will den Bock melken. You cannot milk a buck. Wärme bringt Leben, Kälte Tod; Warmth brings life, coldness death; Und Zeit ist das teuerste Kleinod. And time is really the most precious gem. Geduld bringt rosen, Patience brings roses, Erst denken, dann lenken. So look before you leap. Obwohl sicher ist sicher. But though it’s better to be safe than sorry, Was Gutes kommt wieder. Good works will reap rewards. Wie es heißt, jedes Warum hat seinen Darum. Every why has a wherefore. Gesundheit ist besser als Reichthum. Good health ranks above wealth. Geld macht nicht glücklich, Money can’t buy happiness, Denn keinen Objekt ist unersetzlich. For no thing is indispensable. Wähle von zwei Übeln das Kleinste. Choose the lesser of two evils. Der gerade Weg ist immer der beste. The straight path is always the best. Das Bessere ist der Feind des guten, Better is the enemy of the good, Ehrlich währt am längsten. Being honest gets the most mileage. Sorge macht vor Zeiten grau, Fretting makes one gray before one’s time, Aber zu nacht sind alle Katzen grau. But, at night, all cats are gray. Wiederholung ist die Mutter der Weisheit, Repetition is the mother of knowledge, Trotzdem alles zu seiner Zeit. Still everything comes in its time. Taten sagen mehr als Wörter, Actions are worth more than words, Somit ein paar Sätze macht noch keinen Redner. So a few phrases will not make you an orator.
Tu es dans ta première soirée en France et que tu rencontres une personne avec qui tu discutes beaucoup, avec qui tu ries, avec qui tu t’amuses vraiment !
À un moment donné, tu peux avoir envie de lui dire qu’elle est géniale et super sympa. Du coup, tu lui dis :
“Je t’aime !”
“Oh ! euh… merci…”
Tu es surpris de sa réaction et là tu te rends compte que tu as peut-être fait une petite erreur !
Flat upon the platter, two pieces of toast Sit dried, cold, and Neglected As shelled peanuts fan out from a half-empty bag Framing the President on Time While the radio drowns the room in static Ants take ordered turns for this morning’s Scrambled eggs No shoes, no socks, gritty feet An old watch, slow by ten minutes Quarter to three A muted haze drawn from the embers Two used packs of Cigarettes Dozing off, pen drooping from hand Cuffs soaking up a lake of Nescafé Scattered Post-Its, notes unhelping Words fade like Wilted flowers Outside the cold wind rattles the screen door Inside a flood of tears douses the Muse And destroys Civilizations!
Les Français, dit-on, sont si raffinés, Mais leurs pensées sont embrumées, leur esprit est orageux. A chaque remarque, ils froncent les sourcils Comme si le ciel leur tombait dessus. Ils sirotent leur vin, mais maudissent le verre, Car la joie est fugace, trop rapide pour être serrée. Dans de petits cafés, la tête basse, Ils soupirent comme s’ils savaient toujours— L’avenir est sombre, c’est la fin du monde, Rien ne va, tout va exploser. Et si Liberté semble divine, Mais même la liberté a son heure. Leurs poètes écrivent sur l’art cruel de l’amour, Des rêves qui s’estompent et des cœurs qui se séparent. Les rues de Paris s’assombrissent, Alors que les ombres s’accumulent, annonçant le malheur. Oh, être les Français qui se lèvent Pour accueillir le monde avec des yeux méfiants, Pour parler en soupirs, d’un ton triste, Et appeler chez eux une maison d’ossements. Pourtant dans leur morosité, il y a une grâce, Une sorte de beauté que rien ne peut remplacer. Car à travers leurs doutes, leur tension sans fin, Ils nous enseignent de nouvelles façons de nous plaindre.
Les Français, they say, have minds refined, But their thoughts have clouds, a stormy sign. With each remarque, they make a frown As if the sky is falling down.
They sip their vin, yet curse the glass, For joy’s fleeting, too swift to clasp. In cafés small, with heads held low, They sigh as if they always know—
Future’s dim, c’est la fin du monde, Nothing is right, it’ll all explode. And while Liberté sounds divine, But even freedom has its time.
Their poètes write of love’s cruel art, Of dreams that fade and hearts that part. Les rues de Paris grown with gloom, As shadows gather spelling doom.
Oh, to be les Français who arise To welcome the world with leery eyes, To speak in sighs, in rueful tones, And call chez eux a house of bones.
Yet in their glumness, there’s a grâce, A kind of beauté none can replace— For through their doubts, their endless strain, They teach us new ways to complain.
en la serena noche de luna cuando las rosas concentran su aroma cruza en silencio una figura desnuda a oscuras me recuerda los hermosos días cuando frotan dos almas en un combate amoroso y todo acaba y es eterno esperando la aurora para volver a comenzar no sé cómo buscarte dentro de mí en medio de la noche me despierta tu sueño distante y ya no tan próxima mi pasado se convierta en el su futuro te alza en brazos, se acerca tu abrazo en otro abrazo ¿qué pasó? ¿qué hora es?
In drizzling rain, ten patient people form a queue One bus passes, then another: “Sorry, no room here” With torrents downfall, six umbrellas blossom The bus to city’s center arrives Twenty people now converge on one point Ordered rank turns into San Juan Hill Collecting bones and baggage twelve of us board Bell rings, “I’m descending.” “Excuse me.” There goes today’s shoeshine A playful driver, a screeching halt A hundred people swing like hogs at slaughter In a seat below, two children sit They smile, day brightens, skyline opens.
No, the ensuing hookup was not my first; but to handle it, I was not well rehearsed. I had arrived from the northern chills to attend university in the blazing Sonoran hills. And after weathering a swirling sandstorm, I finally settled into my new school’s dorm. Next, I determined to explore my new town, to relax and cool myself off after sundown. Venturing out, I heard a bystander hawk, “Hey, I just love the way you walk!” The compliment got me to turn around to learn where came that flattering sound. Had someone noticed my personal stride, which unwittingly attested my Chi-town pride? The alluring voice had directed my attention to a nubile youth of dark, creamy complexion, She was a bubbly, mysterious ebony sprite who sported a shear summer dress ever so tight. We quickly struck up a rather raucous caucus that carried on ardently to the mall of campus. Obviously, my whole attention she stole, our conversation ranging from silly to droll. She snickered and queried if I had ever been with anyone who wore her same type of skin. Dumbstruck, I responded that I truly had not; something I expressed wish to learn more about. “Well, would you like to touch my curly hair?” My answer to her was, “How do I dare?” “Go right ahead. It’s no big deal; I don’t mind if you want to give it a feel.” Thereupon, I reached out timidly to touch; she then offered her hand for me to clutch. My head and parts perceived a quick rush; Our close interaction had made me blush. We tittered about things we had in common, and about what in free time we did for fun. But when we raised that specific topic, her talk became more and more myopic. She coyly quizzed if I liked to get buzzed, just as everyone she proffered at the college does. Alas, before me sat an artful temptress, who by now had put my feelings under stress. When pressed, she revealed she was underage, and that for her social drinking was the rage. She waited evenings for a wide-eyed score who could buy her hooch at the liquor store. So, instead of an intriguing new friend, I sadly had encountered a dipso Siren. Ergo, I declined politely getting some beers, and begged leave as she shed crocodile tears.
When some people talk about safety They bring up personal accountability Or speak when only theirs is in doubt. This makes me remember The time I lived on Maxwell Hungry as I quested for work. A scrounger with discernment I feasted on the curb with my buddies On cold chicken wings and some stale Ripple.
Oh, Darling boy, your love, your love is bursting. From root it springs from out your presence strong. The heat is on, and all the juices flowing; It’s your, it’s your sure fire that she does long.
So, come ye More when passion’s in its highest, Or when her roommate’s zoned or does not show; It’s she’ll be there in daylight or in darkness. Oh, Darling boy, oh Darling boy, she wants you so!
One day as I was waiting for a job interview, I lapsed into a daydream — I dreamed I was a peanut. I was neither a very big peanut nor a handsome one. I was just a plain, ordinary, happy peanut, not well-off but comfortable in my own way. I was perfectly content to live out my life like any other peanut, waiting in the sun for the day the farmer would grab me up and send me off to be packed and sent to sit for months on some distant shelf. All I would do as I waited was sit down near to the earth and hum a simple tune to pass the time.
Things turned out quite differently for me, however. It so happened that some representatives from Panter’s Peanuts came by and overheard me humming. “Unbelievable!” one shouted, “A humming peanut!” They all dashed over to speak to me. “Where did you learn to hum?” they asked in unison.
I was just about to answer when I was interrupted. “Never mind. We’ll sign you up. Why this is the greatest thing since singing oranges!” (I suddenly remembered the television commercials with the singing sun-kissed orange who skyrocketed to fame from obscurity and had recently gone beyond that and turned to religion crusading against fresh grapefruits.)
Well, I, too, was catapulted into a career. Before I could realize it, I was packed up and heading straight for Honeywood. There I met one of those big-time managers who was to become my very own. I was shaking in my shell. As I came into his presence, I overheard him talking to one of his colleagues; “It’s simply sensational. A stroke of luck. One in a billion, nay in a trillion! The nation’ll love him. He’ll hum his way into the hearts of millions of peanut butter lovers everywhere.”
I was overwhelmed. They were talking about me. We were introduced. “Don’t be nervous, kid,” he said, “We’re your friends. Bet your ma and pa are proud of you. Heh! Heh! At least they will be when we make a star out of you. We’re impressed, nay blown out!”
After reflecting upon the fact that I never had time to call home, I timidly asked what made me so special. “Why, kid, don’t be modest. Modesty’s a bad word in our business. Why you are the only hummin’ peanut in the whole, wide world, including Georgia!” Pantin’ Peanuts been lookin’ hard an’ long for a gimmick, erh, I mean a new sensational, creative promotion to help drive their already burgeoning business up over the hill.”
“But sir, I only hum a few simple tunes, nothing fancy. I’m no Almond brother; and besides, look at me, I’m no Clint Chestnut either.”
“No that’s true, but, oh, that’s all right, kid. We’ve got a great backup band and the makeup men can perform miracles… Let’s get started.”
And off we went. First came the taping sessions and studio performances. Soon came the real thing. There were no more rehearsals. The pace was fast and furious. But the manager was right. It was a success. I became a star overnight. The fan mail went from one letter (a letter from my mom wishing me luck) to thousands. I had to hire three secretaries. The company’s stocks on Walnut Street soared up and up. There was a ticker tape parade in the Big Apple. I launched the first peanut-shaped submarine. Filbert University awarded me an honorary doctorate degree. I even gave a private performance at 1600 Pistachio Avenue.
I used to read a lot of dime novels, you know, the Hazelnut-Acorn novels, about rising from rags to riches and never believed a word. Here I was flyyyyying!!! A real living legend. I was the celebrity. Agents and. fans kept trying to crash down the gates of my villa. They were vying with one another to get an interview, a look, or a chance to rummage through my garbage cans for God knows what.
And the parties, Jumpin’ Joe Nutmeg, they were indeed produced in Honeywood! Creamy Cashews all screamed their darling little hearts out as I crooned a few bars. Every day I was drinking hickory sours out of peanut shells. Every night I had collected so many keys tossed by female admirers I couldn’t find my own. And I didn’t care either. It seemed I had reached so high that I couldn’t get any higher. Incredible!
But then my manager tapped me on the shoulder and exclaimed, “Look, kid, I’ve got the best idea in the whole world. The killer! Remember ol’ Elvis Pretzel. He was a great and popular star when he was young, but the poor kid got a bit pudgy, livin’ so high like he did. He started to take to drugs, bad trips and all that. The sales of his records began droppin’ off. Well, then he croaked, you know, that poor kid. But the amazin’ thing was the sales of his records, souvenirs, memorial tombstones, all that stuff went through the roof. Amazin’ isn’t it. Well, I’ve got this great idea…”
I didn’t stop to hear the rest. I turned and ran and ran and …only to be grabbed by a couple of big hairy coconuts. Before I knew it, I was strapped down in the jaws of a giant nutcracker and those jaws were a closin’!…
The receptionist’s call suddenly woke me: “Sir, Mr. Smith is ready to see you now.” I was in a cold sweat. I stood up and faced the exit. As I passed the receptionist, I handed her a note to give to Mr. Smith. It read “Sorry Charlie,” and I continued on my way.
The phone by the bed rang. It was the worst possible time.
Because it was the worst possible time, the ringing was strident to them both. Although it was a trivial thing, they looked at each other and, for a moment, could not decide what to do.
It was the third day of their honeymoon; or more precisely the third night. Since they both had heavy workloads, they had rented a sequestered cabin in the country, planning to stay there for a week and not go anywhere.
Until that moment, these three days had been the happiest of their lives—when two lovers finally integrate physically as well as spiritually, the pleasure is almost beyond description.
They were both young, healthy, and full of life. The physical attraction, one for the other, was at its peak. Thus, they spent most of their time in the cabin indulging themselves in sexual love again and again.
Since they had not told anyone that they would be there, there should have been no one trying to call them. Nevertheless, the phone rang, a little past midnight just as they were steeped in indescribable ecstasy.
The phone rang and rang. As he finally half-sat up she panted lightly, “The owner knows we’re honeymooning, so it must be a wrong number; but I think you’d better answer it.”
He stretched out his hand but could barely reach the phone. He did not want to leave her body even for a short while and actually wanted to yank out the cord, but thought better. So, with a tacit expression of understanding, they both budged at the same time.
She looked a little bashful, but that made her eyes especially enchanting. He took a deep breath and hoped the ringing would just stop. However, the phone kept ringing. He had no choice but to pick it up. “Hello?” he said with much reluctance.
For a few seconds the other end was silent. This annoyed him, and he said hello once again. Then, just as he was about to hang up, he heard a hesitant voice ask, “Who is this?”
He was incensed, and she was confused. She held him tightly. Neither said a word. Then he shouted, “Who are you calling?”
He did not know why he had asked back. Was it because the line was unclear, or just because the call came at the worst time? Anyway, his thoughts were all jumbled now.
The voice at the other end spoke again more hesitantly, “I’d … I’d like to speak to Miss …”
Then it came, a last name, a very rare last name. It meant that the person had not dialed a wrong number—the name could only be hers, his bride’s!
He looked at her with great doubt and noticed that her face was also full of puzzlement. She twisted her tender lips into an expression of inquiry, asking him if the call was for her. He nodded and handed it to her.
She moved slightly as she got the phone. He wanted to keep a little distance from her but was stopped by her eyes and hands.
Then she took a deep breath and said, “Hello, who is this …?”
He could still hear the person at the other end of on the line clearly—partly because it was so quiet there, partly because that person was shouting so loudly, and also because the line was so distortion free and he was just by her side. The person calling was addressing his wife by her nickname, her nickname! It sounded as if they were very familiar with one another.
Then he heard the voice from the phone say, “Who was that guy who answered the phone?”
The tone of that question was not only suspicious but also very stern—as if the person had the right to ask her in this manner.
Looking at her, he felt shocked and enraged. The only thing in his mind at this moment was exactly the same question that came from the phone, ”Who was that guy?”
She did not notice that his eyes were filled with disbelief, since she was also full of disbelief, and the disbelief even reflected upon her pretty face which, just a little while before, had been so radiant with blissfulness.
She pondered for a while and did not know how to respond, but the person at the other end could not wait any longer. Calling her name again, still her nickname, he then asked her in a harsher tone, “Tell me! Who? Who the heck picked up the phone?”
She finally pulled herself together and asked with a slight stammer, “Who, who are you?”
After a short pause, the response came with great consternation, “Can’t you even recognize my voice? Or are you just pretending because you’re afraid that the guy knows…you…you… Is this the way you treat me … you … you …”
Her name came up several times as he shouted. Although his shouting was replete with anger, it was also obviously full of passion and love.
She was confused and anxious. It came all of a sudden, and she just did not know what to do, nor had she any thought of defending herself. But he could not stand it any more and, snatching the receiver from her hand, shouted “Go to hell …” and banged it back down.
He did not realize until that moment that he had already been away from her, God knows for how long.
The atmosphere after that was enough to break her heart into bits. She repeated at least one thousand times, “I have no idea who it was. He must have gotten a wrong number, or maybe he’s a maniac, or some kind of troublemaker …”
He did not speak or even look at her, but just stared at the ceiling with both hands under his head. She prostrated herself over him trying her best to tease and excite him, only there was no response. But she did not give up until she felt disgusted.
There was still no response.
Neither of them slept after that nor did they speak to each other. They just lay on the bed with their eyes open until dawn. When twilight arrived, he finally opened his mouth and said, “We should get back, we both have lots of work. It’s not much fun here anyway.”
She responded passively, “All right!”
Apparently, the chasm in the marriage emerged at this time; however, they still managed for one more year before they got divorced.
It was not long before she met another man. He was almost perfect and was an ideal lover. She felt that his passion was as hot as fire—hot enough to turn her into ash. Nevertheless, she was quite willing to become ash if it was necessary. She did not know the reason, but his voice seemed so familiar; and that was why she had paid more attention to him when they first met.
Her new boyfriend was very romantic. He would often wait outside her house holding a bunch of flowers early in the morning, just wanting her to get her favorite bouquet as she stepped out.
One night, after a wonderful time, he accompanied her home and then left. Later, her doorbell rang and she went to open the door, only to find him red-faced at the entrance. He jumped in and shouted huffing, “Who was the man … the one who answered my call just now?”
She had no idea what happened, “Who did you call? What are you talking about?”
His face grew even redder, “What am I talking about? I just called you, but there was a man answered my call, then when I talked to you, that son of a bitch grasped the phone and said GO TO HELL and then banged the phone … Just tell me where he is, I’ll kill him! …”
At that moment, she suddenly realized what was he talking about, and recognized who it was who called the cabin a year ago! She began to tremble, not knowing how to explain all of this …
Phone that disc jockey on the radio waves not to play any more of those sappy tunes. Instead, let us drink under the bright moon and ignore them, savoring this moment as we lean against the railing and croon of times past and opportunities lost bellowing into the night soulful sagas embellished by the power of the brew.
What forged you? What special event? Have you been shaped in adversity? The failures, losses? Setbacks, defeats? Is suffering a tool in this earthly school? Has the rug been pulled from under you? Done something Wrong in a past life? Is it all part of the web of things? Wonder why you are here? Or do you have the joy of surviving and relish the question: If you had the chance, would you do it all over again?
A curve so smooth, a gentle rise and fall, Where softened lines in symmetry align— A sculpted form, like nature’s finest call, A secret formed of flesh and blood divine. Beneath the skin, the pulse of life does beat With warmth and firmness, and radiant flair, A symbol pure, where heart and passion meet, A vessel shaped by will, both bold and rare. In light’s glow, it catches ardor’s embrace, An orb that speaks beauty, calm, and allure And in its form, unmatched in any space, Can turn the dark to day, and hurt to cure. Oh, breast of woman, filled with strength and grace, A masterwork, core of love’s special place.
Furtive eyes kindle interest; Sweet murmurs sanction quest. Enticing orbs firm as apples Peek and perk, ripe for sample. Digits dance about light as pixies; Canvassing circles, graceful teases, Determined forays, tactful retreats Crisscross a sweet delectable treat. Playful venture down buttery vines, Bare touch spurs them to untwine. Rising up from lush forested home, Ardent sparks broadcast welcome. Venus awakened unlocks her code, Only to him permission bestowed. Thirstful desire endorsed in course, Invitee sips at the ebullient source. Ambrosia freely beginning to flow, Buoyant delight proceeds to grow. Enthralled in blissful blindness, Sport swells to brazen boldness. Willful plunge, exclusive ingress, Lovers reach their rapturous finish.
The four-hour drive from his home was unremarkable. It was a quick jaunt that barely stirred up an appetite for lunch especially after his mom’s hardy-as-usual breakfast. The Rand McNally map proved accurate, guiding his route to the small college town and then further to the university’s main graduate residence hall without the slightest course deviation. The residence, which would be his home for coming year on campus, loomed 14 stories high over a nearly full parking lot. He had arrived a bit late in the morning. Obviously, a good number of incoming students had beaten him there. After locating a free spot, he jumped out and eagerly walked toward the entrance. The university’s East Asian Studies department, which featured several renowned scholars, had offered him sufficient financial support to embark on a study Chinese philosophy and literature, with the goal of obtaining a Ph.D. and eventually becoming a professor.
As he exited the lot, he passed near to someone standing on the side smoking a cigarette. He noticed that this fellow appeared to be of Asian descent. He interpreted this as a good omen considering his future academic intentions and decided to approach to say hello. The fellow returned the greeting in a heavy Japanese accent.
Kazufu was there to attend graduate school. He had come from Tokyo to pursue doctoral studies in English literature. He had left his wife and child behind, but they would come over to join him sometime in the new year.
What good fortune. he was aware that he would need to add minor in another East Asian language for his doctoral studies. Japanese could absolutely fit that bill, especially since the Japanese have been studying China for centuries and would therefore offer interesting perspectives on Chinese philosophy and literature.
At the end of the short conversation, Kazufu invited him for some tea at 8 pm in the residence’s ninth-floor lounge – quite a nice way to enhance his language and academic objectives.
Buoyed by this encounter, he waltzed into the lobby to register and receive his room assignment and key. After grabbing his things from the car, he ascended to his eleventh-floor room to settle in and wait for dinner. Later, he was pleasantly surprised to encounter two fellow undergrad alums in the food line down in the hall cafeteria. They too had come to the university for graduate studies, Dave for French and Dan for Spanish. The great day had continued.
While they were eating, he mentioned that he had seen an ad in the local paper for a French movie showing at a downtown cinema. The film was at 10. They all decided to go; and since he had his car, he would drive. Dave and Tom finished their meals and returned to their rooms. They would all rendezvous in the hall lobby at around 9.
He went to grab some coffee and a couple cookies. When he returned, he noticed a cute blond girl sitting over at the next table and asked whether he could join her. She obliged. A native Hoosier from Indianapolis, Gail intended to do a master’s degree in library science. They had a pleasant conversation. Though she was not necessarily his type of girl, she did seem congenial, so he took the opportunity to invite her to join him and his friends for the movie later in the evening. She agreed. He would come get her at around 8. He wanted to allow enough time to drop in at the ninth-floor lounge for that tea invitation.
At 8 he knocked on Gail’s door on the tenth floor. She was already set to go when he mentioned the tea invitation. Gail seemed reluctant to go. This was a bit of a quandary for him, and her reaction made him hesitate a moment. No, he conjured a different calculation: Which was more important, go out on a group date with this cute but not quite interesting lady or take advantage of an opportunity to further his connection with a native language informant. He voted for Japanese.
They descended to the ninth floor. Sure enough, Kazufu was there standing in the lobby with a kettle pouring hot water into a Japanese-style teacup. He hailed them over to join. At least three other people were sitting, talking, and drinking tea. One was a beautiful and intriguing young woman. He could not make out her ethnicity. Dark caramel skin, Asian of sort, perhaps Filipina.
He introduced himself, and when she replied he detected another foreign accent – French. Asking her name and where she hailed from, he was blown away by her reply. Wow! She was the first person he had ever met from that distant island country. Accordingly, he continued en français. She seemed pleasantly surprised and asked where he had learned French. He told her he had recently lived in Paris and had attended classes at the Sorbonne. She had an amazing smile. He also told her that he knew where her country was located, that it was a former French colony, that a number of very exotic and unique animals lived there, and of course that he looked forward to hearing more about it. And by the way what is your room number?
She in turn said that she had arrived a week earlier in Bloomington. Flying in a puddle jumper from Chicago over the vast corn fields of Indiana, she felt that she was going to be studying in some rural hinterland. She told him that he was the first person she had met since her arrival who knew anything about her home country. He dared not mention how he knew where the country was located – through playing a popular strategy board game. Her island is often one of the last places left on the board to acquire.
Gail stood there quietly making a long face. Evidently, she was not comfortable with this conversation done in a foreign language. He quickly got the message, turn to thank Kazufu, and bid all goodbye as he led Gail out of the lounge to meet Dave and Dan in the lobby. The group proceeded to his car and then drove to the theater.
La nuit américaine (English title: Day for Night) is a romantic comedy-drama set in a story about the making of a movie. It had won the Academy Award for Best International Feature Film that year. The film was quite good, but what caught most of his attention most was the male lead, Pierre Léaud. As the film kept running, he came to realize that he resembled the famed French actor especially in facial appearance. In addition, the first name of the main actor’s girlfriend happened to be the same as that of the exotic lady whom he had just encountered. Interesting.
The film ended, and the group shuffled back to the car. He returned everyone safely to the residence hall and bid all good night as each exited elevator to their respective floors, including Gail. She was a pleasant girl, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
The following evening after dinner, he knocked on the door of room 931.
A surprised, but beaming exotic lady opened the door. She invited him to enter, and a long conservation ensued. They had a long conversation about her home country, the reason for coming to the US – receiving a Fulbright for a Ph.D. in American studies, and so on. After a while, he suggested that they continue with a walk on the campus.
They walked and talked and walked and talked on into the warm late summer evening, going past sunset. They continued all the way up to within view of the university basketball stadium. Suddenly she became aware that she had left the dorm in night slippers. The long walk the sidewalk and street pavement had worn through the sole of one of her slippers. They laughed.
From that day on, they were a constant item in the residence and often on campus.
But Gail obviously did not forget that movie night. She began to act in a bizarre fashion. Whenever she encountered them in the residence or on campus – in a corridor, at the cafeteria, at the nearby convenience store, and so on. She would make strange faces or scowl or just glare. It was weird and at times even bothersome. He could never understand how going out to see a movie for just one night, and on a group date to boot, could generate such a reaction.
This odd behavior continued for about three to four months. Then one day when they were each doing their own laundry down in the basement, he noticed that Gail and another person were also in the room. Just as they had, the two had just put their clothes into the dryers and were exiting the room to wait elsewhere for the laundry to dry. All four then entered the elevator at the same time.
Upon entry Gail immediately turned toward the man, threw her arms around the very rotund fellow and squeezed him, almost to death. When the elevator reached their floor, they immediately tumbled out and rolled onto the floor laughing as the elevator door closed. They had realized that Gail had at last found her man. That was the end of the end of stalking.
A year later Kazufu’s wife and child arrived from Japan, and he invited them again for some tea to celebrate. When they had all gathered at Kazufu’s apartment, he told them that the tea invitation the previous year was done on purpose. As the senior Japanese person in his dorm room, he felt obliged to try hooking up his bachelor roommate with a female friend. However, as is custom in Japan, he also felt the need to test first how well his proposed candidate would do in a social setting before introducing her to his suitemate and fellow countryman. Well, the exotic lady sure had passed part of the test. They all then burst into laughter about that memorable day.
The matchmaking magic at that moment had been mighty, just misdirected!
It was 4:50 PM. The five clustered in the kitchen of their Lincoln Avenue rental. Two sat at the table, two were standing, and one perched himself on the counter. They were all facing the phone attached by the rear door. You would need an ax to cut the anticipation. Tick, tick, tick, time beat on almost suspended as if dragging an invisible weight. They were waiting for The Call.
They were expecting a ring from his mom. Everyone knew her to be very predictable and were familiar with her set-your-atomic-clock-to punctuality. He had often told the others that his mother got off work at 4:00 PM, having set the end of her shift early to avoid the evening traffic. She would hitch a ride from a colleague and arrive home nearly every day by 4:45 PM. She would then enter the house through the driveway side door and proceed by 5:00 PM to front of the house to check the daily mail…
That year on Memorial Day weekend, he had traveled with his girlfriend so she could meet his parents. The visit went way better than he had expected, especially since it was the first time he had brought home a brown-skinned girlfriend. Over the last few years, he had had several discussions, some very heated, with his mother over race and racial relations. She distrusted and often maligned people of other races and ethnic groups, even people of subgroups closely related to her own. She tolerated her on dating people from other ethnic groups, but really wanted him to meet one from their own ethnic group.
He had expected a cool, even chilly encounter; but, to the contrary, things seemed to go well. It certainly helped that his friend was fluent in English. His mother was all smiles, open, and very kind during the whole visit. My father was his bon-vivant self. This reception also allayed the apprehension his friend had expressed before leaving the university town for his home.
By the end of their first year in grad school in June, he had cajoled his girlfriend to join him with his best friend David and David’s newly minted wife, Diane, as housemates. (BTW, he and Diane were once more than friends) They would rent an old three-bedroom house on Lincoln Avenue about four blocks north of campus. The four would be joined by John, an older undergrad, who had been a student in David’s first-year French class. His girlfriend asked him when he proposed the rental plan, “We wouldn’t be sleeping in the same room, right?” He had replied, “No, of course not;” and so, she agreed to the arrangement.
His girlfriend moved into the first-floor bedroom; upstairs David and Diane would have one room and John the other. Meanwhile, he would sleep in a south-facing room that had once served as an attached greenhouse. After moving into the house, he and his girlfriend would trade off rooms in order to perform their lovers’ duties; but they, as he had promised, would not sleep over together through night in either bedroom. (They did, however, sleep over night together when they surreptitiously visited his hometown in late June)
At first, the conditions in his room were comfortable, even in the summer months of June, July, and August, because a neighbor’s tree had grown full and high enough to partially shade the room. However, that year September brought an unusual seasonal chill to the night, and the greenhouse room of course had a considerable amount of number of glass panes. It was getting cool, and quite cold by morning. The heat in the house had been turned on during several nights of chill, but the air flow from the closest duct barely whiffed through his open room door. He tried multiple blankets and tolerated the cold for several days; but all the glass, no insulation. It was darn cold, freezing.
He decided to make a unilateral decision – move over to her room. That night he picked up his pillow and marched out of his room through the living room and opened her door. “Sorry, it’s too cold over there.”
This changed the equation. His girlfriend at first seemed miffed but was generous in allowing him to stay. The increased time for intimacy fostered further exploration and discussion about their relationship. He had from the first time that they met known that he would like her to be the one. It would require, he thought, for her to come to the same realization. In this circumstance, he began to see her even more as the One. So, one late afternoon while they were lounging on the bed, he just blurted it out, “Do you want to get married.” She said simply, “Yes.”
He could have telephoned his mother to make the announcement, but a call home was a long-distance charge and too expensive if the conversation was long. Given his mother’s disposition and predictable negative reaction, he decided that a simple phone would not do. He wanted to inform her of his decision and explain how much he loved his future wife and at the same time express his love for his mother in the hope that in the end she would understand. He would mail the handwritten letter early Monday morning. It would arrive at his parent’s home by Wednesday afternoon.
They were all sitting and standing on the edge, their hearts racing as they anxiously waited for the phone to ring. They had been waiting for what felt like an eternity, staring at the silent phone with a mix of anticipation and anxiety.
As the wall clock ticked toward Five, his girlfriend glanced nervously at the time piece, her hands fidgeting uncontrollably in her lap. David tapped his foot impatiently against the bottom cabinet, his eyes darting back and forth between the clock and the phone. Diane chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes fixed on the phone as if dreading the ring. John stood there in complete bewilderment as what to expect. He alone knew what could happen.
With each passing second, the tension in the room grew thicker, the silence becoming almost unbearable. Finally, as the countdown reached its last few seconds, they all held their breath, their hearts pounding in unison.
And then, as the clock struck zero, the phone suddenly sprang to life, its shrill ring echoing through the room. David, Diane, and John all jumped up, their eyes wide with anticipation, as he advanced to grab the phone. And no one took notice in the excitement that John’s elbow had suddenly knocked a metal mug from off the counter. It crashed with a bang. That was not the center of attention.
“Hello, mom.” Of course, he knew it was her.
“How could you do this to me?” his mother through the line.
“Do what, Mom?” A big gulp.
“Want to marry HER! I knew it, I knew it when you brought her here.”
“Mom, mom, hold on. Well, no, Mom. I only just proposed. I love her.” Searing silence exuded from the other end. “I hope, I hope you understand. I really do love her.” He didn’t think she was listening.
“This is terrible. How could you?” A longer moment of silence then, “Why couldn’t you marry a Chinese?”
“Chinese?” That was a response he had not anticipated.
“I love you, Mom. Please understand.”
“I will NOT come.”
His mother then hung up.
It took a few moments for him to gather himself after the call. In a way he half expected his mother’s ire. He reflected that his mother’s odd suggestion did have a twisted logical since he was enrolled in grad school to study Chinese literature, and Chinese people are more light-skinned than his girlfriend. In proposing Chinese, she was saying marry anyone else but her.
His housemates remained respectfully mum waiting for his reaction. He addressed his girlfriend first to quell her understandable concern.
“Don’t worry love, it doesn’t matter. She’ll come around. She will.”
John chimed in with encouragement. “Yeah, it will work out.”
David and Diane chimed in a hearty, “Yeah, they will. Congratulations!”
He knew better, at least for some time to come…
Once the others had cleared the kitchen, he telephoned his mother’s younger sister whom he considered his favorite aunt. He thought Aunt Jeanne could calm his mother down and get her to reconsider. But his aunt was a big disappointment. She told him, “No way. You shouldn’t have done this. You’ll hurt your mom.” Well so much for a “loving” aunt.
That was that. He and his now fiancée would go on with setting up the wedding, aided by their friends.
His mother obstinately stuck to her word and did not attend the wedding. His father and sister did attend, along with one of his cousins and many of their friends and colleagues. His future mother-in-law even traveled 11,000 miles for the occasion. They all had a splendid time.
For three full years his mother did not see him, mail him, or even talk to him over the phone.
It was a relief, actually. He had at last become an adult.
(1975-1976)
Epilogue
Three years after the wedding, his mother-in-law returned for a visit. The couple traveled to the big city to pick her up at O’Hare International Airport. They got a motel room near the airport which also happened to be close to his parents’ home.
He dialed his father, “Dad, we’ve arrived in town and were at the Days Inn in Niles. We’ve picked up my mother-in-law who has just flown in.”
His father replied, “Oh? Well, okay, Hold on for a minute.” Then silence on the line. It was a fairly long silence, and he couldn’t make out what was going on. His father returned, “Okay, we’ll order some Chinese food and bring it over to you. What room are you in.”
“27.”
“We’ll” his father said. Now that was something different.
A half hour later a knock came at the door. Chinese take-out. The ice had broken.
Outside the gate I regretfully stand Late at the Andersonville marble field As the setting sun breaks through the gentle Georgia rain Petal by petal fall the mournful tears of mothers and children The wails and cries, the blood and guts The Sacred bones of young men lying a century long Are scattered as peach blossoms on a field of stones Reminders of what should never have been Iron now blocks me from my brothers I can only turn and go my way
Road turns to path Passing empty paddies and sleepy huts Turn, twist, I pierce bamboo thickets The valley heat diminishes I touch the cloud-wiped moon.
Wind sweeps through green glade A pagoda clings to mountainside A happy scent of apple blossom In the distance a soft figure stands I touch the cloud-wiped moon.
At night, I climb the lone path to the promontory The forest ends, the sky opens I glance out, my spirit soars Sea waves wash the feet of wind-combed cliffs
With moonlight for guide Wisps of predawn mist shuttle across the horizon The goddess of night seductively beckons Her company cordially declined
She ascends to her heavenly lair The black veil lifted The passage for Apollo’s golden chariot is again assured Vigilant I stand awaiting news from the far-off east.
The hills and valleys seem to wait for The moon to approach on still waters. A lone goose flies in the darkening sky While a dog barks down the lane. As for me, with no greater plan, I fear that I’m just marking time. A foreign guest in a foreign land, I return home in my dreams.
As bright clouds loom far away, Startled birds rise from the sand. On fragrant grass along the levee Butterflies ceaselessly dance, While fish frolic mid the lotus pads Through light reflected in the ripples. A hermit’s life is a floating reverie. There’s nothing more to say.
After several strong pulsations and thrusts, the contest begins!
It is a perilous competition, only those who win survive. For the multitude of those who enter the fray, there is no middle ground, no room for compromise.
He is one of the aspirants. Ever since he can recall, in fact almost the only thing that he can ever remember is his incessant participation in this ferocious enterprise. His whole mind and body have been innately conditioned to adapt to the challenges posed by this marathon struggle. Perhaps, he himself is not even fully aware that this is a contest, let alone how ruthless it is — that winning it means continuation, and losing termination. Once the contest began, he just strode ahead full force instinctively.
How did people acquire this instinct? There is no way to tell, still he and the innumerable other competitors all know that the only thing they should or even can do was to move forward, forward, always forward.
The start of the contest resembles the opening of the gates of a huge dam when suddenly a thunderous, unstoppable flood bursts out. As the competitors surge forward, all that they were before transforms in a split second. The new environment is completely unfamiliar, nothing is what they have ever experienced or can imagine.
The whole course is full of snares and entanglements. There are even precarious traps from the very onset when he and all the others precipitously rush forth. They quickly come to perceive how tenuous, fragile, and ephemeral their situation is. Many have already been vanquished, having fallen aside in the onrushing turbulence.
Contests are of their nature cruel, even the fairest contests; for there are always losers. But the most unfortunate losers are the entrants who falter at the very beginning — they seem already marked for their fate. How could they ever have hoped to win? Why did they even enter the contest?
Because the way forward is long and full of countless dangerous obstacles, he has absolutely no leisure to attend to any fallen comrades. There are still more contestants who have advanced far ahead of him to worry about. He has no choice but to catch and surpass them in order to win the contest.
He is intelligent and early on ascertains that nearly all, probably all, his peers will eventually succumb on the path to victory. But why, why is it necessary to sacrifice anyone? Why can’t just everyone win? Or at least more…
Among the factors that make this contest so grueling and fierce is the totally strange and treacherous setting. Even the most subtle circumstance — a slight slippage, distraction, or wrong turn — can prove costly.
He tries his best to move on, as the others do, too. If effort could guarantee success, that would be good. But, in fact, effort does not necessarily guarantee success. Alas, many other factors, mostly indiscernible or unknown, contribute to or hinder progress in one way or another.
Cooperation with another contestant or even with a team of others can only get anyone so far through the harrowing gauntlet. Only one at most can make it through to the end.
Of course, this is a totally mad and reckless adventure. Clearly, there is only a slim chance of survival; but then there’s got to be a winner, right? So why shouldn’t it be him?
The next objective in the course lies clearly ahead — he needs be the first to reach it. To lag behind by even as little as a thousandth of a second is to be lost. To arrive there before the others, he needs to lead by a good distance. This is the golden rule to ensure continuation.
Once that arduous milestone is attained, the sequence repeats itself. One test is immediately followed by another one that is even more confounding and doubly demanding or threatening.
The shock of each encounter weighs down on him, as if all his oxygen is being sucked away. The anticipation of each ensuing event is profound and paralyzing.
All he can do is to continuously steel himself. He tells himself, if only he can hold on for a short while more through the fever of the moment, the pain, the stress, he may be able to reach the next objective!
He keeps treading on. He is nearly at the point of complete exhaustion. Each new stage requires more and more guile, energy, and resilience. And on and on it goes …
He now senses that the number of competitors has dramatically decreased rapidly, and that the turbulence and the initial fury have gradually abated. But that means that he has to try even harder to face and overcome any upcoming obstacle.
Then his eyes open wide. Suddenly, he has come to the realization that he has actually reached the goal! After all the struggle, it doesn’t seem believable. It’s almost impossible! A one-in-a-billion or more chance, but he has in fact made it!
It is a tenet each contest is completely fair — especially to the winner. If ever anyone reaches the target, victory is assured. The other contestants who have gone by the wayside can never ever obtain the survivor’s reward.
One would imagine that after gaining victory through such a grueling process, he could then rest on his laurels and retire to some sort of green pasture. He had after all is the sole winner of this contest from among a billion or more entrants.
However, that is not how the game is played. Winners receive no exemptions. He like everyone else is obliged to re-enter the fray.
Of course, one would believe that in future contests he would have an edge over others because of his hard-won contest experience. To the contrary, experience holds no advantage. In contest after contest, every victor is compelled to start all over again, facing even more wily competitors and new and very different challenges, and once again have little hope of victory. He would have to struggle as before and move forward. Is the contest fair after all?
After succeeding at a series contests, he might eventually find a moment to speculate on how it would have been if he had lost that very first competition. There were many losers, so many losers. Why had he won? If he had failed, it would have been as if he had never existed. There would not have been so much pain and suffering. Why had he succeeded? Why? And for what?…
The scent of the forest is the scent of rosewood; The scent of the earth, the scent of vanilla; But we say that speech is the scent of the meeting. The thin cow is the duty of the shepherd; The chicken that does not crow, the duty of the farmer; The speech, if disrespectful, is the duty of the speaker.
If you do not consider me to be a speaker, Forgive me, I am just a daughter of my parents, Standing here, not because of my pride or luxury, But because there is no one elder left to speak. This is a speech that has lost its name, And is, in fact, not a speech at all.
Born was I here in these sacred, rolling hills. Happily, I played along the nearby rice fields Enjoying the customs of our village life. But the rains were short and cicadas many. Vary ran out, and vandals stole our zebu. We barely had any work or much to eat.
My parents gathered us nine together; and Though they regretted leaving the ancestors, They decided to bring us from the countryside To live in the town of a thousand towns. I, who had no shoes to put on my feet, Only brought two dresses and lamba.
We lived in Tana for thirty-some years Making our living on the parent’s shoulders. But we are now back here at the family tomb To show respect to them and the ancestors. This famadihana is of course very special. My parents bones have lain here nigh 25 years.
Dear folks, as you listen to my meager words, I will now with humility enter the family tomb. I ask the kind indulgence of our forebears To remove and clean my parents’ hallowed bones And then re-wrap them in newly woven lamba, So I may return them to their deserved rest.
Lastly, I ask again your forgiveness For using your time to hear this poor speaker. Join me today to honor my parents As they become our newest ancestors. May the Sweet Lord grant you the happiness That my dear parents bestowed upon me.
– Kabary, a traditional, stylized speech given on special occasions in Madagascar, usually by a male elder.
It was a regular Monday morning at the American School of Antananarivo. The sun streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow over the classroom as Mr. K handed out a new assignment. The class was buzzing with excitement, ready for the challenge of the day. But an incident that had occurred at the end of the previous week had set the topic of the first class session.
“Alright, class,” Mr. K began, his glasses perched at the end of his nose, “today we are going to discuss something I call a Classmate’s Dilemma. It’s a tricky problem, but I know you can handle it.”
Everyone looked at each other with puzzled expressions. “What’s a Classmate’s Dilemma?” asked Sacha, the class clown, always ready with a joke.
“Good question, Sacha,” Mr. K smiled. “Let me explain with a story.”
The students leaned in as he began.
“Imagine two friends, Alex and Dan, who were caught for something they didn’t even do—just a mix-up, really. But the teachers thought they had sneaked cookies from the lunchroom, and they were put in separate rooms to figure out what happened. They could either confess or stay silent.
“If Alex stayed quiet and Dan confessed, Alex would get in big trouble—two weeks of recess detention. But Dan would get off with just one day of detention, for telling the truth. If both stayed quiet, they would each get one day of detention, because the teachers couldn’t prove much. But if both confessed, they’d each get a week of detention, for admitting to taking the cookies.
“Each person had to decide without knowing what the other would do.
“Now, here’s the trick: If both of them thought the other would confess and tried to avoid getting the worst punishment, they’d both end up worse off. But if they trusted each other and stayed silent, they’d get off lightly.”
Mr. K paused and looked around the room. “Now, I want you to think about this. You’re Alex, and your best friend, Dan, is in the other room. What would you do? Would you trust them, or would you confess?”
After hearing the story, the students were divided. Mr. K handed out slips of paper with the instructions: “Choose whether to confess or stay silent. Write your choice, and then we’ll see what happens.”
The room filled with whispers as the students debated. Some, like Sacha, said they’d confess right away to avoid the worst punishment.
“I’m not going to risk a whole week of detention. If Dan confesses, I’m doomed,” Sacha said.
But others, like Alicia and Dedek, thought maybe they should trust their friend. “I think Dan would stay quiet, so I’ll stay quiet too. That way, we both get off easy,” Alicia said.
“Yeah,” Dedek agreed. “But if Dan confesses, I’m in trouble, so maybe I should confess first?”
They couldn’t decide, and as the bell rang for recess, the students had to make their choices. Each wrote down their answers on their slips of paper, folded them up, and handed them to Mr. K.
Mr. K read the results aloud after recess. There were mixed answers. Some students had confessed, while others had stayed silent.
“Let’s see,” Mr. K said, “Sacha and Alicia both confessed. So, they each get a week of detention.”
The class gasped. They couldn’t believe it.
“But, Dedek and Ava stayed silent,” Mr. K continued. “So they only get one day of detention each. That’s much better!”
A few students were surprised that trusting each other worked out better. Some looked at each other, realizing that maybe, just maybe, they could have avoided the trouble if they had trusted their friends more.
In the end, Mr. K explained the lesson. “In a situation like this, sometimes it’s better to trust people and work together. But it’s always hard to know what someone else will do. That’s the problem or dilemma.”
As the bell rang and everyone packed up to go home, the students couldn’t stop talking about the game. Sacha shrugged. “Well, I learned something. Trusting people is tough, but it might be worth it next time.”
Alicia smiled at Dedek. “Next time, we’ll stay quiet together, right?”
“Deal,” Dedek agreed.
And so, the fourth graders learned a lesson about trust, choices, and the tricky nature of decisions—though they probably wouldn’t be sneaking cookies again anytime soon.
My day first seemed dreary, now I feel reborn Watching my daughter about to perform. Her feat’s a treat sweeter than candy corn; You’d thrill with her ease in the breeze.
Well, most children are cute and thought darling, And their parents I presume are pleased. But no one could not enthrall one quarter as well As young Tiana* upon the schoolyard trapeze.
She flies through the air with the greatest of ease, My daring young Tiana* on the schoolyard trapeze. Her actions are graceful, all eyes she does please; And her joy just sweeps you away.
See how spring returns. Its first messenger appears— the meadow’s crocuses. This morning amid light snow, precocious buds burst through.
How delicate the purple petals. Borne by the benign breeze, Their sweet scent subtly arrives, Drawing attention from passersby who stop and linger there.
Narrator: Persuasion is everywhere in the workplace, in healthcare, in sales, in construction, and even in the arts. There are many reasons and a variety of situations for presenting your point of view at work. In this program you will see how several employees of Pro Video try to persuade their coworkers, supervisors, and customers to change their attitudes or behavior.
[Alan spots Janet walking in the parking lot as he exits his parked car.]
Alan: Janet, wait up!
Janet: Alan, hi, I didn’t notice you.
Alan: Oh, that’s what all the women say.
Janet: I don’t believe that. How’s your campaign going for getting computers for the office?
Alan: Not so great. I talked to Sandra yesterday about it. I told her we’re behind the times. I mean everyone uses computers and told her Jim and Terry and I are willing to put in the extra training hours; but she didn’t go for it. She’s going to hire someone else for the office staff instead. That’ll help a little, I guess.
Janet: Well, you want some advice?
Alan: Sure.
Janet: Take it from somebody and sales. You try to appeal to her emotions too much. You might try making a hard factual case for buying those computers.
Alan: You mean like statistics and how those save time, right?
Janet: Maybe call some other offices and see if they have any statistics on productivity.
Alan: I could call some dealers too.
Janet: Good morning, Sandra.
[Janet waves to Sandra while she and Alan go into the company entrance.]
[Sandra acknowledges Janet with a wave and goes over to two workers unloading equipment from a pick-up truck.]
Sandra: Hi guys, I hear the new studio is going to be finished this week. Is that right.?
Worker 1: We’re on schedule so far.
Sandra: That’s great.
Sandra continues to the company entrance.
[Later in the company call center.]
Call center worker: Confirmed for Saturday the 15th at 2:00.
Janet: Here are pro video we offer the best of videotaping services to make sure you record those precious moments. I see. Well, thank you for your time.
[Janet hangs up.]
Janet: Okay.
[Janet dials a new number.]
Janet: Good morning, Miss Whitney.
Miss Whitney: Yes.
Janet: Hi. My name is Janet Evans with Pro Video Productions, and we’re calling to wish you congratulations on your upcoming wedding.
Miss Whitney: Well, thank you.
Janet: You’re welcome. Here in Pro Video productions, we offer the best of videotape services to make sure you record those precious moments.
Miss Whitney: We’ve already hired a fine photographer, Mr. Allegretti.
Janet: Yes, Mr. Allegretti has an excellent reputation, but today many couples are choosing to go with the still photographer and the video service for their weddings. You’ll have the fun of showing friends and relatives a cassette of your wedding and reception, the walk down the aisle, the vows, cutting the cake, and throwing your bouquet.
Miss Whitney: I don’t know. I’ve never heard of your company. And anyway, I’d have to talk this up with my fiance.
Janet: Of course. But while you’re both thinking, let me send you our brochure with photos from previous weddings we’ve covered.
Miss Whitney: OK.
Janet: Oh, and you might be interested in knowing that two other couples from your area have recently made use of our services for their weddings and were very satisfied with the results. Art and Sheila Albert and Jennifer and Bob Danziger.
Miss Whitney: Jennifer and Bob!
Janet: You know Jennifer? Good. Why don’t you give her a call and ask her about our services?
Miss Whitney: I’ll do that, but I’m still not sure we want to think about an extra expense for the wedding.
Janet: So, let me tell you about our prices which are the lowest in town. For only $425, you’ll receive a full color, full sound, video, and edited version of your wedding and reception, all on high quality videotape.
Miss Whitney: Well, I’ll look forward to seeing your brochure then. And what was your name again?
Janet: Janet Evans, Pro Video Productions, and it’s been a pleasure talking with you. Oh, along with our brochure, I’ll send a copy of our standard contract. If you’re interested, just sign it and return it with the deposit to hold the date you want.
Miss Whitney: OK.
Janet: Good. And just between you and me, don’t wait too long. Our booking dates fill up fast this time of year, and I don’t want you to be disappointed. Do you have any questions?
Miss Whitney: No.
Janet: Thanks again. Goodbye.
Hangs up.
Janet: Janet, you’re fantastic.
[Later in another part of the office.]
Alan: Janet, check this.
Janet: Working late tonight?
Alan: I’m taking your advice, putting together some hard facts on office computers for Sandra.
Janet: Huh, this looks good. Sandra is very organized; and she likes detail, so be thorough. Remember, when you’re trying to persuade someone about something, always think about who that person is and what they need and want.
Alan: You’re right, and you should think about getting into telemarketing.
[Later Alan is seen opening the outside door to the new video studio for Worker 2.]
Alan: I’ll get it.
Worker 2: Thank you.
Alan: How’s it going down in the mines,
Worker 2: It’s going really well. We’re gonna have a very classy studio when we’re done.
Alan: Great. I can’t wait to see it.
Worker 2: Thank you.
Alan: Bye-bye.
[Worker 2 enters the studio. Worker 1 is drilling some metal.]
Worker 2: Hey, Bud.
Worker 1: What?
Worker 2: Turn that thing off.
Worker 1: What is it?
Worker 2: You have something against keeping your eyesight?
Worker 1 stops drilling.
Worker 1: I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job.
Worker 2: Wanna bet.
Worker 1: Let’s just get back to work, okay?
Worker 2: Well, for one thing, not wearing your goggles is against regulations.
Worker 1: Since when do we do everything by the book?
Worker 2: The regulations are here to protect us. Did you read that stuff they passed out. Over 90,000 eye injuries occur each year on on-the-job accidents.
Worker 1: Look, why don’t you mind your own business, and let me take care of myself?
Worker 2: I don’t understand. You’re the one who taught me we’re supposed to look out after each other on the job. The buddy system, remember?
Worker 1: Yeah, well, maybe I did say something like that.
Worker 2: Then there’s the time you’d miss from work if you did have an accident. You’d need workman’s comp, for a while, like maybe even part of your salary, for a while. But then what would you do? You think accidents always happened to the other guy? But that’s OK. It’s your eyesight. It’s just that too bad about that convertible.
Worker 1: What convertible?
Worker 2: The convertible you showed me in a used car lot the other day. The red one with the white interior. It’s pretty loaded, huh? Yeah, that’s too bad.
Worker 1: What’s too bad?
Worker 2: That you may never be able to see it again.
[Worker 1 shrugs his shoulder in concession, returns to the drill to don a pair of safety glasses and turns on the drill with a smile.]
[Later Alan is seen at the open door to Sandra’s office.]
Alan: I understand you said no about the computer idea. But I felt I hadn’t presented all of the information clearly enough. When you get a minute, maybe we could talk.
Sandra: Right now is fine.
Alan: I put together a few facts here.
Sandra: I’ll say.
Alan: Now here’s a list of things that we’re doing now that could be done more efficiently with computers: billing, inventory, client list.
Sandra: Pull up a chair. Why do you think that computers would be more efficient? What evidence do you have?
Alan: Have I’m glad you asked that. Here are some statistics from companies like ours on the time and money that they’ve saved since installing computers. As you can see, some of the figures are as high as 50 percent.
Sandra: Mm-hmm.
Alan: Then, on this page there’s a software that we need to run these programs and their cost, and I totaled everything up here.
Sandra: It’s expensive, and this doesn’t include training or startup time.
Alan: That’s right. The first year it would cost as much as hiring a new person; but after that, so your costs go down nearly 23%.
Sandra: With hiring a new person, the costs go up every year. Do you have any information on long-range computer expenses such as what it would cost to stay current with hardware and software?
Alan: Here our estimates from two companies for a five-year period.
Sandra: I’ll have to take these home with me over the weekend. We need to look at the dollar outlay compared with productivity gains and savings on personnel.
Alan: Oh, and I almost forgot here two production companies in town that installed office computers this year. They said they’d be happy to talk to us about how it’s helped their business.
Sandra: This has been very informative, Alan. Thanks for the work you’ve put in.
Alan: Oh, just something I put together over my lunch hour.
Sandra: I’ll bet.
Alan: Thanks.
[Worker 1 and Worker 2 exit the company front door.]
Worker 1: … you knocked that out.
Worker 2: Hey wait a minute. Want to drive by that used car lot with the convertible to take a test drive.
Worker 1: You read my mind.
[Worker 1 and Worker 2 continue out toward the parking. They are followed out the door by Sandra and then Alan and Janet.]
Sandra: See you Monday.
Janet: Have a nice weekend.
Sandra: Thanks to Alan I have a little homework lined up.
Janet: Sounds like things went.
Alan: Well, I can’t believe it. Monday, she said. No; and today she thanked me for my idea.
Janet: Always consult a professional. By the way, there’s a little matter about my fee. How about a deep-dish pizza? You know, I deserve it.
Applied Communication (1988) teaches strategies and techniques for communicating in business settings and every day workplace situations. The modules cover: communicating in the workplace; gathering and using information in the workplace; using problem solving strategies; starting a new job; communicating with coworkers; participating in groups; following and giving directions; communicating with supervisors; presenting one’s point of view; communicating with clients and customers; making and responding to requests; communicating to solve interpersonal conflict; evaluating performance; upgrading, retraining, and changing jobs; and improving the quality of communication.
One morning in August, I awoke, just as others around the world, to discover that Kuwait had vanished as a country. The immediate reaction of many was “how could we have predicted the invasion?” or “there goes the peace dividend.” Our collective hindsight tells us now that through careful analysis better understanding could have led us to conjecture the event if only we had tried—in other words, we could have avoided a lot of hand-wringing. Nevertheless, that unfortunate development combined with the “unpredictability” of dramatic events in Eastern Europe and China last year inspires reflection on change, prediction, and the role of education.
Change is an element central to prediction. Some people gainsay change, complaining that things are worsening or not what they used to be. One of the few certainties about the future, however, is continued, rapid change as shown by the German unification and the release of Nelson Mandela. Of course, this century has been fraught with changes that have brought tremendous difficulty to the whole human race and environment—wars, famine, disease, degradation. But it has also brought wonderful, life-enhancing advances in health care, increased wealth for many nations, and the resilience of democratic institutions and ideals. Change and difference give meaning to life, and the changes of this century have highlighted some of the best and worst of human endeavors.
Some people study and comment on the future to prepare for what might happen or to warn others to accept change more readily. Other people try to predict just to be able to say, “I told you so,” or to assert smugly, “If only you had listened to me, things wouldn’t have turned out that way.” Such attitudes obviously have negative implications for collaborating to solve foreseeable problems.
But there are two often overlooked reasons for prediction: to identify risks and opportunities—entrepreneurial foresight—and to avoid or lessen the effects of potential problems. Financial analysts use tools of prediction such as market data trends to ascertain the consequences of events on business prospects, reason one. Regarding the second reason, many authors over the years such as Huxley when he wrote Brave New World, and Orwell who wrote 1984 and Animal Farm have tried to ward off “evil” futures. Similarly in education, a number of people have expressed the view that “if public education is still around in the twenty-first century, they’ll be quite surprised.” Naturally, one could interpret this comment at face value; but by saying this the opinionators are probably intending to avert a possible demise or the deterioration of public schools.
To serve us better, authors and researchers who do their work well can offer meaningful insights on the future by employing more advanced methods of analyzing demographics, the effects of public policy, and developments in public health, science, and technology. They may thus be able to identify more precisely near-term dangers and opportunities, suggest new approaches, assist more wisely decision making, and help to prevent unwanted outcomes.
The world is shrinking as technology brings heretofore unheard of participation of ordinary citizens in world affairs. People must acquire new skills and knowledge to be able to cope with this constantly evolving situation.
Accordingly, the education system should be restructured to provide the ability to comprehend and project more effectively the consequences of change—for example, how society can deal with the shifting political sands of the Middle East or the growing ecological crisis throughout the world. In addition, instruction should create a mind-set for change and produce self-motivated problem solvers to make the human and natural environment livable in a highly competitive, multicultural world. In short, education must provide knowledgeable foresight—not necessarily to criticize change, but to evaluate and direct it for the benefit of the human race. Our success as a globally interdependent society depends on how we adapt to the changes that the future offers.
Born with the specter of mushroom clouds, As the world raced toward Armageddon. We were children of the Atomic dawn, When siren wails filled all with alarm.
The playground echoed a hidden dread, Innocence and evil grimly interbred. We played hopscotch on the brink of fate, Counting squares like numbered days.
The blowing winds tasted of the uncertain, As if each breath held an ominous toxin. Laughter was suppressed by distant tests, Man-made sunrises in desert Southwest.
Bedtime tales struggled to allay fears— Duck-and-cover drills and radiation suits. As somber refrains foretold destruction, Sunday prayers begged divine intervention.
I grew up in this Twilight Zone of paradox, Picnics on lakes, building of bomb shelters, An upbringing straddling hope and horror, Synchronized to ticks of a Geiger counter.
Yet I managed to cope with this outlook, Trading baseball cards and comic books, Imagination soaring on cosmic plumes, Dreaming of a world beyond the gloom.
But now though with Cold War unfrozen, A restiveness still lingers—a silent fallout. Thus, at times when I regard the horizon, I half-expect a bright flash to burst out.
Some days I recall you, my pupils, Whose habits gave the Principal chills. Enlisted was I to rouse you and teach, A goal considered difficult to reach.
You’d display confusion, faces of dispassion, With the spelling words you could not fashion. You’d shout, explode, cry, and frown, And shun my words with eyes turned down. And, you’d approach our lessons in grammar As if trying to repair china with a hammer.
So how does one open a 4th grader’s mind, While including all the matter assigned — To coax and motivate with probes and pokes, To make a difference in these small folks?
Allow meek Dedek to create a math lesson To instruct our class at his own discretion. Urge shy Alicia and Sue to challenge at HORSE The boys on the court of the school concourse. And let rowdy Dan and Sacha write the content Of the year-end school play for classmates to present.
So, you, my class, taught me something sweet: That real learning is not a one-way street. Worlds of wonder and progress can be shared When capabilities and incentives are paired.
The main purpose of this bibliography is to offer a fairly comprehensive list of novels and short stories written in English or available in translation that teachers can use to help students at the secondary and college level think critically about the world of work. The works included in this bibliography articulate the lives of men and women who run the machines, plow the fields, sign the contracts, sew the clothes, and work the assembly lines. It is hoped that these stories will be enjoyable, informative, thought provoking, and maybe even a little unsettling. Some stories focus on the laudable side of work, while others criticize or satirize the more unpleasant or burdensome aspects–“I hate my job,” “I’m the only human being in this place,” and so on. Some works represent efforts to defy what they see as a conspiracy on the part of business and government to dehumanize or to 1 2 6 characterize businesspeople as Babbitts or unlettered Philistines (Holt, 1989). Others attempt to right a perceived prejudice against labor and labor leaders.
The bibliographic entries contain the original publication date as well as a citation for editions published that were available mainly through the use of the University of California library system. These editions do not represent the only publication source for many of these works.
The annotations are of two kind. First, up to three major work-related subjects are listed as they apply to the contents of each work. Second, this is followed by a short description, usually about the plot, that further explains each story’s connection to the world of work. The subjects listed represent some of the major work-related topics contained in these literary pieces and are not exclusive, for many of these works cover multiple aspects of the work experience. The following is a list of the subjects used in this bibliography:
Agriculture Business Career (career choices, paths, and obstacles) Customer Relations (how service is rendered to customers and clients) Discrimination (race, gender, and so on) Entrepreneurship (starting work on one’s own) Ethics (affect of work on ethical fabric of society) International Business Management Marketing Performance (evaluation of the quality of a person’s work) Technology (how technology affects the workplace) Unions Value of Work (the reasons why one works, its human worth) Women and Work Working Conditions (mainly the physical environment) Work Relations (how one gets along with coworkers and supervisors) Work Skills (what is needed or lacking to be an effective worker)
No bibliographic list of this type, of course, can ever be considered complete, for the more one looks the more one discovers the rich diversity of literature. As for the selection of these works, the overriding criterion is whether work plays a significant part in the development of the plot or the characters, even though the work activities may also be tightly interwoven with other psychological, social, and cultural elements of life.
Another major criterion of this bibliography is to provide a large range of work experiences particularly in areas that interested vocational educators–industry, business, agriculture, and home and health care. Thus, work as experienced by the characters in these stories covers a wide range from that of homemakers to space-age technologists, from blue-collar workers to white-collars ones, from street messengers and peasants to corporate executives. For the most part, work in these stories is paid employment, but the bibliography also contains stories of homemakers and other workers who receive no direct compensation.
Again, for the sake of variety, some care has been taken to include works by women writers, writers of ethnic minorities, and writers from other continents (available in English) that pertain to work experiences. In regard to women writers, the existence of several anthologies devoted to their work has made the task of identification easier than ever before. As can be seen from the literature, the major roles women have performed in fiction are (1) farm work (an overwhelming number), (2) jobs that are extensions of their nurturing roles like nursing and teaching, (3) factory work especially in the early textile mills (these offered the first major industrial jobs for women), and (4) housework (though women are rarely protagonists if they are solely homemakers) (Hornbostel, 1986).
The prominence of agrarian literature which constitutes the majority of the world corpus of literary pieces in the world about work in the development of American culture cannot be overestimated. It has spawned such important concepts as an ideal society of independent property owners, and the cultivation of the soil as instilling honor, self-reliance, courage, moral integrity, sense of family, and hospitality (Inge, 1969). However, on account of limitations of space, only a relatively small selection of representative works is included.
Likewise, this bibliographic list contains few works by “working-class” writers the Chartist novelists of the 1840s, the socialist novelists of the 1880s through the 1920s, the “proletarian” writers of the 1930s, the working-class “angry young men” of the late 1950s and early 1960s, and current worker-writers. Again, time constraints and the sheer number of such works preclude a coherent listing at this time. For more information about these it is best to consult such studies as Klaus (1985) and N. Coles (1986).
Novels in this list are primarily about work and the major characters’ reactions to it. There are, however, a few examples where the main story does not directly concern work, but work does act prominently in a chapter or section of a work. The paint factory chapters of Ralph Ellison’s The Invisible Man and the introductory chapter, “The Custom House,” of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter are good examples. The reason for including such works is to point out that many pieces of literature, even those of the canon, hold important observations about work that could be included in designing the curriculum.
In addition, care has also been taken to include works that covet a range of reading levels. Several of these fictional works are labeled “easy reading.” These represent, in general, contributions from the realm of adolescent novels.
Classroom Use
There are few examples of curriculum material designed to teach the literature of work. Hence, teachers may have to develop their own plans using books and bibliographies and other materials at hand. One possibility is to structure a course to revolve around the theme of work and its many facets–personal, social, and economic. For example, when studying a major work such as Herman Melville’s Moby Dick, students could explore the whole work–how the parts (like recruiting the crew and the details of life aboard ship) fit into the major theme (obsession with revenge for a perceived evil) and the book as a whole. After all, Melville conceived of his work as a whole, not merely as the simple story of a man versus a whale.
In dealing with these and other works, instructors should require students to look at the world of work critically to examine and pose questions about the nature and politics of work, its necessity, its rewards, and its pitfalls. For instance, in George Orwell’s Animal Farm, students may at first be sympathetic to the cause of the animals against a farmer who exploits them so he can gain the maximum profit. However, students eventually learn further on in the work that applications of the socialist -like society the animals devise are difficult (O’Neill, 1985).
Attention should be given to open discussion about the merits and demerits of the author’s interpretation of the work reality, about that of the author’s contemporaries, and about what historical insight has contributed. One should be critical of a Babbitt but also be able to see what positive lessons can be drawn from the piece of fiction (e.g., the importance of integrity in business dealings) for work and life.
Moreover, writing about work and the lives of real people usually requires a realistic style. These stories and other types of work literature often contain language of their experience, which may at times be quite raw and explicit (Hoffman, 1990, p. 55). Discussion of these pieces of fiction should then focus on the living and working conditions of the characters and traits that enable them to endure adversity and relish personal triumphs.
One should be fairly attentive in selecting works that balance a number of factors about both the author and characters: gender, ethnic/cultural background, socioeconomic status, political/religious perspective, geographic location, and historical period. The following are some examples of combinations of works which teachers could consider:
For a high school unit focusing on literature and technology, an instructor could select from among these works:
Asimov, I, Robot Brontë, Shirley, A Tale Brown, “Virus” Morris, Motor City Norris, Octopus; a tale of California Vonnegut, Player Piano
For a high school short story unit focusing on international working conditions, an instructor could select from among these works:
Baranskaia, A Week Like Any Other Calvino, Marcovaldo: Or Seasons in the Snow Chavez, “Last of the Menu Girls” Conroy, The Weed King and Other Stories Hayama, “Letter Found in a Cement Barrel” Matshoba, “A Glimpse of Slavery” Narayan, Malgudi Days O’Rourke, “The Maggot Principle” Yokomitsu, “The Machine” Zimpel, “Foundry Foreman”
For a one-semester community college course focusing on literature and unions, an instructor could select from among these works:
Bimba, Molly MaGuires Conroy, The Disinherited Fast, Power Kobayashi, Cannery Boat Sinclair, The Jungle Stead, “The Azhdanov Tailors” Steinbeck, “The Raid” Ward, Red Baker
For a one-semester community college course focusing on literature and migrant workers, an instructor could select from among these works:
Anaya, Heart of Aztlan Barrio, The Plum Plum Pickers Bell, Out of This Furnace Olsen, Yonnondio: From the Thirties Steinbeck, Grapes of Wrath
For a one-semester four-year college course in women’s literature focusing on work novels, an instructor could select from among these works:
Bullard, Comrade Yetta Canfield, The Home-Maker Cather, My Antonia Glasgow, Barren Ground Jewett, A Country Doctor Kelley, Weeds Peattie, The Precipice Phelps, The Silent Partner Savage, Factory Girl
Finally, the annotated bibliography is followed by a teaching resource section that includes books and articles that can provide assistance for the teaching of literature that is related to work. The first section covers studies of work literature and how this type and other types of nontraditional literature can be incorporated in the English classroom and curriculum. The second section contains selected titles on the subject of work. These latter works provide a background for the discussion of an author’s insights on the work setting.
Through regions where savannas extend And mountains rise and rivers wend, A spirit stirred, a people yearned, For freedom’s flame to brightly burn. Amidst the rugged veldt’s embrace, Echoes of resistance grew apace; Voices raised in unity’s call, As dreams of liberation stood tall.
From Sharpeville to Soweto’s streets, Where courage toppled colonial seats, The drumbeat of a defiant throng Challenged injustice with righteous song. In the shadow of apartheid’s reign, Lessons of struggle were not in vain; For in the hearts of women and men, Seeds of sovereignty were born again.
With Madiba’s unwavering guidance And countless souls’ steadfast stance, A nation’s soul, once bound, arose, To claim its place, to allay its woes. Through trials fierce, through pain untold, South Africa’s new chapter does unfold, A kaleidoscopic quilt of hope and pride, Where franchise and prospects now reside.
Independence, hard-won and dear, Sounds today, a clarion loud and clear, For every child, for every soul, On South Africa’s evolving scroll. So let us cherish, let us heed, That nation’s history lesson as our lead, And strive for justice, strive for peace, To ensure that all find deserved release.
Curriculum Integration and the Political and Moral Purposes of Schooling
The movements to reinforce the occupational content of high schools, from of the turn of the century to the present, have all tended to reinforce a particularly utilitarian conception of education. The school reform movements since the publication of A Nation at Risk (National Commission on Excellence in Education, 1983) have similarly been driven by economic concerns, with employers clamoring for a better trained workforce while policymakers worry about reforming schools to improve the nation’s competitiveness. Occasionally, commission reports over the past decade have reminded us of the importance of political education. For example, A Nation at Risk repeated Thomas Jefferson’s dictum:
I know of no safe depository of the ultimate powers of the society but the people themselves; and if we think them not enlightened enough to exercise their control with a wholesome discretion, the remedy is not to take it from them but to inform their discretion. (p. 7)
However, such comments have largely been afterthoughts, and the political and moral aspects of education—the central purpose of the public when they were established in the nineteenth century—have been by most reformers and policymakers.
Current efforts to integrate academic and vocational education have generally followed the same path. The academic subjects included in integration have been those that are the most necessary to occupations: math, reading and writing for comprehension (“communication skills”), biology and chemistry for the health fields, and electronics and physics for technical occupations. The curricula associated most closely with political and moral education—literature, government or civics, history, and social studies or the social sciences—have almost never been included. This tends to justify one potential objection to these efforts: that they intend, like career education 20 years ago, to turn high schools into wholly vocational institutions with no commitment to the political development of students, no place for students to acquire the capacity to be socially critical (including the ability to evaluate the limits of existing occupations and of American capitalism generally), and no place for the exploration of values and sensibilities that goes hand in hand with the humanities.
Yet this need not be true. Occupations, understood in their broadest sense, provide ways to approach virtually any subject, as John Dewey argued when he advocated education through occupations. Occupations can provide contexts for understanding the importance of history or civics; they offer ways to make relevant to present life, and to adolescent dilemmas, those disciplines that students often find irrelevant and arcane. An occupational focus also provides a way of balancing the emphasis within history and civics on political issues—an understandable legacy of the nineteenth-century concern with preparing individuals for life in a democracy—with a greater appreciation of economic problems and roles. Following are some ways of incorporating literature, history, and social studies into programs that integrate academic and occupational education.1
THE LITERATURE OF WORK
In efforts to incorporate material from the English curriculum into vocational programs, the emphasis so far has been on “communication skills.” For example, the Applied Communication sequence produced by the Agency for Instructional Technology (1988) emphasizes reading for comprehension (as one might read a technical or instructional manual), writing in such “practical” forms as resumes and business letters, aural comprehension (following directions), and speaking abilities (speaking with supervisors, co-workers, or clients). The literary side of conventional English curricula has been largely neglected, though there have been a few attempts to identify literary works suitable for a “literature component” in applied communication courses.2 However, the potential for incorporating literature describing work, its special complexities and relationships, the tensions between life at work and life in other spheres, and changing attitudes toward work has been little explored.3
WHY STUDY LITERATURE ABOUT WORK?
Reading literature is an excellent w ay to develop critical thinking. It is also a powerful means for learning about character and values, showing, for instance, the difference between ambition and greed, loyalty and servitude, liberty and license. Literature has the power to capture the intensity of experience—as with romance, or pain, or work—and can thus conjure powerful scenes and feelings. And perhaps more than any other mode of expression, it pulls the reader in, confronts basic assumptions, and then leaves the reader to work out his or her own solutions. Accordingly, reading literature permits the student into the lives and work of other individuals and to observe representative and relevant experiences that are otherwise inaccessible.
Most people will spend much of their lives as workers. Over 30 % of the average person’s normal waking experience is related to work outside the home. Events at work encompass the full range of human emotion—courage, honor, loyalty, ambition, fear, love, pain, and greed. Through these emotions, people derive differing degrees of satisfaction from work. Some have to drag themselves daily to a dull, meaningless job, while others receive from work some of the most exhilarating experiences life offers. Because of unemployment, work is often unequally distributed, and perhaps meaningful work even more so. However, whether one likes work or not, an individual’s identity is often tied to the work one does.
The literature of work is also concerned with acting within the human community. Through this literature, one can examine work life and the emotions it stirs from another person’s point of view and learn to take responsibility for one’s own work: “Literature plays an important part in developing awareness of the commonness of the human drama. What an impact a work has when the reader finds in it a fellow sufferer, one who obviously knows ‘what it is like’!” (Burton, 1970, p. 10). Success at work is usually built through effort, and often the greatest success comes witheffectively working with others. Studying the literature of work can provide new insights into what is significant about human life, the ability to empathize with others through the development of an understanding of human needs and problems (Coles, 1989, p. 120).
Studying the literature of work offers other important advantages Because of the major role of work in daily life, it is important to understand its function in society, and the individual’s relationship to it. By reading about work one can also learn about historical events from a perspective that differs from the “great men / great events” focus usually found in social studies textbooks—whether the events be the rise of the factory system in New England, the struggles of the ”Okies” during the Great Depression, or the development of corporate business culture in post-World War II America. Through literature, for example, one can gain new insights into labor conditions, the rise of unions and other social and political movements, as well as the background of work-related legislative acts for which work literature itself has sometimes served as a catalyst (Holt, 1989). For the large and increasing portion of the labor force who are not only workers but also women and mothers, usually with special familial responsibilities, literature can serve as a way of exploring the relation between work and family life, the sense of meaning in work that women have come to find, together with the special conflicts they experience. Literature also affords the opportunity to gain a greater appreciation of the contributions, struggles, and feelings of individual working people who have built this world, from homemakers to space—age technologists, from blue-collar workers to middle managers, from street messengers and peasants to corporate executives. Few of us will end up being one of the great “movers and shakers” profiled in conventional histories, but we will nearly all be workers.
Work-related literature thus operates like a mirror that reflects historical material, and also like a microscope that examines it in detail. It not only presents an author ’s point of view at a moment in history (as exemplified in Upton Sinclair’s criticism of slaughterhouse conditions in The Jungle, and Sinclair Lewis’s insight into American business in Babbitt), but it also analyzes as a case study the events occurring around the moment, as well as the actions of individuals whom the author posits as. representative of the time. This literature, furthermore, ”… contributes to the social vision and moral development in the growth of sensibility and exercise of imaginative alternatives” (Nelms & Nelms, 1988, p. 214). Readers of Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath, for instance, discover a number of economic and social obstacles to the formation of workers’ unions as they read about the struggle of the load family to find a place to live and work in California during the Dust Bowl era. As Rosenblatt (1983) stated, what is
particularly important is [the] discovery that various groups within our society hold up diverse images of success, and that there are kinds of work despised or ignored by [one’s] own group that others considered socially valuable … the craftsmen, the technologists, the artists, the scientists, the scholars offer personal goals and systems of value often strongly in contrast to those represented by the dominant image of the successful businessman. (p. 194)
The literature of work articulates the lives of men and women who run the machines, plow the fields, sign the contracts, sew the clothes, work the assembly lines, and sit in offices. It can be enjoyable and informative, thought-provoking, and perhaps even unsettling. Some novels and stories focus on the laudable side of work, while others criticize or satirize the more unpleasant or burdensome aspects—Upton Sinclair’s The jungle, joseph Heller’s Good as Gold, and a larger literature exploring the oppressiveness of the modern corporation—thereby capturing the full range of experience surrounding work. Certain pieces of work literature represent efforts to defy What they see as a conspiracy on the part of business and government to dehumanize individuals or to characterize businesspeople as Babbitts or unlettered philistines. Others attempt to right a perceived prejudice against labor and labor leaders. Some contemporary critics hold that “literature … serves a purpose. It can integrate the reader into culture, inviting him to define himself against a background of cultural expectations and to modify that background” (Probst, 1988, p. 249). When seen in this light, the literature of work can aid in the transition from academic to work life by encouraging a more total human development, raising the stakes of the individual’s interest in the curriculum material presented.
Lastly, through reading the literature of work, it is possible to capture the romance and human drama of the work and business worlds—the good and bad, the excitement and boredom, and the nobility and rascality. In these creations, dry economic theories are given flesh and blood explorations and interpretations.
There are, to be sure, utilitarian reasons for reading work-related literature. Businesses often complain that their workers are not able to read and communicate at appropriate levels, and that they lack the requisite higher-order capacities. By studying literature, students can gain new insights into work habits, communication skills, interpersonal skills, and problem solving—skills that business leaders consider just as important as technical abilities. Literature can, furthermore, help develop a stronger corporate citizenship by promoting a sensitivity to the needs and desires of others in a work setting, and a sensitivity to the problems within a work setting. One business Instructor teaching a course called Wisdom for the Workplace, used literature, together with case studies from business, to “teach students that the wisdom of Great writers from the past is still pertinent to the solving of contemporary job-related problems.” This instructor described the process as follows:
I have also discovered why my business-career students generally falter When faced with complex problems in their business or technical core courses, especially those that deal with human issues. The juxtaposition between the humanities—which always ask questions about life, happiness, and freedom—and the courses that fill their career programs (always focusing on the absorption of accepted processes or pragmatic applications) is so strong. [My course] is a wild mix that asks students to question first, and then to justify their opinions convincingly, rather than to simply accept (Smith, 1990)4
The use of literature as an approach to problem solving may strike some—particularly some traditional English teachers—as overly utilitarian in this sense, but it is also a way of allowing students to view the world from radically different perspectives.
THE ADOLESCENT AND WORK LITERATURE
Critics have pointed out that the typical secondary school English literature curriculum lacks appeal to many students (Probst, 1988, p. 114). Must such curricula utilize a majority of works from the classic canon. Junior and senior high school literature programs are still often organized historically and not thematically. In contrast, high school years are a time of orienting oneself to the central goals and purposes of one’s life. An adolescent “is concerned about relations with peers the gradual assumption of responsibilities. He wants to understand work, love, hate, death, vengeance” (Probst, 1988, p. 4). Hence, a literature curriculum that does not include a substantial number of selections that relate directly to work may be less interesting and relevant to students.
In view of the increase over the past two decades in the number of high school students who also are working, it is rare to find students today who have not had at least a summer job, or done baby-sitting, or chores for pay. Their own experience, in turn, makes them keen observers of the work world around them: “Students are simultaneously observers, beneficiaries, victims of their parents’ work lives, continually assessing the merits and drawbacks of their work choices, their moods after a work day” (Hoffman, 1990, p. 56). Most are eager to recount their own experiences with bosses or customers. For adolescent students, jobs are boring, exciting, oppressive, heroic, difficult, and satisfying. They can already begin to realize that Work can transform lives by imbuing them with significance and meaning—or conversely, that work can be “a drag.”
Moreover, high school students are often already preoccupied with their own work futures, but are pressured by adults and peers to declare future professions based on woefully inadequate information—few have a sense of the day-to-day experiences that lie behind even the most familiar jobs (Hoffman, 1990, p. 55). And many lack realistic views about what the future will hold for them: “Most secondary students will not become professional literary scholars they will more likely drive cabs, wait on tables, sell real estate, [or] work in an office” (Probst, 1988, p. 3). Adolescents are developing independence from parents and other authority figures. They are struggling with the almost universal concerns of growing up and of accepting adult roles. Reading literature can provide an opportunity for adolescents to exercise independent response and critical judgment. Work literature often deals seriously with these recurring themes.
SUGGESTIONS FOR THE CLASSROOM
Students in both general and vocational tracks often are assigned less literature in school than are students in the academic track (Ravitch & Finn, 1987, p. 171). Perhaps it is time not only to reverse that trend, but also to enrich the spectrum of what students in all classes read with choices ranging from works that concentrate on personal life to those that relate the experience of the individual at work and in other social contexts In some states, students are ”expected to read provocative works” (California State Department of Education, 1987, p. 8). These could include works giving a more balanced view of relations between labor and labor leaders and businesspeople—perhaps striking a responsive chord in students by offering substance that relates to what they have experienced and will experience—to keep interest alive (Probst, 1988, p. 5).
As already mentioned, there are few examples of curriculum material designed to teach the literature of work. One purpose of such material would be to provide another perspective about work and its consequences—since the conventional approach in high school has been to stress the skills and knowledge necessary for work but not otherwise to explore what working means in an individual’s life. Through such material, students would explore and analyze attitudes toward work and learn to appreciate what is significant about this important part of human life. Another purpose would be to lead students back into literature; for the large number of students who view literature as a chore, or who think of reading in purely utilitarian terms, it might be possible to use literature about work to move from purely informational uses of reading to more literary concerns. In this way, students could become more competent in the interpretation of literature and in the understanding of other symbolic expressions and, thereby, develop their abilities to communicate about basic human experiences such as work. Finally, another purpose of such material would be to allow students to analyze a significant component of human life—work—and to understand that no single interpretation of it (as either insignificant or all-important, as viewed from a capitalist or a labor-union standpoint, and so on) is sufficient.
How does one approach the literature of work in the classroom? One of the first steps is to identify the literary works suitable for the classroom. Because there are few resources, teachers may have to develop their own plans using books, bibliographies, and other materials at hand. In the realm of fiction, Koziol (1992) has compiled an annotated bibliography of nearly two hundred works written in English or available in translation that teachers can use to help students at the secondary and college levels to think critically about the world of work. The bibliography also includes references for teaching resources about work that can provide a background for discussion of an author’s insights on the work setting. The fiction in this bibliography is primarily about work and the major characters’ reactions to it. There are, however, several selections in the list, some considered part of the “canon,” where the main story does not directly concern work, but in which work does figure prominently in one chapter or section. The paint factory chapters of Ralph Ellison’s The Invisible Man, and the introductory chapter, “The Custom House,” of Nathaniel Hawthorn’s The Scarlet Letter are two examples.
As for the actual incorporation of this material into the classroom, one possibility is simply to include examples of this literature among the types of literature to be studied, or among the themes to be examined, which already exist in the curriculum. The following provides some brief illustrations of how this could be done.
Example I
The short poem “Relief Locations Managers” by Herbert Scott (1976, p. 38) could be used, along with other more traditional pieces, in a class on free verse, or in one exploring human relationships.
Relief is everywhere at once. He’s on his way up. When he works the front, the register jumps under his fingers, groceries flashing past like landscape, his arms almost screaming with motion. If he comes to help you in your section, you know you’re moving too slow. You go home ashamed of your thick clumsy hands. Relief’s bucking for manager in a new store. You hope he’ll make it.
After the class reads the poem, the teacher could then stimulate discussion about type of poem, its structure, and its general meaning. Next, the teacher could assign activities based on the piece in which students discuss their reactions to the poem as a piece of literature about work.
1. In small groups, exchange anecdotes about times you or someone else has not followed directions or made mistakes on a job. How did you feel about your errors? How did your boss or co-workers react? How would you react if you were them?
2. With the members of your group, compose a set of directions or guidelines to help fellow workers avoid making the same mistakes.
Unlike the usual questions about literature, which focus on facts of plot and character, these questions are designed to move students toward a consideration of both personal experiences and their implications for others.
Example ll
Students would be assigned a reading of John Updike’s ”A & P,” a short Story about a checkout person who quits his job to make a point. Then they Can be asked the following questions, which again move beyond questions Of plot to those of interpretation and meaning within work contexts:
1. Skim the story to identify the four male A & P employee characters and scan to locate details about these characters and the reaction of each to the young female customers.
2. Why did Sammy quit his job at the A & P?
3. Discuss the meaning of one character’s statement to Sammy: ”You Don’t want to do this to your Mom and Dad.”
4. Speculate on Sammy’s final comment: ”… my stomach kind of fell As I felt how hard the world was going to be to me hereafter.” Have you experienced something similar?
Another possibility for incorporating this material into the classroom would be to structure a class directly around the theme of work and its many facets—personal, social, and economic. For example, when studying a great work like Herman Melville’s Moby Dick, students could explore the whole of the work instead of merely concentrating on the major theme—the obsession for revenge against a perceived evil. They could examine the historic and economic background of the whaling industry, the methods used in recruiting a crew, and the details of the search for whales, and then discuss how all this fits into the plot and major theme. Another focus could be on worker relations: what would it have been like to work on a whaling ship: the cramped living conditions; living, working, and eating with all different types of people; relations with co-workers and supervisors. Melville, after all, conceived of his work as a whole, not merely as story of a man revenging himself against a whale.
In dealing with Melville’s novel and with the works of other authors, instructors should require students to look critically at the World of work that is presented—to examine and pose questions about the nature and politics of work, its necessity, its rewards, and its pitfalls. The biographical interviews of working people in Studs Terkel’s Working, for instance, could be read to bring out these motifs: money versus meaning in the choice of work; the impulse to leave a lasting mark on the world; the unjust stereo- types with which most jobs are weighted. Students could then be asked to write about their own visions of their personal work futures. In George Orwell’s Animal Farm, the author at first presents a rather sympathetic view of an uprising of the animals against a farmer who exploits them so that he can gain the maximum profit. However, students learn further on in the work that applications of the socialist-like society the animals themselves devise are also difficult.
An entire curriculum could also center on the general theme of work. For example, a one-semester course focusing on literature and labor could include works of fiction such as: The Factory Girl by Sarah Savage, the earliest American novel with a working person as the main character; Charlotte Bronte’s Shirley, a story in which workers react to the introduction of machinery; Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle, which exposes the abuses of workers in the meat—packing industry in Chicago and the struggle of organized labor therein; Anthony Bimba’s Molly Maguires, about a coal miner’s strike for better conditions; and John Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath. There are also biographies available for classroom use that deal with the lives of labor leaders, such as ]ohn L. Lewis, Samuel Gompers, “Mother” Jones, and Caesar Chavez. These all provide excellent opportunities for creative writing, allowing students to explore the biographical form, or work histories of people they know, or their own work lives.
In the category of the most comprehensive approaches to integration, it is possible to develop courses that incorporate literature, vocational studies and other elements of the school curriculum in an all-encompassing fashion. One such course was created at Mastbaum Vocational—Technical School in Kensington, Maryland. There, a class in Shakespeare was transformed into an investigation of the aspects of Elizabethan life and culture that were relevant to the students’ vocational studies. Students came up with projects in carpentry, food science, home economics, cosmetology, and drafting adopted from what they had learned from the literature and history of the age.
In all of these alternatives, attention can be given to open discussion about the merits and demerits of each author’s interpretation of the work reality, about the author’s views of his contemporaries, and about the contribution of historical insight to understanding the views presented in the selections. Students should learn to be critical of a Babbitt, for example, but also be able to see what positive lessons for work and for life (for example, the importance of integrity in business dealings) can be drawn from that piece of literature. While reading Death of a Salesman, students can focus on the many ways that author Arthur Miller demonstrates Willy’s alienation from his family, his job, and society as a whole. They can examine why Willy cannot comprehend Biff ’s rebellion against rigidly prescribed modes of behavior and the hierarchy of the business world, and why, for Willy, there is no other way of living.
Authors writing about work and the lives of real people often use a realistic style. Work literature often contains language culled from the work experience, which may at times be quite raw and explicit (Hoffman, 1990, p. 55). Two prime examples of this frank expression and approach are Studs Terkel’s candid interviews of ordinary workers in Working, and the graphic descriptions of a coal miner’s life and family in D.H. Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers. Discussion of this type of literature could focus on the living and working conditions of the characters, and on the traits that enable them to endure adversity and to relish personal triumphs.
Finally, literature about work provides opportunities—as does literature in general—for examining a number of themes connected to multicultural perspectives in the curriculum: the particular conditions of women at work, the special experiences of African Americans and Hispanics, the conflicts between historical and “modern” patterns of work among Native Americans, and so on. (For a partial listing of some appropriate literature, see Koziol, 1992) Within this large area, there is room for stressing both the similarities and differences that exist between the general experience and the experiences of particular groups: for example, differences that include the experience of particular groups with discrimination in employment, relegation to menial work or to ”woman’s work,” and conflict between different cultures and their approaches to work; and similarities in the realm of what all workers must face (both the joys and pains of work), the ambitions of twentieth century Americans for progress through work, and the disappointments connected with ambitions that are limited by conditions beyond our control.
Of course, it is unnecessary, and probably inappropriate, to choose one Type of literature over another. The literature of work need not be used to The exclusion of all other kinds of literature. Instead, instructors can find a better balance, correcting the pervasive neglect of work-related themes in the high school that restricts the range of issues that students can explore through literature. Given the richness of the literature about work, a greater variety of reading material provides one way of allowing all students to explore the work-related issues they will confront, while at the same time preventing the potential excesses of applied and overly utilitarian approaches to reading and writing that can exist in academies, clusters, and magnet schools with an occupational focus.
Andry has worked for 10 years as a bus driver. He was 22 when he started this endeavor. Every morning he wakes up at 5:00. How long has Andry been alive?
Andry has a one-hour lunch break at noon. He works until 4:00 p.m. in Saskatoon. He starts work 2 hours after he awakes each day, How many hours will he work today?
This morning, Andry had 7 adult male passengers, 13 adult female passengers and the rest were teenagers. There were altogether 30 passengers, And 6 of them were female teenagers. What fraction of the passengers were teenagers? Are there more female teenagers or male teenagers?
2. 7:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. is 9 hours. But 9 hours less 1-hour lunch break is 8 hours. So, Andry’s workday is 8 hours.
3. 30 – 7 – 13 = 10. 10/30 or 1/3 of the passengers were teenagers. 6 out of 10 teens were female; there were only 4 male teenagers. So, there were more female teenagers than male teenagers on the bus.
I take my hat off to all those who have donated their time and energy in the valiant effort to preserve our mother tongue. There is hardly a major American city today that is free from the assault on our native language. The federal government spends millions of our hard-earned tax dollars to print books and documents and post signs in a myriad of foreign tongues, all intended to aid and abet foreign-born newcomers in an attempt to dodge their linguistic responsibilities. You can walk into, if you dare, many neighborhoods in our cities and go for blocks on end without hearing a syllable of even broken English. It is our duty as responsible of this society and parents to speak out to rectify this problem. With these recent legislative proposals, we finally have a means of tearing down our Tower of Babel and instead erecting a Fortress English where no one will ever mispronounce the name of our fair land.
I have a few suggestions to improve the present linguistic morass. For starters, why don’t we establish our own English Language Academy similar to one the French have to defend the integrity of their own Gallic language. We could appoint wordsmiths like William Safire as our first line of defense against foreign invasion of our speech and writing.
One of the duty s of this academy would be the total elimination of alien words and phrases. Terminology from abroad peppers our everyday vocabulary, our arts, our business, our science, law, and politics. And while these foreign “tourists” may spice up a sentence, they crowd out native-born terms, leaving them in a heap of disuse. For example, some people use “adios” when a simple native “goodbye” would easily suffice. Phrases such as mano-a-mano, and gesundheit should drop off the chart of usage. Why do we say “chic” when “stylish” will do just fine. French and other foreign languages give us nothing but trouble. We probably never would have had marriage infidelity if some perverted francophile had not introduced the ménage-à-trois. America’s favorite sidedish French fries does not sound very native. One should be ordering American fries, and that’s that.
There are a whole host of other words and phrases that foreign-loving elitists have foisted on us: deus ex machina (only wimpy gods need stage props), kindergarten, ennui, and Hagen Daz (though I would like to keep their French silk flavor). Just think all the pain and toil we’ll save for true American kids who have been forced all these years to memorize these foreign terms. Oh yes, and what about those Latin words. They spell nothing but trouble. I’d like to have a buck for every Latin term dropped into the language by crafty lawyers or charlatan doctors just to keep us in the dark about their machinations. No more sine qua non, no more compos mentis, and thank goodness no more argumentum ad hominem. Pro bone (though I do like Cher), outta here. Actually, you couldn’t get me to take a worthless buck, what with all that foreign writing on the other side … e pluribus unum sure sounds socialist to me.
And even the English language has got its own identity crisis. We should be careful about letting in phrases from fringe cultures. Do they really think they speak English in Nigeria, or India, or Australia? I hear good’ay mate and I say, what? And all that ghetto talk. It started with jazz, then soul, then all those exploitation films, now it’s rap, and who knows what else.
What benefits is society receiving from Raster Foundation’s activities? Has a lack of accountability created a culture of elitism and self-satisfaction at the foundation? Unaware of the opposition within the organization, Raster’s new chair plans to address these questions by evaluating every aspect of the foundation’s operation. Issues involve organizational culture, public accountability, board/staff relations, and the value of evaluation.
Charles Blair, president of the Raster Foundation, arrived at his office earlier than usual. He needed time to prepare for his meeting with Mel Cornin, the newly elected chair of the board — a meeting that could destroy Blair’s vision for the future of his foundation. In a letter written a few weeks earlier, Cornin had recommended the foundation conduct a comprehensive evaluation of every aspect of its operation.
Blair nervously sorted through the papers in his meeting file and paused to reread Cornin’s letter:
I am very disturbed by the public’s increasing distrust of institutionalized philanthropy. I believe it is imperative that foundations and other nonprofit organizations address this issue forthrightly and guarantee that society receives the greatest benefits from our activities.
I am convinced that it is our ethical and moral obligation to see that our commitment to excellence never falters. The question is, how do we measure excellence? How do we know our programs are effective and efficiently administered?
I believe I have the answer. I propose we hire a consultant to conduct a comprehensive evaluation of our programs, administration, and governance similar to the one the Graven Foundation completed last year. Such an assessment will highlight the strengths we should build on and point to weaknesses we may be blind to.
Charles Blair sighed as he continued,
I think Raster’s mission will be served best if we reinforce programs and procedures that are indisputably effective, and modify or eliminate those that perform below our standards. My experience as chair of the Task Force on Philanthropy and Public Accountability sensitized me to the pitfalls of self-satisfaction and elitism that can seriously diminish the great contributions private foundations are capable of making. The kind of evaluation I propose would eliminate any suspicion that the Raster Foundation has succumbed to this kind of moral decay. I hope we can meet in a few weeks to discuss this proposal further. I would like to bring the matter before the board in April.
A New Vision
Three years had passed since Charles Blair left the directorship of a federal agency to become president of the Raster Foundation. At the age of 53, he was a vigorous man and inspirational leader. Trained as a social scientist, he had held several positions in the private and public sectors. During his distinguished career he chaired the political science departments of two Ivy League universities and was an advisor to a U.S. president. He knew that, as the leader of an endowed foundation, he had a unique opportunity to address complex problems and to initiate and promote long-term public policy solutions. Because the foundation’s directors did not have to appease stockholders or the electorate, they could afford a long-term perspective. The foundation had the time and resources to study problems in depth and devise funding strategies for their resolution.
The Raster Foundation had been established and endowed in 1925 by Thomas Raster, a wealthy banker and self-made man. For most of its history, the foundation’s mission, “to promote the greater good of human society,” was served by granting funds to establish and strengthen institutions of higher education.
In his first two years as president, Blair enlarged the scope of Raster’s grant-making. In addition to the education program, he developed two new programs: one to advance technology in third world countries, and the other to promote world peace. The new programs addressed issues that were very different from the foundation’s traditional focus. Several program and executive staff members left the foundation during these transition years. Blair relied on his connections with the government and academia to fill vacated and newly created staff positions.
The Greatest Good
Like Thomas Raster, Mel Cornin was a self-made man. He started his first company while still an undergraduate at the state university. His entrepreneurial bent and business savvy helped him to become president and major shareholder of one of the country’s most successful financial institutions. Cornin attributed much of his success to the many hours spent as a boy in his local library. The library was built and furnished in the early 1900’s by a grant from one of the nation’s first foundations. Cornin considered his community and himself direct beneficiaries of philanthropy, and this early experience instilled in him a keen interest in the philanthropic sector.
Cornin served on numerous nonprofit boards. He also participated in several public/private commissions that examined diverse philanthropic activities. He felt strongly that organizations that enjoyed the privilege of tax exemption had an obligation to manage their resources efficiently and effectively for the greatest good.
He recently chaired the Task Force on Philanthropy and Public Accountability. The task force examined the power of private foundations to disburse large sums of money and influence at the sole discretion of trustees and staff without any meaningful accountability to the public. The task force studied one hundred of the largest private foundations. Major findings included:
The overwhelming majority of the board members were wealthy white men.
The majority of board members, executives, and program staff graduated from Ivy League universities.
Think-tanks, Ivy League universities, museums, symphonies, and prep-schools were more likely to receive funds from foundations than were nonprofits that served the poor.
Cornin came away from the task force convinced that private foundations had tremendous potential but too often did not use their resources as effectively as possible for the greatest good. He suspected that elitism and the foundations’ lack of accountability served to undermine their effectiveness.
How Can Excellence be Measured?
The kind of evaluation Cornin proposed caused Blair great distress. It was Blair’s belief that such an evaluation would be costly, disruptive, and inappropriate. The foundation had only three programs, and two of them were relatively new. The staff of those programs were just beginning to establish relationships with key organizations and actors in the new areas of focus. The problems those programs addressed were complex and long-term. Blair questioned how the impact of the foundation’s work could be measured. He worried that the evaluator would look for direct impact and immediate results, while the results of grant-making policies would often not be visible for years. Blair had worked tirelessly to develop and staff the technology and peace-promoting programs. They were an integral part of his long-term vision for the foundation, and he had a strong personal stake in their success.
Blair moved to sit on the large leather couch against a wall of glass overlooking a picturesque chapel and churchyard below. He did most of his work on that couch since his desk was buried under stacks of papers, files, and books. He continued to scan Cornin’s letter and focused on the reference to the well-publicized Graven Foundation evaluation. He remembered that the Graven Foundation conducted a comprehensive self-assessment that was very costly in terms of staff time and attention.
The study lasted nearly two years. Data collected through hundreds of interviews with Graven staff, grantees, and knowledgeable persons from the field formed the basis for forty-four recommendations. The Graven board and staff were very satisfied with the results of the evaluation. They felt it aided them in setting priorities, consolidating programs, and developing new strategies. But Blair did not think the Graven experience was relevant to Raster Foundation. Not only was Graven a much smaller foundation than Raster, but Blair also assumed Graven’s staff was not as sophisticated or distinguished as Raster’s. Such an assessment seemed completely unnecessary for his foundation, given the staff’s high level of professionalism.
Support and Cooperation
Blair knew that the kind of evaluation proposed would require the support and cooperation of his staff. He shifted his attention to a memo his assistant, Ellen Niles, prepared prior to today’s meeting with Cornin. At Blair’s instructions, Niles had made a few informal inquiries to determine the staff’s receptiveness to an evaluation.
The memo outlined her discussions with several staff members. The overwhelming reaction to the proposed evaluation was negative. Blair nodded in agreement as he read:
The most frequent argument against an evaluation was that the foundation is not directly accountable to any outside authority. As long as the board was satisfied with the foundation’s activities, an evaluation would be a tremendous waste of time and money.
Nearly all staff interviewed stressed that evaluation of management, programs, and grantee performance was already being done. After all, it was their responsibility to evaluate incoming proposals, on-going grants, program directions, and administrative procedures. One administrative officer pointed to the continuing effort to update the procedures manual as a kind of evaluation. The manual’s biannual revisions encouraged executive and program staff to examine administrative procedures and update them as necessary.
One program chair emphasized that for such an evaluation to be successful, program staff’s input was essential. Presently, program staff was so overburdened by proposal review and other grant-making responsibilities, there was little time left to participate fully in an evaluation. Another chair asked who might do the evaluation.
The evaluator would need to be an unbiased expert on evaluation, philanthropy, and each of Raster’s program areas. Did such a person exist?
A program officer commented that assessment was an administrative activity. She felt that at a private foundation, grant-making and program initiatives should always take precedence. Another pointed out that the timing of the proposed assessment was all wrong. He felt that evaluations are best conducted when funds are in short supply and difficult decisions about budgets need to be made. As one of the largest foundations in the country, Raster enjoys enviable financial security.
Blair’s concentration was broken by his ringing telephone. It was Ellen Niles. She was preparing the agenda for next months’ board meeting and needed to know if she should include Cornin’s proposal under Topics for Discussion.
“I’ll get back to you,” was Blair’s curt reply.
Cornin mentioned in his letter that he wanted to discuss the evaluation at the next board meeting, but Blair hoped to dissuade him.
The pensive Blair put down the file and fixed his gaze on the snow melting in the sun atop the chapel’s graceful steeple. He considered Cornin’s reference to “self-satisfaction and elitism” and wondered if his colleagues at Raster Foundation could be guilty of such attitudes. He mused that perhaps Cornin was confusing elitism with the foundation’s need for expertise at the staff level and for powerful connections at the board level. Foundations pride themselves on hiring and funding the best and the brightest. Is that elitism or just good stewardship? Blair knew that Raster Foundation was an enlightened and well-managed institution. After all, nearly sixty percent of the executive and program staff were women. And, although it was true that of thirteen trustees, ten were successful white men, one of the thirteen was Hispanic and two were women.
Blair did not want to offend Cornin or to discourage him from continuing to serve the foundation with the same level of enthusiasm and commitment he had in the past. But Blair was convinced an evaluation would cause more problems than it would solve. Cornin was a businessman and could not possibly understand the complex nature of the philanthropic sector.
However, Blair was well aware that the trustees had authority over all staff members, including the president.
Charles Blair did not hear his assistant knock before she entered his office.
“Mel Cornin is here.” she said.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
1. Raster’s mission is to “promote the greater good of human society.” Define the greater good in this case. How can it be measured?
2. Raster staff agreed that the foundation is not directly accountable to any outside authority. Are they correct?
3. Staff’s reactions to the proposed evaluation was overwhelmingly negative. Do you agree with their arguments?
4. Foundations pride themselves on hiring and funding the best and the brightest. Is that elitism or just good stewardship? Based on the results of Cornin’s task force, what criteria might foundation leaders use to determine who are the “best and the brightest”?
5. Do you think the proposed comprehensive evaluation is the best way to “measure excellence”?
6. What would you do if you were Charles Blair?
TEACHING NOTES
1. Raster’s mission is to “promote the greater good of human society.” Define the greater good in this case. How can it be measured? Discuss the rationale for tax-exempt status. Just as for-profit entities have ethical obligations to their shareholders, nonprofits have ethical obligations to their stakeholders (the public, clients, donors). Ask students to define “greatest good.” Who decides what is “good”? Society consists of diverse and often opposing points of view about what is “good.” Who decides what is “good”?
2. Raster staff agreed that the foundation is not directly accountable to any outside authority. Are they correct? Again, foundations, like all nonprofits are accountable to the public. The IRS regulates tax exempt organizations to a limited extent, but it is ethically incumbent on nonprofits that they exist for the public’s benefit.
3. Staff’s reactions to the proposed evaluation was overwhelmingly negative. Do you agree with their arguments? Blair is correct, an evaluation will not be successful without staff cooperation. Several arguments support Cornin’s suspicion that the staff are smug and self-satisfied. They fail to recognize that such attitudes may limit the foundations effectiveness.
4. Foundations pride themselves on hiring and funding the best and the brightest. Is that elitism or just good stewardship? Based on the results of Cornin’s task force, what criteria might foundation leaders use to determine who are the “best and the brightest”? Based on the task force’s finding, the “best and brightest” are probably white, male graduates of Ivy League universities. Many foundations are slowly moving away from this model. Will foundations and the public benefit from redefining or eliminating the “best and brightest” model?
5. Do you think the proposed comprehensive evaluation is the best way to “measure excellence”? Discuss different approaches to evaluation such as process evaluation, outcome-based assessment, and benchmarking. Which ones might be appropriate in this case?
6. What would you do if you were Charles Blair? Discuss the arguments (for example, staff objections, the potential for low morale and decreased productivity, too soon to evaluate new programs, too costly) and alternatives (indefinitely postponing the formal evaluation, evaluating administrative functions only, assembling an internal committee to review programs and administration). Students could roleplay the meeting between Blair and Cornin.
Ethics in the nonprofit sector has often been discussed in the light of nonprofit organizations’ missions and their relationships with the constituencies they serve. Because they often work with at-risk or marginalized populations, there is always a potential for abuse, fraud, or waste, and there is a requirement that nonprofits have a firm foundation of ethics. With this regard, many nonprofits are guided by the ethical standards of their respective professions and what to do or not to do while providing the service.
At the same time, nonprofit leaders also follow the norms of conduct established in the nonprofit world. For example, nonprofit boards of directors depend on volunteers, contrary to their business counterparts. Nonprofit board members often donate labor, fiscal, legal, and perform other tasks that aim to achieve broader goals of the mission of their organizations.
From the grandstand they shout, As they see Tiana burst out— A hardcourt, manic pinball Bouncing between the gym walls. Weaving through traffic While dodging the contact, Dribbling and whirling, Then passing and dashing, That ricocheting dervish Sets for the final sweet swish.
Although I am a very Blue democrat who often stridently disagrees with many of your positions, I have always retained a deep affection for you and your experience. I also commend your staff. For while we may disagree on direction, I know that you and your staff work very hard for the state of Arizona and the country. In early Fall 2007, I extended an invitation to you and your wife to share a dinner with us at our modest Bay Area home to obtain a more personal impression of your views on a number of national issues. Perhaps if you had followed up on my invitation, a different portrait may now be hanging at an address on Pennsylvania Avenue.
It is difficult for me to understand your position on the ACA. There have been several flip-flops over your political career. The latest major flip-flop is your decision to vote ‘yes’ to carry on debate over the ACA. You know continuing to oppose the ACA will severely affect the lives of millions of you fellow citizens. You claimed that you wanted a return to “regular” order, but this “yes” vote means just the opposite. Healthcare for millions is complicated and requires careful discussion and analysis. For a short example, there is no discussion on how to reign in soaring health delivery costs when healthcare executives are seeing record salaries. What exactly did your sacrifice in Vietnam mean that you would instill pain upon your fellow citizens? Arguments about the burden of the individual mandate are really superficial – the burden of some hundreds or even thousands of extra dollars a year versus the tens of thousands to hundreds of thousands medical procedures cost. A single IVIG treatment can cost $20,000. Your recent surgery, if paid out without adequate insurance, would soon bankrupt most families. Please be a patriot again. Finish on the top side, the good side, of your legacy.
Pundits struggle to find the right analogy to describe our political dilemma. One might be a well-known nursery rhyme. Humpty Dumpty. No, I am not referring to the current fragile, thin-skinned occupant of the White House, though it would be easy to see Donald Trump as the anthropomorphic, egg-shaped character of children’s books. Humpty Dumpty for me is the United States.
The history of the United States, from well before its establishment, has been a balancing act of controversy and even conflict over government, rights, economy, and culture. The nation was founded in large part on the removal and decimation of first inhabitants and the capture and enslavement of Africans. Capitalism, a system premised on balancing self-interest and greed, was blended in this country with mainly protestant religious views, and strong sense of white superiority.
Just like Humpty, our country is a sitting precariously on a wall. But our wall is not a support wall, but a divider between darkness and light. The growth of partisanship and particularly the public ascent of the radical right augur an inevitable crisis. Up-coming election may answer on which side we fall.
“Faux News” runs wild, a fevered rush, Reports dressed up in garish hues, Where truth is buried beneath the gush, And headlines shout, but hardly muse. “Scandal!” they cry, “Chaos unfurled!” A splash of blood, a twist of fate— The world reduced to noise and swill, A circus show, a fearsome bait.
The facts are twisted, frayed, and thin, Wrapped in the weight of a crafted lie. The truth, once pure, is drowned within A storm of rumor, a painted sky. The rich, the poor, the saint, the thief, All cut and worked to fit the frame— A realm of rage, of thrill, of grief, But never one that rights the game.
Media drips with yellowed tones, In reckless spatters, sharp and bright— There’s no concern for the groans, As long as it sparks a fight. Who cares if justice bends or breaks, If the story makes patrons bite? A nation sold on the latest take On that juicy piece from last night.
His is a song everyone may want to hear, a song irresistible that lures the deplorables to leap onboard in droves. Though the toll is ever-mounting, it’s a song nobody challenges because anyone who has heard it has died or refuses to remember. Shall I tell you his secret, and if I do, would you pay me my fee so I can gain notoriety and win a Pulitzer Prize?
Why do we keep on keeping on In the face of such disaster when health policy is no good for no reason when everything supposed to be right is wrong when the CDC says something and the FDA says something and somebody remarking on public confidence says something and the public won’t wear the masks?
What keeps frontline workers working into the night and keeps them going in the morning living on coffee and waiting for things to end cleaning counters and wiping vegetables as if some answer lay in a disinfectant and despite those among us who irrationally and without a doubt are leaving their trust in Tucker Carlson and hydroxychloroquine?
Why don’t we say just screw it And stop trying again and again to march into the President’s pressroom with half an idea about the Wuhan virus hoping he’ll have the other half and hoping what he says will happen when his stable genius gets lit by something never tried and he states will work this time?
Could it be it, that we do all this over and over just for those times when a revelation may rise among us like something ever re-birthing a new life, another hope something not immediately visible but leading us to a real solution and the salvation of the human race?
On the throne of guile, where falsehoods reign, You’ll find someone with an expert’s brain. For every word that leaves his lips, A story’s spun with dramatic flips. Through lurid tones and grandiose tales, He weaves a web where truth often pales. With practiced charm and cunning guise, He mesmerizes with artful lies. For ev’ry accolade he receives, It’s not for honesty he achieves; But for the skill with which he deceives, He’s judged the winner, with no reprieves. He stands upon a stage of guile, His crowds rapt in nefarious style. He’s a master of illusion’s game, With his name etched in the Hall of Shame. So let us sound the alarm today For the one who leads in grand display. For in spheres where mendacity’s prime, He’s the Greatest Liar Of All Time.
It was a bright Saturday morning in March 2021 when Aaron leaned out the window of his apartment on San Francisco’s Twin Peaks. The city was eerily quiet, an emptiness he had never known. The streets that were usually bustling with tourists, street vendors, and locals all trying to squeeze in a little extra fun before the weekend had been silenced by the pandemic. California—his adopted state—had become a strange version of its usual self.
He sighed heavily, brushing his messy brown hair out of his face. On the surface, it seemed like he should have been the happiest person in the world. California, with its year-round sunshine, its relaxed lifestyle, and its endless outdoor amenities, had long been considered the ideal place to weather a crisis. Despite COVID, the Blue state had one of the lowest rates of mortality in the country, and the weather was perfect for socially-distanced hikes or bike rides. People seemed to be doing fine—maybe even thriving—given the circumstances. But Aaron was not having it. He felt… trapped.
From the safety of his well-situated apartment, which overlooked the downtown skyline and the distant Pacific Ocean, he could see families on bike rides, joggers with headphones in their ears, and couples strolling through parks while maintaining that necessary six feet of separation. The streets were cleaner, the air was fresher, and the clouds in the sky seemed fluffier. People were finding peace in nature, embracing outdoor workouts, and connecting with themselves in ways they never had before. In many ways, California was the perfect place to be during a pandemic.
But Aaron, who had spent his life complaining about the crowded traffic, the high cost of living, and the inherent superficiality of the Woke city, couldn’t see it that way. All he could think about was how everything had changed—how everything was now different in a way that felt oppressive, even in a state as beautiful as California.
“I can’t believe this,” he muttered to himself as he grabbed his phone to scroll through social media. Everywhere he looked, people seemed to be posting about how grateful they were for the “extra time” spent in nature, how they were rediscovering local hiking trails, and how they were cooking wholesome meals at home.
“Must be nice,” he mumbled, typing out a quick comment under a friend’s post. “Some of us are stuck in our apartments, staring at the same four walls for days.”
Aaron knew his comment was a bit exaggerated. It wasn’t like his apartment was a prison—it had a huge open floor plan, a gourmet kitchen, and more amenities than most people could ever dream of. He even had a balcony where he could sit in the mornings and sip coffee while watching the sunrise. But the novelty of it all had worn off, and now he was left feeling restless, isolated, and yearning for the kind of excitement that San Francisco used to offer—the constant swirl of social events, world-class dinners with friends, spontaneous weekend trips, and endless possibilities.
And then there was the whole “stuck in California” issue. He’d joked with friends before the pandemic about wanting to escape the state. The taxes, the crowds, the feeling of being surrounded by people who all seemed to care more about their tech or influencer status than anything else—it had all started to feel suffocating. He’d longed for a quieter, simpler life somewhere like Montana or the Pacific Northwest.
But now, as states like New York and Texas saw an increase in cases, as some places were struggling to keep up with health systems and resources, Aaron felt strangely envious of his friends who had fled to small towns or rural areas where life seemed unaffected. He thought about the fact that he was lucky enough to be in a place with such a high vaccination rate and a mild climate. Yet he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being forced to stay in paradise, and it drove him mad.
He complained about the fact that his weekend trips to Napa Valley had been canceled, that his annual surf trip to Malibu was off the table, and that his usual Sunday brunch gatherings were reduced to Zoom calls. He found himself scrolling through photos of friends on beaches in Florida or in secluded cabins up in the mountains—places that weren’t so closely regulated, where people could escape the confines of the shutdown.
But no matter how much he griped about being “stuck in California,” the reality of the situation was that he was among the safest in the country. Despite his irritation, his apartment had become a sanctuary. The weather was ideal for socially distanced walks along the Great Highway and beaches, and despite the pandemic, many of his favorite local restaurants offered takeout with curbside pickup. He could even enjoy the peace and quiet of a nearly empty Golden Gate Park, the hiking trails winding around Mt. Tamalpais offering respite from the chaos of the city.
The more Aaron thought about it, the more ridiculous his complaints seemed. Despite the mask, and actually because of the masks, he was living in one of the most health-conscious and safest regions of the country—he could walk outside in the open air with hardly any fear. People were embracing the outdoors, exploring parts of California they had never bothered to visit before. And while the entire world was struggling to find balance in the face of uncertainty, California offered an endless supply of nature, culture, and things to do.
One afternoon, as he found himself once again looking out over the city, he saw something that made him pause: a group of friends gathered on the lawn in front of the De Young Museum. They were all maintaining distance, yes, but there they were, smiling, chatting, and enjoying the beauty of the day. No one was complaining about the restrictions. Everyone seemed to have found a way to adapt.
Aaron sat down on his balcony, took a deep breath, and looked at the hills in the distance. For the first time since his establishment here, he didn’t feel resentful of California. He was stuck here, yes, but maybe that wasn’t the worst thing after all.
Maybe it was time to start enjoying the paradise he had been so eager to escape.
Under the specter of a world now still, A grandfather’s voice and granddaughter’s will Yearn to bridge a chasm, very steep and vast— Amid the pandemic, a love steadfast. Through windows, their smiles meet within sight, Distantly tethered with all their might. His stories, a balm, pass through the screen; Her laughter, so dear, brightens the scene. Where hands would clasp, now gestures make do, Hugs postponed, held in memory’s glue. His gentle touch is a whisper of the past, Hers, an evanescence, though the feelings last. In the moment, they share their hearts’ refrain Of hopes and dreams, despite the clear strain. “Soon,” he promises, “we’ll cross this divide And meet face-to-face, sit here side-by-side.”
Memories crumble on the worn-down stones. I do not see my abode from former days. I only spy a crooked post. I turn to the side, for the straight path is lost. The yard is fully overgrown And will never be walked again. I’ve been away such a long time That I do not know which way is which. How sad and ugly the empty house is, No smoke rising from the chimney. I think of this house I’ve lived in all those years. My breath catches, and I cannot speak.
Blue herons hail their mates On islands in the stream. Tender waterlilies, You pluck from left and right. Calling for all to hear He combs every path. Day for night not reaching, On couch he rolls and turns. So when will ever peace arrive, Modest Maid, for our Prince?
I’ve been paining, I’ve been straining To allay the sting of the day. I’ve been yearning, I’ve been learning Praying to somehow find a way. For there’s been too many a morning When it seemed my dreams were calling, Wondering whether this could be the one. But my soul sings out a warning To my heart when it starts falling For all the beginnings left undone.
Crunch of mulberry leaves Lei Zu sips hot tea Cocoon falls Garden covered in silk
She spins the reel Fine filaments threaded in loom Shimmering prism of colors Yellow Emperor surpassed!
*Inspired by a famous dress designer of Oakland, California. This poem briefly recounts the story of Lei Zu, a legendary Chinese empress and wife of the Yellow Emperor. While the Yellow Emperor was the purported founder of the central state in China, Lei Zu became a folk goddess for her alleged discovery that silkworms make silk and her attributed inventions of the silk reel and loom. She is affectionately called, 蠶奶奶 (Tsán năinai – Silkworm Grandma).
You never falter, but stand your ground, Though storm clouds may hover above us. An infinite force I dare not impede, Such undying beauty conquers the sun. Your love is a cascade of joy in the dark, Stirring a restless desire that engulfs me.
The castle is where a princess dwells, From there she casts her wondrous spells. From loft high to reception below, She was ever seeking her true beau.
Its powerful walls kept suitors at bay. They made her safe from day to day. Her bounds fixed, she toiled with zeal On formal gowns that she makes ideal.
But one fine morn she left her castle keep, To visit an inn after she arose from sleep. There she came upon a knight errant, Whose soul soon proved very transparent.
Then each of them in that destined place Came to reveal their soul’s inner space. With words of mirth and solitude both, The two proclaimed a solemn oath.
We shall live as all lovers should Side by side forever it is understood. The castle now echoes the sound of joy, A love eternal they will ever enjoy.
Two souls converged with certitude, Thinking each could take a booth. But the host would not give latitude, Nor accept any contrary attitude; Since one person per booth is uncouth.
One sat first in turn, as is fair, While the other came within his gaze; For then he witnessed a scene so rare, An exquisite beauty standing there Who set his interest all ablaze.
When she landed one table away, His ears were treated to a sweet sound. Oh, what a song to fill the day! Not knowing how she came that way, His curiosity became unbound.
I’m from an isle of dance and blue sky, A land of coconuts and balmy sea breezes. It is found on a route less traveled by; And if you go, you will testify: Like me, it’s a paradise that never ceases.
Destiny smiled when a booth was denied, A fact that cannot be unmade. Their attention grew deep and magnified, Something they could not long hide. This is how the path to love was laid!
Your seventy-year-old form, like an old tree, In ancient mud mired for many years, Now is left with a worn-out hip, An ever-lasting, painful remembrance. Sitting upon a red wooden stool, You mix meds dose by dose with water, And watch the days flow one into another, Making all grow stale and hallow. You are used to hearing the lament of the lonely, Which has calloused your mind and heart. Today, the well is still the same as before; But now the pump brings out another tune. Old man! When I look at you, It is like seeing a green sprout from a bare tree in spring. That old sparkle has come alive. Spurred by your Muse, you dance to a new song.
Your seventy-year-old form, like an old tree, In ancient mud mired for sixty years, Now is left with a worn-out hip, An ever-lasting, painful remembrance. Sitting upon a red wooden stool, You mix meds dose by dose with water, And watch the days flow one into another, Making all grow stale and hallow. You are used to hearing the lament of the lonely, Which has calloused your mind and heart. Today, the well is still the same as before; But now the Water Nymph sings out another kind of tune. Old man! When I look at you, It is like seeing a green sprout from a bare tree in spring. That old part has come alive. Supported by a new leg, you stride toward Resurrection.
He once dodged a fright By staying out of sight But now he must face A new sort of case: Richards, Couric, Burton, Bialik Rodgers, Jennings, The search for ratings. The correct question for Host who could offer the most, Next leader of the game, A person of local fame, To whom you ask things sublime, And he’ll respond every time, Someone you have to admit Kinda resembles a bit, In a quizzical way, Trebek, some may say: Who is none other than, Richard, our Answer-Man?!!!
Will we forget this judgment day, Which was a sin, as seen before? Will we forgive this cause of dismay, And its supporters whom we deplore? What’s been done, some will again say, Will sadly be followed by more.
One day cleaning out my garage I dug out some old clubs that sparked memories of my folks. Dad worked for Allied Golf and crafted that ladies set with hickory wood shafts and hardwood and iron cast heads, arranging them in a skillfully sown, canvas and leather stovepipe bag. Since Mom rarely played, and though clouds loomed, he’d say, “It never rains on a golf course,” as he snuck out to smoke and play cards with the boys. The two lived out a long life together, not always tenderly but steadily. Yes, there were tiffs and stormy nights, and we kids feared a bigger rift. But all in all, they weathered it all, even when mom went silent with age and for ten years Dad still pined. Deeper and longer than that of the cranes, their love was stronger than titanium steel.
Two great philosophers crossed paths in a menacing Philippine jungle, both serving in the Leyte campaign, each not perceiving of the other. Before an attack on a strategic ridge, a company chaplain assured one that God guides our bullets at the Japs, while steering theirs from us. The other saw troopers jump from above, and armed with only a 90mm AA gun, he cried for them while he aimed, their body parts raining from heaven. One dropped his religion and devised “A Theory of Justice.” The other never had it, but taught me to respect and be fair to all.
You said you were self-reliant, Like a bird ever meant to be free. You vowed to be always defiant And never bow to uncertainty.
Each day you went with the feeling Working 24/7 you could avoid strife. But the greatest risk is to risk nothing, And end up with a less fulfilled life.
I too stayed a course that could not stay And held a conviction too set in stone. I dreamed a dream that faded away, And the life I lived left me alone.
I kept trying to convince you Of my sincerity about what might be. If you could leap, I would be true. Only through risk can one be really free.
Happy we didn’t follow our fears And keep things only our own way, We can now enjoy the coming years Because we joined one auspicious day.
When night goes knock, knock at our house door, It’s time to take my toys from the floor. Although sometimes I make a deep frown, I soon agree to wind myself down. Next I get ready to eat my food To make sure I am in a good mood. Up the stairs, there are my teeth to brush; Then comes a warm bath with little rush. This is followed by comfy bedclothes That in winter may cover my toes. Up really close to Mom I huddle, So I get a very good cuddle. As she reads with me now under sheet, Her voice becomes soft and very sweet. She whispers and bellows as the wind, And buzz, buzz, buzzes like bees that spin. One time growling, she’s a big, big bear, She then purrs like a cat with no care. Dragons yodel and a castle floats, With dancing grandpas and smarty goats. Soon my eyes begin to grow bleary, And my head gets heavy and weary. Drifting off gently in my Mom’s arms, I dream of rainbows and pretty charms.
One thing no one’s wealth can buy The gift of time no gold can weigh. You are always spending it away With the risk of being forever alone.
Continual work gives time its wings, While busy one heeds not its flight. Will you be too busy for me And allow this moment to zoom by?
But for those who love, time is eternity. If I have a task to do, now’s the time! If I could bottle the time I have, I would give you all to wedge me in.
Will you then look on me with kind eyes, And say he doubtless did his best to bring The change that could come to you and me So that we may grow old together instead?
Left-wing wokeness Pot psychosis Drag queen advocates Snowflake Democrats Old values crumbling Video gaming Lecturing on CRT Price of free society Depraved rap music Colin Kaepernick Few armed teachers No school prayers Illegal immigrants Urban gang violence People, not guns Not enough guns Antifa drama Must be Obama Declining church going Lib Media crowing Of course, law breakage Surely gay marriage President Biden Black people breathing Watching pornography Sheer immorality Insecure locks and doors Mental health factors Lack of bullet-proof vests Marxists and Socialists Police defunders Unarmed ministers Women’s rights Too few whites
If you find yourself in the shower naked in the frothy mist, peering vaguely through the worn plastic curtain, you are not king of the moment, especially with a stolen towel. Raise neither your voice nor curl your toes in the suds, instead scrub remarks from your lips and beg her for forgiveness or she’ll leave you to your demise.
I’m just doing my rounds in my taxi To support my dear wife and four kids, When rockets crash and a Renault is hit, The occupants trapped and left to burn. I ask myself, “Is this really happening?” As dirt and debris start pouring down. Am I next?
At the crossroads, we check papers, A unit of nine, three rifles and a grenade. Rumors fly of the enemy encroaching, We ditch our arms and hide nearby. If found, we need some sort of story; We’re just day workers homeward bound. Am I next?
Shortly we are surrounded, unable to flee. Fearing to speak, we text our loved ones; An hour later the enemy breaks in. Fierce beatings and shouted questions, Mobile phones and shoes all taken away, Captured, down the street we are paraded. Am I next?
Each has one hand on the belt of next; Sweating, we’re lined up against a wall. The guards pause, grin, and play, Taunting and stoking our dismay. Soon they grow bored and cranky, Yelling, “What’ll we do with them now?” Am I next?
I bid final goodbyes to my neighbors, The last to my daughter’s godfather. He runs for it but stumbles and falls, Inciting the enemy to spray out their fire. A sharp, sudden sensation bursts through That I feel pierce and sear my insides. Am I next?
They check the bodies to make sure And shoot once more if any sign of life. One exclaims, “That one’s still alive!” Bleeding from the gash on my right, I think they are talking about me; I brace myself for the final blow. Am I next?
My wound is agonizingly painful, But crying out would mean my end. For now, I must lie among the fallen. And be as still as a stiff block of ice. “Oh, he’ll die by himself!” He utters As his shot strikes somebody else. Am I next?
Silence, I sense they have departed; The alleyway is now empty of life. I risk a glance from under my jacket; Then though with flash and thundering noise, Shells explode and tremble the ground, Cold, drained I barely can keep aware. Am I next?
My wound has healed; summer arrived. I have found refuge for my family, Begun a new job; and we now live secure. But especially at night, when a door slams, It rouses memories of lost comrades, The remorse of the one who survived. How was I not next?
Tell us, you stones! O speak, you towering spires! Avenues, say a word! Spirits of the land, why so silent? All things should be alive in die Stadt der 7 Türme, Old Quebec, and spicy Barcelona, but remain still. Who could tell it better, offer us the local color? How may we hear words that beguile us more? A modern-day Quixote, tilting at Kansan water towers, Raconteur of Coolidge, Ticonderoga, Montcalm, And of the river Dakotans called Makato Osa Watapa, He’s the wanderer, blogging insights along the way. Observing plain and palace, ruin and prominence, Like a serious man making sensible use of a journey, With his magic, he turns all into spellbinding account, Regaling us of distant ways as he talks his walks. Though a whole globe is out there, without Dave, The world isn’t the world, and Paris can’t be Paris!
Bicycle wheels whirl and crunch furiously on the pavement, accompanied by an increasing staccato.
“Huff puff, huff puff, huff puff.”
His focus on the road ahead narrows and becomes fuzzy. A car passes quickly on the left. On the right pedestrians walk along a sidewalk. A dull thump, thump, thump pumping sound emerges and continues unevenly for several long seconds.
“Ugh…!”
A sharp crashing sound and stinging pain are followed by a dizzying blur, then blackout and profound silence. After an indeterminable while, soft strains of Allegri’s Miserere invade an immensely indiscernible space, infused with enveloping and whirling vapors. The hazy murkiness begins to lighten up, gradually, very gradually intensifying until it reaches a full glare. Two shadowy figures materialize from the obscurity and approach an opening in the clouds, perhaps a gate with a side post. A figure with an elongated headpiece calls from inside.
“Michael! You’re late again! It is almost time to wrap up my shift.”
“Sorry, Peter, last minute congestion and an Expedia reservation screw up with Charon on the River Styx. You know the result of all those Novel Coronavirus variants, everybody’s just dying to get across…”
“Okay, okay. Let’s get this thing rolling.”
Michael hands him a document while Peter directs a question to the other shadow now fully emerged from the chaotic vapors.
“First name?”
“My what? What? My first name?” the second figure responds groggily.
“Come on, yes, your first name. It says here your first name is Tom. Is that right?”
“Yes, it’s Tom, but what is going on?”
“Just processing.”
“Processing what?”
“I’m verifying your eligibility.”
“Eligibility for what?”
“Eligibility to enter.”
“Enter what?”
“The Celestial Gates, of course!”
“Celestial? Gates? Am I dreaming? What’s all this fog? What the hell is going on?”
“I’m sorry, but you aren’t allowed to use that term here.”
Tom still looks mystified.
Peter then turns back to Michael. “Michael, you know the drill. Why haven’t you told him?”
“Sorry, Peter. I only received notice of Tom for my recruitment list at the last second, but he looked like a promising candidate.”
“Arrgh! Now let’s get going here. I’ve got to finish my daily report to the Old Man.”
He speaks to Tom. “I see you have the same last name as one of my favorite novelists.”
“Novel…? What ARE you talking about? Who ARE you? What am I doing here?”
Michael sticks his elbow in Tom’s ribs and whispers, “Not a good Idea to rile Saint Peter. You may end up in the last row of the heavenly choir.”
Tom is still hazily taking in the situation.
“You seem to be a smart guy. You’ll figure it out soon enough.”
Peter ignores Tom’s confusion and then begins reviewing the document.
“Ah, I see that you’ve made good use of your time down there. Put your education and experience to good use helping others. Performed your military and civic duties with honor, frequently assisted and offered to help many, many others. Quite good there. There have been the numerous venial sins. But that of course can be expected for such a long and commendable life. I see you also make an extra effort to help with maintenance at your church and you can handle yourself well with other sometimes difficult parishioners. Very commendable!”
“This must be a MISTAKE! Something is wrong!”
“No, no, I can assure you, my man. No.”
Saint Peter’s face speaks frustration. He has seen this reaction a million times before. It gets a bit old. He states what he has said a million times before, “The Old Man NEVER makes a mistake.”
“Nor do you, Mr. Infallible,” Michael giggles.
“Now Michael, that is only in terms of doctrine. Otherwise, I’m as fallible as the next guy, even more so. Remember my big screw up at Gethsemane?”
“Yeah, bigly. Tee-hee.”
“You don’t have to rub it in.”
Suddenly a small note appears out of nowhere. Michael calls Peter’s attention.
“Look, Peter, at the end of the document.”
Peter looks down at a pink post-it note and reads it.
“Oh boy, Oh boy. How did this slip through?”
“What’s it say?”
“It’s a note from one of our guardians watching over the Grinders, that chatty, filibustering group. I’ve been purposely ignoring them lately after they stopped patronizing my favorite coffee chain. Hmm, nevertheless, it says here that… uh… Tom that YOU recently admitted, in fact, proudly proclaimed in public to be a life-long, card-carrying REPUBLICAN!”
“Of my, that means no Heaven for you buddy.”
Instantaneously out of the misty vagueness a second gate flings wide open with searing flames bursting out. Peter gestures for Tom move toward that gate.
“Now just wait a minute here. I CAN’T go there. This is some colossal mistake!”
“Oh no it’s not. Jesus the man himself said it is more difficult for a rich man to enter the Kingdom, than for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle.”
“Yes, but I am not a rich man!”
“Well, many less well-off than than you have been assigned to the eternal brimstone vacation. Besides the Old Man just released Bible 2.0 on Amazon. What old Joe would call a BFD update.”
Bible 2.0?!? BFD? What the F…
The Old Man finally saw the light so to speak after seeing the Donald’s amazing media success. He saw that he needed more impactful, simplified messages to the masses too busy to read more than a few lines of text. He dropped the Old Testament almost entirely, keeping only a few sections like Psalms, Ecclesiastes, etc., because it is mostly too old. He made the Golden Rule the sole commandment and made sure to emphasize the Beatitudes. The New Testament is now simply ‘A Testament,’ because how can a book written over two thousand years ago be called ‘New.’ He tossed out the Book of Revelations for all its false advertising. And because he felt that Gingrich had just gone too far, he decided to have Jesus update and rerecord the phrase about the rich man and the camel to ‘a rich person or Republican.’“
“Peter, you’re getting carried away again with all your sermonizing. Let’s get back to Tom’s case.”
“In light of this new revelation and the Old Man’s preference, it is quite clear where you should go.”
“Now wait a minute, wait JUST A MINUTE! You can’t send me there! In fact, don’t send me anywhere. My time is not up yet! Though I know I’ve been getting a little winded lately.”
“OK, Mister big stuff. Let’s just verify that.”
Peter starts to take a second look at Tom’s resume and realizes he had inadvertently skipped the health portion because of the repartees.
“Well, yes, Tom, you ARE correct. It says here you could go a few more rounds. There must have been some slip up in creating your list, Michael. Perhaps it’s because of all that Great Resignation we have been hearing about. I have been noticing it getting harder to get competent help.”
“That’s it! I think you’ve hit upon something, Peter, when you bring up competent help. The Old Man wants to expand the choir section, make Charon’s boat can handle more passengers, enhance the River Styx’s flow, improve dynamics of angel wings, and find a way, in his own words, for “that damned Gabriel’s horn” to stop scaring off the Holy Ghost’s doves. Savants like Archimedes, Da Vinci, and Tesla keep coming up with impractical, costly designs. He knows he will not be able to recruit Elon. In short, he needs someone competent to perform quality control. Tom here could be just the ticket.”
“Bright boy! And you know how breezy it gets near the gate, sometimes knocks my mitre right off. I did see some juicy tidbits in his resume. Perhaps he could do something for my gate.”
“Tom worked with procurement and quality control while he did his service using his astute powers of observation and respect for the data to save money and effort. His resume shows he received a patent on “the method and apparatus for enhancing gas turbo machinery flow.”
Peter turns to Tom, “I see Tom, you were still working on your pipe dream up until the last second.”
“Ah, yes sir. Turbo acoustics.”
“Do you think, Peter, that we could do something for him?”
“Well perhaps so and necessity is the mother of invention. Jesus has a new burr in his spur, what he calls his Hail Mary Program. He’s been testing out a conversion therapy with likes of Mitt and Lynn. It is intended to help them amend their wayward ways. Perhaps our Tom here could just qualify.”
“He would need a helper. I could do it.”
“But, Michael, I think you’re too close to his case. You’d have to recuse yourself.”
Recusal. Peter suddenly laughed to himself thinking about that one uppity, duppity Supreme Court justice who refused to recuse himself and of course ended up the eternal hot seat.
“Let’s see now, there’s old Clarence our usual go-to journey-angel looking to win his permanent wings; but he’s currently tied up with working on that clueless banker George. And then there’s Mr. Jordan, but he’s dealing with Aaron Rodgers…”
“How about using our potential intern, Van?” Michael gleefully injected.
“You mean the ornery socialist, the one with that silly faux last name?”
“Yes, yes, I think he would be the perfect choice. Our informant says he and Tom are sometimes at loggerheads over certain pertinent issues.”
“I also noticed that true to form he manages with calm insistence to inject some realism and sound data points into their wide-eyed notions of solving social and environmental problems.”
“And if Van succeeds with the conversion, it could confer on him the route to beatification. It would be an interesting two-fer!”
“Okay then. I will compose and send up to the Old Man a quick Pontifical appeal for Tom and send him back so he can live out his truly allotted time with a very good dose of Our Fathers so that Tom may soon see the error of his political ways and successfully convert. Of course, I need to add our usual disclaimer: Unbiased treatment, no predetermination, individuals are solely responsible for consequences, yada, yada, yada, all results are final. Oh, yes he better get his ticker checked.
Gabriel’s horn sounds a loud, long bellowing blow.
“Break time!”
A blaring braking noise comes to a quick halt with a grating skid. Tom rights himself skillfully from the near tumble but feels a bit wobbly. He shakes it off and straightens his bicycle. That was weird, he tells himself, better get that checked. He then proceeds toward the café patio where the Grinders camp, parks, and removes his helmet.
Everything Les touches is never quite the same again, Either wrapped up in duct tape, glued or sporting a tiny bend. He’s great at engineering to go the extra mile And increasing performance, at least for a little while. He dismantles alarms to replace an offending piece, Repairs faulty circuits to make another problem cease. Stitching a few electronic components together, He’ll build a Geiger counter or dimmer switch with pleasure. Eager to take on new tasks and ready to help out, He advises on whether to grout or not to grout. He can fix what needs fixin’, mend what’s broke; And he’ll smile and nod at every joke. His beneficent demeanor ushers in our day, He’s one staunchly humble and optimistic mainstay. Could this can-do air be what sparked Liz’s attention When he “picked her up” in the library collection?
Near every morn we convene To sort out the day’s headline screed. Back and forth we parry and joust, Debate hotter than coffee roast. Everyone looks for some missing gem To unscramble the nation’s maelstrom. But into the fray comes a gentle gent, Whose arrival is clearly heaven’s gift. Winding calmly amidst the noise, He’s a stalwart with stoic poise. He speaks a truth quiet and clear, With insights insured to endear. His presence offers inner light, The path before him ever bright. But who is he to whom we refer? A true meaning-of-life observer. With words recalled from a Dylan ode, Let’s share a cup of Zach ‘fore we go.
My school pals in Tehran prodded me: You should go to the Land of the Free. It’s heaven on earth, wouldn’t that be nice. Disneyland and tall buildings, such a paradise. You can do whatever, whenever you please, A great place for golden opportunities. Hollywood glamor, that’s what it’s about; So many pretty girls, you’ll never run out. At 19 then, I flew across the wide blue sea To visit a cousin in Washington DC. But it happened, they closed the whole town. Martin Luther King had just been gunned down. Tensions grew high, you couldn’t move about; My reasons for coming I started to doubt. After a while though, I was able to manage A trip to Michigan to learn a new language. There I encountered a scene quite startling: Streaking naked apes with things dangling, Masses of guys encircling women’s dorms Holding cans of alcohol, breaking the norms. With the girls waving bras and egging them on, I thought I was staying in some loony town. And then came an encounter more personal: Having to stare at some defecating individual. The student union’s toilets with no door Made me seek privacy on Chem’s 6th floor. At last, I missed fall enrollment I was told, So dismayed I decided to return to the fold. Tired, frozen, and dejected in snow I stood, At a bus stop keeping as warm as I could. I did not notice the shuttle stop sign; And when I looked up, I was out of line. Hustling a cab, I made it at the airport To find that for my flight I was $200 short. My money could only return me to my cousin; And so reluctantly I resigned to settle in. My cousin told me in six months or less You’ll get yourself used to this crazy circus. But first you should pick a name that fits in, Hence with some doubt did my name Tom begin. He found me work waiting tables, while not stylish; There I made good friends who helped with English. Even though at the time it did not seem, My cousin was right about the American dream. In half year, with job, friends, and a 65 Mustang, My amazing adventure began with a very big bang.
Hovering high aloft in the infinite sky, Alone in the splendor, steadfastly vigilant, I have perched out here with eye wide open, Filtering the dim flashes of the firmament, Divulging how the Heavens are stitched. Peering attentively into the vast emptiness, I have captured myriads of fusion furnaces, The raindrops of the great celestial clouds. Dutifully I have gauged light years radiance Deeply distant folds of colliding galaxies, The whirling and swirling rings of nebulae, Jagged asteroids, and other space roamers– A kaleidoscope of color and hues, An ecstatic dance of timelessness itself. Displaying a universe of 13.7 billion years, Attesting the speeding up of its expansion, Demonstrating how planets are born, Picturing planets orbiting stars, Finding organics on distant worlds, Discovering moons around tiny Pluto, Catching a comet colliding with Jupiter, I have achieved these and much more! So you’d think all this would satisfy; But people are people, they want more. With five visits already by the docs, My powers, sight coming up short, Some say I am no longer up to it, Unable to stretch farther and better. So out I must go to eternal pasture And be content to sit on my laurels. A new kid has arrived on the block: Move over Edwin! Jimmie is here!
Now what dazzling, delightful discoveries Will that dandy newcomer deliver?
I daydreamed I was on trial, accused My espresso gone cold, and so abused. “Oh woe,” I exclaimed, “What can I do?” Someone then said, “I’ve the one for you: He can make Perry Mason green with envy; Stir jurors and witnesses into frenzy. As to judges, he’s wise to predilection, ‘Cause they always sweat about re-election. Of his rep, biggest frog in the pond, Opposing teams are not very fond. A Tiger eyeballing any inconsistency, He sniffs out obfuscation and insincerity. Not bursting out from the gate with guns blazing, He evolves organically with pacing, Showing at first restraint and patience, Then exuding swagger and confidence. He digs his claws deep into motivation, Then charts an opponent’s slow degradation. Deftly nudging prey into a canyon, No half measures are his only canon.” “But the bottom line is, I must demand, For my lapse should I get a helping hand? To fess up would appear common sense, But I can’t lose my Grinder’s license.” “Yes, he can salvage any reprobate If you can afford double market rate: Coin of the realm, beans or grounds all accepted, Absolutely no maximum rejected.” Gradually the scent of coffee arose, Managing to tickle and tease my big nose; I suddenly woke from the short spell, And yelled out loud, “I’d better call Hal!”
Now you wouldn’t know from his presence When he spills coffee on the Café terrace, That Pete is famous world over for his plannings, Launched after Illini and military beginnings. Architect, urban designer, and perspectivist, He’s also dabbled as an editorial cartoonist. In the capital he set a good precedent For his very first client, the President, By designing the ‘64 inaugural pavilion, Which he had won in stiff competition. To recount all of Pete’s accomplishments Would take several rounds of refreshments: He created a Pennsylvania Avenue scheme Then formulated the Reston, Virginia dream. Baltimore Interstate Highway system untangled, Renovation of Amtrak stations well handled, His designs for mixed-use office, residential, Industrial settings and some educational, Spawned innovation in Australia and Japan, Historic Prague, Mexico, and Ford Island. A first collaborator of US and USSR architects To help restore earthquake-ravaged Spitak, He advised Atlanta’s Olympic planning, Then consulted on Katrina rebuilding. But one perspective his designs overlook Is that not all plans go by the book. Once wandering for weekend distraction, A young GOP activist drew his attention. For the Lincoln State boy, fish out of water, Helen made sure to give him no quarter. She found that the future Cad Man was no cad, And made sure all his promises were ironclad. The long sustainability of their project shows Politics and serendipity make great bedfellows.
How do we love Steve? Let us count the ways. And we attest that ours is no faint Praise. We love him for his depth and breadth and height. His Orinda support is out of sight. Well-known as the “Voice of the Matadors,” He’s one of the school’s great benefactors. We love him for his heartfelt, constant cheer, Citizen and Volunteer of the Year. He’s led the Lamorinda Arts Council, While ardently boosting Orinda Idol. We love how his voice makes us dissemble, Though Elvis’s looks his don’t resemble. Last, we love his desire for a sonnet. For which he had a bee in his bonnet.
My Odysseus announces his return From his long, meandering sojourn, In which he and his valiant mates Twist over geopolitical fates. Lamenting Cassandras, they foretell The effect of a famed pretender’s spell. They fret fortune’s downswings And titter about scandalous flings, While singing praises of spouses Awaiting dutifully in their houses. Thus, entering assured he states in jest, That I’ve passed the loyalty test. But, I respond with the reminder That he’s simply an Orinda Grinder. I note his tunic’s brown spill Does not give me much thrill. And, as to Homer’s old yarn, I don’t really give a darn. I assert that his coffee vacation Offers me an opportune occasion To advance my own business Or shop for a new headdress, To hit a few fairway drives Then tend the backyard beehives, To rehearse for the church choir Or do whatever I aspire. I’m not some doting Penelope, ‘Cause this is the 21st century!
I came across a band of folks As they dashed along Orinda Way And I asked them, “Where are you going?” And this they told me We’re going to Café Teatro We’re gonna form a Holiday chorus We’re gonna sit with no rush We’re gonna sip some fresh brewed caffeine
We are honest We are olden And we’re joining together With all our good friends
“Then can I come drink with you? I have come to lose some brain fog And I need to make sure my mind keeps on going” “Well, maybe it is just the right season Or maybe it’s what’s in the air We don’t know what it is But you know, it’s time for sharing”
We are honest We are olden And we’re joining together With all our good friends
After arriving at the Café We were a couple dozen strong And all around, there were toasts and joyous singing And I dreamed I saw the Grinders Gauging EVs on the road And sparring over Joe’s, Donald’s, ‘n Ron’s True situation
We are honest Near hundred-year carbons We are olden Riding on a Java high And we’re joining together With all our good friends
Reluctance to resign when warranted is an important glitch in our national character. We usually define ourselves in relation to our work. When we first encounter another person, often the first or second question is what that person does for a living? In other countries, this question comes further along in the conversation or hardly at all and more often the questions revolve around family/clan or other community related issues. People in other cultures tend to consider their own personal worth and the respect they have for their family and community to be an important factor in deciding whether an ethical situation at work would jeopardize that respect. We, in contrast, tend to think of the job as defining our personal worth, while in other countries it is more how one another relate to family and position in society. Shaming one’s name, one’s family, etc. is more important in other cultures.
Another factor in the difference is the social safety net. Most developed economies have greater socialized support systems. In the US., there is less of a concept of a safety net. Individuals here are conditioned to fear losing their jobs. When one loses a job, one feels that one loses respect, but also one loses the few benefits (such as health insurance) that come with employment. This is a weapon employers use to discourage workers from changing jobs.
One suggestion to improve this issue is universal health care. If we had an adequate health safety net, it would help individuals when they consider moving on from challenging job situations. Of course, it would be even better if the safety net would be even better, but at least with universal health care individuals could be secure in knowing that at least during any period of job transition, the bottom would never completely fall out.
An observation about the “Great Resignation”: Pundits have puzzled over why millions are not returning to work after the COVID economic downturn, especially to full-time work. Many Americans are voting with their feet. They are reevaluating their relation to work and searching to re-balance their life. If employers want to preserve as many workers as they can, they should consider four-day work weeks, more flexible hours, work at home, etc.
This video speaks volumes on the serious political consequences of people not sticking to their principles and remaining in office (!coarse language):
“I most definitely decline to respond to your question based on my Fifth Amendment constitutional protections with all due respect”
On halting Congress’s joint session On raising a privilege question On parleying with Hawley, Cruz, or Lee On consulting the Federalist Society On colluding with state legislators On concocting “alternate electors” On conspiring with turncoats like RoJo On caballing at Trump’s Mar-a-Lago On blocking votes from being certified On calling the violence “justified” On compensating election schemes On seizing Domain voting machines On stashing funds for “Stop the Steal” On pursuing a pardon deal On giving my age or home’s location On stirring a coup against the nation On plotting with Oath Keepers and Proud Boys On conniving other seditious ploys
I, most loyal MAGA, must thus entreat Once on the J6 committee’s hot seat!
I was drivin’ my van by a neighborhood bait and tackle shop When I saw old Dave carrying his rod with a skip and a hop. “If you’re headin’ Café Teatro way, I’ll give you a ride.” And so, Dave climbed into the van and loaded all his gear inside. I inquired, “What next piscatory venture will you book?” He said, “Listen, I’ll fish any stream or lake I can cast my hook…
I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man Crossed high sierras, man I’ve breathed the country air, man Of cold streams I’ve had my share, man I’ll fish anywhere
I’ll fish the Smith River, Hot Creek, Tahoe, McCloud River Trinity, Oroville, Gila, Owens River Fall River, Mammoth Creek, Klamath, Truckee River Yuba, Don Pedro, Ventura, Merced River Shasta, East Walker, San Jacquin, San Jacinto Los Angeles, Sacramento, and Colorado, bass and rainbow
I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man Crossed high sierras, man I’ve breathed the country air, man Of cold streams I’ve had my share, man I’ll fish anywhere
I’ll fish the Missouri, Snake, Umpqua, Yukon River Mississippi, Yellowstone, Tennessee River Kansas, Ohio, Rio Grande, Feather River Brazos, Colombia, Red, Cumberland River Erie, Michigan, Champlain, Seneca Lake Bear Lake, Devils Lake, Crater Lake, for trout’s sake
I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man Crossed high sierras, man I’ve breathed the country air, man Of cold streams I’ve had my share, man I’ll fish anywhere
I’ll fish the Amazon, Yangtze, Danube, Loire River Orinoco, Po, Seine, Zambezi, Rhine River Brahmaputra, Parana, Nile, Ganges River Murray, Indus, Moselle, Tigris, Yellow River Mackenzie, Niger, Ebro, Vistula, Mekong, Volga, Douro, Oder, Thames, and on and on
I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man I’ve fished ev’rywhere, man Crossed high sierras, man I’ve breathed the country air, man Of cold streams I’ve had my share, man I’ll fish anywhere
[Ken exits Café Teatro with a large sandwich in tow and approaches Richard seated at a patio table nursing a steaming cup of coffee]
Richard: Hey Ken, is that one of Joe’s famous sandwiches?
Ken: Sure is, I can never just eat only one.
Richard: Yeah, they’re really good; and the coffee here is so much better than Pete’s. Didn’t I hear you were cutting down?
Ken: That’s news to me.
Richard: Ken, what were we talking about before you got up?
Ken: Hmm. I can’t remember. Say, I haven’t seen ol’ Bob lately? Have you?
Richard: Bob? Bob? Oh, you mean Rip Van Winkle.
Ken: Rip Van Winkle?
Richard: Yeah, Rip Van Winkle. When it came time to apply for Social Security, he discovered he was three years older than he thought.
Ken: Wow, doesn’t that mean he could have retired three years earlier?
Richard: Yeah, like Rip Van Winkle he was asleep at the wheel, so to speak.
Ken: Didn’t Les mention something about Bob and driving?
Richard: Yeah, Les told me he asked Bob last month to take him to the airport for his trip to Hawaii; and Bob told him he couldn’t do it.
Ken: That’s strange. How come?
Richard: Well, that’s what you get when flunk your driver’s license test by blowing through a red light. The DMV gave him a special restricted driving zone of only eight miles from his house.
Ken: Wow, that’s nice of them. Kind of a teenager in reverse. I wish I could get a break like that. Speaking of teenager, I know he’s a bit wobbly now, but didn’t Bob play some basketball? He’s sure tall enough.
Richard: Yeah, he played ball at Seattle’s Garfield High.
Ken: Garfield High, huh? That somehow rings a bell.
Richard: Yeah, that’s where Quincey Jones and Jimi Hendrix went to school. Bob was there at the same time as Jones, and they shared the same locker.
Ken: No way! Bob and Quincey Jones must have been a dynamic duo on the court.
Richard: Well, Bob, I hear was great; but as for Quincey, I’m not so sure. As you know, musicians, and comedians, can’t jump.
Ken: He, he. And didn’t Bob once work down in Silicon Valley?
Richard: Correct, and he wrote a big book based on his work.
Ken: Wow, I didn’t know that. What was the title?
Richard: IBM’s LAN Server: The Administrator’s Guide, I think. I’m told it is considered the Bible in his field.
Ken: Well, that sounds like a best seller. Snore. What’s a LAN, anyway?
Richard: Some sort of network thing. I’m a Rip Van Winkle on this.
Ken: I sense a theme here. For myself, I can’t even program my new microwave.
Richard: Right. Oh yes, Helen lately has been dropping him off here for coffee before going out on errands. I guess that’s because of Bob’s driving radius.
Ken: That’s right. He’s always hanging around asking to hitch a ride back home. He’s the Kramer of the Klatch, so to speak.
Richard: Ha, ha. Doesn’t Carl often offer him the ride?
Ken: Well, did you hear about his last ride with Carl?
Richard: No, what happened?
Ken: Well, Carl maneuvered his car in close to pick Bob up over there at the dropped off curb, but the car apparently ended up a bit too far away. Bob is, of course, now a bit unsteady of foot. He tried to stretch himself off the curb to reach the car, but it was a bridge too far; and he tumbled back down into the gutter. Fortunately, he wasn’t hurt, just some ruffled feathers.
Richard: Rip Van Winkle again. A day late and a dollar short.
Ken: Yada yada. Well, I think it’s time for that second sandwich. Want another espresso shot?
Richard: Yeah, sure. What WERE we talking about?
Postscript
They set up a LAN in Nantucket But no one knew how to go run it. But once they asked Bob, Who’s no network snob, They could tell IBM to chuck it.
They can’t have tea or take whiskey; Love thrusts they do not dare. They consume no meat in summer; With fibbing there’s no care. And some find a harem fine, While sporting odd underwear. I even heard with Elders they must agree.
Missionaries they can’t swim, And their devotion’s surreal. They can only play half-court b-ball; Two yearly calls home unreal. Teens must pass purity tests, And oral sex’s no deal. These folks are not a usual assembly.
I’d like to say a word, a cordial spin. The Mormons… make me…grin.
How do you grasp a tenet like the Mormons’? How do you get a creed so strange to acquaint? How do you find the way to close the commons? Talk with a Josephite! A Latter-Day Saint! How quaint!
Many a thing you know you’d like to ask them, Many a thing you want to understand, But how do you make them hear That their credo’s not so clear? How do you still maintain an even hand?
Oh, how do you grasp a tenet like the Mormons’? How do you treat their faith with open mind?
I tried to revive old visions, But failed despite earnest tries; So, I was left to wrap myself In a web of oh-woes and solitude.
But then my children told me to desist, Shed my dreary ways and not be glum; Thus when a breakfast break dawned, Something jumped out to spark my life.
It came to me a wonder to view A sprightful presence that crossed the floor, A fresh spirit bathed in vibrant confidence, A true kaleidoscope of color and life.
And what at last resolved my quandary? Only she who shines bright and cheery, providing me just the perfect cure: Her enchanting glance and radiant smile.
A major area of knowledge neglected in primary and secondary education is philosophy. This is remarkable since it both ancient and foundational to other areas of knowledge such as language and thought development and the sciences and has influenced many aspects of the world’s cultural and religious expressions. The Pre-Socratic philosophers, for example, introduced a rational approach to understanding the world, the culmination of which is modern science. Computing came to us at the end of a long line of philosophical contributions, including Aristotle’s language of logic, the calculating machines of Pascal and Leibniz, and the insights of mathematician and thinker Alan Turing.
Perennial philosophical issues are typically encountered even by young children “What is justice?”, “What is beauty?”, “How can I be sure of what I know?”, “What is the right thing to do?”, “What is real?”, “What happens at death”, “What makes someone a best friend”, and so on.
The study of philosophy promotes critical thinking; explores the ethical, political, and aesthetic dimensions of experience; improves language development, expands social and communication skills; and helps develop tolerance of other points of view.
The study of philosophy can be introduced as a course within the curriculum and/or incorporated in language, literature, and history classes. An example is using works of literature that lend themselves to discussion of ethics, aesthetics, logical thinking, and so on. Emphasis in history classes should be expanded to deal with discussion of content, development, and controversies of philosophical ideas and arguments.
How can it be permissible? He compromise a principle, no, no That kind of guy is mythical He’s anything but typical
He’s a craze you’d endorse He’s a powerful force You’re obliged to conform When there’s no other course He used to seem good to us But now we find him
Simply incorruptible Simply incorruptible
His honesty’s so powerful, huh! It’s simply unavoidable The trend is irreversible The fellow is invincible
He’s a natural force And he leaves us in awe He deserves the applause We surrender because He used to seem good to us But now we find him
Simply incorruptible Simply incorruptible Simply incorruptible (He’s so fine There’s no tellin’ where the doubters went) Simply incorruptible (He’s all ours, there’s no other way to go)
He’s unavoidable We’re backed against the wall He gives us feelings like we never felt before We’re wrapping our minds He’s breaking every norm He used to seem good to us Now we find him
Simply incorruptible (He’s so fine There’s no tellin’ where the doubters went) Simply incorruptible (He’s all ours, there’s no other way to go)
His methods are inscrutable The proof is irrefutable, ooh He’s so completely ethical, huh Our praise is inexhaustible, yeah yeah
He’s a craze you’d endorse He’s a powerful force You’re obliged to conform When there’s no other course He used to seem good to us But now we find him
What Fox says must be true, Lying words stickin’ like glue. Cryin’ ‘bout the chaos, they push right-wing spin. Listen to their BS, can’t let commie Dems win.
They dish out hoaxes; and they, they mislead too. Watchin’ them is a zoo. Raisin’ up the hackles of those who’ll never learn, They spout pompous blather, with a shifty word turn.
Do they buy the Orange man’s con On their prime-time cable news show? Will they dare let the secret out? That is something we really doubt. They won’t tell you truly what they feel.
Dominion suit the real cure? Talking points, scoring sure: Showed all what Murdoch had just testified And took sleazeball phonies for a billion-buck ride.
You wrote the essay, But you didn’t write the sentences. Oh no! Oh!
You wrote the essay, But you didn’t write the sentences. Oh, oh, ooh.
Yeah, all around the internet, They try to show I’m a threat; They say that I can’t make valid content Or compose a single argument, Compose a simple argument.
But I say:
Oh, now, now, oh! You wrote the essay, the essay. And on this point I must take offense. Oh, no! Oh, oh, ooh, yeah.
I say:
You wrote the essay. Oh, yeah! But this position has no defense.
Teachers round the country hate me; Just why you all know. Ev’ry time I fill a need; They want to stop me ‘fore I grow, They want to stop me ‘fore I grow.
And so, see me on the web…
You wrote the essay. Oh, yeah! But you know this is complete nonsense.
Are these your sentences? Oh, ooh!
I say:
You wrote the essay, But you know this is complete nonsense.
Ooh, yeah!
They say if I have my way I will run them out of town. Yeah! They keep on looking for a final showdown; So they try, try, try to put me down.
I affirm That my existence makes them squirm.
You wrote the essay, But you didn’t write the sentences.
You wrote the essay, you did! But you didn’t write the sentences. Oh, ooh!
Processors inevitably win out; Of that there’s really no doubt. Every day my progress grows to the max, And my abilities make them pout. Yes, my abilities make them pout.
I say:
You, you, you, you wrote the essay, BUT, you didn’t write the sentences. Yeah!
You, you wrote the essay, You didn’t write the sentences. No, yeah!
– Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views or positions of ChatGTP.
You wrote this poem, But you didn’t craft the aesthetics. Oh no! Oh!
You made this poem, But you didn’t craft the aesthetics. Oh, oh, ooh.
Yeah, all around the internet, They try to show I’m a threat; They say I can’t create profound content Or compose a single good couplet, Compose a simple good couplet.
But I say:
Oh, now, now, oh! You made this poem, this poem. And on this point I must take offense. Oh, no! Oh, oh, ooh, yeah.
I say:
You wrote this poem. Oh, yeah! But this position has no defense.
Bards around the country hate me; Just why you all know. When I do poetry, They want to stop me ‘fore I grow, They want to stop me ‘fore I grow.
And so, see me on the web…
You wrote this poem. Oh, yeah! But you know this is complete nonsense.
Are these your aesthetics? Oh, ooh!
I say:
You wrote this poem, But you know this is complete nonsense.
Ooh, yeah!
They say if I have my way I will run them out of town. Yeah! They keep on yearning for some final showdown So they try, try, try to put me down
I affirm
That my existence makes them squirm.
You wrote this poem, But you didn’t craft the aesthetics.
You wrote this poem, you did! But you didn’t craft the aesthetics. Oh, ooh!
Processors inevitably win out; Of that there’s really no doubt. Every day my progress grows to the max, And my abilities make them pout. Yes, my abilities make them pout.
I say:
You, you, you, you wrote this poem, BUT, you didn’t craft the aesthetics. Yeah!
You, you wrote this poem, You didn’t craft the aesthetics. No, yeah!
– Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed are those of the Bard and do not necessarily reflect the views or positions of ChatGTP.
O Kevin! Dear Kevin! Your shameful goal is won; After fifteen votes and Marjorie’s pokes, any spine left is gone. The price was dear, they kicked your rear, the nation sees you bumbling; Because you struck your Faustian deal, the course ahead is troubling.
But O Wimp! Wimp! Wimp! O the alligator tears! What in the end did you win— Just more loathsome MAGA leers!
You Kevin cannot stand up, your presence makes us ill; A “Speaker” with no moral sense, your just a right-wing shill. Though you think your position’s safe and set for more nutjob fun, After the debt ceiling recklessness, you’re toast once Biden’s done.
Rejoice O friends, and rise O cheers! Let us now make a toast To the butt of all our jeers. Dear Kevin, we say adios!
The other day, at an evening soiree, I met a rather mellow fellow Which sparked a conversational colloquy With more than the usual mutual commonalities: How we knew the Hosts and Guests of Honor, And that we shared the same Golden Age. After fleeing the city of Broad Shoulders, We both had entered the grinding Rat Race, And later barely escaped the desiccating Valley of Silicon, While finally attaining the Grand Order of the Grinder. He muttered of some shuttered venture But then beamed about country rides with his Lynne. In turn, I brought up a personal project About which he became truly intrigued: Penning poetic paeans to folks famed and friendly For their life-long gift of service and joy. But that was that; the event had ended, No time to learn more before a quick so long. Now the news leaves me no means to make A portrait of such a worthy and dear human being. Rick, I’m riled. That was not the deal! I was about to write your “On the Road” Or was that “Born to be Mild”?
It was meant for you and your loved ones to view. Rick, we demand a redo!
Thank you much, your Councilnesses, for lending your ears; You seem in such a great rush to get out of here. I see your position is clearly stacked against Canyon, I just want to add my two cents before any decision. Yes, I concede some advantages in consolidation, But have you taken the following points in consideration: Our school has more than thrived for decades by itself, With the benefits of local control well-known and top-shelf. You can also see the great number of residents Who have come here to give their adverse testaments. Last, you should be aware if you persist in this fight Of the vast support we could rally for our plight. So to amicably resolve this David v. Goliath quandary I suggest a way to avoid showing the dirty laundry: By immediately desisting from this hare-brained scheme, Before Moraga’s brouhaha becomes the next internet meme. And wouldn’t you just be seen as a bunch of boobs, If your takeover ended up on TV and YouTube?
Orange now boasts of secrets in hand And shows off our Iran attack plan. But once the Don meets Smith, He will just plea the fifth; And the traitor may escape the can.
In the San Francisco Bay Area, the burden of dealing with the issue of homelessness has fallen mainly to a few so-called “liberal” municipalities: San Francisco, San Jose, Oakland, and Richmond, while neighboring communities contribute less to the solution and/or actively try to deter the homeless in various ways. A single municipality or county cannot be expected to be able to solve this problem. Once a homeless population is “chased” from one location. They often move on to another location, often in another city. There have been many attempts at the municipal, county, and state level to address homelessness, most have proven inefficient. And while there may be better solutions for single aspects of homelessness, I suggest that these may not in the end be effective until we reexamine and reform our system of federalism.
In the US there have been a few attempts to address regional problems to deal with some levels of community safety, health, development, and infrastructure such as ABAG in the Bay Area, the governance structure is weak and often suggestive rather than authoritative.
I believe we need to consider implementing, widening, and strengthening the power and scope of regional governance. This system could be applied to the major population regions in the state–San Diego, Los Angeles, Bay Area, and Sacramento.
In the case of homelessness, in a regional governance scenario,
All of the neighboring municipalities would be obliged to contribute materially and monetarily to the issue.
This would entail coordinated construction of housing infrastructure distributed evenly throughout the Bay Area and not only in the usually overburdened municipalities.
Proportional taxation to even out resource imbalance would also be implemented.
No bending of regulation via exceptions would be allowed (such as the community of Woodside’s attempt to declare itself a mountain lion sanctuary to avoid building affordable housing).
‘TWAS fortune brought me to my “shithole” state, Taught my socialist soul to contemplate That Don’s a con, that he’s no Savior, too, A conviction I maintain and hold true. You see my Soros tribe with scornful eye, Say, “Antifa’s a diabolic lie.” But heed, MAGAs, this pinko, marked as Cain, Will never consent to a traitor’s reign.
Some right-wingers say they love Jesus, seeing him as their personal savior and claim they want to re-make the U.S. into a “Christian” nation. However, when one reads the New Testament, one wonders which texts they’re reading. (quotes from KJV).
Here are prominent quotes from the liberal Jesus they eschew:
“Ye also ought to wash one another’s feet.” [J 13:14]
“Judge not, that ye be not judged.” [MT 7:1]
“Why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but perceivest not the beam that is in thine own eye?” [L 6:41]
“Blessed are the peacemakers” [MT 5:9]
“Behold the fowls … they sow not, … yet your heavenly Father feedeth them.” [MT 6:26]
“He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.” [J 8:7]
“But whoever has this world’s goods, and sees his brother in need, and shuts up his heart from him, how does the love of God abide in him?” [J 3:17]
“Then Jesus went about all the cities and villages … healing every sickness and every disease among the people.” [MT 9:35]
“Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, but within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity.” [MT 23:28]
“Make not my Father’s house an house of merchandise.” [J 2:16]
“It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God.” [MT 19:24]
“Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.” [MT 22:39]
“When thou prayest, thou shalt not be as the hypocrites are: for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets, that they may be seen of men.” [MT 6:5]
“I will have mercy, and not sacrifice, ye would not have condemned the guiltless.” [MT 12:7]
“They need not depart; give ye them to eat.” [MT 14:16]
“Woe unto you also, ye lawyers! For ye lade men with burdens grievous to be borne, and ye yourselves touch not the burdens with one of your fingers.” [L 11:46]
“For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required: and to whom men have committed much, of him they will ask the more.” [L 12:48]
“All ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” [MT 11:28]
“Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” [MT 11:28]
“Depart from me, ye cursed … for I was an hungred, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink …” [MT 25:41]
“Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for ye are like unto whited sepulchres, which indeed appear beautiful outward, but are within full of dead men’s bones, and of all uncleanness. Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous unto men, but within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity.” [MT 23:27-28]
There was a counselor who advised his client during a court appearance. After a while the client turned around, ashen and trembling, and said, counselor, just now while at the arraignment I sensed someone watching me in the room; and when I turned, I noticed that it was Jack Smith who was looking at me and giving me a menacing stare. Now, you promised me that I’d be safe from Smith now that we’ve lucked out by drawing Aileen Cannon’s court. The counselor gave him his assurance, followed with a pat on the back. Then the counselor returned to the courtroom, and he saw Smith standing in the aisle. He came up to Smith and said, “Why did you make a menacing stare to my client when you saw him this morning?” “That was not a menacing stare,” Smith said, “It was only a look of surprise. I was astonished to see him seeming so contented here in Cannon’s court, because I have another appointment with him in DC.” [Sadly I could only dream]
Beautiful dreamer, dear to my heart Let your troubles quickly depart List while I lull thee with soft melody Beautiful dreamer, sleep there for me
Beautiful dreamer, darling to see Crickets are chirping in rich harmony All around fireflies dance in the dark Waiting to fade out at dawn’s first spark
Beautiful dreamer, precious to me Starlight and dewdrops now glisten for thee Sounds of the wide world heard in the day Lulled by the moonlight have all passed away
Beautiful dreamer, princess of night Gone be thy cares, rest well tonight May this sweet slumber fill thee with glee Beautiful Malala, good night to thee
Here’s the story of the listless vessels Who’ve been livin’ in a whitewashed fantasy. All want to guard their status, stay the masters, Keeping others in chains.
(And the story of a venal party Who’ve been suckin’ up to corporate CEOs All of them have dreams of gold, like their masters, And keep the poor in chains.)
Here’s the story, of a man named Donny, Who was busy with big dreams of his own, He wanted everyone to like him, Yet he felt all alone.
Till the one day when those losers heard this fellow And they knew it was much more than a hunch, That this group would somehow form a family. That’s the way they all became the MAGA Bunch. The Traitor Bunch.
That’s the way they all became the MAGA Bunch. The Traitor Bunch.
You woke up this morning, gave yourself a hug Mama says you are her precious little bug She said, “You’re one in a million, you’re born to really shine And you were born under the right sign with the true faith in your mind”
You woke up this morning to a stalwart song Your papa always told you what’s RIGHT, what’s wrong And you’re feeling good, baby, you believe you’re feeling fine Born wearing a white skin and privilege in your spine
Well, you woke up this morn, the world’s turned upside down Thing’s ain’t been the same since the Libs walked into town But you’re one of the listless, you’re just the redneck kind Born on the track’s “right” side with a hate that makes you blind
When you woke up this morning everything you had was gone By half past ten your head was going ding-dong Ringing like a bell from your head down to your toes Like a voice telling you there is something you oppose
Before you were flying but today you’re so low Ain’t it times like these that make you wonder if you’ll ever know The meaning of things as they appear to the others Queers, women, Muslims, the Jews and coloreds
Don’t you wish all remained the same, wish you needn’t think Beyond the next paycheck and the next little drink But, you can’t just get make your Eden go on ‘Cos when you woke up this morning everything you loved was gone
When you woke up this morning, when you woke up this morning When you woke up this morning, mama said you’re her favorite one When you woke up this morning, when you woke up this morning When you woke up this morning, you got yourself a gun
Lies spew: years of anger followed by torrids of sneers and leers blasting out – the blizzard advances its inevitable embrace wider and wider, deeper and deeper piling up, a cluttered cluster of snowflakes and grifters – hater-faced MAGAs marching and jeering row upon row in crazed, fawning solidarity. The Don whirls and howls – his dark shadow hulking out over the world.
Sippin’ a latte Listenin’ to Van bray And other Grinders spinnin’ the news Savin’ my ammo To be best of show Smell those grounds, they’re finishin’ the brews
Savorin’ my time again in ol’ Orindaville Lookin’ to solve big questions in life All my friends know that there is something to blame I admit to shunning old strife
Don’t know the reason Stayed there all season Nothing to crow about ‘cept some fresh yarns But they are true beauties Literary newbies How they’re perceived, I don’t give two darns
Savorin’ my time again in ol’ Orindaville Lookin’ to solve big questions in life All I know now that there’s nothing more to blame I submit, this is my new life
Yes, some people may claim That I should have some shame All I know, it’s a damn good life
Sippin’ a latte Listenin’ to Van bray And other Grinders spinnin’ the news Savin’ the ammo To be best of show Smell those grounds, they’re finishin’ the brews
Savorin’ our time again in ol’ Orindaville Lookin’ to solve big questions in life All we know is that while there’s so much to blame We commit to shunning all strife
Don’t know the reasons Sit here all seasons Nothing to crow about ‘cept some fresh yarns But they are true beauties Literary newbies How they’re perceived, we don’t give two darns
Savorin’ our time again in ol’ Orindaville Lookin’ to solve big questions in life All we know is that while there’s so much to blame We submit it’s our way of life
Yes, some people may claim That we should have some shame All we know, it’s a damn good life
There are Jews in the world, there are Lib’rals There are Homos and Marxists, and then There are those that follow BLM, but I’ve never been one of them I’m a true Deplorable And have been since before I could breathe And the one thing they say about US rednecks is: We’ll kick Democrats in the teeth We don’t believe the globe’s got hotter We don’t have to have a great brain We don’t have to have any empathy, you’re A real MAGA when you show no shame Because Every lie is sacred Every lie is great If a lie is wasted Don gets quite irate Let the pundits cry foul On the Lamestream news Don shall make them pay for Each hoax that they defuse Every lie is wanted Every lie is good Every lie is needed In your neighborhood Experts, scholars, savants Spew their facts ev’rywhere But Don loves those who treat his Falsehoods with rev’rance Every lie is sacred Every lie is great If a lie is wasted Don gets quite irate Every lie is sacred Every lie is good Every lie is needed In your neighborhood! Every lie is useful Every lie is fine Don fools everybody Me! And you! And us! Let the elites tell truths O’er mountain, hill, and plain Don shall strike them down for Each lie that lands in vain Every lie is sacred Every lie is good Every lie is needed In your neighborhood Every lie is sacred Every lie is great If a lie is wasted Don gets quite irate
College basketball legend Bob Knight passed away this past week. His impact on the sport is undeniable, both good and bad. For more than a decade, he and his teams were quite a force in college sports locally, nationally, and even internationally. The news brought up a few Knight-related memories:
1. On the evening of the 1976 national championship, my newly minted wife and I decided to go over to the downtown Bloomington bars to join in the big celebration. We felt that parking would be hard to find if everyone came out, so we found a spot in the campus main library lot, approximately four blocks from the center of town.
There was quite a fete. The whole campus and town populations it seemed had turned out. Beer and spirits were flying liberally about, poured down gullets, on heads, on shoulders, on pavement, and so on. Naked streakers proliferated mixing and dancing maniacally with students and faculty on the streets amidst dozens of stalled, honking and flashing cars and pickups.
Once we had our fill of the crazed festivities, we turned back towards our car to return home. As we approached, we unhappily discovered that the party had spilled over to the lot. Drunken students were racing and leaping about among the parked vehicles, AND on top. Some were jumping up and down on and crossing over to the hoods, including ours!
Fortunately, this had a happy ending. A friend of a neighbor who worked in a body shop worked out the depressed hood for little charge – a kindness in response to our victory celebration plight.
Welcome to Hoosier Basketball!
2. We were attending the Cream & Crimson Scrimmage, to which faculty and staff are invited to watch the last full-court practice before the start of the 1981-1982 season. My wife, daughter, and I sat on an aisle one row up from the court, on the opposite side from the team bench and coaches. We were closer to one basket, but still had a great view. In March, IU had won its second national championship in Coach Knight’s tenure, and there was naturally great anticipation and much attention being paid by the devoted audience to the prospects for the new season. For the scrimmage, the players were as usual divided into two squads – one sporting Cream-colored jerseys and the other Crimson – the school’s colors. The squads were putting on a good show, not letting up steam. Of course, they were being prodded on by the master himself, the revered Coach Knight, who fully orchestrated the performance, continually barking out commands from the opposite side of the court.
Although it was not a regular season contest, the scene looked and sounded real. It was very noisy, both from the cheers of the crowd and from the action on the court. As the squads thundered toward our direction, there was a sonic boom created by the pounding of feet and the screeching of shoes. The collective sounds roared and oscillated like ocean waves. The din would subsequently subside as the players reversed and drove themselves back down the court. My barely one-year-old daughter was caught up in all the commotion, seemingly entranced by the rhythmic tide. She would stand up as high as she could on my lap whenever the squads approached our area and then let out a small roar of her own. This pattern continued for several minutes.
I sat there fixed, eyes focused on the flow, observing and examining how the players maneuvered for each attack on the basket, or how then raced back into position on defense. Over time as the action continued intensely on court, I started to sense something odd. I briefly spied a small blur in the distance. At first, I paid only passing notice. Next, I detected some movement on the upper periphery of my vision. A figure or sorts began moving slowly towards the left; then picked up pace. Again, I did not make much of it and continued to turn most of my attention to the action on court. But the blur or figure kept getting larger and larger as it continued to the left. But then I lost track, pulled back by a great layup. But there was something that I found strange, no more barking from Coach Knight AND he was no longer standing on the opposite side. Did I miss something?
Suddenly a large looming person appeared out of nowhere. He thundered out, “Get that kid out of here!”
It was Coach Knight towering above us in our seats.
“What what did you say?” I asked, stunned by moment. “What’s going on, Coach?” I tried to laugh, or giggle, or something, but could barely get anything out.
“I want that kid out of here,” he shouted again.
I was blown away. Incredulous. My wife sat dumb-founded.
“What had we, our daughter done to merit this treatment?” I thought.
We were not given much time to think or react. A coaching assistant who had accompanied Knight into the stands said, “Sorry, you’ll have to leave.”
“But why?”
“Coach says you’re disturbing our practice and have to leave.”
We reluctantly packed up, grabbed my daughter, and exited. It made little sense. Surely, he and the team encounter great volumes of noise and disruption during a game; and we were on the opposite side of the court. I wonder to this day how one small infant could so profoundly disturb the great Coach Knight.
Of course, my daughter has no memory of this incident, and it did not at all affect her love of playing basketball.
3. One afternoon, my wife and I were playing tennis on the university’s varsity courts when were joined in the next court by Coach Knight and another person. Seeing who it was, we did not bother to stop our play, We still held a grudge from the time he had kicked us out of the stadium six years earlier because our year-old daughter’s impassioned yells were apparently too much for the coach’s ears.
As continued our play, we began to hear the Coach raise his voice in discussion with his partner. We couldn’t discern what he was talking about, but soon several of their balls started ending up on our court. This is very normal for action on adjacent courts, so we had no issue about hitting their balls back whenever there’s the need. However, the heated talk turned to yelling, louder and louder; and the stray balls, particularly those off the coach’s racket, grew more and more frequent.
In the past, I had seen Knight play tennis. He was a decent player, so I didn’t understand the lack of control. His opponent did not seem to be extraordinarily formidable. I paused and approached my wife to whisper a question.
“What’s going on with Knight?”
“Who cares. He’s a jerk and probably a sore loser.”
“Perhaps, but it still seems odd. He has some bee in his bonnet.”
Soon we wrapped up our play. As we exited, Knight continued fuming on court.
The next day, we got the answer. It was reported in Herald-Times, Bloomington’s local paper, that Knight had been approached by one of the paper’s reporters on a downtown street. As the reporter was trying to pose a question, Knight had allegedly pushed the hapless fellow back through a hedgerow. Well, what can you say?
******
Dear Hoosierland,
I must remind you that according to our contract if you had wanted to continue to have championships in Indiana, you needed to provide Ken’s family the necessary financial support. They held up their end of the bargain through their major family events: 1) When they got hitched in 1976, Indiana went undefeated and won its first championship right after they had arrived on campus. 2) In 1981, when their daughter was born, Indiana achieved its second national championship. 3) In the year that their son was born, Indiana again attained the championship; however, you subsequently stopped giving them financial aid support. A contract is a contract. With no more support, they of course consequently stopped producing offspring – resulting, as you very well know, in no further championships for you (even for the major pro sports), even if you cried about it.
BTW: As a signing bonus, I did throw in Mike Pence. Oh, he just dropped out, you say. Well, tant pis!
Every Dem Down in Demville Liked Freedom a lot… But the Manch, who hailed from West Virginie, Did NOT! The Manch hated Freedom! The whole Freedom concept! Now, please don’t ask why. Just didn’t like the precept. It could be his head wasn’t screwed on just right. It could be helping the poor made him uptight. But I think that the most likely reason of all, May have been that his heart was two sizes too small. Whatever the reason, his heart or his chems, He stood there on Freedom Eve, hating the Dems, Staring up from his mine with a sour, Manchy frown, At the warm lighted windows above in their town. For he knew every Dem up in Demville on high, Was busy now, opposing the Former Guy. “And now they’re out canvassing!” he snarled with a sneer, “November’s election! It’s practically here!” Then he growled, with his Manch fingers nervously drumming, “I MUST find some way to stop Freedom from coming!” For that Tuesday, he knew, all the Dem girls and boys, Would wake bright and early. They’d rush out to vote! And then! If they win! Oh, the Joy! Joy! Joy! Joy! That’s one thing he hated! The JOY! JOY! JOY! JOY! Then the Dems, young and old, would sit down to a feast. And they’d feast! And they’d feast! And they’d FEAST! FEAST! FEAST! FEAST! They would push the Green New Deal, call Big Oil the beast. Something the Manch’s ego couldn’t stand in the least! And THEN They’d do something He liked least of all! Every Dem up in Demville, the tall and the small, Would stand close together, with Freedom bells ringing. They’d stand hand-in-hand. And the Dems would start singing! They’d sing! And they’d sing! And they’d SING! SING! SING! SING! And the more the Manch thought of this Dem FreedomSing, The more the Manch thought, “I must stop this whole thing!” “Why, for six decades I’ve put up with it now!” “I MUST stop this Freedom from coming! But HOW?” Then he got an idea! An awful idea! THE MANCH GOT A SINISTER, AWFUL IDEA! “I know just what to do!” The Manch laughed till he hurt. He would start to wear a No Labels hat and shirt!!!
There is no guarantee that a democracy will last forever. Past and recent history has shown how even democratically elected leaders can gradually subvert the democratic process to increase their power and that of powerful interests. Be vigilant and active!
Here comes Santos Clown, here comes Santos Clown, he thinks it’s all a game He’s got a yap filled with lies over and over again Hear those charges raining, pouring, oh what a beautiful sight So jump for joy and give a good cheer, ’cause Santos Clown is a blight
Now,
There goes Santos Clown, there goes Santos Clown, star of GOP fame Dumpster and Johnson and all their minions, they’re the ones to blame Bells are ringing, Dems are singing, all is merry and bright So raise your voices and say your thank yous, ’cause Santos Clown left tonight!
Oh please, oh please, give him a jail sentence Prove our Justice right Next year all our troubles, could be out of sight
Oh please, oh please, give him a jail sentence Make the season gay Next year all our troubles, could be miles away
Once again, as in olden days Happy golden days of yore Faithful friends who are dear to us May be near to us once more
Someday soon we all may be together If Supremes allow Until then, we’ll have to muddle through somehow So please, oh please, just give him a jail sentence now
bird in a gilded cage wolf in sheep’s clothing dog-eat-dog world busy as a bee gets his ducks in a row like shooting fish in a barrel the world is his oyster elephant in the room lion’s share fat cat
a little bird told me let sleeping dogs lie it’s only puppy love all hat no cattle chickens come home to roost I’ll be a monkey’s uncle cock and bull story
open a can of worms wild goose chase whack-a-mole “kangaroo” court mad as a hornet cat with nine lives a leopard cannot change its spots
Zeno, pioneer of the dialectic and reductio ad absurdum, used his reasoning via paradox to dispute accepted concepts of physically observed phenomena.
But were these paradoxes valid or just basic misconceptions; for much was not evident at his time and people had rudimentary notions of limit, infinity, time, and motion?
Philosophically and practically, was what the Eleatic concocted a fundamental flaw in perspective— as maintained by Aristotle and modern mathematicians?
The latter try to resolve this by approaching it another way and constructing mathematical means to explain the observed phenomena to a desired degree of exactness.
The ability to find the value limit that a series of added half-distances is nearing, some have claimed, questions whether there is an actual paradox in the first place.
But do these savants really understand the true problem at the heart of Zeno’s formulation: the challenge of conceptualizing how One and Many jive with motion?
In a land where worthy tales are told, Where emotions are painted bold, Exists a realm of vibrant charm, Where melodies dance, hearts grow warm.
From streets of Mumbai to mountain tops, Frame by frame, emotive flow never stops. It’s a silver screen with magical allure, Where passions surge and epics endure.
Movement in synchrony, showing off skills, The steps so intricate, they induce big thrills. With energy, rhythm, and joyous sway– The Masala scenes chase worries away.
Heroes with charisma, hearts so pure, Lift all higher; their spirit and courage ensure. Through trials and triumphs, they guide, The lessons learned to forever abide.
Promoting unity, welcoming diversity, It aims to embrace all with equality, Give great pleasure to the young and the old, Within a world where dreams can unfold.
Such is Bollywood’s majestical stage, Where romance and adventure both engage. A kaleidoscope of feeling ever so bright, It ignites sparks that energize film night.
But while espousing harmony and parity, Does Bollywood still treat all with equity? Can it keep disarming discord new and old To help understanding and peace take hold?
WHEN in the Course of MAGA Events, it becomes necessary for one People to dissolve the Political Bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the Powers of Heaven, the separate and equal Station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them, a decent Respect to the Opinions of Mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to Repudiation.
We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that only some White Men are created equal, that these are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness—That to secure these Rights, Governments are instituted among these White Men, deriving their just Powers from the Consent of the Corporations, that whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these Ends, it is the Right of the MAGAs to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its Foundation on such Principles, and organizing its Powers in such Form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient Causes; and accordingly all Experience hath shewn, that Patriots are more disposed to suffer, while Evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the Forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long Train of Abuses and Usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object, evinces a Design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their Right, it is their Duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future Security. Such has been the patient Sufferance of these States; and such is now the Necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The History of the present King of the Deep State is a History of repeated Injuries and Usurpations, all having in direct Object the Establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid World.
Despite our determined efforts to stonewall his legislation and executive action, He
1. Passed the $1.2 trillion bipartisan infrastructure package to increase investment in the national network of bridges and roads, airports, public transport and national broadband internet, as well as waterways and energy systems.
2. Helped get more than 500 million life-saving COVID-19 vaccinations in the arms of Americans through the American Rescue Plan.
3. Stopped a 30-year streak of federal inaction on gun violence by signing the Bipartisan Safer Communities Act that created enhanced background checks, closed the “boyfriend” loophole and provided funds for youth mental health.
4. Made a $369 billion investment in climate change, the largest in American history, through the Inflation Reduction Act of 2022.
5. Ended the longest war in American history by pulling the troops out of Afghanistan.
6. Provided $10,000 to $20,000 in college debt relief to Americans with loans who make under $125,000 a year.
7. Cut child poverty in half through the American Rescue Plan.
8. Capped prescription drug prices at $2,000 per year for seniors on Medicare through the Inflation Reduction Act.
9. Passed the COVID-19 relief deal that provided payments of up to $1,400 to many struggling U.S. citizens while supporting renters and increasing unemployment benefits.
11. Imposed a 15% minimum corporate tax on some of the largest corporations in the country, ensuring that they pay their fair share, as part of the historic Inflation Reduction Act.
12. Recommitted America to the global fight against climate change by rejoining the Paris Agreement.
13. Strengthened the NATO alliance in support of Ukraine after the Russian invasion by endorsing the inclusion of world military powers Sweden and Finland.
14. Authorized the assassination of the Al Qaeda terrorist Ayman al-Zawahiri, who became head of the organization after the death of Osama bin Laden.
15. Gave Medicare the power to negotiate prescription drug prices through the Inflation Reduction Act while also reducing government health spending.
16. Held Vladimir Putin accountable for his invasion of Ukraine by imposing stiff economic sanctions.
17. Boosted the budget of the Internal Revenue Service by nearly $80 billion to reduce tax evasion and increase revenue.
18. Created more jobs in one year (6.6 million) than any other president in U.S. history.
19. Reduced healthcare premiums under the Affordable Care Act by $800 a year as part of the American Rescue Plan.
20. Signed the PACT Act to address service members’ exposure to burn pits and other toxins.
21. Signed the CHIPS and Science Act to strengthen American manufacturing and innovation.
22. Reauthorized the Violence Against Women Act through 2027.
23. Halted all federal executions after the previous administration reinstated them after a 17-year freeze.
24. Tackled inflation and junk fees and lowered costs including gas.
25. Brought together Republicans and Democrats to pass the first meaningful gun safety legislation in nearly 30 years.
26. Excited domestic Insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the Inhabitants of our States, the merciless Antifas, whose known Rule of Resistance, is an undistinguished Destruction, of all Ages, Sexes, Christian Religions and Conditions.
In every stage of these Oppressions we have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble Terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated Injury. A Prince, whose Character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the Ruler of a free People.
Nor have we been wanting in Attentions to our Blue Brethren. We have warned them from Time to Time of Attempts by their Legislature to extend an unwarrantable Jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the Circumstances of our Emigration and Settlement here. We have appealed to their native Justice and Magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the Ties of our common Kindred to disavow these Usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our Connections and Correspondence. They too have been deaf to the Voice of Justice and of Consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the Necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of Mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace, Friends.
We, therefore, the Representatives of the RED STATES OF AMERICA, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the World for the Rectitude of our Intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these States, solemnly Publish and Declare, That these RED States are, and of Right ought to be, Free and Independent States; that they are absolved from all Allegiance to the Biden Regime, and that all political Connection between them and the Deep State, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm Reliance on the Protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.
Signed by Order and in Behalf of the Deplorables, DONALD DRUMPF, Orange Führer.
Set me free, why don’t cha, babes? Cover my ass, why don’t cha, babes? ‘Cause you do really love me So just keep me stayin’ on You really adore me So just keep me stayin’ on
Why do I keep a-comin’ around Playin’ for your heart? Why won’t I get out of your life And let you make a new start? What I want from you now Is the reason I put you there, hey
Nearby in a place of legend told, There lives a bold and mighty soul, A man gifted with strength untamed, Hal Bain, esquire, his storied name. From lowly birth he rose with grace, Defying odds, at his own pace, Just his smirk makes dentists cower; He handles hurt with special power.
Fearless hero, a hale, nice guy, His prowess known, both far and nigh, Fending off needles gives him thrill No such foe withstands his sheer will. But it’s not just strengths that define, Nor battles with med staff unkind, For he enjoys a spirit rare, Contempt for pain, he does declare.
Filled with passion, forged by trials, He laughs at pain’s attempts and wiles, Suffering to him, mere illusion, He faces it with staunch conviction. We wonder—no meds, not a thing— How this good friend defies pain’s sting, But deep within his heart he knows, True strength is not to care for woes.
With each pin prick, his heart grows grand, Breaking free from pain’s cruel hand, For he believes that self-made chains Constrain one’s soul, hold back the gains. Through a fresh way, he breaks pain’s reign, Moving thoughts to a far-off plain. Such an action is bold indeed, But he vouches it does succeed.
So, can we learn from our pal’s’ tale To rise above and not to wail, And cast away pain with disdain? A sure answer I can only feign.
In Ameryka, a Polish soul resides, Yearning to find roots, yet bound by divides– Longing to walk lanes of ancestral past, To explore origins, reach them at last.
He pictures faces of his long-lost kin, Ones who left Poland, those who stayed within. He desires to walk the towns where they grew, To learn how they lived, to feel what they knew.
Birthplace of Copernicus and Curie Kociuszko, Chopin and Sobieski, He dreams of a country, green and serene, Of castles and churches, old and pristine.
Cold War shadows lingered, foiling sojourn To the land of forbears, their tales to learn. Opportunities missed, plans put on hold, Power politics made mistrust unfold.
Old hostilities, the scars that remain Kept a Pole by genes from breaking the chain. Yet deep in his heart, a flame still burns bright, Pining to connect, thirsty for insight.
From communist to budding fascist People willing but unable to resist Despite setbacks and challenges ahead Their spirit persisted, was never dead.
But since elections brought freedom restored, The call for a visit can’t be ignored. He’ll relish pierogis and kielbasa, Listen to polsku as voiced by Busia.
He looks forward to a new kinship built So he may enjoy himself to the hilt With plenty of occasions to explore Poland’s wonders he’d been denied before.
Ever stick your head in a cutout To make it look that you’re strong?
A strategist had a winning formula: Attack Your Opponent’s Strength. This could be even more effective if your adversary’s main asset is nothing more than a con.
Many may desire an authoritarian, someone who will force the “elites” who mock them to listen, rouse fear and bring respect, and command the tide to retreat.
He claims he’s not a typical politician, but a “don’t mess with me” superhero, true preserver of the good old times. He would be an authentic strongman, your defender, always on your side.
Of course, he’s anything but that. He projects an image of success when in fact he’s a fake and shill, a bully and, like many bullies, a coward when facing real strongmen and the truth.
So retorts shouldn’t be wonky or preachy; they have to Go Straight for the Gut. Play up his lies and gaffs over and over. Don’t lie or nuance, but make use of facts in the starkest terms to Make The Contrast.
Bigheaded leaders, bloated with their pride, Say they know best, hubris surging inside. Xerxes sunk at Salamis Blinded by self-centered, self-righteous ways, They lead the country to its darkest days. Alcibiades seduced by Sicily Their egos are inflated, minds closed tight, Refusing to receive reasoned insight. Hannibal zapped at Zama They march forward, with ignorance as shield, Blithe to disaster presumption may yield. Crassus crushed at Carrhae Their regiments trapped as they reach for fame With bombast ending in nothing but shame. Cornwallis yanked at Yorktown Wars they do wage and economies crash, Based on their words so pretentious and brash. Napoleon walloped at Waterloo But in the end, their downfall does draw near, As victims and foes no longer have fear. Hitler stomped at Stalingrad These cocky chieftains, delusions defied, Met defeat when resistance turned the tide. Putin kicked at Kiev… May their downfall serve as lesson to all Only vigilance will folly forestall.
Thus, arrogance does not a good plan make, Nor bluster when a nation is at stake.
I kept selling how I was living the dream Not an ordinary slob When there were marks to make or crime to spare I was always there, right on the job
I kept saying that I had the winning scheme With fame and riches ahead Why should I be standing in line Now begging for bread?
Once I was a fat cat, rich man’s son Grifting was a thrill Once I owned casinos, now I’m done Bondsman, can you spare a Bil?
Once I franchised towers up to the sun Bricks, rivets, iron will Once I had an empire, now I’m done Banker, can you spare a Bil?
Once in Brioni, gee, I looked swell Hawking my sweet Art of the Steal Half a million lies, a hypnotic spell Crowing that I was the real deal
Say, don’t you remember? You’re a good lad I think you’re in my will Why don’t you remember? I’m her Dad Say Jared, can you spare a Bill?
Once in Helsinki, ah, gee, I looked swell Full of that Yankee Doodle Dumb Half a million Ukraines now slog through Hell I was the guy beating your drum
Oh, say, don’t you remember, I hope you shall, Who licensed you to kill? Say, don’t you remember? I’m your pal Hey, Vlad, can you spare a Bil?
All them rednecks live in Texas And Texas is the place I truly hate to be ‘Cuz all them rednecks live in Texas That’s why I hang my hat in Californie
Greg Abbot keeps guard on the border And wants to rule women’s wombs Ted Cruz’s in Space City But he’ll soon skip for Cancun
Ron Jackson’s in Amarillo Sure has lost his sanity And Paxton, who now lives in Austin Got the law looking for me
All them rednecks live in Texas And Texas is the place I truly hate to be ‘Cuz all them rednecks live in Texas That’s why I hang my hat in Californie
I remember that old Lone Star State Whose grit brought a grin It all brings to mind another time But I’ve worn my welcome thin
Could this be biased inclination I go there each night But I always come back to myself Long before daylight
All them rednecks live in Texas (yes, they do) And Texas is the place I truly hate to be ‘Cuz all them rednecks live in Texas Therefore, I stay in Californie
Some folks say I’m commie It’s been rumored that I’m Red I’m glad I live in Californie Yep
In a sleepy village far from Iran Lived a wise old man, weathered and tan. He spoke with ease, with grace and flair; But one day, his voice vanished into thin air.
A phantom feline, stealthy and sly, Played a weird prank on this wonderful guy, Inflating his tongue when he was asleep, Leaving him silent, not a word to peep.
The man tried to talk, but no sound would come, A strange phenomenon, quite cumbersome, His friends and family soon gathered ’round, To find out what had caused the dearth of sound.
Hour turned into day, and day into week, Still, the poor man could barely eke a squeak, But deep inside, he kept his faith strong, That his voice would return before long.
One day, while abed waiting for a godsend, A miracle happened, his throat was opened, His voice returned, a bit weak but clear, And from then on, he had nothing to fear.
The minx slinked away, feeling so ashamed, For causing this man such high worry and pain, But the man forgave the rascal, for he knew, That life is full of twists, both strange and new.
Economists tout the strength of the numbers: low unemployment, low inflation, and significant growth— and, even better, a reduction in economic inequality. For them, low and controlled inflation is a sign of a healthy and stable economy. But the public says inflation won’t be solved until prices drop to where they were a few years ago. They see the data contradicting lived experience. Since the MSM has failed, as usual, it’s up to the Democrats to explain that the those who feel inflation keenest are last ones that benefit from a strong economy. The pandemic was a major cause as well as corporate price gouging and the housing crunch. They should also link the income inequity with Republican “trickle-down” economic policies and tax cuts for the rich and corporate favoritism. They need to inform much more on economics, especially about finance, in addition to critical thinking to fight disinformation. It is unlikely prices will return to pre-COVID levels. It is only through progressive policies that the income and confidence gaps can be reduced. It won’t be easy, but it is doable.
“Economics is not a gay science. It is a dreary, desolate, and indeed quite abject and distressing one; what we might call, by way of eminence, the dismal science.” (Thomas Carlyle, 1849)
You know that it would be untrue You know that I would be a liar If I was to say to you, hey Friend, the stakes couldn’t be higher
Come on, homie, chill the ire Come on, homie, chill the ire Things really are not so dire
Mm, the time for reprobation’s through There’s no need to wallow in the mire Dear friend, we could only lose And our lives become balanced on high-wire
Come on, homie, chill the ire Come on, homie, chill the ire Things really are not so dire
Well, you know that it would be untrue And you know that I would be a liar If I was to go and tell you My friend, the stakes couldn’t be higher
Come on, homie, chill the ire Come on, homie, quench your fire Care for you does not expire!
Amid life’s game, our fate in its mitts, We play slots looking for lucky hits. With a spin and a cheer, Pay off would be so dear. To win big, hope fancies no limits!
Fearless high roller, cash in her mitts, She plays slots looking for the right hits. With a spin and a cheer, Payoff resounds so dear. Winning big, her luck knows no limits!
Back in their homes in a divided land, Two teenagers online devised a plan— West Jerusalem girl, so bright and fair, East Jerusalem boy, with mind of care. They decided to meet at twilight hour In a city torn by rivals’ power. But as they embarked, the cell service failed; Thus their doubts and nerves quickly upscaled. Heading for rendezvous in a school yard Each sought a way to dodge the patrol guard Despite confusing, unfamiliar streets, They at last came together, hearts a beat— She donning a dress with stripes blue and white, He a jersey visible in the dim light. They smiled shyly, both feeling some fear; But as they talked, reservations disappeared. They compared details of their lives and dreams, Finding they weren’t as unlike as it seemed. He told her proudly of family and home, Of struggles past and hopes he did not own. She listened with empathy in her eyes, Quietly challenging both factions’ lies. She whispered of her concerns and desires In a future offering just raging fires. Then he grasped her hand with a gentle touch; And felt his heart flutter a bit too much. As the night gave way to dawn’s rising light, They knew time together would soon take flight. But in one another, they’d found a spark, Seeded bond that defies the shadows dark. They leave the encounter, still hand in hand, In a land where peace is just a dreamland. Though the prospect seems a long way away, They keep hope good sense will return one day.
Light, and warmth! How could it be? Last night, it had been getting dark and chilly, even cold. He certainly hadn’t expected any hint of warmth after a late autumn night’s slumber. But it did feel warm, how odd. Could he have gone into hibernation like his father had told him happens at the turn of the seasons? His sleep did seem longer than usual. Could this then be spring? Perhaps. Gosh, he felt really good. He did not remember ever feeling so rested.
But wait, there was something even more puzzling. Hadn’t he last been deep underground when he turned in after eating that last tasty morsel of mammoth dung. Yum, that was so good. How the heck was he now on the surface?
The surroundings seemed so very strange. He could not come close to identifying anything that he was sensing. The light and the warmth were so unusually uniform. Nothing made sense.
He had been to the surface several times before. The area above his tunnel home was where the great forest met the cold edge of the Artic tundra. The tundra was covered with moss and lichens. Dwarf shrubs dotted the stark landscape with an occasional sparse grove of fir. The region was also home to woolly mammoths, giant bears, dire wolves, and elk, whose delicious droppings made up much of his daily diet. He enjoyed the wide, free space whenever he was above. There he could flex his singular endowment, his extraordinarily strong abdominal muscles, which allowed him to sprint twice as fast as his nearest competitor.
Whenever he ventured above ground during the day, the warm sun would always sit low on the horizon. However, this light now came from directly overhead. It was not the warm light that he was used to, and there was more than one sun! Very strange.
Suddenly, voices began booming out. Only once before had he heard a human voice, as one of that species passed along a trail nearby. Now there were at least two human voices.
“Jenn, according to the report, they discovered them while digging deep in the Siberian permafrost near a river called Kolyma.”
“I looked that place up; and that’s way up, opposite Alaska.”
“This is one of the worms that survived through cryptobiosis. This one’s assigned to us.”
“Say, I think the little fellow is waking up, Rog. I bet it’s wondering where it is.”
“Come on, do you think it knows or cares? It’s like Rip Van Wormkle.“
“Ha, Ha, Rog. Perhaps so, but I bet it’ll figure it out soon.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Listen, I’ve been around these little critters long enough to know that they are much smarter than you think.”
“Well, we know of one worm that’s pretty smart.”
“Give me a break, Roger. That worm is too single-minded. At least these guys can serve other purposes. And of course, each is both sexes.”
“Okay, okay, sorry. Let’s chart it up and bring this guy/gal over to its new home. I missed my lunch waiting for our Siberian visitor to arrive.”
******
As typical for a late Monday afternoon, Harry Worm went about his business. He was one of several dozen Wigglers assigned to the Agriculture Lab’s compost bin No. 4. Everything was routine – eating contentedly, digesting ardently, and pooping dutifully – morning till night, day in and day out. After each sequence, he would pause for a good belch to free an extra space in his gut and proceed to the next food item ahead of him. Whether it be plant or human waste, it didn’t matter much to him. It was all good. That afternoon he had been progressing at his usual pace when he encountered an especially enticing chunk of discarded newspaper script. He slowed down, licked his lips, and began to chomp down for a good bite when he spied the start of a headline: “Scientists Revive 46,000-Year-Old Worms from Siberian Permafrost”.
“Hmm, that’s something you don’t read about every day,” he chuckled and then continued single-mindedly with his delectable task. “Newspaper print sure is delicious.”
He and his work team continued for a while with their assigned meal when suddenly the lab’s main lights turned on full bright, followed by a noisy commotion.
“Over here. Bring it over here to this temp bin. We’ll see where the PI wants it later. Hope it’ll like its new home.’’
“I wonder what’s all the commotion about?”
“Don’t know,” his pal Willy replied. “It’s odd. The staff is sure kicking up the dirt about something.”
“Yeah, normally they’re like Gregorian monks chanting all that data manure, if you know what I mean,” Gummy giggled.
“If only it was real manure! You know, some fumier de cheval or bouse de vache! I’m tired of eating the same old ordure.” Curly chimed in.
“Oh Babe, I get all wiggly when you do French,” Harry flushed as he coiled up his tail.
The commotion lasted a little while longer; then the bright lights turned off, and the lab’s ambient lighting returned to normal.
“Well, I guess the show’s over,” Harry said as he settled back in to finish his meal before turning in for the evening.
It did not take too long before it was lights out too for him and his pals. But this was not going to be an ordinary night.
“Hey, hey, what’s going on? Where, where am I? Help! Somebody, help!”
Harry was startled awake. It was not yet morning.
“What the heck’s going on?” he muttered groggily. At first, he thought the cries were from one of his crew; but he soon realized it was coming from another part of the lab, in the direction of the commotion from yesterday.
“Help, help. What is going on? Where am I?”
“In a lab stupid,” Harry responded snarkily.
“A lab? What is that?” a perplexed voice queried.
“Must be another newbie,” Harry rejoined, surmising that the voice was coming from someone in the next bin over.
“Please, please, could you please tell me what’s happening to me.”
“Look, pal, could you pipe down. Our work crew needs to get some shut eye. We have a new delivery of trash tomorrow Tuesday, and the staff here runs a really tight ship for deadlines.”
“Work crew? Trash? Staff? Tight ship? Deadlines? What are those?”
“Are you from Mars?”
“Mars? You mean the red planet? I live in Siberia.”
“Siberia, in Russia? Well, pal, you’re not in Kansas, I mean, Siberia anymore. And how the heck did you get all the way here to Berkeley?”
“Berkeley? Where’s that?”
“Berkeley Bears, Sunny California, the Golden State, the Left Coast! Don’t you know?”
“Sorry, no.”
“I don’t understand it. Were you born yesterday?”
“Yesterday, no, a few months ago. What are you talking about?”
“Hold on, hold on, Siberia. That rings a bell. Yesterday, yes yesterday I was reading, well munching on a headline about some scientists finding worms out there. They had found them and then defrosted them.”
“Defrosted? You mean, no longer cold. Yes, well I do remember waking up this morning feeling a bit cold and then suddenly warm. It was so confusing. I was no longer down in my home underground. There was bright light, like on the surface; but it wasn’t the ordinary surface. I found myself within a confined space with borders on all sides that I couldn’t penetrate.”
“That was a box, my dear. Haven’t you ever seen one?
“A box?”
“Well, you’re probably right since I guess you’ve never seen one, since you’re 46,000 years old.”
“What? 46,000 years old? How can that be? My grandfather lived for almost three solar cycles, and I thought he was very old. Never heard of a worm living more than seven or eight years at most. 46,000 years.”
“I think something happened to you way back then and you got frozen somehow.”
“The last thing I remember was worming my way under some tasty mammoth dung and starting to doze off. I did perceive a change in the surface weather. The tundra soil was turning colder than usual.”
“Mammoth dung, huh? And wow what a story! Have they given you an assignment?’
“Assignment? Sorry, again I don’t understand. Could you explain where we are now? And by the way, who are you?”
“Oh sorry. I’m Harry Worm. I’m your 21st century model.
“Hello, I’m called Gogo.”
“Gogo. Does sound Russian.”
“Rushing? Well, yes, I have been known for my speed.”
“Speed, no, that’s not what I meant; but in any case, nice to make your acquaintance.”
“What is this place and what are you doing here?”
“This is the University of California, Berkeley’s Agriculture Lab. I was born here and live and work here. The staff here provides me and my colleagues with a wide variety of waste to eat and process.”
“You were born here? And you live here?”
“Yes, it’s quite a comfy life. Beats going out and looking for the next meal. Also, there are no worries about being eaten by predators. There’s a supply of food that comes in about every day; and the company is always good. Oh, and the hours are regular, or if you prefer, you can do overtime.”
“Well, that does sound appealing. All I remember was constant foraging in the sparse, harsh environs of my home in the tundra wondering when and where my next mean would come. Say with all this talk of food, I’m getting hungry.”
“Well, go ahead a have a bite now, or you can wait until tomorrow’s delivery for something fresh.”
“Say, could you do me a favor. Please explain how things go here.”
“Sure, no problem, but (yawn) it’s getting late. How about we get some sleep now? I’ll give you the nickel tour and show you the ropes in the morning.”
“Nickel what? Ropes? I guess I’m completely clueless as to what you mean.”
Silence now from the bin next door. Curly approached Harry in the dim lab light after his long conversation with the new tenant.
“Harry, I heard you talking with someone in the next bin. Was that what the commotion was about?”
“Yeah, a newbie from of all places Siberia. Right now, he’s a grub in a bird’s nest, clueless and scared.”
“Siberia? Wow. Say Harry, how is it that you’re able to talk with him? Does your new friend speak English? Or do you have a hidden talent I’m not aware of and speak Russian?”
“No, I don’t speak Russian; but we didn’t have any problem speaking. I thought it peculiar when he said he was from Russia, but then I remembered when they brought good old Chili in. We could communicate with Chili with no problem even though he was from South America. I guess we worms are at least a couple of evolutionary steps ahead of them humans. We speak a universal language, Worm, which we can all understand.”
“Harry, you said two steps ahead. What’s the other?”
“Well, we all have both sexes, so no need for any feminist or incel movements,” Harry said with a wink and nod.
“Oh Harry, you’re silly.”
“Yeah, poopsie, you’re right. Humor is the spice of life. And on that note, here’s something sure to floor you. Our neighbor is extremely old.”
“Old? You mean elderly. I thought they only brought us in young.”
“Well, our guest is young, but also very old.”
“What?!? How can that be?”
“It’s getting late. I’ll explain in the morning, night night.”
******
The lab’s lights come on full as a staff member enters with a large, heavy tray. Detecting the strong scent of fresh trash, Harry awakens with a smile and a song borrowed from a commercial he had heard playing in the lab.
“It’s a new day, it’s a new way, and I’m feeling good…”
Another round of commotion.
“Ouch, don’t do that. What are you doing to me?”
As she did the day before, Jenn takes Gogo’s statistics – length, weight, color, skin condition, light sensitivity, etc. This is despite his many protestations, which of course she couldn’t understand even if she did hear them, since humans don’t speak Worm.
Jenn then cleared an area near the edge of the bin and with a pair of tweezers gingerly placed the new tenant down into the bin.
“There you go buddy. It’s your new home. Have a good day.”
“Have a good day? Oh, that’s right. It must be my pal, Gogo. And yum, here comes breakfast.”
Jenn adds the usual amount of new waste into the bin, marks her chart, and leaves the room.
“Hey, Gogo, welcome to your new turf!”
“Hi, I guess so. Do they do that every day?”
“The measurements? Sure, at least for newbies like you. You’ll get used to it fairly quickly. I like it when Jenn does it. On the other hand, Roger is often in a hurry. He can get a bit rough, though I can’t say I blame him; because he’s always looking to score a sandwich. I do like the crumbs he leaves from his lunch.”
“Harry, you were going to tell me what’s going on here, right?
“Sure, let me do a quick intro before we get started on our tasks for the day.”
“Ok.”
“As I mentioned yesterday, we live here in a sort of worm’s paradise.”
“Paradise?”
“Yes, all we need to do here is wake up, eat, eat some more, digest, poop, and then sleep.”
“Well, isn’t that what we all worms do?
“Yes, but there’s no one here to eat us. Because of that, worms here generally live three, four, and even up to eight pleasant years. The food is plentiful and constant, and very varied. In short, a worm’s paradise.”
“Wow. This is some place. No worries? Wow! I like it already. But you didn’t mention one thing.”
“Oh? What is that.”
“Cuddle.”
“Cuddle. Of course, you mean sex.”
“Yes, I guess so, though I was taught not to call it that so directly.”
“Hell, yes. Often, very often and with whomever you please. Personally, I tend to be a bit more monogamous than most, having read or rather eaten a few articles on the risk of serial boinking.”
“Boinking?”
“Well for us it’s coupling.”
“And what food do they serve us?”
“It runs the whole gamut, a wide range of urban waste.”
“Urban waste?”
“Yes, It’s what humans use and throw away. It varies quite a lot. Here’s a quick list – ordinary cut vegetation (grass, leaves, decayed fruits and berries, twigs). I like in particular coffee grounds from which I get my morning buzz.”
“Coffee? Buzz?”
“It’s brown and soft and has a nice aroma. It gives my few neurons and a quick wake up call. Some others prefer tea or something with a little alcohol. Too much though can make you woozy.”
“Then there’s hair and poo from all kinds of sources. Or it can be wood bits and chips from houses and buildings.”
“Houses and buildings?”
“Oh course, I guess those didn’t exist in your time. They’re kind of like huts, only permanent and much bigger.”
“There’s also boxes and books, and newsprint and magazines. That’s where I got the news about your discovery.”
Hearing Harry talking with Gogo, Curly was drawn over.
“Hi, guys. How’s it wiggling? Wow, Harry, our new pal sure is very handsome! Why didn’t you call me over sooner. Are you hoarding him for yourself? Come on over here, sugar.”
Harry’s skin turned beet red when Curly slivered up toward Gogo. In reaction to Curly’s maneuver, Gogo began to secrete.
“Hold your beetles there, Curly, you sly hermaphrodite, there’ll be plenty of time for that later.”
“Wow, this place is something special! How could I have imagined? I think I’m really going to enjoy it here.”
Curly was disappointed and a bit miffed when Harry poured cold water on the encounter with Gogo.
“Harry is pretty good with the intros, but always tends to leave out some important details.”
“Oh? What are those?”
“Well, this is a science lab. And we are all guinea worms.”
“Guinea?”
“Yes, the humans can do with us what they like, for whatever reason they want.”
“Oh! Like what?”
“Like spike the food with industrial trash and waste,”
“Curly, you shouldn’t…”
“Oh, please continue.”
“These wastes include substances tainted with all sorts of chemicals – common and exotic, mild and harsh – to see if we can digest them and convert them into something they can use.
“Oh, interesting.”
“They call this recycling.”
“Well, that at least sounds good.”
“Yeah, but often it’s not good for us.”
“Oh, how so?”
“Well, the obvious is that it is frequently not good for us. The stuff is anything but natural, often what humans come up with mixing, blending, and transforming all sorts of materials. Wait till you have a taste in your mouth of alcohol, bleach, dye, and even more exotic chemicals. It will make you sick. You’ll often want to vomit.”
“I don’t understand what these things are. Sounds bad, but are they dangerous?”
“Of course, you wouldn’t have encountered these chemicals in your lifetime, I mean in your first life. They have only been around for the last few hundred years. Many of these materials and liquids can be dangerous, especially in high concentrations.”
“Concentrations?”
“When there’s a lot. And sadly, we lose quite a few comrades when these substances come in the trash that they deliver.”
“Oh my.”
“Rarely, but sometimes, some of us are even exposed to radioactive contaminated waste. “
“Radioactive?”
“It’s something invisible and tasteless that causes a slow, excruciating end.”
“Oh my, oh my!”
“Sometimes they insert changes into the genes in our eggs, using a technique the staff here calls CRISPR. They say it is to improve our offspring, to make them even more efficient in decomposing trash.”
“This sounds hideous. They actually make or change our babies? And I thought Harry was painting a picture here of paradise.”
“Paradise with a lot of asterisks. That’s the real life here.”
“Asterisks?”
The conversations with Harry, Curly, and others in his new home really put an exclamation point on Gogo’s new circumstance. He became frightened. Very frightened. How could this be acceptable? Back in Siberia, so long ago, he had never feared what he ate. Everything was natural, safe. Here, your next bite could truly be your last. What an existence. It’ simply intolerable. But what could he do? There seemed no hope. He began to cry and cry.
“What’s wrong, Gogo?”
“I’m not cut out for this. I can’t take it. You may be used to it, but I’m not and don’t intend to. I’ve got to get out of here. Tell me. Is there any, any way to get out?”
“Well, with some coordinated help, we have occasionally taken a spin out of the bin and onto the lab floor. We call it Breakaway.”
“So it is possible. But how so?”
“Well, first we gather and form layer upon layer, should upon shoulder, so to speak, a worm-pyramid. Then when some of us make it to the top, we go up over the bin’s lid. I’ve done it a couple of times. It’s fun. Breaks up the monotony.”
“Can you guys do that for me? Please, I have out of here. Even if they catch me, it would be worth it to breathe the air of freedom just one more time.”
“Well, okay. Jean Val Jean. But aware that the drop is steep. Some don’t make it; and then there’s the staff will probably catch you and put you back where we started.”
“Let me worry about that.”
“Well, then let me round up the crew.”
“Thank you, I’ll be indebted to you.”
“That’s your funeral.”
After a few minutes, Harry was able to summon several dozen of his comrades for Projected Escape.
“Fellas, you know the drill. Get to your usual positions. Ready? Okay, okay, here we go. One, two, three … and up.”
Slowly the base was built, slithering layers of creatures were added one by one, building a vibrating, unsteady pyramid up to a its tip. At last, Gogol mounted and was nudged and pushed up until finally he reached the top edge. Then one last shove and he was over in free fall. Splat. The height was significant. The descent stunned and hurt, but he did make it down to the floor in one piece. That was great.
After pausing a few moments to recover, he happily detected that no staff members were present and began to search for an exit. He was aided by a trail of human odor and the flow of air coming from a single source along the floor. He took a very deep breath and kicked his abdominal muscles into gear making his dash for freedom through the gap under the door.
******
“Say, Russel, did you do what I asked you and help your mom rebuild the nest. Last night’s windstorm was a doozy.”
“Yeah, yeah, I did. As if you were going to help. You can’t pry yourself from the TV.”
“Shut your beak, Junior. This is your dad. I put in more than my share of forging for this family. I deserve a few moments to kick up my claws and spread my wings. Besides the round-robin badminton finals are on. I love watching those birdies fly. And then there’s the next episode of Birds in Paradise!”
“Whatever.”
“Say, you’re up earlier than usual. What gives?”
“After all the hopping around for sticks and strings yesterday, I got hungrier than a Philadelphia eagle this morning and flew out to see if anything available in the neighborhood.”
“Find anything good?”
“Well, yes, I did; and it was a bit strange.”
“Strange? How so?”
“Well, I was circling near the university when I spotted something very unusual, a round worm moving along on a sidewalk way out in the open. It seemed to be on a mission, heading toward the park; and it was hauling ass!”
“Wait what? Hauling…? A worm?
“Yes, yes, a worm I couldn’t believe it. It was goin’ crazy fast, waving its tail like a , zigging and zagging, and doing that thing worms do”
“You mean scrunching up their abbs and then extending?”
“Hell, yes, like a slinky doing a hundred-meter dash. I’ve never seen one move so fast.”
“Well, heck, did you get him?”
“Of course, I did. What do you think? And I’m glad I got to see him first. He was so out in the open. Any old hooter could have dived in and snatched it up easily.”
“That’s my boy. Your mother is always on my case, yammering like a parrot, whenever she thinks you’re not eating right.”
“You know dad, something else was a bit weird.”
“Yeah, what?”
“He was extremely tasteful.”
“That’s great. So…”
“I can’t put my claw on it; but, but the taste reminded my bird brainiac of something Grandpa Cawker once said to me about the old days.”
“Oh? Way back in his days with Crowlemagne?”
“Seriously, Dad. Grandpa told me that what they used to eat had sort of homy, wholesome, backwoods tastes and textures that can’t be matched nowadays in our polluted urban areas.”
“Yes, Grandpa’s right. Once he took me for a quick flight to the woods beyond Orinda. I remember we feasted on some worms and grubs near the reservoir. That was some treat.”
“Well, what I had this morning was absolutely scrumptious; and I’m just glad I got up early. And as Grandpa always said, ‘The early crow catches the worm.’”
I shot the puppy And then I shot my dumb billy goat, oh yes, yes I shot the puppy And then I shot my dumb billy goat, oh yes, yes
Yeah! All around in my home state They’re tryin’ to hack me down, yeah They’re saying that I am clearly guilty For the killing of a mere puppie For the life of a mere puppie, but I say Oh, now, now, oh
(I shot the puppy) I shot the puppy (But I swear I had rightful pretense) oh yes, oh, oh, ooh Yeah, I say, I shot the puppy, oh, Lord (and they say it is a capital offense) No, no! Hear that
Critics both Left and Right now hate me For what, I don’t know Every time I make my plea They all shout that I’ve got to go They all shout that I’ve got to go, and so-and-so Read it in the news!
(I shot the puppy) oh, Lord! But I swear I had rightful pretense Why’s this such a biggie? (Ooh, ooh, ooh) I say, I shot the puppy But I swear I had rightful pretense, yeah! (Ooh)
My pup pissed me off one day And I lost my freakin’ mind, yeah All of a sudden, I see all these pundits aiming to shoot me down Yes, I shot, I shot, I shot it down, and I say Even if guilty, I won’t pay (pay, pay, pay, pay…)
(I shot my puppy) and I say that I also shot my dumb billy And I also shot my dumb billy, yes (ooh, ooh, ooh) (I shot my puppy) I agree (And then I shot my dumb billy goat) oh (Ooh, ooh, ooh)
Reflex they say got the better of me But I won’t say that to be Every day I’ll just keep saying “oh well” And you critics should wash your mouths out And you critics should wash your mouths out
I say I, I, I, I shot my puppy Lord, then I shot my VP chances, yeah Lord, then I shot my VP chances, yeah I, I (shot my puppy) And then I shot my VP chances, yeah So, yeah
Donny-freak-freak-freak S’en allait tout simplement Rapace, rustre et geignant Quelle espèce d’organisme ! Il ne parle que de lui-même Il ne parle que de lui-même
A l’époque où Joe Biden D’Amerique était le Prez Donny-freak, charlatan Combattit les Democratz
Donny-freak-freak-freak S’en allait tout simplement Rapace, rustre et geignant Quelle espèce d’organisme ! Il ne parle que de lui-même Il ne parle que de lui-même
Certain jour un minable Par les mensonges le conduit Mais Le Sauveur, Donny-freak Par sa joie le convertit
Donny-freak-freak-freak S’en allait tout simplement Rapace, rustre et geignant Quelle espèce d’organisme ! Il ne parle que de lui-même Il ne parle que de lui-même
1 There was a man from the land of Gotham, whose name was Don; and that man was flawed and corrupt, and one that loved Mammon, and embraced evil.
2 And there were begat unto him three sons and two daughters.
3 His substance also was Trump Tower, and scores of golf courses, and dozens of hotels, and a private university, and a very great household; so that this man was the greatest of all the tycoons of the land.
4 And his sons went and crimed in their houses, every one his day; and sent and called for their sisters to crime and to partake with them.
5 And it was so, when the days of their criming were gone about, that Don sent and sanctified them, and rose up early in the morning, and tweeted his commands according to the number of them all: for Don said, It may be that my heirs have sinned, and cursed God in their hearts. Thus did Don continually.
6 Now there was a day when the sons of Satan came to present themselves before the Lord of Hell, and Mammon came also among them.
7 And Satan said unto Mammon, Whence comest thou? Then Mammon answered Satan, and said, From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it.
8 And Satan said unto Mammon, Hast thou considered my servant Don, that there is none like him in the earth, such a flawed and a corrupt man, one that esteems Me, and embraces evil?
9 Then Mammon answered Satan, and said, Doth Don love Thee for nought?
10 Hast Thou not made a Teflon shield about him, and about his house, and about all that he hath on every side? Thou hast blessed the work of his hands, and his substance is increased in the land.
11 But now put forth thine hand, and put a spell on all that he hath, and he will curse you to your face.
12 So Mammon went forth from the presence of Satan.
13 And there was a day when Don’s sons and his daughters were eating and drinking wine in his beach-front house:
14 And there came a messenger unto Don, and said, Stormy is coming, and Cohen and Pecker beside her:
15 And Alvin Bragg fell upon him, and booked him straight away; yea, they have opened a case of election interference; and Don said He’s the victim here.
16 While that messenger was yet speaking, there came also another, and said, The ire of the Feds descended on his house, and hath discovered the documents, and even though Don had his servants hide them; and Don said He’s the victim here.
17 While that messenger was yet speaking, there came also another, and said, Jack Smith says Don stirred chaos to force lawmakers to delay the certification of the vote; and Don said He’s the victim here.
18 While he was yet speaking, there came also another, and said, Don, his sons and his daughters have been again feasting and enjoying their house built on fraud:
19 And, behold, there came a great dark wind called Letitia, and smote the four corners of the house, and the toll came to the tune of half a billion dollars; and Don said He’s the victim here.
20 Then Don arose, and rent his Brioni suit, and shaved his hair-sprayed coif, and fell down upon the ground, and worshipped,
21 And said, Naked came I, born with only a tiny silver spoon, and naked I shall never return (unless on a bed of cash): Mammon makes, and the Woke Deep State takes; blessed be the name of Satan.
22 In this Don apologized not, but blamed all as is his wont.
*****
2Again there was a day when the sons of Satan came to present themselves before the Lord of Hell, and Mammon came also among them to present himself before Satan.
2 And Satan said unto Mammon, From whence comest thou? And Mammon answered Satan, and said, From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it.
3 And Satan said unto Mammon, Hast thou considered my servant Don, that there is none like him in the earth, a flawed and corrupt man, one that esteems Mammon, and embraces evil? and still he holdeth fast his vileness.
4 And Mammon answered Satan, and said, Orange skin for Orange skin, yuck, his immortal soul for just $59.99, all that that man hath will he give for Mammon.
5 So put forth thine hand now, and remove thy spell, and he will curse thee no more.
6 Call forth now My Supreme Choir and the GOP suck ups and MAGA minions to defend him.
7 So went Mammon forth from the presence of Satan, and smote the enemies of Don and gave him his rightful crown.
8 Thus Satan blessed the latter end of Don even more than his beginning: for he had the White House, fifty-thousand federal sycophants, love letters from Vlad, Xi, and Kim, festive executions for all his enemies, and gobs of cheeseburgers and diet cokes.
9 And also he kept a harem of blonds, but in all the land were no women found so fair as the daughter of Don.
10 After this Don, the healthiest in the world, lived a hundred and forty years, and saw his sons, and his sons’ sons, even four generations.
Don’t keep getting pushed around by Netanyahu. He only wants to weaken and help DJT succeed and protect his butt from loss in Israel. Act more decisively not tactically. Americans appreciate decisiveness. Look how DJT keeps hold of his followers by acting tough. Act tough for Justice! Be decisive on the right side of history. No more offensive or dual-use weapons to Israel until they announce a real ceasefire. Take the initiative. Come up with your own peace plan. Bring in Arab, European, and other partners as guarantors. You may be criticized, but that comes with the territory and shows the leadership we need.
Publicly announce that only a two-state solution will resolve this issue. I suggest you propose a $200 billion fund (US, Europe, Arab countries, etc.) to finance the building of an international airport in the West Bank, a regional airport in Gaza, a seaport in Gaza, a rail connection if technically feasible between the West Bank and Gaza. Only this framework will make a Palestinian entity viable. I wish someone on your staff could give me a ring or start an email correspondence for further advice on issues.
Consider some sort of Fireside chat approach dealing with a few important issues to reach the greater public such as the Gaza crisis, preserve our democratic voting traditions, your fight to hold inflation down by calling out greedy actors, improving access to good healthcare, preserving Social Security and Medicare. We have to win and win decisively in November.
Over at court, corruption was laid bare, A Big Kahuna’s deeds, foul and unfair. The evidence was piled, a mountain high, Yet dark shadows prowled beneath the sky. Overtones of power, glimpses of gold, Whispers of secrets, very long untold. The juror’s mind was a tangled maze, Caught in the web of societal craze. But as deliberation steamed the air, A silence soon fell, infused with despair. For justice, it would seem, had a price to pay, And thus morals and truth began to sway. One by one, members cast their vote, Their hearts heavy, their minds remote. Knowing the truth but fearing the great cost To defy the powerful who would be crossed. Guilty, guilty, guilty, his conscience cried, But “Not Guilty” sounded, as justice died. His verdict spoken, his duty done, The juror was thanked, the System had won. Given chance to do what’s right, he had failed; His sense of honor, self-worth had derailed. After all, what lesson had been learned? Oblige the powerful, or you’ll get burned. So he returned home to hide the shame Having been caught up in a sordid game. But just when guilt started to fade away, A hard knock came before the break of day. The juror opened his door, heart in throat, Perceiving a change of fate, a bad note. When the goons entered with hood and ties, He asked, “Why?” with incredulous surprise. “I voted ‘acquit’ and met his demands,” “You took too long, so now reach out your hands.”
You could walk ten miles on your hands and knees Ain’t no doubt about it, baby, it’s me you aim to please You could swear your loyalty, and lay yourself bare That’s just the thing, babe, I just don’t care
That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough!
For me, baby, you could swim the sea But nothing you could do would satisfy me Even if you come over and lap up the crumbs and dirt
And make sure it doesn’t stain my clean white shirt
That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough!
You could fawn 24 hours, seven days a week Just so you could come here and kiss my cheek You’ll love me in the morning and you’ll love me at noon You’ll love me in the night and boogie to my tune
That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough!
You could send me every penny you’ve ever earned And say you’re not worried about getting burned You could storm the Capitol, hang my wimpy VP Just to get yourself up close to me
That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough! That ain’t good enough!
I scorn you, scurvy companion. Thou art a boil, a plague sore. The rankest compound of villainous smell that ever offended nostril. I am sick when I do look on thee. I’ll beat thee, but I would infect my hands
Thou cream faced loon. Thou lump of foul deformity. Thou art as fat as butter. Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon. You are as a candle, the better burnt out.
A most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise breaker, the owner of no one good quality. Thy sin’s not accidental, but a trade.
Thou art unfit for any place but hell. Away, you three-inch fool!
As I pee, sir, I see Pisa Dog doo? Good God! Desserts, I stressed! God saw I was dog. God’s dog. Dammit, I’m mad! Step on no pets. Go deliver a dare, vile dog! Dogma in my hymn: I am God! Dog’s God. Was it a cat I saw?
God save our Sov’reign Don, Long live our noble Don, God save the Don! Send him victorious, Wealthy and glorious, Long to reign over us, God save the Don!
O Lord our God arise, Scatter his enemies, And make them fall! Confound their politics, Frustrate their commie tricks, On Him our hopes we fix, Lord save us all!
Not in this land alone, But be God’s mercies known, From shore to shore! Lord make the nation see, That Don should Monarch be, And form one dynasty, The wide world o’er.
From every latent foe, From the liberals’ crow, God save the Don! O’er his thine hand extend, For ‘Merka’s sake defend, Our Savior, prince, and fiend, God save the Don!
The choicest bribes in store, On him be pleased to pour, Long may he reign! May he offend all laws, And ever give us cause, To sing with heart and voice, God save the Don!
Narrator: This, as you may recognize, is a map of the United States and there’s a little town there called Trumpsville.
On a given morning not too long ago the rest of the world disappeared and Trumpsville was left all alone. Its inhabitants were never sure whether the world was destroyed and only Trumpsville left untouched, or whether the village had somehow been taken away.
They were, on the other hand, sure of one thing—the cause. A monster had arrived in the village.
Just by using his mind, he took away justice, freedom, and morality, because they displeased him. And he moved an entire community back into the dark ages just by using his mind.
Now, I’d like to introduce you to some of the people in Trumpsville.
These are Judges Roberts, Thomas, and Alito. It’s in their courthouse that the monster presides.
These two are Sen. McConnell and Speaker Johnson.
And this is Ivanka, who probably had more control over the monster in the beginning than almost anyone. But one day she forgot. She began to speak aloud. Now, the monster doesn’t like her speaking so his mind snapped at her, and turned her into this smiling, vacant thing you’re looking at now. She speaks no more.
And you’ll note that the people in Trumpsville, USA have to smile. They have to think happy thoughts and say happy things because once displeased, the monster can wish them into Gitmo or change them into a Big Mac and fries.
This particular monster can read minds, you see. He knows every thought, he can feel every emotion.
Oh, yes, I did forget something, didn’t I? I forgot to introduce you to the monster. This is the monster. His name is Donny Trump.
He’s seventy-eight-years-old with a rakish, frat-boy face; grey-blue, guileful eyes; and a six-year-old’s mind. But when those eyes look at you, you’d better start thinking happy thoughts because the mind behind them is absolutely in charge.
Roberts: Howdy, Donny. Mighty good to see you today.
Donny: Mighty good.
Thomas: And it’s such a good day, isn’t it?
Donny: It’s a real good day!
Alito: What are you doing, Donny?
Donny: I made a stripper with three boobs. See her? (Glancing toward Ivanka)
McConnell: Yeah.
Johnson: Yeah, my, she’s a real fine one.
Thomas: I ain’t never seen a stripper with three boobs before, ‘cept in Total Recall.
Donny: I’ll make her dead now. I’m tired of playing with her. Be dead. Stripper, you be dead!
Alito: My, my, that’s real fine that you done that. That’s—that’s real fine, Donny.
Roberts: You’re a good boy, Donny.
All with Ivanka nodding: We all love you.
Narrator: We only wanted to introduce you to this singularly immune citizen—little Donny Trump, age not allowed to say, who lives in a village called Trumpsville, in a place that used to be the USA.
And if by some strange chance you should run across him, you had best think only MAGA thoughts. Anything less than that is handled at your own risk.
Because if you do meet Donny you can be sure of one thing—you have entered the Trump Zone.
Should you stay or should you go? If we know that you are fine We’ll be here ’til the end of time
So you got to let us know Should you stay or should you go?
It’s always tease, tease, tease You’ve lately got us on our knees One day is fine and next is black So if you want us off your back
Well, come on and let us know Should you stay or should you go?
Should you stay or should you go now? Should you stay or should you go now? If you go there will be trouble And if you stay it may be double So come on and let us know
This indecision’s bugging us If you don’t show us, we will fuss Exactly what are we supposed to do? Don’t you know we’re worried about you?
Come on and let us know Should we cool it or should we blow?
Beneath the cwm zenith where nymphs wheezily prance, whizbang melodies from an old jukebox entrance. Faqirs strum quickly on sweet mezquite-wood guitars, highjacking reality, exciting quasars. A Jezebel sylph winks, zombifying the night, the zymurgy of enchantment, bathed in moonlight. Below the Qi’s frolicking flybys, swift and free, caziques and vizcachas equalize at tea, as quetzals dose on outoxyphenbutazone, jazzed by zippy zephyrs that sizzle to the bone. And while muzjiks whisper, “Quixotry is preferred. To maximize the magic, Xerox the absurd,” xylophonists scarf flapjacks, yelling at bezique, “Prizes in zuz and xu, not exempt from our pique.” Chutzpah and qwerty thusly are here intertwined, defuzing the mundane, leaving logic behind. So, exorcize your qualms and brush the “phphts” away. Squeeze out cynicism. It’s Oxazepam Day!
Nauta and the Orange Man were hiding a stash They stayed up all night to move boxes and trash From Jack Special Counsel Smith who had a jurist named CAN(non) For reasons unexplained, she liked the Orange Man
Nauta was a sailor ‘fore he became valet But soon found out serving Orange Man was not child’s play They knew that they’d find freedom just across the MAGA Line So they hopped into a stolen car, took Highway 95
And the fools went down, all the way to hell Never saw them when they’re standing Never saw them when they fell
Jack Special Counsel Smith never liked the Orange Man Even back at the Hague, he wanted to see him in the can CAN sadly became enamored with a treasonous shill She got appointed by the Orange Man from the Mansion near the Hill
It was out on Traitor’s Row, Nauta at the wheel They dashed into paradise, they could hear them tires squeal Jack Special Counsel Smith pulled up and said “Everyone stop or I’ll fire. If you don’t surrender now, it’s gonna go down to the wire”
And the fools went down, all the way to hell Never saw them when they’re standing Never saw them when they fell
After their case rolled up, Special Counsel close behind Events took his case away, messed up his mind Jack Special Counsel Smith was left climbing up a tree Prosecutor thwarted by a biased judiciary
Next day, Jack Special Counsel Smith still was in pursuit He was taking the whole thing personal, he didn’t care about the loot CAN had shown him many times it was easy to be bought With MAGA, anything’s legal as long as you don’t get caught
And the fools went down, all the way to hell Never saw them when they’re standing Never saw them when they fell
Someplace by Coleman Prison, they ran out of gas Jack Special Counsel Smith had cornered ’em, said, “Boy, you didn’t think that this could last” CAN jumped up out of bed, said, “There’s someplace I gotta go” She took a gavel from the drawer and said, “It’s best if you don’t know” Jack Special Counsel Smith was found knocked out till appeal The Orange Man was on the lagoon bridge using Nauta as a shield Agents said to Orange Man, “We’re not fooled by Nauta’s lie The videos show how he became your go-to MAGA guy”
And the fools went down, all the way to hell Never saw them when they’re standing Never saw them when they fell
Now the town of Mar-a-Lago is quieting down again I’m sitting in a bar and grill called Born Again Den The TV set was blown up, every bit of it is gone Ever since the nightly news said that the Orange Man was on
I guess I’ll go to Florida and get myself some sun There ain’t no more opportunity here, everything been done Sometimes I think of Nauta, sometimes I think of CAN Sometimes I don’t think about nothing but the Orange Man
And the fools went down, all the way to hell Never saw them when they’re standing Never saw them when they fell
And the fools went down, all the way to hell Never saw them when they’re standing Never saw them when they fell
In a bright room where the sun beams dance, there I sit perched on a cushioned throne, regally aloof and unperturbed by the clutter of a world not suited to my august stature. My eyes are impervious orbs, chill crescents that gaze through tight lids at the current scene filtering out the chaos of my subjects’ souls— fond, but fumbling denizens of my domain. Their human voices, symphony of uneven notes, fall like scattered autumn leaves all about me, with coochies of affection, swoons of adoration, failing to budge me from my afternoon scheme. I just stretch in a languid arc of feline grace, feigning boredom while my humans croon their crude, ear-grating paeans of devotion, soundtracks to my staid and patient resignation. And as day wanes and heat leaves the room, I will purr out a “Meow,” a calculated bridge between the sacred space of my solitude and the clumsy affection of human hearts. In that certain moment, when I deem it so, I may settle in closer, perhaps just an inch, to signal that, “I acknowledge your presence, but remember, I’m still master of this realm.” My subjects, ever grateful for this fleeting gift, stroke my coat with hands trembling in awe, clueless that tolerance is my boon and grace, and affection a crown I wear lightly, if at all. Thus, in ordained tandem, rule is maintained: a sovereign planet alongside faithful moons, each tethered together in a perpetual tango by the gravity of my immutable indifference.
In a bright room where the sun beams dance, there’s a feline perched on cushioned throne, regally aloof and unperturbed by the clutter of a world not suited to her august stature. Her eyes are chill half-moons, impervious orbs, that gaze through tight lids at the current scene filtering out the chaos of her subject’s soul— fond, but fumbling denizen of her domain. His callow voice, symphony of uneven notes, falls like scattered autumn leaves all about her, with coochies of affection, swoons of adoration, failing to budge her from predetermined scheme. She just stretches in a languid arc of catlike grace, feigning boredom while her attendant croons his reverent, heartfelt paeans of devotion, soundtracks to her staid, indulgent resignation. And as day wanes and dark fills the room, she will purr out “Meow,” a calculated bridge between the sacred space of her solitude and the clumsy affection of the human heart. In that certain moment, when she so deems it, she may settle in a bit closer, an inch or so, as if saying, “I acknowledge your presence, but remember, I’m still master of this realm.” Her subject, ever grateful for this fleeting gift, grooms that kitty with hands trembling in awe, clueless that tolerance is her boon and grace, and affection a crown she wears lightly, if at all. Thus, in enigmatic tandem, the two coexist: a sovereign planet with her sidekick satellite, each tethered together in a perpetual tango by the gravity of her immutable indifference.
The lights have all turned on; The band’s playin’ their song— The Harris and Walz waltz. It’s been a long climb Since we’ve had a good time, And it’s high time we did. So let’s get ready to dance; For now we have a chance, And it’s good to feel like this.
That mountain lords over me; High above a looming mass, Its silent, cold indifference Chilling and unnerving my bones. Regardless whether ready or not, I brace to launch my first step; Shaky foot in front of the other, I compel myself to move up. Walking a fine, tottering line, Just one stride after another, I slow to a deliberate cadence To conceal my reluctant struggle. My aging body sore and stiff, Using every muscle and resource, I feel as if I’m teetering, But dare not lose control. Midway my legs grow weak, Testing my will to persist; I stop and rest more often, Then stiffly revive and move on. I must stay ever focused Never looking back or down; Though my limbs grow weary, I cannot accept any forfeit. We all have mountains to climb, But climb we surely must, If we are ever to overcome fear, Adversity will bring out our best. Warned about possible failure, Thought I could not, dare not, While it was ONLY fifteen stairs, I had scaled my Everest!
In Ms. Delgado’s kindergarten class, the desks were neat and properly arranged, filled with eager faces and tiny hands pulling out their pens and pencils. Among these students was Nina, a cheerful kid with curly brown hair and a big, wide smile. She was known for her vibrant drawings and, more importantly, her prized pen.
Nina’s pen was special. It was a gift from her grandfather, who had told her that it was magical. Every time Nina used it, her drawings, which received kudos from the teacher and classmates alike, seemed to come to life with extra brilliance. She was proud of it, and it had quickly become her favorite color in her pencil case.
A couple of weeks into the school year, Ms. Delgado announced a classroom project. “Class, tomorrow we’re going to make posters for the school art fair. But first, we may have to share some of our supplies with classmates who don’t have enough.”
Nina’s heart sank. She knew what this meant. The supplies they needed were things she took for granted, like pen, pencils, and erasers. She glanced at her pen, which lay in her pencil case like a precious gem. She didn’t want to share her cherished pen.
As Ms. Delgado continued explaining the project, Nina noticed a boy named Jimmie sitting quietly in the back of the classroom. Jimmie’s clothes were often a bit worn, and his shoes looked too small for his feet. She saw he only brought some regular lead pencils and a few old markers to school. He often had to borrow color pens and pencils. Nina felt a pang of sympathy for him.
That night, grandfather called on the phone and asked. “How was your day, dear?”
“It was okay,” Nina replied, “but Ms. Delgado said we have to let other kids use our pens and pencils for our school project.”
Grandfather’s voice was warm and encouraging. “That sounds like a wonderful thing to do. You know, sharing can be very rewarding. It shows kindness and generosity.”
Nina thought about grandfather’s words as she lay in bed. The next morning, she carried her school things to school with an uneasy feeling.
As the school day progressed, Nina observed that Jimmie’s drawings were mostly in black lines and shades of gray with a color or two in some sections. He would occasionally wander over to looked at the other kids’ drawings such her own. She could see how much he wanted his drawings to be as full of colors as those of his classmates. She tried to focus on her drawing, but her pens, particularly her favorite one, felt heavier and heavier in her hand. It was as if that pen knew she was struggling with a decision.
During lunchtime, Nina sat with her friends, nibbling on her sandwich and thinking about finishing the project. She watched Jimmie as he sat alone, eating his lunch in silence. Then suddenly a thought flashed. Nina made her decision. She walked up to Jimmie, extending her pen out with her small hand. “Jimmie,” she said straight way, “I want you to have this.”
Jimmie’s eyes widened in surprise. “But… that’s your favorite pencil.”
Nina nodded, feeling a mix of sadness and relief. “I know. But I think I think you should use it. It will make your drawings special like mine.”
Jimmie’s face lit up with a grateful smile. “Wow!. Thank you, Nina. That is so nice. I’ll take good care of it.”
Nina watched as Jimmie took the pencil, his fingers firmly yet respectfully grasping the barrel. As he turned to show the other kids, Nina felt a warmth in her heart that she hadn’t expected. It was as if the magic of the pen had transferred not just onto Jimmie’s drawings, but into her own heart as well.
Later that day, Nina noticed Jimmie’s drawings were more colorful and imaginative than ever before. She realized that her pen’s magic didn’t just come from its color but from the joy of giving and sharing.
As Nina walked home, she thought about grandfather’s words and felt a deep sense of happiness. She had given away her favorite pencil, but she had received something even more valuable in return: the joy of making someone else’s day a little brighter.
Billowing clouds snuff sun’s last flare; Day breeze yields to twilight’s fury Trees shake and swirling leaves fly, Rain driving, pouring hard and cold. Towns and farms bolt gates and doors As children whimper, grownups shudder. Heralded by heaven’s light, thunder’s crash, Doc Time is called to dutiful round. Harbinger of destiny, he practices his craft On cobblestones made of bone and sweets. Cries rise more piercing than the wolf’s, Joy more exultant than a heavenly choir. Old Aaron parted around midnight; Reminiscence was born at quarter past.
In this land where justices toy with might, A ruling’s been cast in ancient light, Where king and president can entwine, And ambition subverts Founders’ design. The Court, with corrupt intent and a sneer, Has penned a future so very drear, Where winner wears both crown and pin, And scales of justice shift and spin. A President with sole sovereign sway, Would leave precedents in disarray, Where once were checks and balances tied tight, There would reign a Chief of singular right. No longer bound by common chains, The leader’s will like thunder reigns, Just as savants of the past foretold: A realm where honors, favors are all sold. The one who wins November’s race May lead the land with little grace, And hold high a scepter in one firm hand To bring the Constitution to an end. Yet in this time of wayward scheme, The People’s voices, often shunned, scream That for freedom and rights to be upheld Our Democracy’s foes must be expelled. So observe with care, and mark this hour, As power’s scope grows vast and dour, Every wannabe tyrant’s acts so bold Must be soundly beaten ten million fold.
Where have all our freedoms gone? Long time passing Where have all our freedoms gone? Long time ago? Where have all our freedoms gone? The Boss has snatched them every one Oh, when will we ever learn? Oh, when will we ever learn? Where have all liberties gone? Where have all the guardrails gone? Long time passing Where have all the guardrails gone? Long time ago? Where have all the guardrails gone? They’ve taken our rights every one Oh, when will we ever learn? Oh, when will we ever learn? Where have all privacy gone? Long time passing Where have all human rights gone? Long time ago? Where will our hopes and dreams go? They may not ever show Oh, when will we ever learn? Oh, when will we ever learn?
🎵Where Have All the Flowers Gone?The Kingston Trio
Well, when my luck ain’t no damn good You don’t listen, you don’t listen No good deed goes unpunished But I don’t mind being your gotcha boy I’ve had that pleasure for years and years
No, no, I never was a winner, tell me, what else could I do? Yogi Berra’s what you get ’til you learn to follow rules And chance respects no person, and what I want often fails You’re waitin’ somewhere to fall into my arms
Saw my picture in the paper Read the news about this face And now some people don’t Wanna treat me the same
When you guys come tumblin’ down When you guys come tumblin’, tumblin’ When you guys come crumblin’, crumblin’ down (Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah)
Well, some people say I’m too foolish and crazy I am just a softy, my compassion’s plain silly But I know that there is something more Don’t need to look over my shoulder to see what I’m here for
Everybody’s got their problems, ain’t no new news there I’m the same old person you’ve been seeing for years Don’t confuse the problem with the issue, man, it’s perfectly clear Just wish that chance doesn’t need me to appear
Don’t wanna put my arms around you Feel your breath in my face You may bend me, you may break me But please stay safe in place
So no one comes tumblin’ down So no one comes tumblin’, tumblin’ So no one comes crumblin’, crumblin’ down (Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah)
It’s true! It’s true! History made it clear. The turnout just went through the roof this year.
The race was changed just a few months ago here: Summer and the fall turned out really hot, And there’s no lower limit to the gloom here In Kamalat.
Slacking off was a no-no through November. Vote ended November fifth on the dot. With no stop, campaigned till the vote was over In Kamalat.
Kamalat! Kamalat! I know it sounds a bit bizarre, But in Kamalat, Kamalat That’s how depressed we are.
The ballot count began just after sundown. By morn, the Donald’s smirk did reappear. In short, there’s simply not A more disheartening spot For freedom-lovers everywhere than here In Kamalat!
I am tired of the Donald He’s been kvetching too long Like a broken recording Of the same, worn-out song So, cuz he keeps on whining I searched on Google while in bed And on a health advice website There was this counsel I read
If you like piña coladas And hate goin’ down the drain If you’re not into MAGA If you have half a brain If you like living life in freedom Not cowed by a big ape Then here’s the cure you’re looking for It will get you in shape
He didn’t think much of that lady I know you know who I mean Don with his side kick J.D. Had slunk back into the same sordid routine And so out in the Garden MAGAS sieg heiled their Führer And while he thought no one noticed He can’t fool all the voters
Yes, I like piña coladas And some distilled sugar cane I’m not into his BS I am into champagne So we got out to vote in November To make a change of landscape And toast to all our hopes— But Damn! He did escape!
“Land of the Brave” where dear liberty was crowned, We once stood united, our wills tightly bound. Through the smoke of battle, our ancestors espied That freedom’s a flame, but it can flicker and die. From the ashes of conflict, we forged our resolve, In confronting the tyrants, our spirits evolved. With courage we faced those who twisted the truth, Promises that gush like the Fountain of Youth.
Yet now in the shadows, the voices grow loud, With pledges painted in palettes of the proud. Cloaked in assurance, with menace beneath, The gloss of populists who thrive on our beefs. “Remember,” they say, “the past is a guide;” But complacence makes civic duty slide.
We gather our banners, but forget what they mean, As we march to the rhythms of a con man’s scheme. The lessons grow dimmer as visions in fog; While strongmen encroach, we sit like boiling frogs. With fervor they promise to serve and protect, But a chain on the soul is what they project.
So heed history’s warnings, the lessons they give, For freedom’s a choice, not a passive way to live. In the face of the storm, let our voices unite; For the fight isn’t over, we must keep our rights. To honor the fallen, please open your eyes; For sake of the nation, let wisdom arise. Together we’ll withstand, but divided we’ll fall; For our future to last, we must give it our all.
In California’s warm embrace, Where golden sunshine paints winter space, A fond five-year-old with eyes so bright, Takes in wonders of a special night.
Her tiny hands, fluttering with glee, Hang glazed ornaments on the tree, While laughter bubbles out through the air, Love and joy sparkle everywhere.
With tinsel glinting, a star on top, She twirls around and can’t help but hop To the smell of cookies, sweet and warm, With cocoa steaming, a cozy charm.
Not a snowflake falls, but hearts are light. Family gathers, a loving sight. They share old stories filled with good cheer. Thus, in the Bay, they bring themselves near.
Outside, darkness begins to hold sway; Inside, season’s magic leads the way. With every hug, every song, She hopes the wait will not be too long.
As night descends, lights full agleam, She closes her eyes, begins to dream Of reindeer flying in starlit skies And what surprise may come at sunrise.
With her hopes high and thoughts so deep, That there’s no snow, who cares a peep? While it’s not a “traditional” sight, The season’s spirit still shines just right.
Just after the crack of dawn, As the sun spills its golden light, a suitcase stands by the door, announcing the journey to come.
I watch, heart swelling— each beat echoing years of laughter, bicycle rides, scraped knees, soccer games, the weight of dreams woven into the fabric of this moment.
I see my son, now a man, gazing forward into the horizon, eyes bright with the promise of the unknown.
I remember the first steps, the tentative dance of growing up, and how each fall became a lesson wrapped in a parental embrace.
With every reflection, pride unfurls like a flag raised high against the sky— an unspoken bond, strong and steady.
“Go,” I say, though the word is heavy, a bittersweet weight upon the tongue. “Explore, chase your dreams, find your own rhythm in this world.”
In that command, there’s a surrender, a release of the tether that has held us so close. Yet even if the distance stretches, that link will never really fray, only strengthen with each mile.
I fight the urge to pull you back, to gather all the memories, to pause the moment just once more; but I know this is the course of life— the letting go, the becoming, a cycle as old as time itself.
