College football and religious wars

Baylor beat Texas this past weekend. At Texas. Maybe you noticed. Maybe you thought, "That's unusual." Or "I guess Baylor is having a good year and Texas a bad one." Maybe you even thought, "Good for Baylor." But I'll bet you didn’t think, "It's a sign of the apocalypse."

Yet that seems to be what people think this year whenever Boise wins (or TCU) or there's talk of Utah playing for a national championship. Why can't they just say, "Wow. Sounds like Boise/TCU/Utah is having a championship year." It doesn't have to be "My God can beat up yours."

Change is unsettling. Yet life is change.

We forget that Florida State and Miami were once football backwaters before Bobby Bowden and Jimmy Johnson (respectively) showed up to change that. I was alive then, and I don’t remember anyone complaining when those programs started to win. Surprise, sure. But it didn’t pose a threat.

It's a different culture now. As the recent elections show, we are now a country obsessed with making and keeping as much money as we can, damn the consequences to those around us. That is what is at the source of the sturm and drang over what would happen if Boise were allowed to play for a national championship or if a playoff system were put into place: money, manna from heaven. People are afraid that their God can't really beat up someone else's.

Bad examples

Michigan State football player Chris L. Rucker was arrested for drunken driving. The problem was (get this) it violated his parole from an assault charge.

Now the Coach, Mark Dantonio, says, it is Rucker's decision whether he travels with the team this week. Uh, no; it's yours. That's what being the coach is.

I am reminded of author Flannery O'Connor talking about why children in schools should have to read banned books. When one parent argued that her child didn't want to read them, Flannery replied, "[His] taste should not be consulted; it is being formed."

Dantonio: be the parent ... be the man .. be A man ...

How it's Done

The ruling class uses the promise of a better future life for you (religion, "progress") to obtain a better current life for them.

Mortality

Death is the price of admission. But the carnival will leave you awestruck.

Stockholm Syndrome

Stockholm Syndrome is one explanation for disenfranchised U.S. voters who vote in politicians who ram through policies favoring corporations over individuals (thereby further disenfranchising themselves).

The most important thing to good health is mixed greens: 10s, 20s, ...

Morality

The logical extension of any moral code that has no exceptions for abortion even in the case of rape is that each woman should marry her gynecologist.

The Personal is the Political

I talk about my personal experiences and inner life not out of self-obsession (OK, not ONLY out of self-obsession). I feel that people in our society cannot hear their inner voices. (Fitzgerald built an entire scene around it in Tender is the Night. The characters all try to decide who is American in a European bar, and the "tell" that lets them know is whether they can sit still.) The reasons why, I will go into later, but here I want to note why I don't write much about "popular" culture and news stories. They are myths. Not in the misunderstanding of that word as meaning "untrue stories." But in its meaning as "stories onto which each person can project their inner feelings." And when you deal with that, you deal with an archetype that is universal and not individual. Any opinion I offer is merely that: an opinion, a yea-or-nay to be shared or not by others. But my THOUGHTS about an event, my FEELINGS about it … those are worth considering because they are individual and arrived it through reflection and articulation. In fact, people hide behind opinions because they shield their feelings and thoughts. Opinions are easier to deal with (psychically).

Also, stories of the day are timely but not timeless. As Oscar Wilde said, "Any ism will soon be a wasm." And Andre Gide called journalism "Anything that will be less interesting tomorrow than it is today."

Ozzie Guillen and Prop 8

Here's something that's timely. (Another problem with blogging while living: things may be timely when written about but not when published if you don't have time to post.)

Ozzie Guillen and Prop 8. Guillen said that Latino baseball players do not get certain perks like Asian players; namely, a personal interpreter. True. The Chicago White Sox (the pro team for whom he coaches) said his views were "incorrect." Maybe politically but not factually It is a simple fact. The man whose name was signed to that institutional press release had never been a major league baseball player, much a less a Latino major league baseball player. So he does not have the experiential knowledge that Ozzie does. But the bigger underlying issue is that Ozzie claims there is a double standard. And there is nothing like pointing out a blatant double standard to make people rally to deny it (and thereby in actuality defend it).

Which is how it relates to the Prop 8 ban on gay marriage being overturned. Another double standard. If we could see the common humanity in each other, rather than the different that makes us uncomfortable about ourselves, then we could eliminate these double standards. However, that is not human nature.

Here's an example that maybe Americans can see because it is once removed. I have a Slovak friend who I visited in Slovakia shortly after The Wall came down. I saw graffiti in a small town saying. "N***er go home." I said I hadn't seen a single person with dark skin. He waved it away with his hand, "That's how the communists worked. They convinced you your troubles were based on your neighbor (even if they didn't really exist), so you fought amongst yourselves and they could keep power. As you know from living in the U.S. Blacks are no different than us. People in other countries can't understand why America is so racist." "But," I wondered about his country's oppressed people, "What about the Roma (gypsies)?" Without beating an eyelash, he monotoned, "But that's different. They're not human. They're animals."

* * *



I had another great experience in Krakow. I was touring the city's old Jewish area and stopped to admire a synagogue. A man approached and said in English but with a Polish accent. "You like?" I did. It turned out he was a local photographer, and he launched into the following story entirely in English. "The other day I saw some kids, skinheads, you know, walking past here and shouting about the Jews. I stopped them. I said, 'Why you look like such sad puppies? Poland's great era was because King Wenceslaus invited the Jews here when no other European countries wanted them. They brought money, arts.'" He shook his head. "'Learn your history,' I told them."

Death and Elevators

I was in the elevator the other day, thinking about death. Not the obvious metaphor of up-and-down or arriving someplace different. I was reading the inspection certificate. If it's not displayed, each day it isn't constitutes a "separate and distinct offense." People don't die just on the day of their death. They die every day afterward.

Life Review

I read a phrase in a book about grief after my dad died: "Life Review." It struck a chord with me. The book argued that it is always ongoing, not merely at a time of death. As someone who has always felt that and been reviewing my life, it struck home. But as someone visited by too many deaths of people close to me this year, it has brought me back to that activity or brought a new urgency to that activity. I have been scanning in old photos and mulling over old relationships. (If I ever wronged you, accept this: "I was wrong, and I apologize." That's the only thing that I wish my parents were able to say and mean. [The Mountain Goats devote a song to people who say they're sorry for things "they can't and won't feel sorry for."])

One of my siblings chided me for saying that I had processed the deaths of my parents in my thirties on my own. A therapist of mine told me that my parents were going to die and I had to make peace with that even if I could not make peace with who they were (and were going to stay). Essentially, you cannot expect people to change or to join you in making peace in your relationship with them.

Last weekend, I spoke with a friend I hadn't seen in ages, whose mother is terminally ill, and the friend said her mother would occasionally make comments apologizing for past wrongs or trying to make peace with people. "That's what everyone hopes for," I told my friend. "But it doesn't always happen; you got the Hallmark movie."

I got together with that friend because I was doing Life Review and trying to get back in touch with long-lost friends. The people inn your life will not always be there. And their exit will be sudden, no matter when it happens.

"Life Review" … Sounds like the title of a magazine … or a blog …

The life unquestioned is not worth living – Socrates (But the life unlived is not worth questioning – Anonymous)

I always think I am going to get back into the rhythm of posting on my blog, when in fact, real life gets in the way of me posting consistently on it. And if I were consistently posting, I wouldn't be living.

Why This Yank Hates Soccer (Football)

I'm an American, and I dislike soccer. But not for the usual reasons Yanks cite. What gets my hackles up is the role of the referees and goes back to the sport's origins. Soccer began as a rich boys' game in England. The early matches were held at public schools (the equivalent of private schools in the U.S.--even in this, we are opposites). The early referees were teachers at these wealthy schools, and the "rules" of the game evolved largely as a way for a teacher to reward or punish a boy, depending on the teacher's inclinations. The rules are a thinly disguised way to empower the teachers (sorry, referees), who were destined to less power and money than their charges, the sons of Wealth. I know of no other sport in which the referees can so determine the outcome of a game (unless of course the NBA actually enforced its rules, but that's a different essay). The reason soccer gets my goat is that it remains a game to empower a ruling class (teachers/referees), and not the huddled masses (players), and that, my friend, is anti-American.

Look at FIFA's rules, and you'll see that little has changed. Fouls are based on wording of whether a player does something like trip "or attempts to" (in the judgment of the ref). Also forbidden are "jumps at an opponent … charges an opponent … pushes and … tackles." Again if the player is charging the ball and not the opponent, the ref can nonetheless call a foul. It's all his judgment.

More telling is the small print. Other players that teachers (sorry, refs) can lord over (sorry, call a foul on) are those who: play "in a dangerous manner," "impede" an opponent, or (most damning of all) "commit any other offence, not previously mentioned in Law 12, for which play is stopped to caution or send off a player" — meaning if you, the ref, stop play, it's automatically an offense. You can invent them!

Needless to say this all goes very against the grain of the Yanks who threw off the idea of an aristocracy or anyone who could lord over anyone else.

More works self-published

I have always felt that journaling was a strong writing skill of mine. I'm going to publish sequentially the "journal" I put together of a life-changing first trip to Europe in 1995. This was put together before the computer age, so I hope you appreciate the "retro" look. (This was blogging before the Internet, kids!) The only background I think you'll need is that I just had gone through an ugly breakup with a woman I had been living with.

It is posted at http://euro1995.blogspot.com/

Double-click the images or open them in a new window to see them large enough to read my writing and appreciate the pix.

The journey/journal begins...

Van Gogh's Bedroom at Arles

This poem never found a home... I'm self-publishing.



Everything an artist needs:
a chair for weariness
and one for a friend;
green glass and mirrors to remind you to look
for the color no one else sees
until you show them;
some works of your own that you don’t despise
to remind you that happens
sometimes;
works of friends and masters
to remind you how far
you have to go;
stoppered bottles of paint thinner
to erase the mistakes,
a drink when you can’t stand it any more;
a large soft towel
because one tiny luxury
can allay the million poverties
attending this life;
a rickety bed with no room for two
sleeping any way but pressed close;
a vase for flowers
even if it holds none at the moment;
streaming sunlight on a wooden floor
green and bowing
throwing each step off balance;
a desk, trim and square,
to remind you of function and simplicity;
a door on either side
to come from nowhere and step into eternity.

Notes from North of the Border

People of Canada. Stop. The path you are heading down leads to trouble. When I got upset I used to go to the Canada in my mind: a place of quiet and politeness. But they are growing less polite. But at least they notice and care. The paper is running a column for people to share stories of politeness in hopes of encouraging more polite behavior.

Canada style combines the comfortable frump of U.S. with the fashion flare of Europe.

The New World is caste-less though not classless.

I have maple leaf flag envy. As I took off, I was sad to think that where I was heading back to the buildings would not be topped with the maple leaf flag.

Chatwin and Jesus

“Luxury hampers mobility.” Ah, Chatwin’s efficiency. He’s talking of course about his favorite subject: nomadic tribes versus citified people. He argues eloquently for the human urge to travel. It is a holy urge and one tied to holiness through the pilgrimages. In this light, I was seeing his simple three-word line parallel another famous philosopher’s words and shining a new light on them: “Give up all you have and follow me,” said Jesus. Perhaps he was urging less about poverty and more about traveling.

Journal ISMS

I've been reading Donald Barthelme again. Read him in college and love his play with language. It frees me up as a writer to see that a "story" can be forged by the connection between phrases and not just plot points. A while ago, I took a playwriting workshop with Maria Irene Fornes, who in a nutshell imagines characters and then "bumps" a scene with a phrase she has imagined or overheard. On my walk Saturday, I overheard an older man say to an even older man who had stopped to talk while the other did yard work, "Skipper's not going to do the Mack next year. So he might have more time." It sounded like a line right out of Barthelme. It also sounded like a good line for a start to a scene or story. I haven't worked it up yet, but offer it for any other writers who may want it. I know enough to parse its meaning. It's about an annual sailing race from Chicago to Mackinac Island. But without that context, it is delightful to hear and to imagine what else it might be about. And who the hell is Skipper?

These things seem too musical to be real, but are often from life itself. I once asked a cabbie his problems because, like a bartender, people usually tell cabbies their problems. The cabbie licked his gums and growled, "the usual: tryin' to make the nut." If I had written that line, critics might have said it seemed a cliché of cabbies. Yet there I was hearing it in the twenty-first century.

Part of what self-publishing in this blog can do is bypass such critics, but also put these ideas out there for other writers who might work them up before I do. I tend to be an idea guy and more focused on short sketch-ups than fleshed out works. I always fantasized than my journals would be published after my novels. (Ha!) Well, again, like with my Hopper book, I am self-publishing my journals. You might find stuff in here from a while ago, but it will all be things that I feel the thoughts or feelings are still worthwhile.

Many people's journals, essays, or nonfiction have been inspirational to me: Andre Gide, Bruce Chatwin, Ned Rorem, etc. I wanted to be part of that tradition. I think my writings can inspire the right people. Back when I was trying to publish the mainstream way, I one night went to Chicago's Quimby's Queer Store, looking for zines that might want my reviews. I found many that disappointed. But one stood out: h2so4. I sent a piece to the editor, who liked it and asked for more. That began a several-year working relationship. I liked the other writers in that zine, and they liked my stuff. I realized that I had found my audience, and that it was small. Like they say, "Love is blind," and what are you going to do if you find your true love and he or she is physically challenged or always has toothpaste on the corner of their mouth in the morning? Nobody's perfect, but the one(s) meant for you are meant for you: "for better or for worse."

So I realized that traditional paper publishing routes were probably not going to work for me. Thus, fame and wealth were also probably not going to follow soon. But I still felt I had something to offer the stream of literature. (A friend once described literature as a pond fed by many streams: no matter how small your stream, you were contributing to the pond.) Something Americans rarely think about. They're so obsessed with breaking traditions that they don't even realize that breaking traditions is PART of the tradition. How do you fit in? Many tradition-breakers have been flash-in-the-pans. And I don't think that anyone who dreams of writing fame wants posterity to view them that way.

* * *
Another idea I got for a story was when I passed a ramp up a house's front stairs. I passed a house with a wheelchair elevator on its front steps. It was permanently attached and had a fold-out seat. I could imagine local kids joyriding it late one night. The immediate instinct is to make it then malfunction when the handicapped person needs it. But then it turns into a morality play. Joseph Campbell nicely summarized American literature as "moral pornography." The money shot is when the bad guy gets his just desserts. But that rarely happens in life.

* * *
I watched the New Yorkification of Chicago, and it drove me out. So I went looking for apartments in Evanston, where I had gone to Northwestern University 20 years earlier and found that the Chicagoization of Evanston had occurred in the meantime. I ended up getting a place north of that in Wilmette. Now I slowly see the Evanstoning of Wilmette. In my first city election, I went online and saw each candidate's statement. It was amazing how they all said that the "real estate" along the Metra tracks needed to be developed. There is an unquestioned knee jerk response in the U.S. that "real estate" (space) needs to be "developed" (filled). The major justification each candidate gave was that the downturn in the economy meant the city needed more taxpayers to maintain the LEVEL of services. But therein lies the fallacy of this tax base argument. If you bring in more people to pay taxes to maintain the services, then more people want those services and each citizen gets less anyway. No one acknowledges that second half of the equation. It's not like the new taxpayers don't want to use services, too.

Smash the presses!

I'm for peer review as much (if not more) than the next guy. HOWEVER ...
Having published my book myself as a blog, I felt so freed that I am going to start self-publishing in this blog smaller pieces that I have written.
No more submitting to journals and waiting three months for their response.
No more having a piece accepted, not run, and being told when I followed up, "send me something." (true story)
No more being told they got my stuff and that someone will get back to me and being told when I followed up that they never got my stuff. (true story)
So, here's a poem. I'm open to suggestions but please no snark. I don't want to know THAT you hate it or WHY you hate it. I do want to know if you see a way to make it better.
Thanks for reading!

Unhinged

the door opens again
 the door opens again
  and may never have opened
   in the first place
in the first place
 it may never have opened
  that way
no, not that way
 please
the door opens
 and your father steps through
  your father steps through
   the open door
    opens
     the door
and is gone.  

 And the door
  you've come from
   remains a memory
your whole life 
a memory
of someone else. 

Reconnecting

I am in a Summer of Reawakening. I have had three now: after college, after grad school (and my first trip to Europe), and now after publishing my book as a blog. I'm a type A, get-things-done, goal-oriented guy. So when I'm in the middle of a project, I tend to have on blinders. Then when it ends, the world seems as if new. I put myself through college: Northwestern, full-time. I once had literally 10 dollars to my name. In our final acting class when we were talking about what we had experienced there, I started to cry and couldn't stop. It frightened my classmates—and me, truth be told. I hadn't realized how focused I had been on getting through. I worked 60 hours a week in the summer and every free hour during the school year. There was no time to breathe. When I finally could breathe, it came out as sobs. That summer, I vowed to enjoy my accomplishment and not push myself so hard.

In grad school, I lived with a woman with whom I had a messy break-up when I got done. I had always wanted to go to Europe, and I left right after grad school and the break-up for two months. Nothing to do but walk and think and get back in touch with my inner voice. I came back and went to the graduation ceremony to get my degree and chuckled to think that I learned much more in two months in Europe than in five years of grad school. I again vowed to look in my own life for experiences like I had had in Europe.

And now: I took my first research trip for my Hopper book in 2000. I just finished posting it this June. Thank God for blogs, or I'd still have that on my mind. My wise wife pointed out that I needed to get it out just to have the closure of the project. And I needed the closure to remove my blinders and reawaken again to the world.
If you've ever walked through a Frank Lloyd Wright house, you know that he likes to lead you through narrow spaces that open into roomy areas. I read somewhere that he claimed that he got the idea while walking Rome's narrow streets and coming upon its piazzas. Without those narrow passages, the space you come into wouldn't seem as welcome. That's my experience with these projects and the subsequent closure and reawakening. The tightness ends and space opens up.

* * *
I am reconnecting, and using the Internet this time. Any time an old friend joins facebook, I say, “Welcome to the online equivalent of a middle school hallway.” It's bringing back all sorts of adolescent feelings. Do they remember me? Do they like me? Do I know the "right" blogs? Well, one blog has been a big help: Chicago writer. Mike has a good friend who asked him, "Are you trying to live your life without making enemies?" Good question.

* * *
Dreams: A beautiful young woman with dark hair takes my hand, and I try to lead her into a garden. It is a very formal English garden. Square routes are contained within circles and scalloped designs. I realize upon awakening: she is my anima and we are trying to get back to the garden, the mandala that represents the soul.

I also had a dream that I was asleep in someone else's condo. Unconsciousness leads you to dwell in someone else's place, not your own.

When young, I had a series of airplane dreams. They always crashed. In college, I figured out that they represented lofty expectations crashing to the ground. The planes stopped crashing. But they continued to fall, dip, and perform various maneuvers. The other night was a new one though. In real life, I had seen Air Force One flying into Chicago a while back. In the dream, I saw planes and realized that two planes were protecting a bigger plane. "It's Air Force One," I said. Then one of the military planes came diving toward the ground. As it approached, it stopped and began maneuvering its needle nose along the road route at 700 mph. "It's making sure the area is safe," I said. And then the big airplane came to land right by me. As it got closer, I saw that it had "Canada" written in big letters on its side (in the color scheme of an old Molson beer can --I love dreams!). "It's not the president, it's the premier of Canada," I said. In the dream, my wife and I were on a walk in Wisconsin, where we often go to get away. She had lived in Canada for a while, so she wasn't as interested as I was to go see him. "How often can you see the premier of Canada on a walk in Wisconsin?" I asked her. Answer: I get to see the premier person associated with Canada on my walks in Wisconsin: my wife.

Weighing In

I usually stay out of the fray of popular opinion, but I've had lots of thoughts recently and little time to flesh them out into essays as I prefer to do.
If the lingering NON-story of Henry Louis Gates Jr. (who everyone was suddenly coached about Day 2 to call "Skip" as if they were chums with him and as if he would prefer this name) being arrested in his home teaches us anything, it is that this country is far from being past race. When news announcers can say with a straight face that a man with a black father and white mother is "racist," there is meaning in neither the word racist nor journalist.
Speaking of which, one of the things that nakedjen and I talked about was "Journalism 2.0" as she informed me it is being called. When someone with a blackberry at an event can inform people about it faster than the press, then what is reportage? I can foresee an Orson Welles moment where someone tweets a false event, setting off a tsunami of unfounded panic. Part of why I don’t normally jump in to current events and publish brief sound bites is that I don’t want to contribute to that culture that panics and responds from fight-or-flight. Perhaps our lives have so little that truly threatens us anymore that our inner lizard brain craves that fight or flight instinct, and we apply it to inappropriate events like the Gates story.
I have been reading Christopher Hitchens's Letters to a Young Contrarian. Get a copy. Hitchens can be strident, but here he is at his best, both witty and incisive and calling on everyone to follow their highest instincts.
Having just "self-published" my book, a phrase that jumped out at me was when Hitchens quoted George Konrad "… be a self-publisher even in conversation…." It's related to what I wrote above. Be truthful. Be original. Edit. Even your speech.
I recently vacationed in northern Minnesota's Mesabi Iron Range, and read a book about the logging industry. We visited "The Lost Forty," a 40-acre stand of white pines spared the loggers' ax due to a surveying mistake. It's amazing to think what the country looked like before plundered. One big problem with capitalism is the faith that money is in and of itself worth something. During this delusional capitalistic time of human development, they turned all of the trees into money. They used the money to buy things, but what comes when people need trees and trees aren't around but money is?
Speaking of money: I saw a post on ESPN about how Billy Beane's Oakland A's are bad and that maybe "moneyball" isn’t working. Hmmm… a huge media conglomerate with a vested interest in generating money from sports thinks that frugality and making choices based on facts rather than the ol' boy network needs to be reprimanded. Remember the old journalism phrase about not believing only one side of a story. "If your mother says she loves you … check it out."

My Lunch with nakedjen

-The life of a blogger is tough. It's not as easy as some people seem to think.

I was lucky enough, due to the happenstance of attending the same high school 25 years previously, to have lunch yesterday with nakedjen, one of the Internet's best-known bloggers. She was in town to attend blogher, a gathering of female bloggers. Since we graduated, she had been through as many life-altering, conscious-expanding events as Andre in My Dinner with Andre. And she has written about all of these events movingly in her blog. She has been (an incomplete list) a Deadhead, naturopathic doctor, film marketer, daughter, computer marketer, sister, blogger, animal rights activist, wife, theater director, divorcee, and tea maker. All because she answered the wake-up call. She had a scary-ass medical event in her 20s (on her blog, she tells the story much better than I could), and realized how lucky she was to have every day after that.

My wake-up calls were not medical: I stepped in front of a bus in a London, and someone reached out to pull me back. I tried to thank him, but he was just annoyed to have to save another American when written on every street in London in HUGE letters is "look left" just for our benefit. I also almost stepped off of Ireland’s Cliffs of Moher (doubtless, a more romantic end than whatever awaits me now, but I'm glad it was postponed). When I looked down to see where I could place my next step and had 300-foot vision, all I could think was: who would find out? And the cincher: WHO WOULD CARE? I had a friend whose teacher implored her on graduating from college, "Make yourself interesting." I lived by that, but I realized on the Cliffs of Moher that you have to live your life so that other people cared when you died.

We all have these moments, but only some answer the alarm clock. I told nakedjen about an ex-girlfriend of mine who was thrown through the roof of a car and broke her spine. I visited her while she was recuperating. "Yeah, I suppose it should have changed my life," she sighed and sucked on her cigarette, "but it didn’t really." Well, it did change mine—as did hearing her dismiss the event like that.

Near-death experiences, divorces, travel, people: wake-up calls happen every day and from many sources. The point is to listen to them. Answer the call.

* * *

Another thing that we talked about was the business of blogging. nakedjen is FAR more the experienced blogger end technophile than I am, so I was somewhat flattered when our thoughts were similar. Having gone to the same academically-rigorous prep school, we both wished that people paid more attention to spelling, grammar, and ethical journalism. (A blog is a journal, and journal is the source of journalism.) nakedjen’s yardstick for whether to post something or not is whether she would comfortably say it on a crowded street. I would alter that to a coffee shop filled with neighbors, family and friends. Because the Web is crowded with those people or people who know those people (not for nothing is it called the Web), and there are repercussions for what you post.

People don’t think about that sometimes. It’s like driving. People are meaner in their cars than anywhere else because (1) they feel protected by the metal box and (2) they feel they can make a clean getaway. (Lost in all the talk of cars’ toxic emissions is their production of toxic emotions.) On the Internet, one can hide behind avatars and personae. It’s easy to write a post from the voice in your head or heart heard alone in your room and not think about the effect it might have if spoken aloud in that crowded local café. And that issue of the effect something would have if spoken leads to another invisibility of the Web: writing is speech set in ink. The human (think of that adjective) voice is being lost on the Web. It’s becoming like an animal in the zoo. People are instinctively moved by it but don’t seem moved enough to preserve the ecosystem it needs to survive. For my part, I bought a microphone and intend to post podcasts and vlog entries to address the issue.

* * *

Just the day before, my wife and I were in our favorite local restaurant, The Bottle Shop. I've written about them before. They provide an alternative to our suburb's family restaurants or corporate fat-cat restaurants. My wife and the owner were lamenting that we seem to be the "invisible minority" who appreciate what they offer. I warned them not to underestimate the invisible minority; we just elected a President. Maybe "invisible majority" is a better term. And I think what nakedjen and other bloggers do is give voice to that invisible majority. Bloggers must keep in mind the effect a post might have on someone they know, but also someone they might not yet know. It may help someone else to read you articulate what they could not or felt they could not express. They may feel alone yet invisibly be part of a majority. It’s a delicate balance.

Welcome!

Well, now that Hunting Nighthawks is out, you can look for other writings, musings, and updates here. Thanks for your continued interest.