Doors May Close, Doors Will Open. . .

Closure is a good thing.  I mean, it's not often you get to feel the satisfaction of closing off a part of your life that has been hanging, unfinished, over your head for what should have been months, but ended up turning into years.  Those that have been following my story these last few years know what I am talking about.  When we moved to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, the lack of shop space forced me to leave a large portion of my tools and equipment in a storage facility downstate.  Though I did remove some odds and ends now and again, the larger part of everything was still left behind.  Though smallish, this year I will be building another workshop and, in a moment of opportunistic determination, decided to drop the wad of cash necessary to recover everything and close out that storage unit.

I say, "ouch".

This was an expensive trip, no doubt, but it did include some days that afforded us some time to ourselves.  For as much as we wanted to move to the U.P., there are still many aspects of our old stomping grounds that we miss (we did live there for around nine years, after all).  The thing that shocked me the most, though, was how much I seemed to miss civilization.  Now, don't misunderstand me; I love being in out of the way places.  Honestly, though people joke about the U.P. being the "last frontier", it's not much different from when Kim and I lived in Taylorsville, KY.  Granted, it does take us a little longer to get to some places now than it did then, but in the last five years, we have thoroughly enjoyed living in the middle of nowhere.  We've actually considered moving deeper into the woods.  How nuts is that?

I think the thing I miss the most about civilization is the anonymity it affords.  The small-town life, where everyone knows you in some fashion or another, is great, but sometimes it's nice to just lose yourself in a crowd of humans and feel the dynamic nature of the mass.  Among my other interests in college, I found psychology and sociology very interesting; I enjoyed watching humans interact with one another.  Many of my best story characters came from observing those in the world around me.

The funny thing about this journey happened to be that the only time something was really frustrating or went wrong, was a time that I depended on someone else for something.  Ironic, when you think about the supposed "benefits" of being in a civilized area.  Seriously, though, every time we were on our own, we did fine; when we needed something, everything went screwy.  Our truck rental was not only a protracted process, but it ended up costing us nearly a hundred dollars more than the initial reservation indicated.  Obtaining our storage unit up here was a multi-step process, as the first unit they placed us in could not be opened because of neglected ice buildup.  It took quite a while for them to find a unit on the sunny side of the compound, where the ice dam had melted away sufficiently to allow ingress.  The hotel?  Don't get me started.  Suffice it to say, I will be sending a sternly-worded letter to their home office later tonight.

But I digress.

For as many things that went wrong, a good many more went very well.  I had a very good birthday dinner with the family and got to peruse the stacks of a Barnes and Noble, besides.  We had some very good weather (for most of the trip), and got to see some of those places we used to frequent, mostly along the Lake Michigan shoreline.  I actually got my parents to follow us down, no small feat in that, but this trip also gave my father a litany of new things to fuss and rant about (yes, it is hereditary).  All this, and the fact that, aside from a couple of days, I actually had some time off.  That also never happens.

Oh!  And I'm going to build my shop soon!  One era comes to an end as another one begins.

This is the jumping-off point for my Makerspace.  I may not be getting the large facility that I will need to provide shop space to others, but I am getting a space that will allow a couple of us to start plying our trade and working up to that larger building.  In the meantime, I do have enough space outdoors to give classes, weather permitting.  Small steps, no?  In the coming days, I am also going to make some changes that will give me not only more time to do all of this, but will also afford me a little more time to spend with the family.  It is rather hard to live in such an area and not get to do much to enjoy it, and when the kids complain that they're not seeing you enough, it's time to adjust things. 

To you all, my friends, I thank you for hanging on and following my story.  I appreciate all of the birthday wishes, and all of the support you've given, so far.  Here's to the next step in the adventure.

It Was, Truly, the Best of Times. . .

This has been a busy day for me.  Early on, I got word that Leonard Nimoy passed, and I couldn't do any more than share the article with friends and then return to work.  That has bothered me all day.

All day, it has felt as though something was missing.  Though nothing had physically been removed from my life, there was a shadow on the day; an emptiness I couldn't touch.  Perhaps I should digress.

I began watching Star Trek at an exceptionally early age with my mother.  Her more than passive interest in science fiction is, most likely, why I became the science wonk I am today.  Not just shows like Star Trek and Battlestar: Galactica, but also Cosmos, In Search Of, and Nova filled my early years with a wonder that sparked an interest in the Universe and our place in it.  I watched Trek every Sunday and read every one of the novels I could find, knowing Spock was going to figure out how to solve the particular riddle in question for that story.  Who was this Kirk, guy, again?

I learned a great deal from Spock, so comfortable with himself as a person, yet still struggled with not quite fitting into either world of his heritage,  As a very awkward child, myself, I adapted to fit into places I wasn't quite comfortable with, while learning to understand those around who didn't quite understand me.  In a way, this hashed and rehashed character from a styrofoam-decorated 1960s TV show became a teacher and a mentor.  As TV shows went, it was one of the few that had a grounded, noble meaning.  Its meaning was, basically, we can all live together.  As I watched that show, I wondered when that world would finally arrive.  I still do.

People touch our lives in different ways, whether we meet in brief passing or spend a lifetime together.  In essence, Leonard Nimoy was the good friend I had never met.  We all have those, in some form or another.  He was an actor, writer, director, humanitarian, the list goes on.  He touched the lives of many and left his mark on this pale, blue dot of a planet.  The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few or the one, yes, but today the loss of one has diminished us all.

Peace and long life.

A Fluffy Little Meme, a Frosty Little Meme. . .

Good evening, friends.

Tonight, I was intending to speak to you about real-life, real-world fitness.  Instead, thanks to technological issues, we're going to talk about snow.

I can imagine half of you grimacing at the mere reading of the word, since 50% of my following is in a few states where the word "snow" is the rallying cry for everyone in the area to go maul their nearest grocery store for bread and milk.  Snow has been a big hit in the ratings this last few days, because several of you haven't had this much potential for the fluff stuff in a number of years (read: decades).  Ironically, until about dark plus two hours, we of the Hinterland had nary a flake today.

How bad a winter storm system is depends, largely, on your point of view and how well-prepared you are for it.  I remember 1994, when a certain storm was closing in on Louisville and the meteorologist on TV was saying something to the effect of how we would "only see a light dusting" as I was watching it pile up in the back yard.  Having visited snowbound regions before, I react rather calmly to major snow systems compared to others, but I have to say that incident soured my affection for meteorology in general.  Now, living in the extreme north country, snow doesn't bother me when it falls as much as it aggravates me when it hangs around.  In southern climates, people mostly ask "What are we going to do about it", while in the north, people wonder, "where are we going to put this?"

The thing that has surprised me the most, though, is how many people down south actually own snow throwers and plows.  We were lucky to have a singular snow shovel when I lived down there.  Some of you guys have posted pictures and video involving the operation of dual-stage snow throwers.  That's just amazing.

I have done my best to refrain from joking about the reaction to this storm, as it truly is a big deal.  People may poke fun at how an eighth of an inch of snow can totally freeze up a southern state, but from the southerner's point of view, it may as well be a blizzard.  Yes, ten inches of accumulation is called "snowmageddon" in the south, while up north, it may just be "Tuesday".  The difference is preparedness.  Those in the north have the equipment to handle this kind of thing, while in say, Kentucky, for example, you may only have one or two snow throwers in a neighborhood.  A city dependent on garbage truck-mounted plows is going to struggle more with removal techniques.

As for the whole "milk sandwich" joke (which I have only heard from my southern friends, by the way), people can't help but think back to that year when they were snowed in for a week, waiting for the National Guard to come in and help get things moving again.  Does it happen often?  No, but it happened before.  Who knows when it will happen again?  Emergencies happen and people prepare.  Sometimes, unfortunately, we find out about it a little too late, and the local Kroger ends up looking like a set from The Walking Dead.

To all my southern friends, I wish a safe couple of snow days.  Stay warm, play some card games with family and friends, and enjoy the sunshine when it comes out to melt things away.  You'll get it way sooner than I do.  If anyone down there needs some tutoring in snow removal techniques, I'd be happy to help you out.  Classes start Tuesday.

Techy, Techy, Techy. . .

It is no secret that I have a love/hate relationship with technology.  I enjoy hardware, immerse myself in the use of computers and now tablets, and do my best to integrate any bit of applied science into my life where it is feasible, whether it is purchased technology, or something I have created.  I suppose you could call me a "gearpunk".  Where the hate part comes in is dealing, mostly, with "planned obsolescence" and the overall human quality of wanting to fix things that aren't broken.  I try to live as sustainable a life as possible; keeping things fixed and working as long as possible is my mantra.  Anyone who has been around me when I had to upgrade to a new laptop knows how curmudgeonly I can become.  I hate giving up on things.  Landfills are full of horrifyingly large piles of technology that people just gave up on.

This all being said, I just about threw my formerly faithful tablet into the closest suitable hole I could find, recently, but I should start at the beginning.  Two years ago, I broke down and purchased a tablet.  I figured that it would be handy for the craft side of our business, as well as keeping track of invoices and the like while I was out on the road for whichever job called at the time.  I was slow to adapt to it.  In fact, after bringing it home and charging it for the first time, it sat on my nightstand for several days, ignored, long enough to require another charge before I finally picked it up to begin using.  I finally acquiesced, though, and began using it, not just for work, but for personal entertainment as well.

Things hummed along smoothly, and I had developed a rhythm with it, turning it on in the morning and letting it "sleep" during the day, so it could dutifully gather my email and messages while I was away from it.  Then, one day last week, I came home and woke it up to find a little window that said it had downloaded an OS update.  There was one button:  Install.  That's it.  Nothing else.  I had one choice, and that was no choice.

What followed was several days' worth of frustrating swearing and restarting and attempts to back up my most recent files before the thing caught fire.  The new, "faster, smoother" operating system wouldn't even open itself without freezing or crashing completely; never mind any other aps.  Again, I had one choice:  No choice.  After spending several minutes speaking to a company rep by chat window, the best the tech had to offer me after all their attempts at debugging the problem had left my tablet totally blank and unresponsive was, "maybe it's just time to upgrade".

I was nice.  I didn't stick around for the customer service survey.

Isn't that about the way things go, nowadays?  Cell phone contracts are generally two years long.  Extended warranties on technology purchases are usually two years, unless you spring for a longer term for a much higher price.  Some companies aren't so bad, but the place I bought my tablet from wanted just at half the purchase price just for a two year extension (which wouldn't have helped, since it would have expired days before this debacle occurred).  Either way, though, technology is designed to last around two years, at which time it is pitched out and replaced by the newest piece of future landfill ornamentation to hit the market.  Arguably, you can still fix televisions and cell phones and computers, but it's gotten to the point where the cost of parts is prohibitive in the face of total replacement.  Not to mention the fact that many humans, being a product of our "instant gratification" society, would rather not waste the time waiting for a repair.  Many, but thankfully, not all.

I did, however, solve my problem.  The little tablet that I have used so well for so long is breathing again and, thanks to my experiences with 1980s style computer systems, I had backups of my files with which to restart.  I even think I patched a few holes in the OS.  Yes, I use technology quite frequently, but days like today are the reason I still use notepads for writing and planning.  If a pencil gets dull, you can use a bit of old-school technology to resharpen it in a few seconds, then get on with your damned life.  What I had to do today sucked several hours from other projects that I should be finishing right now, rather than ranting about it.

Meh.  There's always tomorrow for that.

Out With the Old. . .

And so, again, we find ourselves at the threshold of a new year.  Tomorrow, the sun will rise on that brand-spanking new, 365 day-long chunk of temporal canvas and we will be forced to ask the all-important question, "Why the hell did I get up, again?"

Seriously, though, through all the haze and headaches of partying in the new year, most people will look down at their traditional list of New Year's Resolutions and probably just end up doing the same things they did the year before.  Those who know me already understand my feeling on resolutions.  They rarely ever stick, because we wait so long to implement them (i.e. January 1st), that we have learned quite well how to get along without doing any of these new, self-helpy things in the first place.

Please do not misunderstand my intent; I am all for anyone wishing to improve themselves.  I got into personal training for just that reason, to help people achieve goals.  I teach people how to fix things and try to help them see things in a different light, when I can, all in the name of helping them better themselves.  I, in turn, am constantly learning new and exciting things in the process.  No one person knows everything, but every person knows something.  We teach, we learn, we grow.

Back to the subject at hand, though.  How do we, say, take up a fitness routine in such a manner that your treadmill does not become an unrecognizable pile of clothes and other detritus at the end of January and your dreams of a six pack that doesn't hold adult beverages becomes another "what I'm going to do next year" dream?  The answer is simple:  Don't wait to start!

We, as humans, tend to like starting points and boundaries.  Why do you think there are so many parks near seashores and rivers and canyons?  I can say from experience that it isn't always for the scenery, because I've seen some pretty horrendous riverside parks.  It is because we love boundaries.  We are drawn to them.  They resemble the unknown; Shakespear's "Undiscovered Country".  Even though a thousand-thousand people have gone beyond that point before, it is still a new and fascinating starting point for our own journey.  The start of a great adventure.  The same holds true for the passage of time.  We become fascinated by the fact that an entire year has passed us by and that another one lays before us, new and unspoiled as a new-fallen snow.  We look upon its blank canvas and think, "I've got to do something special with this," when, in truth, we don't.  Time will march on, relentlessly, whether we do something meaningful with it or not.

So what DO we do, anyway?  Have you heard the mantra, Live, Laugh, Love?  Do your best to enjoy life.  Read new books, take on a fitness program, find a volunteer program to help others or the community; enjoy what you do.  If you feel the need to make out a list of things you want to accomplish, by all means, do it.  The thing is, you should actually try to accomplish some of those things.  Don't put it off, don't think, "I'll start next month," just do it.  Everyone has probably heard that it takes thirty days to make something a habit.  There have been several studies that have shown humans develop actions into habits anywhere from as little as 18 days to as many as 254.  The difference is willpower and determination.

For all of you, my friends, family, and followers, I wish you success in everything you do this new year.  If I can help, I will certainly try.  I am going to be starting my own business and attempting to live a more sustainable life.  May 2015 bring you joy and success, but if you fail at something, may you learn and grow from the experience.  Look to your neighbors and accept them for who they are, and respect their right to be themselves.  Look to yourself and see your faults, and realize that yours may not be the only point of view.  Live fully and laugh often, and love always.

Happy New Year, my friends.

Chains and Drive Trains. . .

Okay, so today I see a post on Facebook from my friend, Manda.  She writes:

People on bikes:  we want all the rights of the road; respect us!  Except the rules don't apply to us.

I am a cyclist.  I don't ride as often as I'd like, but I am still strongly attracted to human-powered, two-wheeled transportation.  Unfortunately, I have also shared her viewpoint.  Drivers and cyclists are involved in this ridiculously complex love-hate relationship that began decades ago and, despite municipalities making positive strides toward becoming 'bike friendly', it shows no signs of getting any more amicable in the near future.

First things first, there are rules that govern bicycles.

Each municipality is different in the rules that they lay down, but there are some universal truths.  Bicycles are allowed on roads unless otherwise prohibited, and they generally are not allowed on sidewalks unless the rider is under a specific age.  Many cities and towns have put down bike lanes to keep the two-wheeled set out of trouble, and some have installed 'stop boxes' that allow cyclists to make left turns without having to pull the dreaded 'left turning lane against oncoming traffic' maneuver.  Cyclists, I might add, can also be ticketed for not obeying any of these laws or ordinances, just like motor vehicles.

With all this in mind, where does the problem lie?  I have experienced, first-hand, a lack of respect from both sets, whether I was a pedestrian, driver, or I was on the bike.  Granted, these instances have been few and far between, but the fact that they happened at all shows there is an underlying problem.  No, it isn't lack of respect for others.  I would go so far as to say that our problem here is education.

First of all, excluding professionals, there are basically three types of cyclists:

• I know the rules and follow them, regardless of how I am treated on the road, because it is my duty as a good citizen.
• I know the rules vaguely and follow some when it is convenient.
• Rules?

Then there are municipalities.  There are usually three types of those:

• We have devised an organized set of rules that takes into account the needs of both motor vehicles and cyclists, which includes well-marked and signed routes through our community.
• We have some rules that have been on the books since the sixties and have added a six inch-wide bike lane and some vague signage.
• @*#% bikes.

Now, let's get one thing straight.  Bikes are NOT toys, nor are they recreational items.  A bicycle is a vehicle, plain and simple.  It may be for the road, it might be an off-roader, or it could be a combination, but it is a vehicle.  Regardless of the fact that it doesn't have a motor, you can still visit a world of hurt on yourself or others, should you be careless with one.  You wouldn't dream of letting your children climb in behind the wheel of a car without first teaching them how to safely operate it, so why do people do just that with kids and bikes?  It seems like, once that momentous occasion happens where we take off on our two-wheeler without any training wheels, the guiding hand falls back and no other instruction is given.  Now, obviously, this isn't the case with all parents, but just the fact that it happens with some is bad enough.  Those kids grow up not paying attention to the rules or respecting others' rights of way, and so too will their children.  For our kids to care, we must care.

Two sides of this issue are illustrated in a struggle happening in Louisville, KY.  The Big Four Bridge, unused for decades, was recently turned into an Ohio River crossing for pedestrians and cyclists.  On the bridge, there were two lines painted, representing where the railroad tracks used to be.  In the beginning, marks were made on both the Kentucky and Indiana sides that indicated the lines were a marked bike lane.  Cyclists, for the most part, seemed to be adhering to that restriction, but trouble came in the form of young riders.  Children are curious and, of course, you can't see all the cool stuff happening on the river as well if you're in the center of the bridge, so they were straying into the walking lanes.  Where were the parents when this was happening?

On the other side of the coin, since the lanes are not marked over the length of the bridge, pedestrians would wander through the bike lanes, causing each to have to avoid the other, again causing resentment in each camp.  To top this off, Louisville Waterfront officials who had designated the lane for bikes said that "bicyclists were too zealous about using it", and that they "have been intrigued by a profound sense of entitlement that a designated bike lane engenders", and that [cyclists] "have no patience for children, strollers, wheelchairs, or any other obstacle that might breach the lateral limits that divide bridge space for bicyclists and the rest of civilization."**

I can imagine the vitriol with which that last statement was made.  In other words, just because cyclists are given their own lane, it doesn't mean that they are entitled to use it.  Oh!  Also, they can't breach the confines of the lane-they-should-not-use, but they better watch the hell out for anyone else who wants to be there.  After almost losing their right to use the Big Four in August, Waterfront officials deemed cyclists can still ride across, but there is no longer a designated lane.

Doesn't that sound like an educational problem to you?  

Now, some cities have gotten it right.  New York City, one of the most populous urban agglomerations in the world, earned Bicycling Magazine's top spot in their 2014 "America's Top 50 Bike-Friendly Cities Roundup".  It was noted that, despite cycling opponents arguing that bike lanes would slow down traffic, motorized traffic speeds have increased while the number of bike-related accidents has decreased.  All this while the city's number of cycling commuters doubled from 2007-2011.**

The bottom line is, we need to teach and we need to be taught.  As I said, a bicycle is a vehicle.  Cyclists need to respect pedestrians as much as motorists do, but cyclists and motorists have to respect each others' needs, as well.  Maybe if drivers' manuals took more than a couple of paragraphs to cover cycling rules. . . that would be a good start.  Why not give classes to train people how to operate bicycles safely?  I'm pretty sure that any plans to license cyclists would be met with open revolution, but what's so unattractive about learning how to share the road with thousand-pound chunks of metal that can turn you into gooey paste?

Now, where the heck did I put my helmet?

Do yourselves a favor and go visit Mandawritesthings.  She has some crunchy, blog-filled goodness to share and she likes followers as much as I do (hint-hint).

*Article: Louisville Courier-Journal "A Threat to Make Bicyclists Walk the Big Four Bridge"

**Bicycling.com--"Study:  NYC Bike Lanes Don't Slow Down Car Traffic"

Time Out. . .

Despite what anyone may try to tell you, there are no guarantees.  None.  Life is like that.

You may grow up to be the most wildly successful human on the planet, having had no formal training in anything, possibly being a high school dropout, after merely having had one good idea or an astronomical stroke of luck.  You may have degrees in several sciences and have the ability to make any piece of technology sit up and beg, but struggle through life, paycheck to paycheck, never quite making it to that 'financial comfort zone' that everyone tells us we should reach before retirement.  You could live to see all your children grow up and start families of their own, enjoying your grandchildren and even great-grandchildren, or in a one in one octodecillion chance, you take a shot to the head by a piece of meteorite while taking the garbage out before you go to work in the morning.  When it comes down to it, life can't even guarantee you'll be born.

No guarantees.

Well, there is one.

Eventually, life stops.  At the risk of sounding like a bad internet meme, When the end comes, what determines if we actually lived our lives or merely existed?  With that thought in mind, I took the day off yesterday.

"Okay," most people will think.  "You do that a lot."

The fact of the matter is, I don't do it often enough.  I work a full-time job, along with working to start my own business, and of course there are also the day-to-day projects that come with raising a family and keeping a hundred year-old house from succumbing to time and the elements.  I've run my own businesses before, but this time I'm shooting for full independence.  The gloves are off.

Among all the other things I love to do in this life, my writing has always been at the heart of the matter.  Even the long stretches where I wasn't able to really put pen to paper (yes, I still write in notebooks), I was constantly jotting down notes for new stories and plot twists for those in progress.  The desire to live off of my own work has become such a dominating presence that even in my dreams I am working feverishly towards an end.  The thing that makes me chuckle the most is the reaction I get from a lot of people who follow me on Facebook and my fledgling You Tube channel.  Since I am outdoors a lot, working with various crafts, or demonstrating and explaining scientific principles, many seem to think that I am constantly in a state of leisure.  "That looks like such fun!"  I get that one a lot, but yes, it is fun.

The thing is, none of it ever ends.  One thing leads to another.  As you are finishing one story, part of your mind is already devoted to the nuances of the next.  For a writer, the simple act of sitting on a sofa is difficult work, as you are constantly devoting brain run time to your stories.  Even though I've just started with the video channel, it has already sucked me in to a similar degree.  As I'm working on one video presentation, I am thinking ahead to the next.  I have enough ideas to carry me through the winter, all the while hoping that I start bringing in enough residual income to make it worth my while to continue.

Yesterday, though, I made a choice.  No Sci Fi stories, no cookbooks, no video blogs, no home improvement projects.  The only reason I posted an Instructable was that Kim and I were up till all hours the night before, experimenting with a project she would be working on with her Girl Scouts (and with a group of about 60, you want to make sure you have every step correct).  No, yesterday we fished and cooked and shared stories.  That was enough.

Sometimes you just have to walk away from the day-to-day minutia and learn to breathe again.  I caught an article this morning about just that; how a man walked away from his New York City office job, sold everything but his van and some bare essentials, and now lives as a nomad, touring the country and, apparently, surfing for a living.  That may seem a little drastic, but by comparison, my taking the day off to go fishing doesn't seem like much of a stretch.  When you stop to think about it, the average person with a full-time job will spend between 2000-2600 hours at work over the course of the year.  That's 30% of the year spent trying to afford the other 70%.  It's easy to see how the time can get away from us.  Before too long, the kids are grown and you're wondering why you didn't go fishing more often; especially since you can't now, because you have to work through your retirement to pay for their astronomical college tuition.

Yes, money is a factor.  Until life is like 'Star Trek' and people no longer use money, getting enough to be comfortable, or even just get by, will be a driving force in our lives.  My point through all of this is to find a way to live that you like.  Thirty percent of your year is an awful long time to spend doing something you dislike while daydreaming about the things you want to do.  We may not all be able to do what the New York fellow did and walk away from it all, but I have found that life is easier to understand when we just take a step back and ask ourselves, "what could I have done better today, and how can I do it tomorrow?"

I wonder how he affords his gas?

Re-engineering our Ingenuity. . .

One of the most challenging aspects of being an inventor living on the fringes of civilization is the difficulty in obtaining materials. One thing that has been weighing heavily on me these last couple of weeks is finding out that someone beat me to the patent office on an idea that, innocently enough, we were apparently developing at the same time. The sad part is, this person is selling the item for nearly $100 more than I was intending to go to market with, and making a killing doing so. Where I'm not certain that so excessive a price tag is necessary, I have to applaud him. He is a fellow inventor.

On a side note, don't get me wrong; I do not regret being here. As my fellow Sci-Fi buffs know well, self-described space bum, David Lister said, 'you have to have a plan'. Though mine isn't to get a sheep and a cow and raise horses, it was to make a life on these fringes and maybe awaken the inventive fire that lies dormant in so many of these small communities. Hence the vision of the Makerspace.

But I digress.

It wasn't very long ago, I was talking with one of the best friends I've ever had in this life about how society has had all of its creativity choked from us. Enormous corporations force disposable technology down our throats on a daily basis. We have become used to throwing things out because nothing is 'user serviceable'; nothing is repairable. As a steampunk I find this frustrating, because the mantra 'Don't pitch it, wrench it' doesn't apply. I have repaired computers until they were as technologically relevant as a boat anchor with a keyboard, but try to do that with your television or tablet. It's not quite as easy as going after your old transistor radio with a soldering iron. It might be different if the technology were more durable nowadays, but in that respect we've gone backwards. One of my hobbies is repairing old video game systems. I have soldered and desoldered ATARI consoles, modified them for stereo sound, even miniaturized them into odd cases (because I was bored). I once experimented with an ATARI game cartridge, which included taking out the chip, dropping it from varying heights, boiling it, running over it with the truck. . . The only thing that finally stopped it from working was a hammer. With that in mind, how tight do you clench your backside when you think of your game console maybe getting knocked off the entertainment center?

I am beginning another grand experiment this year in personal sustainability, which I will well document in the hopes of sparking an idea or two among you, my friends and contemporaries. I hear a lot of people complaining nowadays that this country, nay, the world, is 'going to hell in a hand basket'. It's not the fault of any government and it's not the fault of any corporate entities; the blame lies solely and squarely upon us. We LET the government start calling the shots, instead of the other way around, and we LET the corporate world dictate to us what we need and what we should buy.

I'm tired of it. Aren't you?

This is a calling, not a simple rant. This nation was built on ingenuity and the desire to be free, not only from religious and governmental persecution, but from any shackling of ideas and ideals. We are constantly saying things like 'if only I could. . .' or 'I wish I could. . .' What's stopping us? We haven't lost our ingenuity, we've just been taught not to use it. The answers are simple: If you have an idea, build it. If you can't, ask for help from someone who can. Statistics show that the average American produces approximately 1600 pounds of garbage in a year. That averages out to about 4.4 pounds a day and, out of that, 42% is paper textile (toilet tissue, paper towels, etc.). According to WM Recycle America, the United States alone throws out enough recyclable aluminum in a year to "duplicate the full commercial air fleet of the U.S." Now let's think about this in another direction. . . How much additional spending on our part to the producers of those products does that waste represent? How many replaced items that should have lived longer, could have been replaced, or just flat out could have been made by the consumers, themselves? I don't know about you, but with four kids in the house, I save a bundle each year just by making my own laundry detergent.

What am I tired of?  I am tire of 'experts' telling me how to live a better life and make the world a better place when we already know how to do it. Who's with me? 

Of Mice and Makerspaces. . . Originally published August 8th, 2011

The time has come to answer a few questions. I've been dropping hints as to my plans for a little while, now here is a better look at the concept. . .

The question I've gotten from quite a few is, "what is a makerspace?". The short answer is that a Makerspace is a place where people with common interests can meet and collaborate on ideas and projects. The long answer goes much deeper. A makerspace not only offers workspace and resources, but also learning opportunities, as it is built on the idea of peer knowledge and sharing.

The makerspace I intend to build will be based completely on this collaborative principal. Aside from housing my own creative aims, I intend to begin by offering lab space for writers and designers, supporting the endeavor by offering classes from Tai Chi to basic mechanics tutoring. Eventually, I intend to grow the space to house areas for people to work on their projects and to provide a general tool lending library, if you will, for same. Although the classes would be made available to everyone, the latter services would be provided to members for a monthly due. A physical store would be attached to the face of the makerspace, providing a place for artisans to sell their goods on consignment, further supporting the entire endeavor.

Currently, we are still in the conceptual stages. I am building up the finances on my own and will be, over the next few weeks, seeking consulting assistance from local support groups in the community. When I get closer to finding a facility, I may even begin looking for outside investors, if necessary.

More to follow! ^.^

For a Long, Lost Friend. . .

Morning awakes
Though my body still feels tired.
Slowly arise,
Though I can hardly step.
And the light is shining so,
Brighter than I've ever seen--
I can't help searching for
Silhouettes of you.

Please hold me tightly;
Please smile so warmly;
Searching within these thunderstorms--
Searching through until dawn.

Remember that one time?
I long for the past times.
I'll tell you what I miss;
I keep on missing our own,
One chance encounter. . .

So what is Fathers' Day? If you were out the day before, it would seem to be just another endeavor into commercialized consumerism. If you get past the surface, though, looking through the last-minute gift shoppers storming through stores trying to figure out a good 'mandatory' prize, what do we have left?

Truly, Fathers' Day is a celebration of memories.

Today, we made a few. Through a persistent blatter of day-long rain, we set out with no particular goal in mind. After a roundabout ride across the island, we ended up in Copper Harbor, hiking through the rain to capture a letterbox, picking agates along the shore, and discovering another possible branch in the family tree. We got pretty wet, yes, trundling through the boreal forests, but a lazy saunter home to some dry clothes and a homemade pot of chili served to top things off. Like I said. . . Memories.

My father and I are separated by a thousand miles; our occasional phone calls are never enough. Camping excursions, fishing trips, all those things I've learned because of him. He is the reason I can repair a lawn mower with an elastic hair band, or back up a trailer just as easily as driving a straight line. There are no gifts that I can find to repay him for what he's given me, except for the gift of time. Those moments we have, fleeting though they are across the miles, are themselves gems to be revered and then passed on through my own children.

To those out there, fathers and children alike, I hope today's memories were good ones.

Unplugging Destiny. . .

Throughout a couple hundred thousand years of human civilization, technology has continued to develop to both the benefit and detriment of humankind. Bicycles were a nice addition to our lives, as well as eating utensils and indoor toilets. I'm certain more than a few people could have done without the guillotine, but where would we be without the advent of the steam engine and, later, the internal combustion engine?

The thing is, we are constantly turning out items and ideas to make our lives easier, but have we gotten to the point where that is impossible? Have we reached a plateau whereupon every gadget and feature we tweak into our daily routine only hurts our productivity; steals our time? Have we, as a society, forgotten how to jettison things that don't work as planned? Perhaps we've forgotten the failure that was the PDA; good idea turned paperweight.

Now, I have to admit that I love the internet. The ability to not only find the answer to potentially any question, but to find an item on the other side of the planet, purchase it, then have it show up on your doorstep a few days later is both convenient and wonderful. Through social networking sites, I have gotten in touch with friends I had feared lost to the passing of time.

. . .And there, of course, are the games.

So where has it all gotten us? Where has it gotten me? I have, of late, come to the realization that I haven't quite made it to where I want to be at this stage of life. I am a steampunk, which means by nature that I am a recycler and upcycler. I invent and I reinvent. I have the ability to live simply, but do I, truly? How much time have I lost to online diversions in the pursuit of quick information? What have I done to achieve my career goal of becoming a reclusive writer?

Beginning with this new day, I am going to unplug. I am going to turn my back, temporarily, on some of the conveniences of the day, with the intent of getting back some of the productivity I've lost these last few years. I have accomplished so much recently, and I refuse to backstep. The world needs my contribution, so here I come. We often forget the power we have over our own destinies.

I will not be completely isolated from the modern world, as I will be coming back from time to time to report my progress. For now, it's back to an earlier time. See you around. . .

FRACK!! (Originally published May 9, 2008)

Normally, I try to keep my inner dork reigned in, but occasionally it comes out and brings along a soapbox. I am a huge Battlestar Galactica fan, dating back to the days of feathered haircuts and cheesy stock footage. I knew what the word 'frack' meant long before Starbuck was a girl and the Cylons looked like swimsuit models.
To say that the 'reimagined' show is as frustrating as it is entertaining would be an understatement. The supposed 'best drama on TV' seems to get its jollies from dangling carrots in the faces of its fans. Currently in the last season, we are seeing ten of the final twenty episodes right now, with the remaining ten not scheduled to release until next year. The current season came over a year after the last, with nothing but a single made-for-TV movie in November to tide us over. Frack, indeed.
I do admit that I am much more enamored of this show than the original, with its stunning visual effects and its deep delving into the human condition. Unlike most science fiction offerings, the human race isn't wheeling through the galaxy in glistening, ultra-efficient starships getting in everyone's face about how superior their spirit and morals are. Beyond bad planning and distribution, there is very little you could find fault with in a series of this nature.
. . . And then I saw the Star Trek tribute.
I almost missed it, and I almost wish I had. Four of the human characters have been revealed to be Cylons. Unable to cope with this individually, they find it necessary to meet occasionally in secret to complain about it. One such secret location was 'locker 1701-D'. A Trek tribute in BSG?! What gives? Did some obscure person from the show work on this particular episode, or are we seeing some twisted foreshadowing? Now that I think of it, it all fits… An entity capable of mimicking humanoid life forms, multiple copies, and a bad sense of humor… I would be sorely disappointed to find out that Data was the final Cylon.
It would be par for the course, though… The human race suffers a crushing blow from an enemy of their own design, sending them on a journey that spans not only thousands of light years, but also the length and breadth of their mortality and morality; of ethical and religious practice and beliefs that are only now, in these bleak times, coming into question. They are on the brink of a religious revolution threatening to tear asunder their very core beliefs and devotions. What would it do to them to reach Earth, only to find an agnostic society who will swear to God, when the humorous interjection of a 'colorful metaphor' is necessary, but who would not believe in Him?
But I digress… My intention was to not come here and go on about religious connotations. When, exactly, did the inhabitants of the science fiction community become incapable of standing on their own? Mainstream shows as far back as Seaquest felt the need to pay homage to those which came before them, usually Star Trek or Star Wars. I remember watching a 'Sci-Fi channel original' in which Wil Wheaton referred to two nuclear warheads by the serial number of an Imperial Stormtrooper and THX-1138. It was totally out of place, absolutely random, and useless inasmuch as the only people who could possibly catch the reference are wonks like myself who have seen Star Wars more times than the average male college student has seen the Monty Python 'Parrot Sketch'.
Let's face it; there are no original ideas anymore. If there were, we wouldn't have had sequels from the Rocky or Rambo series in 2006 and 2008, respectively. Has anyone out there heard of the proposed remake of 'Short Circuit', or the upcoming 'Get Smart' movie? It's like everything old is new again, but not really. This is the reason I like to curl up to a good Heinlein novel now and again. Even though they are decades old, it's nice to read an original story. My hat is off to the Grand Masters, though not because I heard an obscure notion in an unrelated movie. For now, I think I'll head off to bed with a Tolkien novel from my own library. Let's see… Ah! There it is...
…Bookcase 1701, shelf TK-421.

Curriculum Vitae. . .

So, this go-round, I didn’t make it for the end of the year toast. Sorry, I was asleep. 2008 had been a long and tiresome year, filled with frustration and troubles aplenty. Truth to tell, I needed the sleep and, without the assistance of alcoholic substances, I fell into a coma around about 9 p.m. EST and didn’t come out of it until about 8:30 this morning.

Oooo-rah.

There were some good things to come out of the past year, though, from reconnecting with old friends to first connections with new ones. With a little help, I came to a realization that I had been hanging on to some things I should have left behind; things that kept me from truly moving on. I experienced a rediscovery of self and purpose, which will make for a rough but interesting journey in the year to come.

So what does lie ahead? Who knows. I have big plans for the future, for myself and my family, and can only wonder how far this year will carry them. An internet store, leading into a health and fitness business is one of my goals, as is building towards a larger home for my family and moving my parents up from Kentucky. As for the near future, I have set off on teaching my oldest son and daughter wilderness survival skills, which started off with a rather humorous adventure centered around building a snow shelter. I am also thoroughly convinced that this winter will be perfect for another little science project we’ve been talking about for a couple of years. For details on that, stay tuned to this station.

As for my friends, both nearby and beyond the horizon, I hope to share this journey with all of you. As the past year has shown, we’ve been apart too long; we’ve missed too much. But before we embark on new beginnings, we must take care of the endings. . .

· To my entire family: I couldn’t have made it through 2008 without your support. We have to do that whole ‘hurricane’ thing again sometime.
· To my four wonderful children: I don’t know what I would ever do without you… Know, too, that I don’t know what I wouldn’t do for you. You are all truly pieces of my heart.
· To Diane, truly my twin sister: You are an EF-5 tornado in an otherwise calm sky. Your chaos helped me find my calm; my soul finally knows itself.
· To Cindy, dear heart: Life took you away so long ago, yet I sometimes think I can feel you beside me. I know I will see you again in the next life. I’m thankful you were in mine, if only for a short time.
· To Justin, my brother-in-arms: Life has made us unfathomable to those around us. We may not have figured ourselves out completely, but at least we’ll always have the misanthropy.
· To Tammy: You are forever seeking yourself, through the maelstrom that is your life. No matter what may happen, I will miss our walks in the park.
· To Alicia, my newest good friend from Tennessee: You’ve been having trouble seeing the way, too. You are someone I can trust, and that doesn’t happen often. Keep living in the moment, and never second guess yourself.
· To Ben: You may just be a worthy opponent. I look forward to many chess matches. Maybe I’ll even win a few.
· To Absent Friends

And now, we begin. . .

Again, We Come to the Ending. . .

Like the autumn winds dashing through the trees, another year has come and gone, full of trials and turmoil, seeing as many uncountable tears as moments of abandon and laughter. Now is the time to ask ourselves how we fared. . . Did we accomplish what we set out to do this year? Did we fall short?

As for me, this was the year I was to find myself or, at least, most of myself. I had begun a journey of uncertainty that almost cost me all that I have worked for but, in the very end, I found that I had so much more. I found myself; I found my heart again.

Not in a long time has so much changed for so many… Relationships lost and some rekindled, new friends found after so long, some marriages, some life-altering decisions, new careers embarked on and some returns to college to prepare for just that…

And here we are again. The house is silent, save for the tiny adenoids of my children, and even the neighbors’ attempts to ring in the new year with firearms and explosives has died down. Without further ado, I ask you to raise your glasses with me…

To Kimberley, my little mystery… I feared the worst but have found you again, just in time.
To my children, Jessie, Zack, Johan, and Sabrina… The constant source of joy for my heart.
To Bonnie, the sister I never had… You’ve made me so proud of you, and you’re nearly to the end of your college journey.
To Mike and Bailey, married only a few months. . . Here begins your great adventure.
To Sarah Bethany, who always seems to show up when you most need her… We don’t talk nearly as much as we should, anymore.
To Mike and Diana, friends gone for so long… We haven’t had time to catch up since we collided again, but we have an entire year ahead of us.
To Tori Anne, finally free and away to college… I’m proud of you, too, and wish you and your sweetie all the best.
To Tammy and Michelle, one friend found and another so distant… You are anchors to the time when I learned that life is more than masks.
To Amber, the acquaintance that became a good friend… We have many games of Literati ahead of us.
To Carrie, having found the strength to live her life again… Welcome back.
To Justin, my Brother In Arms… You have walked through the fire and set off again to find who you are. There are forks in that road, but there are friends along the way.
To absent friends…

And now, the beginning…

The Inhumanity of Humanity. . .(An answer to a friend's anguish, reprinted by request)

The one commonality among all humans is their ability to allow themselves to be manipulated by intolerant historical views and small groups whose best interests involve societal disharmony. Look at the media, which are, ultimately, the government's own, unpaid PR department.

If you turn on any newscast, local or national, on any station you wish, all you hear are stories about all the things that make us different: race, religion, artistic expression, sexuality, etc. The government makes 'issues' of them, feigning concern for the citizenry, which, in turn, fuels the media with inflamitory subject matter. The entire affair plays on the human animal's sheepish ability to swallow anything they are told and not only choose sides, but formulate uneducated opinions. Combine this with the inability to be flexible in their thinking, and you have disharmony by unity.

People learn intolerance from their religion (Catholicism comes to mind, as it says that to even enter another faith's church is a mortal sin), and from their parents. A few years back, nearly 140 years after the end of the Civil War, a town in Georgia vehemently protested the erecting of a statue of Abraham Lincoln, citing that it was a 'terrible insult' to their heritage. People are still burning churches, fearing and generalizing over national origins or skin color, and even protesting the way we express our love of one another. The most infuriating clip I ever had the misfortune to see was of a woman on a talk show talking about how her lesbian daughter 'didn't have to be that way' and how 'she could be re-taught'.

In essence, hatred is a swell born of, nay, synonymous with ignorance. Since ignorance is a dominant trait in the human species, it becomes a unifying factor, drawing similarly ignorant individuals to like groups. The only thing that gives the rest of us hope is our own ability to come together and remain standing before the tide.

Ghosts of the Past. . .

Everyone has ghosts. . . Everyone has skeletons in their closet; those annoying little memories we wish would go away but keep resurfacing every so often to remind us of things we’ve done that were so embarrassing or painful that we wish we could burn them out of our mind. Usually these memories are attributed to life lessons.

The greatest teacher of all is life. Unlike the moderately overweight, balding guy in the plaid leisure suit that tried to convince you that geometry was the most important thing you could ever know, life has a way of commanding your attention. Hearing someone drone on about the area of a triangle being expressed in terms of A=(1/2)ab just doesn't grip one's interest as much as, say, learning that you should never spit a mouthful of Listerine into your campfire. I do, of course, speak from experience and, even though it makes a pretty awesome eruption of blue flame, do NOT recommend you try this. It has a tendency to melt your shoelaces.

When life teaches you a lesson, it is very necessary and, often, involuntary, bringing to light a common sense issue that can oft be punctuated with the phrase, “Should have known better.” Whether that lesson is ‘pay attention to where you’re going’ or ‘never use alcohol-based mouthrinse solutions near an open flame’, you have no choice but to absorb its wisdom.

There are some lessons that take a little longer than others to sink in, requiring repeated experiences to get their points across. For me, that particular lesson was ‘think before you speak’.

One of the largest drawbacks of the human species is the spoken word. Both a blessing and a curse, there is no language on Earth that cannot be used to hurtful ends. Regardless of the species, animals have the ability to communicate in the simplest of fashions and, though the message may only be ‘get back’, ‘watch out’, or ‘that’s mine’, they never have to worry about tact or subtlety.

Since a young age, I’ve been cynical and outspoken and more than willing to launch my opinion into low-Earth orbit for all to partake of. Subtlety has always been one of my strong suits; a finely-honed weapon to wield when the situation called for it. My weakness was tact. Simply put, tact implies delicate and considerate perception of what is appropriate for the given situation. It took me a long time to learn that I was lacking in this skill, allowing my emotions to override the brain’s ‘think ahead’ safeguards.

I remember the place and the time, but I don’t remember exactly why we were there; it was either a football game or track meet. I was there for her, because she was my best friend, perhaps more. At the time, she was seeing a fellow who was, for all intents and purposes, a grade-A git, but she was still a couple of weeks away from that realization, herself. Sparing the sorted details, in one line I expressed my opinion of him, speaking the words just as quickly as they formed in my mind. Seven little words, and she was furious. All I cared about as I spoke was letting her know how I felt, totally oblivious to the fact that, being newly in love, she was blind to all but her own perceptions. She needed to be told, yes, but it should have been tactful; instead, I dropped a nuke in her lap. I know that she’s long forgiven me, but the thought that I hurt her so badly still burns.

I was told a story long ago about a boy, his father, and an old wooden fence. The boy had an awful temper, prone to explode at any time for any reason. One day, his father handed him a bag of nails and told him that, every time he lost his temper, he was to drive a nail into the old fence out back.

The first day, the boy had driven more than thirty nails into the fence but, in the days that followed, that number dwindled. He discovered that it was easier to hold his temper than to drive those nails.

Finally, the day came when the boy didn’t lose his temper at all. When he told his father, he suggested to the boy that, for every day he doesn’t lose his temper, he remove a nail from the fence. Days passed and, finally, he was able to tell his father that all the nails in the fence were gone. The father took his son by the hand and led him to the fence and said, “You have done well, my son, but look at the holes in the fence; it will never be the same.” The story’s meaning, of course, is that every wound, physical or verbal, leaves a scar, no matter how many times we say “I’m sorry”.

Life lessons come at us during times of abandon or recklessness, or just those ‘switch off’ times when the brain’s common sense circuit breaker pops off. Some of the best achievements are made when we ask ourselves, “I wonder what will happen if. . .” Unfortunately, that is where humans usually begin their misadventures. Perhaps the reason behind this is the fact that we are attracted to dangerous situations--we think they're fun and exciting. The problem is that, by the time we've asked ourselves that question, our mind already has a good idea of what the outcome will look like. Unfortunately, not everyone can see the reality of the situation to come.

The moral of our story tonight: Look before you leap, and don’t forget to think as you’re looking. And to all my friends, I hope I’ve not left too many holes in your fences.

Not Another Day

Vacations are short for a reason. Think about it for a moment. . . If the average person had at their disposal an indefinite amount of vacation time and the ability to say, “I’m going on vacation, see you all when I’m good and ready to come back”, chances are good they would either return completely wrecked or dead. Humans are creatures of habit and, when removed from the routine in which they’ve been ensconced for years, tend to go down rather destructive roads in their pursuit of ‘recreation’.

Perhaps a case study would better illustrate my point.

I have, for quite some time, felt that I ‘needed’ a vacation. It’s been a long time since I’d taken any time off for reasons other than exploding plumbing and health crises, so a good, solid vacation would work wonders. I planned three days off during spring break for no other lofty goals than to play with the kids and, maybe, get through a few more chapters on my current novel. What could possibly go wrong?

The weekend started out fairly well, as Saturday and Sunday both became ‘goof off days’. I actually revisited some old sketch work that had been too long ignored, and I wrote a bit more in my sci-fi universe under the scrutinizing eye of my seven year-old daughter. All was well.

Then, later in the day Sunday, came a whirlwind decision: We would take the time this week and visit our family down in Kentucky and Southern Indiana. Okay, I wouldn’t get much done, writing wise, but we would get a good mini-vacation out of the adventure. One blazing round of packing, six hours, three stops, and 402 miles later, we were nestling into the ‘guest room’ of my wife’s parents’ house, looking forward to a good sleep and some much-needed time to unwind. We almost got away with it.

Monday and Tuesday went well, save for a few traffic snarls and the fact that I still hadn’t picked up my pen and pad for any productive time. We spent four hours at the zoo in a blaze of unseasonable warmth and sunlight, which didn’t matter, since the kids had a great time. The rest of the time was spent visiting my family which, I am amazed to say, went off without a hitch.

Then came Wednesday. We knew that the storms Tuesday night were bringing arctic air down from the northern climes, but the first clear weather report we heard for our hometown made it rather clear that some plowing would be in order once we returned. Coupled with the fact that my in-laws were celebrating their anniversary, we felt that it would be best to stay another day, returning home in the full light of the day Thursday, rather than forging our way back around Wednesday, midnight. It would give us an excuse to catch up with a couple of old friends, and keep the grandparents from giving us the guilt about not seeing their grandkids often enough. You can already hear the ominous music, can’t you?

Since they rarely get a break from the local grandchildren, we thought it would be good to take our kids and our nephews out for some entertainment that extra night, giving my wife’s parents at least a few hours’ peace. One large pizza and roughly an hour later, we found ourselves in a place called “The Fun House”. Perhaps it is aptly named for small children, but for adults the name requires a disclaimer. I would suggest, for example, “The Fun House: Your kids are going to love all our ticket-spitting, loud, malfunctioning games that all require many dollars’ worth in tokens to play but will, in the end, only yield them some crappy piece of plastic that makes noise or just breaks if you look at it with a sideways glance while you pacify yourselves with our ‘salad bar’ and ‘gourmet pizza’ which is really just leftover produce and frozen French loaves we got at the local wholesale club for pennies. By the way, the ‘gym set’, a.k.a. the ‘gerbil cage for kids’ is really nothing more than a fancy urinal. Have a nice day.”

Those of you with small children understand this trip. Every parent, in some form or another, has taken this trip. It’s the one that ends with you carrying your screaming, kicking, eighteen month-old daughter through the building because she’s: A. tumbled out of the insipid little kiddie-ride that looks like a school bus, skinning her knee on the abrasive carpeting and: B. wanting to get back in the insipid little kiddie-ride that looks like a school bus because she just likes to put the tokens in the slots. It’s also the trip where you learn or re-learn to carry your younger children at odd angles, since their legs are just long enough to kick you in places that would get them removed from most professional sporting events. When they smile at you at the end of the trip, you tend to forget all the worries and trouble, though (at least, until you get home later and the soreness starts to kick in).

Not being one to invite trouble and headaches (upon himself, anyway), my oldest son saw the opportunity to cut and run and took it without hesitation, going to see the new ‘Ninja Turtles’ movie with his aunt and older cousin.

So there you have it: Case study #1a in a nutshell. It was a moderately uneventful vacation trip, flawless in its execution, until being done in by a random, extra day. I can’t complain, as the kids had fun. That’s how it’s supposed to be when you’re a child, isn’t it? Let your parents have all the worries; you need to have fun when you can, while you can. As for me, I write this at midnight, plus thirty, unable to sleep. I know I need my rest for the trip home tomorrow, through the blinding snow. I know that, despite my best efforts, I will be roused from my slumber at six in the morning by four very wide-eyed children trying to separate the toys they brought from the menagerie that is their cousins’. I just know that I’m going to listen to four hundred miles’ worth of TMNT movie review from my son.

I just know that it’s all worth it, because Friday, I get to go back to work.

Next time: Our Imperiled Perspicacity. . . No, Really!

A Far Better Thing. . .

I try to start out every year with positive, though cautious, optimism. With the coming of each New Year, I try to fight back many generations’ worth of genetically-programmed cynicism. I am proud to say that, this year, I made it one week. True, it may have been my month-long bout with the flu that soured my disposition this year but, regardless of the cause, I have come to realize that the world is chock full of people I’d just like to smack rather hard.

Now, I realize that sounds a bit harsh, but what better way to burn off all the latent hostilities that build up over the course of the day? The first candidate that comes to mind is that guy that always merges with a 70 m.p.h. interstate at 40 then, when he’s disrupted traffic as much as possible, takes off at twice the speed of sense. Close behind him is the engineer who designed my vehicle. Would it have killed the people at G.M. to put a slightly larger bottle under the hood to accommodate a full gallon jug of washer fluid, rather than the 126 ounces it annoyingly holds?

Recently, I was watching a game show with my wife, when the question “Which Soviet Premier was responsible for Glasnost and Perestroika?” came up. The person being asked was my age, approximately, so I figured she had it in the bag.

Her answer was ‘Bin Laden’.

Still clinging to my optimism that this was an isolated aberration and that the ‘No Child Left Behind’ initiative was alive and well, I stayed with the show long enough to catch the answers to a few more questions. The ordeal was extremely painful. Apparently, there are polar bears in Antarctica, China borders the United States to the north, and Bill Clinton was impeached for the Watergate scandal.

You wait here while I go get a heavy club.

Hostility and impatience are in our very nature, surfacing in even the most unsuspecting individuals. Sometimes it is subtle; a twitch of the eye or an annoyed inflection in the voice are our only clues. Sometimes, it is an explosion, erupting violently, either verbally or, in the worst case, physically.

We frequently use the term ‘pushing his/her buttons’ when we talk of annoying someone. Perhaps we shouldn’t be so casual about it. ‘Pushing buttons’ turns it all into a game; the prize being the display put on by the newly annoyed and/or irate victim. By my observations, the ‘hostility control’ is actually a switch and, in some cases, one of the ‘momentary contact’ variety.

Take, as a case study, subject ‘D’. Subject ‘D’ is a friend of mine who wouldn’t consciously harm an insect. She once cried for nearly 24 hours when she accidentally drowned a spider. To speak to subject ‘D’, you would think you were talking to the nicest person on the planet. However, in the midst of a number of cell phone conversations, she will burst into a directed tirade of harsh language and other discouraging words to the motorists around her on the open road, only to return to her normal self in the next breath. The scary part is not that she becomes so hostile so quickly, but that, when the switch is turned off, she returns to the conversation and her natural, sweet tone with no sign that anything happened. The transformation is casual: From ‘Doctor Jekyll’ to ‘Miss Road Rage’ in .025 seconds.

In this casualness, Subject ‘D’ is not alone. Though the transition is not so smooth, I have caught myself doing the Bipolar Shuffle on many occasions, as with my ever-growing ‘People I’d Love to Smack’ list. Just because neither I nor subject ‘D’ allow our rantings to escalate doesn’t detract from the potential hazards of uninhibited release. That’s how we get road rage shootings and sports-related riots. That’s how we have abuse and domestic violence. That’s how we start wars.

Hostility is something we can’t run away from. As I said before, it’s in our basic makeup, as part of our ‘fight or flight’ response. As (supposedly) intelligent life forms, it should be within us to control the need to act on these impulses. Just because the neighbor decides to build a ten foot tall bonfire to roast marshmallows with his other drunken friends doesn’t mean the only way to get through to him is with a cinder block. There are always other options. When the guy you’re trying to wave through the four-way stop doesn’t move, it could just be the sun reflecting on your windshield, not his being a goober.

My advice to you all? Take a deep breath, weigh the possibilities, and, above all, remember that diplomacy is the key. We call ourselves an advanced culture, so we should act like it, true? I suppose I still am positive and optimistic, even though I don’t always show it. Patience is, truly, the virtue they say, especially when dealing with other, volatile minds. Understanding, as with all things in life, cannot be rushed; we must take our time. Don’t take too much time, though.

On a related note to my neighbors: If your wreath has turned brown and died, it’s time to take down the Christmas decorations.

**Next Week: Speling in the publik skool systim.

Wassail!

I caught myself humming Christmas carols the other day. Having worked within and around retail for so long, I had become almost completely desensitized to the holiday season, due in no small part to the fact that it seems to come into the stores ridiculously early each year. My first job in the retail world had me putting out those big, plastic blowmold ornaments in early October, caring little that Halloween and Thanksgiving were between us and the relevant holiday.

You hear the term ‘commercial’ so much around the holidays (even Charlie Brown was worried about it). Fact is, though, the holidays haven’t become too commercial; they’ve become too impersonal. Think about it for a moment. Even gift-giving has degenerated to swapping gift cards in little envelopes. What was once the most personal, meaningful act between family and friends has become the biggest hassle of the holidays. Whether a gift be useful, thoughtful, or totally ridiculous, the whole point was that someone actually thought enough about someone else to go out into the world and select what they believed would be the perfect token of their caring. Some retailers are now offering gift cards via e-mail, which the recipients can print out on their own. You don’t even have to walk to the mailbox, anymore! It all comes down to one thing: When you give someone a gift card, you’re saying that you care enough to send them on an errand.

In fact, the whole of society seems to view the holidays as a hassle. Not so often do we hear the words ‘Merry Christmas’ as we do ‘Happy Holidays’. Our media, our stores, our employers, and our schools seem to be on a holy quest to excise that part of the holidays to avoid oppressing or, dare I say, discriminating against those who do not celebrate in one fashion or another. Personally, I wouldn’t take offense, or think someone was labeling me, or even pushing their religion on me if they offered the greeting, ‘Happy Hanukkah’. If that’s the holiday they celebrate, that’s fine by me. The underlying message, the peace and unity of the season, is the same, regardless of the greeting itself. When we go so far out of our way to avoid using the ‘C’ word that we almost sound uncomfortable when speaking to others, it has gone too far. Certain retailers have returned to offering the more traditional greetings only out of an interest to preserve their sales. At least it means that I’m not alone in my observations. One local newspaper went so far as to print an article of ‘holiday hints’, the first of which was titled ‘How to determine if your Yule tree is fresh. Yule tree? We can’t even say ‘Christmas tree’ anymore, apparently, so we’ve gone back to Pagan terminology. I suppose that’s fine, though, since the Yule sabbat is where our tree decorating tradition came from in the first place.

So, therein, we see the magick of the season fade. As a small child, I had a hard time believing in things like Santa Claus and flying reindeer, but that didn’t keep me from feeling the magick about Christmas morning. It was a living thing that wrapped you up in warmth and made you feel good to be alive. Granted, all the Star Wars paraphernalia and electronic mumbo-jumbo was nice, but I couldn’t help getting lost in its mystery. Even though flying sleighs were physically impossible (I was WAY too logical for such a small child—blame it on watching Mr. Spock), I tried to believe. Oh, how I tried.

Life has been good enough to grant me a family of my own and, through the eyes of my four children, I am again in tune with the magick of the season. I could be cynical or pessimistic, but I refuse. For the first time in years, I hear Christmas music without the feeling of ‘retail dread’ I have carried for so long, and I will not allow anything to keep me from enjoying that light in the eyes of my children. Whatever your holiday, I wish you the same magick.

God bless the master of this house and the mistress also,
And all the little children that 'round your table grow.
The cattle in your stable, the dog by your front door
And all that dwells within your gates, we wish you ten times more.



>Next week: The Year In Review, for those of you who weren’t paying attention the first time.