Connecticut, Really?

Just trying to make sense of the shootings in Newtown and I am coming to the conclusion that we cannot. We cannot figure out how a person can kill innocent children. We cannot figure out why a mother of a developmentally disabled child would own assault weapons. We cannot figure out why that man would target eight year old children. We cannot figure out how the parents of the children will go on with their lives. We cannot know how we can make sense of this tragedy. We cannot figure out how Robbie Parker can possibly offer condolences to the parents of the shooter. He is a parent who lost a child, Emily. We cannot fathom his forgiveness, his compassion, or his empathy.

We want justice. We want to blame someone. We want to blame mom or dad for not recognizing their kid was wrong. We want to blame them for not knowing this kid was going to blow up a school, to go postal, to slaughter innocent children, teachers, and parents. How could they not have seen this ticking time bomb. How could they not have taken action?

I hugged my nine year old. I hugged my six year old. And, I am mad. I am beyond mad. I am pissed. And here comes Mr. Parker, to show me humanity, to show me humility, to show me empathy. He's not mad. His eight year old daughter is dead, eviscerated by the bullets of a madman, but he's not mad. Imagine the image, his 80 pound daughter ripped apart by bullets from a gun bought legally, intended as an assault weapon. Imagine the havoc wreaked by those bullets on that innocent child.

But, he's not mad. He forgives. He is a child of god. Reverend Rocky Veach took advantage, talking to Anderson Cooper. Forgiveness was his message. He understood. Clearly Robbie Parker had been drinking the same Cool Aid spooned out by Reverend Veach. I just don't get it. In Romans 12:19, God says, "vengeance is mine."

What vengeance is satisfactory to the parents and loved ones of the 28 or 29 dead in Newtown Connecticut? The only vengeance, I think, is the existence of hell. I hope it exists, and I hope that sorry piece of feces rots there.

Unfortunately, I don't believe in heaven or hell. So, all we can do is hope those kids passed quickly, and that rat bastard suffered. I'm sad that he didn't get to experience the American system of justice, where he would have been isolated and assaulted on a regular basis. I had great compassion for Dahmer, but ultimately justice was served. I'm just sad that Mr. Lanza won't experience similar justice.

So, I guess I'm a piece of crap. but I'm sad that asshole didn't get justice.

 I sent this email today. Oops!

And I deleted it today, oops!

National University and MFA Programs

I'm currently enrolled in an MFA program at National University and I am, for the most part, very happy with the program. But, there are inherent issues with an online program, and I am here to tell you about those issues.

The English electives are but four weeks long, and I normally don't see that as problematic, except that the university seems to think that it is acceptable to require students to read 125 pages of scholarly articles and digest them, each week. My experience is that it would be best to read five pages and to tear those five pages apart and kick them around a bit. But, NU has decided that quantity is better than quality.

The second issue is that the creative writing classes are eight weeks long. That means, in eight weeks you should write new fiction, submit it, have it work shopped, revise it, and re-submit it. This is ridiculous in an eight week class. You should really write it and then take six weeks before touching it again.

One of the most ridonkulos situations is the survey regarding a professor. They require you to assess the effectiveness of a professor by the Friday before your class is completed. How can I possibly assess a professor when I only have 15 percent of my grade? Fifteen percent of my feedback.

Now, remember, I have my teaching credential from National University, and a MA in English from National. I'm a loyal customer. But assessing a professor with less than 15 percent of grades provided is ridiculous.

Just saying.

Spike

KIDS!

KIDS!

When I was young, my brothers and I swam at a public pool in Ashland, Oregon where the Lifeguard would walk out to the end of the low diving board and yell "KIDS!" She was only trying to get our attention to admonish us for "picking the tar out of the bottom of the pool." But, my brother, sensitive to tone, came to believe that "KIDS!" was an epithet, a bad word not to be repeated. Later that same year, he would sneak out onto my grandparent's porch and yell "KIDS!" and run back in the house, convinced that he had gotten away with something nefarious.

Now, kids has a different connotation to me. I find it the most appropriate label for when my kids do or say something that amazes me. I'm fortunate that I have the opportunity to mutter "Kids" often. Sunday was no different, and today, I again had the chance to mutter "Kids." On Sunday, I took my kids, nine year old Lala and six year old Buddy Boy to Five Guys for burgers. It's become somewhat of a routine for us, after soccer, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, or any other child centered event when I want to spend some time with my kids.

My son, the six year old, was enjoying his burger and I asked him a question.

"Buddy, do you like that burger?"

"No Dad. I don't like it."

He then paused, smirked and added, "I love it. In fact, I want to marry that burger.

"KIDS!"

Tonight was my daughter's turn. My wife gets the kids out in the morning and, understandably, it's often a bit chaotic and confused. Tonight she asserted, "Tomorrow will be different. We will get up early, take our time and be prepared on time without the chaos.

Lala:     "That's a legend."

Me:      "What is a legend Lala?"

Lala:     "Something that is allegedly true."

Me:      "What's a myth?"

Lala:     Something that isn't true.

Me:      "So, is it a legend or a myth?"

Lala:     "Us getting out on time with no yelling, that's a myth."

Later, Lala outdid herself, in my eyes. Mom is and always has been a bit of a klutz. In college her pledge name was Spaz so it was no surprise tonight when she stumbled over the dog gate and rolled her ankle. What was a surprise was Lala's response.

"Mom, you are a hot mess."

KIDS! indeed.

Spike

Marriage, why?

Why Marry?

Like most middle aged men, this is a valid question, one I confronted yesterday when my brother in law tied the proverbial knot of death. He's in his mid-thirties, good looking, and he married his baby momma - that's New York code for a shot gun wedding. She's 31, attractive, has a good job and pregnant. He has been dating her for over two years. So why get married, why tie the knot of death?

I protested, silently, by wearing black. Okay, grey pinstripe suit, black shirt. Not exactly a signal protest, but I wore a tie with red and white - red for the passion to contrast with the black shirt, white as a ray of hope that this marriage might be different than every other marriage - where the husband capitulates in the interest of home harmony.

But, I have little hope for this one, or any other one. Marriage seems to be an institution forced on us by our construct of religion. Men are not monogamous by nature; we need the socializing influence of a good woman. This is tantamount to asking a child to tame a bear. The bear will end up mauling the child, but because it's humans we are talking about, the bear will then feel guilty about mauling the child.

Now, don't get me wrong. I am not saying women are children - they just have the same chance of taming men as a child has taming a bear. And the bear has the same capacity for remorse as men have - none.

I believe we should have chits for children, like businesses have credits for pollution. You get two, spend them how you want to. If you are thirty five and have two chits left, you will be popular with women who have a biological clock. If you spent your chits in your twenties, those women will shun you.

"You got chits?"

"Nah, used 'em already."

"Have a nice night."

On the other hand, if a woman has already used her chits and meets a man with no chits, it would read like this.

"You got chits?"

"Nah, use 'em already."

"Me too."

"Wanna talk?"

"Yeah, what else would we do?"

Now, dudes would actually talk to women. We might actually act like humans then, because, there's no procreative pressure and you can approach marriage as an agreement rather than a contract, a contract signed by God Almighty.

So, I used my chits, you?

Spike

New School

It's September and that means back to school for me and my kiddies and that means stress levels will be reaching an all time high right about now. I'm a teacher, you know, that's my day job. I'm a father too, that's my real job. But, I'm in school too and figuring out where that job fits is proving to be a challenge for me, both in terms of time and priority. Grad school seems selfish - it steals from my students, from my wife, and from my kids.

But, it adds to my depth and breadth of knowledge, benefitting my children and my students, and adds to my income by virtue of a lane change at work, benefitting me and my children. So, why is my graduate school always at the bottom of my priority list, the last thing I do, the thing I do at midnight after feeding, studying with, and bathing my kids?

It's because it is my personal realization, my selfish pursuit. It really is all about me, the writing, the reading, the analysis and the angst. I do it for me, not for them, or them, it's solely for me. I like to pretend it's about my students, about making more money for my family, but it isn't.

Don't kid yourself. Me going to school does make me a better teacher, does make me a better writer, does make me a better dad. But, that's not why I do it. I do it because I love it. And, because I love it, and I do it, that fulfills me. The fulfillment of self actualization, of learning, that makes me a better dad, a better teacher, a better husband.

At least that is my story. And, I'm sticking to it.

Spike

Wow, this is weird. I wanted to write a new blog, but I guess I have to figure out how first. I always hate it when technology changes and leaves me in the figurative dust, but hey, I am an old man and that's what happens. First they get these newfangled boxes called televisions, next thing you know, we're all writing on these newfangled boxes called computers. I love the word newfangled.

I'm currently finishing up the school year with my students and my progeny. It's been a good year, albeit challenging. I had some health issues and was challenged by the MFA thang that I got going on, but it has been good otherwise. I gotta change the fish tank water and remember to put drops in my eye four times a day and my home is a load and I gotta write, a lot, and I gotta read, a lot, but hey, that's what I do anyway, right? I mean the reading and writing, not the fish and the eye stuff.

I'm excited about the summer, I mean, who wouldn't be, ya know, ten weeks off and all that jive. Gonna go West for three weeks and take my laptop so I can keep in touch and keep writing and keep doing my MFA stuff, but it should be fun seeing my family and my ancestral home and all that jive, you know? Gotta think up some new stuff to write about so I can keep up with the workshops and new stuff comes from new experiences and new people and new places and new feelings so I'm all in for that crap.

So, that's all I got for now and I will post this dreck and see what it looks like on the blogspot, whether it looks good or looks bad 'cause I only judge my writing on how it looks and not really on what it say because I'm 2 stoopid to actually read the crap I write, ya know?

Spike

Today I planted crops, fought dragons and soldiers, wrestled an Anaconda, and saved a crewmember on a crab boat in the Bering Sea. Just another day in the work of a writer. What? You didn't know that we writers did shit like that? Yeah, yeah we do.

On any given day, I plant crops. I plough the land and make sure the irrigation works. If I have to, I carry irrigation pipes across fields to ensure proper watering of my crops. And I fertilize whole acres with a sophisticated fertilization system.

I fought scary dragons today too. Brown, with a hard shell and terrible pincers, they attacked me relentlessly as I tried to reclaim my castle. Each one I slayed gave way to another willing to take the last one's place, hard shelled dragons with pincers that were just relentless, continuously attacking me. I fought them all off before facing the army.

The enemy's army attacked relentlessly. I had a great weapon and kept hitting them as they came out of their fort, but they almost overwhelmed me with their numbers. They had giant maws with gnarly jaws that kept snapping and snapping. Their numbers were impressive and I decided to let the chemical weapons I had unleashed take their toll. I needed to focus on the crewman overboard in the Bering Sea.

I skillfully manipulated the crane over the lost crewman and released the hook, yelling to him to grab it. I knew the cold water had taken its toll and that he was a cork in the wine at this point. I grabbed the net, nestled it gently under him and pulled it to the surface. We were close enough at that point to reach out and grab him and pull him to the side. Whew, another life saved.

That's when I was attacked by the fifteen foot Anaconda. I managed to sap it's strength by killing it's drive. Carefully, I rolled it into a coil and placed it gently in its cage. Just another day as a Superhero.

My Diary entry will read: Planted some basil, sprayed some earwigs and ants. Scooped out the vacuum head from the pool and put the hose away.

Dakota RIP

Dakota

Yesterday, April 12th, 2012, the world lost a noble soul. I'm sure that if you are plugged in you felt a shift in the force. That shift was when Dakota Mayo checked out. She was 13 years old and was an honorable dog, a dedicated friend, and a loyal hound.

We arrived home from break at four o'clock and Dakota was glad to see us, wagging tail, barks of delight. She had been on a two day hunger strike, which was not uncommon when we traveled, but seemed in good spirits. We unpacked and Dakota made her usual rounds, outside, inside, bark, lay down and get loved. Her caretakers during vacation, an aunt and a neighbor, let us know that she had not eaten in a while and that her eye had been acting up, but that was standard operating procedure for Dakota. She was, after all, almost 14 years old.

We picked her out of a milieu of Rottweilers and Pit Bulls in 2001, saved her from the pound in Orlando. She happened to be the first dog on the right and the only dog we considered, in spite of the fact that we had decided against dogs that shed, were high energy or had a wet mouth. We went against our gut instinct and went with an emotional decision and took her home. That decision yielded 12 years of joy and pleasure.

She preceded my children and suffered their attentions and abuse stoically. They would accidentally step on her and she would growl, but never bite. She pushed the door open to my infant daughter's room and slept at the foot of her crib, and later, at the foot of her bed. When my son was born, she welcomed him with the same attention, rising in the middle of the night to sleep at the top of the stairs between the rooms, standing guard, watching over her children.

Last night, she tipped over. She waited until we got home from vacation, and then tipped over. I think it was her heart. She had loved as much as she could for as long as she could and she waited for us to get home. Then, she tipped.

She was struggling and crawled into our room to be next to me. She was never a dog for hugs and kisses, but she always wanted to be near. I carried her to my side of the bed and read. Her breathing became labored, so I rubbed her belly. It got worse, and I scratched her stomach, rubbed her back and told her I loved her. I took a brief break to look up an emergency vet in case I had to put her down. Like the noble animal she was, she saved me the trouble. While I rubbed her tummy, she raised her head, looked me in the eye, grimaced, and went slack, her head flopping to the ground.

I wrapped her in a pink flannel sheet with princesses, courtesy of my daughter, placed her in two garbage bags and loaded her into the backseat of my car. The emergency vet's office was gentle and kind. I drove around back while they wheeled out a stainless steel gurney. Andrew offered me a room and time, but I just asked that I be the one to place her on the gurney.

I picked her up for the last time, wrapped in my daughter's sheet and two Hefty bags, knowing her orientation, letting her slack head fall on my shoulder one last time. I hugged the still warm but limp body of my best friend and laid her gently on the gurney. I rubbed her belly and kissed her head and Andrew took her away.

I got in my car and sobbed.

Holy Crap

My brother would have been fifty years old today. Unfortunately, he checked out eleven years ago, locked forever at 39 years old. I can't believe that I am nine years older than he will ever be. I wonder who is more fortunate. I had surgery last year for skin cancer and now I am facing surgery for what may be squamous conjunctiva carcinoma. It's not really a big deal most of the time, but sometimes it's secondary, a lesion that's metastasized from another site, so I am now all freaked about other undetected cancers.

Whatev. I'll get it cut out, that's a part of the financial food chain, and move on. Hopefully it is not metastatic and it goes away, but I still have to get a needle stuck in my eye and have a stranger cut on my eye.

It just makes me want to spend more time with my kiddies, to play with them and to hug them.

On the upside, I am doing well in my MFA. Does that count?

Spike

Hound

The Hound

Alive and well is my hound, a mix of Lab and Golden Retriever with a pinch of Whippet thrown in just to make her as much of a freak as possible. She is thirteen years old and I am proud of that. I got her from the pound when she was two and I have nursed and shepherded her for the last eleven years. She was my tryout before having kids and apparently I navigated her nurture well enough to have two kids and didn't manage to shake or otherwise mangle them, so she was a good teacher. But now she is thirteen with a tumor on an eyelid, a fatty mass near her leg that may or may not be cancerous, and an ear infection. And my five year old son, who seems to have second sight, is upset because he thinks she is going to die.

A lengthy discussion of life and death ensued. I got my son calmed down but I am worried that he might be right, that Dakota may not be long for this world. I explained to James that she was old, that she has had a great life and that we would indeed be losing her someday. I told him the story of how I adopted Dakota and how she was lucky to have lived these last eleven years with us. He insisted she would be leaving soon. I'm afraid he might be right. I then had to inform both of my kids that when it did happen, we would not be replacing her. Two reasons. One, you can't. Two, I won't.

One, you can't replace a dog like this. Two, I will not go through the death of another pet. I can't, I won't.

The vet wants fourteen hundred dollars to cut the tumor off her eyelid. The dog is thirteen and was free. I guess that makes me a jerk. But, I know from watching my grandparents die that you can prolong life long past the time where life is productive. I would prefer to leave on my own terms. I wish I could speak dog, but if I could, I'm sure Dakota would tell me not to keep her alive past her level of enjoyment. I believe that a perfect life is one where you spend your last dollar on the day you die and that you die the day you stop having fun. It's a moving target and I would prefer to err on the side of still living. Again, I wish I could speak dog so I could get Dakota's take, but I can't.

So, I have to make that choice for her. I know that she does not want me to spend fourteen hundred dollars to get rid of the cyst. I know she does not want to be propped up. I know that this is a dog that chased frisbees and is fast as hell. I know that this is a dog that wants to go out on top. And, I owe that to her. It will be difficult, but I will let her go, when she is ready, on terms that she is comfortable with. That means making her comfortable and giving her dignity.


I hope I am afforded the same dignity.

Spike

Reading

I have many shortcomings that I am aware of, and many more that are pointed out to me daily. In spite of these, I have managed to attract a mate and procreate. My progeny are eight and five, girl and boy respectively. I have had many experiences in the last nine years that have humbled me as a member of humanity and as a man. None so much as my experience today.

When my daughter was six months old I took her to open a bank account in her name at the local bank. I'm at a credit union that has an office for such transactions. While I sit in the office with five other customers, my daughter across my lap, she needs to move and when I say move, I mean bowels. A pink flush runs up her face and I am aware of what is to come. Like clockwork, a grunt is followed by audible flatulence which makes me the center of attention. I affect a grim rictus and with aplomb and timing, ask the receptionist if there isn't a bathroom that we can avail ourselves of to affect a change of clothes for my daughter. All pretense of masculinity is stripped from my facade at that moment, and forever.

Four years later I am at the Tragic Kingdom with my year old son and my four year old daughter. We commence our trip with an E ticket ride in a cab to LaGuardia that culminates with my son demonstrating explicitly how projectile vomiting manifests. We experienc the joy of public opinion when we strip James on the curb in 30 degree weather while we try to minimize the collateral damage of projectile vomiting. We go through an entire pack of baby wipes in hopes of cleaning up the car seat and our son. Vomit clothes stowed in lawn and leaf bags, car seat cleaned, as well as possible, stuffed into a plastic bag, we dutifully make our way through TSA and flew to Orlando.

Have you ever gotten just a whiff of something rank? You move, right, to be a few more feet away from the offending object. Imagine yourself in an International airport, like Orlando, and getting that whiff. Then you realize that the whiff of stank is from the baggage claim thirty five feet away. Then imagine the horror when you realize that whiff is your car seat. What would you do?

If you are me, you get that garbage bag and throw that $70 car seat away, even if you know it is going to cost you $12 a day to rent one from Hertz. So, stash that bag on a garbage can, rent the car seat and eat that $80 charge and head to Didney. Then, find out that the projectile vomiting wasn't from the drunk cab driver's lurching driving but was actually a stomach flu.

Sitting in the Tragic Kingdom with your 2 year old son stretched across your lap, uncomfortable in the heat and apparently suffering from a stomach issue. The familiar flush of face, the ubiquitous grunt and flatulence as runny diarrhea warms your leg through his clothes, then yours. Make a quick break for the stroller...diapers and wipes not in that stroller, but the other one, one hundred yards away at "It's a Small World." Hold your kid out in front of you, a talisman, and watch the sea of people part.

In retrospect, all great experiences for me. I have enjoyed them. I'm sure there are several more in my future. But, I read two books to my son's Kindergarten class today. It was his week. he brought his favorite toys on Tuesday, a poster of his family on Wednesday, and a family member to read today. I was that family member.

His teacher directed them all to the carpet and gave me the seat of honor. I read two books. It really doesn't matter what I read. He didn't care. He was proud of me. He sat, eyes azure and bright, locked on mine while I read, but always checking his classmates. His looks aside spoke volumes. "That's my Dad. Don't you love him?" Every time I looked at him, the joy, admiration and pride were evident. "That's my Dad. Don't you love him?"

It went fast. I was nervous, but it was over before I knew it. I learned that I know, "That's my son. I love him?"

Brothers

Had an epiphany today. Actually, had it shoved in my face. My friend Steve did it, Held it up in my face, rubbed my nose in it and pointed out the obvious. It wasn't obvious to me, but it was to him. Been having some issues with my parents. Normal stuff. Normal, unless you lost a brother...or a child, which means us, which means not normal, unless you lost a brother...or a child.

See, it was my brother. When I was five and that kid hit me and I let go of my balloon, Jon found me a new balloon. Then he found that kid. When I was five and fell on that hammer and had my tooth ripped from my upper jaw, I was with Jon. When it didn't grow back until I was seven and I had to go to speech therapy, Jon went with me. When I went to the Vanderkins to be babysat as a four year old, who walked me there, kissed me on the lips and told me he loved me? Yep, it was Jon. On the first day of school at Sabin, when Michael West made fun of me for putting on lipstick (chap stick), and I started crying. Who bashed his head against the wall? It was Jon. When I was placed in a gifted class with 2nd and 3rd graders and Mrs. Hooper grilled me about the stolen pencils, who led the rebellion? It was Jon. With whom did I pack a lunch and freeze Kon Tiki soda cans so we could go pick berries at Jim Fuji Farms at four in the morning. Jeans, boots, tee shirt, shirt, flannel, coat- layered against the cold, to make four dollars, for me, fifteen dollars, for him. Jon.

When I struggled in college, who sent me my own postcards and blackmailed me for a quarter about things that had long passed, just to get a smile, never seen or realized by the writer. It was Jon. "If you don't send me a quarter, I'll tell Mom about the time you shoplifted a Snickers." Ironic in its inception, the postcards given me by our grandmother, ludicrous in its execution - pretty sure my mom wasn't concerned with my light fingered habits of youth. It was a perfect recipe to defunkify my collegiate life. Me, struggling with the academics at the local state college, him thriving at Stanford. Jon.

A lonely evening at the hospital, I roll in. "Jon's brother, hold on." I'm regal, royalty at this hospital. Jon joins me shortly. We go to the cafeteria together, brothers, and eat Thanksgiving dinner, commercial turkey, stuffing and gravy, three thousand miles from our family. We talk. We know. This is kin, brothers.

Six months later, I have dinner with him again, at the hospital cafeteria. He seems tired, has been travelling. It doesn't matter. We are kids again, giggling about mom and dad, laughing about the adventures. We tell jokes. We are seven again, my brother Jon and I. He grills me, I question him. My big brother, Jon, who is four inches shorter and 40 pounds lighter, looking out for me. He travels a lot and when he is gone, I fill his fridge with designer hot dogs and import beers. When he gets home, we try the dogs and drink the beers. Sabretts with Spaten, Boar's Head with Budweiser, Nathan's with Heineken. I have recently turned him on to 7/11's hot dogs - $1.29 but add all the chili and cheese you can. He tells me, laughingly, about sitting on the curb at 7/11 and wolfing down a dog with chili and cheese after swimming 3000 meters, his daily exercise. He is fit, 5'9" about 145. He swims two miles five times a week, but he looks tired. I blame it on the travel.

The ER is separated into two sides and he sees me out from the left side. There are two big double doors there. He stands, watching me, as the doors close. He is not in his white jacket, just wearing a button down and a tie, out of uniform. I know that I will see him tomorrow. We have no plans, but we see each other every day, so I know I will see him tomorrow. Most likely, it will be for a beer and a Camel Light, we keep a pack in his green mailbox on the porch. I fully expect to be on his porch tomorrow, drinking a Heineken, smoking a Camel Light from his mailbox. I know this, but I still tell him I love him. It's a habit I have adopted.

"Love you!"

"Love you too."

And the next time I see Jon, he is laying on the floor, in his kitchen, his right arm across his face, a Stouffers Beef and Tomato in the microwave above him.

It looked like he just layed down, all peaceful like, to take a nap. My brother Jon. Asleep, forever, on the floor of his kitchen, waiting for a Stouffers frozen dinner.

Wonder why I am pissed?