My wife's cousin killed himself yesterday. He was from Long Island but had moved to North Carolina with his wife and kids. He became estranged from her and his kids had chosen sides. He was a long way from home and felt isolated. Having grown up on the West coast and living on the East coast, I had always been concerned about him. While I'm not estranged from my wife and kids, I know how dark it can get being in an alien community and feeling alone. I didn't know him well, but I recognized a kind and gentle spirit and I'm rocked by his decision.

I doubt an early exit is ever the right decision. It's such a flagrant dismissal of all those that love you. But, who can know the depths of depression that can lead you to such a rash and violent act. It has deprived his kids of a father, his sister of a brother, and his parents of a child. From the survivor's point of view, it's a selfish act. But, who can really understand the pain that leads to the early check out.

Of course, my life isn't wine and roses, but whose is? It just reminds that all of the crap that I am going through in my day to day life isn't really that bad. I lost my brother in 2001, and yes, I did look on top of the fridge - he wasn't there. But he is in my heart and I keep him there. Of course, my brother was 39 years old and I have a lot of memories to keep him alive. I wonder about his kids? Do they have enough to keep him alive?

What a waste.

Spike

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